John pointed north, toward a new series of distant and muffled booms. "Count to ten," he said.
All around us, I heard people counting down, under their breath.
"... eight, nine ... "Then I heard the paper-tearing sound of an artillery round coming in, high over our heads.
"Ten!"
Crack! I stuck my head up to see where it landed. If they were trying for the mess hall, obviously they were way off target.
Another shell went streaking overhead, followed by two more. Crack! Crack!
"Sherman, I knew I shouldn't have gone to lunch with you!"
Someone next to me spoke up: "As long as you hear the shells, it's okay. It's the one you don't hear that gets you."
I pondered for a minute and thought what a stupid saying that was. Of course you weren't going to hear it.
The next five incoming shells landed on the ridge south of us. Again I stuck my head up to see where their black bursts were popping.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelled to John. "They're hittin' the tank park!"
"I told you they weren't very good! They're tryin' for the mess hall!" He stuck his head up over the trench just in time to hear another shell streak overhead. We both watched it land-squarely between our two tents.
"Holy shit!" we said together. Looking at John with eyes the size of saucers, I started a mental inventory of everything I had back in my tent.
"Now," he asked, "aren't you glad you came to lunch?"
I nodded my head to his rhetorical question. "I'm too short for this shit!" I added, forgetting I was standing right next to a guy who was even shorter.
Short guys always knew exactly how many days they had left. "Short?" John laughed. "I'm so short I can play handball off the edge of a dime!"
The distant booms and the noise overhead continued, but Charlie's aim never improved. Several of our trenchmates decided they had gone long enough without lunch and began to play a game of chicken. A few guys made a break for the vacated mess hall. They came running back out after the next series of distant "booms" was heard, all carrying the first thing they could grab in the mess hall.
The Marine next to us waited until the next salvo impacted, then went over the top. About thirty seconds later, we heard another flurry of distant booms, and we started to count. To those in the mess hall, we yelled out the seconds remaining until impact.
A paper-tearing sound came overhead. At our count of eight-with only two seconds left-our trenchmate came diving back into the trench, a huge gallon-sized jar of jelly clutched to his chest. Another hungry guy followed him with an industrial-sized jar of peanut butter and yelled, "Who's got the bread?"
"Down here!" came a voice from farther down the trench.
"I got the jelly!" yelled the Marine next to me. It was obvious the bread man was at the wrong end of the trench. Down there at the far end, a commotion started and moved swiftly toward us. Bodies parted. Somebody was making his way through. In his arms was a huge loaf of bread. When he reached where we were, he held up a butter knife from the mess hall.
"I bet none of you were smart enough to stop and get one of these?"
After the Olympic sprinters had finished making their rightfully earned sandwiches, they handed the knife to John, who looked at me and said, "Hey, ya never know how long the show's gonna last!"
We proceeded to fix our own lunch and watch the incoming shells.
"I'm going for milk!" said the peanut butter guy. "Can't eat peanut butter and jelly without milk!"
As soon as the next salvo landed, he jumped up and ran for the door of the mess hall, followed by more distant muffled booms. Our milkman knew he had less than ten seconds to get in and out. The mess hall's screen door had just slammed shut when it slammed open again. Running back to the trench was the sprinter, each arm wrapped around a cardboard box holding a collapsible bag of milk. Sticking out of it was a short rubber hose; he had pulled it out of one of the milk dispensers.
The shelling lasted about half an hour, but it seemed like all afternoon. The last five minutes were accompanied by the sounds of outgoing 8-inch rounds from our own artillery battery nearby.
From trenches all around us went up cheers: "Get some!" The volume of noise around us increased tenfold; the ground shook with each report from the huge Marine guns. I tried to take it all in: the giant industrial-sized jars of peanut butter and jelly, and the gargantuan loaf of bread. We all shared the oversized container of milk, holding the box over our heads to drink through the rubber hose. All this, accompanied by our huge 8-inch guns, plus incoming shells tearing overhead and exploding on the other ridgeline, made for the most bizarre and surrealistic meal of my life-and we thoroughly enjoyed every swallow. It was the company of the men around me, especially John, that I was so grateful for. And I wasn't on that fuckin' cot!
Finally the shelling ended. Heads popped up around the perimeter like prairie dogs sniffing the air for danger.
By now, John and I had had our fill of milk and sandwiches. We decided to forego lunch and go see what was left of our tents. During the long walk back, we mentally inventoried our gear, neither listening to the other.
"God, I hope my cassette player is alright," I said. It was brand new and the format was very unusual in early 1969.
"Hope my camera is okay," said John.
Our tents were still standing, a little out of whack. Mine, the closest as we approached, was shredded with hundreds of holes. I quickly ducked into the smoky tent. For all I knew, there might be dead and wounded in there. Inside, a hundred shafts of light came beaming through the dust-filled air. It was like a planetarium gone berserk, with stars twinkling all around me.
I saw what was left of my things. Shrapnel had torn my cot to shreds. Several of its wooden legs were severed. . . . "Oh shit!" I said. My most prized possession-the one item I totally forgot to mention to John on our walk over-was a pair of fireman's boots that my mother had sent me. After I sent her snapshots of my tank mired in knee-deep mud, she went to the local firehouse to ask who their supplier was and where she could buy a pair. What a mom!
They were worth their weight in gold. With two top straps on the sides of each boot, they pulled on fast. They could reach as high as my thighs, or I could wear them rolled down to knee-high. They were the envy of every tanker who saw them. When I was about to be rotated back to The World, I expected to sell them for a tidy sum.
Now they were shredded, cut in half! Gone, along with my cassette player, all my clothes, and most of my personal gear. But what if John hadn't talked me into going with him that afternoon? I would have been sacked out on the cot.
His stuff, in a tent next to mine, had survived better, and he came over to see what I was able to salvage. "Hey, do you want to go to chow tonight?" he asked with a knowing smile.
"Buddy, I'll go anywhere you ask!" I answered.
Chapter 19
"Too Short for This Shit"
ou would think that the Miracle of the Immaculate Ejection had already occurred in the form my eating sandwiches in the trench instead of lying on my cot and getting cut in half by shrapnel. But no, it had yet to manifest in its true glory.
After the PM on Pray for Slack was complete, one of the mechanics told me to report to the maintenance shack-and there, the rest of the miracle revealed itself. When I reported in, the maintenance officer told me that the gun couldn't be fixed in Dong Ha, that I would have to take the tank to Da Nang!
"Da Nang?" I asked, incredulous. "I'm supposed to drive all the way there? It's over a hundred and fifty miles!"
"No," he said. "The tank will be transported by boat."
Shit, I thought to myself. That meant we would be sitting around until it came back. The last thing you wanted to be found doing was sitting around with nothing to do. No telling what they might have you doing until it got back-if it ever got back.
"You and your driver will take the tank to Da Nang and Division FSR."
I couldn't believe it! We were to proceed to the m
outh of the Cua Viet River, where we would be met by a ship and taken back to Da Nang. That meant at least a week away from the Z while our tank was being repaired. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
The maintenance officer instructed me to unload all of the tank's ammo, because it would not be permitted on the boat. That worried me, because I didn't like driving around with empty guns. On our half-hour drive to Cua Viet, we could run into an ambush, however unlikely that might be. To the rear-echelon officer, I explained that I wasn't about to drive to Cua Viet without taking a couple of canister rounds and a thousand rounds of machine gun ammunition.
The crew and I spent the next couple of hours unloading the rest of the ammo and stacking it in a bunker near the tank park. Over the radio, I updated my platoon leader and alerted him to pick up the two crewmen I would leave behind in Cua Viet. As you might expect, my gunner and loader weren't happy about being left behind, but it wasn't all bad news for them. They would get to stay at C-4 until we got back.
At Cua Viet, I was expecting to meet a large LST that would take us on a leisurely cruise to Da Nang. I was looking forward to getting a warm meal on a large ship. Instead, they pointed us toward the Cua Viet ferry. "That's your ride," said the old Navy chief.
Hell, I didn't think a Mike boat could travel that far.
We were one of several vehicles making the trip, but nothing else aboard the LCM was near our size. The others were a menagerie of hapless jeeps and small trucks, all obvious casualties of the war. Our tank was the only vehicle accompanied by its crew. To keep the boat's weight centered, we were told to stop in the middle of the deck, shut down the engine, sit back, and enjoy the eight-hour pleasure cruise.
Never before had the Navy guys seen a tank up close. Once we got underway, two of them became inquisitive and peered inside the turret. There, surrounded by dozens of empty racks, our two lonely canister rounds stood out like sore thumbs.
I thought the squids were going to pass out. "You got ammo on board!"
"Well, what did you expect?" I asked. "Last I checked, this was still a war zone!"
"Chief!" one yelled toward the bridge. "They got ammo in here!" The squids were waving for the petty officer who ran the boat. He came over and climbed up on the tank. His crewmen pointed out the two projectiles.
"Can't go into Da Nang with that," he said.
Ah, military logic at its finest. I pointed out to him that every day, in that same port facility, dozens of ships were unloading pallets of ammo in wholesale quantities-stuff like aerial bombs with a lot bigger bang than anything we had.
He shrugged. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
I explained why we had brought a couple of rounds for the run from Dong Ha and offered to throw them overboard.
Then I saw an idea cross his mind. "Hey," he said, "don't waste 'em. Wait till we get out a ways, and you can shoot 'em of . We ain't never seen a tank shoot before!"
"Okay," I agreed, "maybe we'll get us a few fish."
About an hour went by. The coastline was already below the horizon when the chief asked, "Wanna let 'er rip?"
I looked around the LCM and its cargo of small, battered vehicles. There was just enough room for me to traverse the gun tube over the side of the boat, with our muzzle barely clearing the edge. I told the driver to jump into the loader's position, put one round in the chamber, and stand by with the second round in his hands. "Let's show these squids just how fast we can pump out two rounds!"
The chief and his crew were standing on their small customized bridge at the rear of the boat. A large tarp, stretched tight over their heads served as an awning to keep the sun off. The bridge also had a homemade windshield of glass panes to shield the helmsman from inclement weather and bow spray.
I checked once more with the chief. He gave me a thumbs-up. "On the way!" I yelled for all to hear-including the driver, who was serving as loader-and pulled on the TC's override control handle.
Wham! As soon as I heard the breech slam shut with the second round, I pulled the trigger again. Wham! Both rounds fired in less than two seconds! God, we're good, I thought. Eager to see the squids' reaction to how we "real men" were fighting the war, I looked over to the bridge-or rather, what was left of the bridge!
Only two of the squids were standing. The third was lying on the deck, and all three were covered with shards of glass. Gone too was the tarp. Every jeep, truck, and other vehicle on the boat was now as windowless as the ship's bridge.
"Oh, shit!" I said. Had my recklessness injured somebody or put someone's eye out? I leaped out of the tank as the three seamen brushed off the slivers of glass that covered them.
"Holy shit!" said one.
"Motherfucker!" said the other.
We last glimpsed the tarp behind the boat, slowly sinking in the South China Sea.
When the squids got over the shock of being hit with the muzzle blast-and once they finally realized they were all right-they were too stunned to do anything but laugh. The windowless vehicles only added to the humor of the situation. They couldn't stop laughing! They couldn't believe the noise and thoroughly loved how fast we had gotten off those two rounds. In fact, one of the knocked-down guys thought we had fired only one until the others convinced him otherwise. We presented them with two souvenirs, the spent brass shell casings.
It was the dumbest thing I'd ever done with a tank, even worse than that searchlight stunt I had pulled, or even knocking the ballistic computer off the bulkhead. Of all people, I should have realized that as the projectile exited the muzzle, the barrel was purposely designed to deflect the blast sideways. The intention was to get the smoke away from the main gun, so as not to block the gunner's view of the target. So even though I was aiming the shells safely out to sea, the gun's blasts had been directed right at the Navy guys.
Well, I thought, it served them right, after all the stunts pulled on us during our voyage on the Thomaston. God, all that seemed like five years ago.
With no more ammunition onboard, we made it into Da Nang and were offloaded from the LCM. I waved to the chief, who stood where his bridge once was. Our episode must have given them a whole new impression of what the war was like for some of us. Maybe they would be even more appreciative of the cushy jobs they had.
We proceeded to Division FSR near the Da Nang airport. In the huge repair facility, they told me it would take about three days to pull the main gun, fix the seal, and reassemble it. Great! I thought, off the Z and living in hardback hooches.
Mechanics were assigned to start work removing the gun shield. "Hey, guys," I told them, "take all the time you want! I'd rather have this job done right than have you rush it."
I had the distinct impression that they thought I was serious.
Since first reporting our hydraulic gun-seal leak, however, one thing had gnawed at the back of my mind. Every time someone said, "Shit, I've never seen this before," they never intimated that it was anything more than a defective seal. Nonetheless, that leak was such an odd, unusual quirk that somebody might just wonder if we had deliberately caused it.
There were rumors of crewmen sabotaging their vehicles so as to take them off the line. One story had it that, during a PM, someone put a small rock in the turbocharger of a tank's engine. When the engine started, the rock got sucked in and tore up a cylinder-which took several more days to repair.
My crew and I would never have considered such an act; we would have felt guilty for letting down some grunts who really needed us.
I spent the next day searching out Arthur Weber, the brother of a friend of mine. He was in First Force Recon near Hill 327, just outside Da Nang. Force Recon's reputation made them easy to find. Everyone always knew where the crazy people were; it was like asking people in a small town how to get to the biker bar. You could ask most anyone where Force Recon was located, and they could point you in the right direction. So I started by asking one person after another. It took me only an hour and several lifts from trucks to find Arthur's outfit.
I had never really expected to find Arthur himself, figuring he would be out in the bush somewhere. I came across a sign that proclaimed that I was now in Force Recon country and quickly found the unit's CP, which had an office in one of the hooches. I asked an enlisted guy in the office where I could find Lieutenant Weber.
"He just came off a mission," the clerk said as he pointed to the hooch next door. Its sign proclaimed itself as being the bachelor officers' quarters.
Arthur, just showered, was sitting on a cot when I came in. After we caught up on what each of us was doing in this crazy war, he invited me to join him for drinks in the officers' club.
"You know I can't go in there," I said.
He winked, told me to take off the corporal chevrons on my collar, and went over to one of his roommates, who was lying on a cot reading. After they talked for a minute, Arthur came back with two silver bars. "You are now an officer and a gentleman," he said, pinning the bars in place of my chevrons.
On our way over to the club, it took me a minute to adapt to my new role as an officer. I had two and a half years of conditioning to suddenly overcome. Arthur kidded me about not returning a few salutes from enlisted men.
"I'll get the hang of this," I told him. "All I gotta do is act like an asshole," I said with a smile.
"Not quite," Arthur chuckled. "You're playing the role of a first lieutenant, not a second lieutenant."
When we got near the officer's club, suddenly the door opened, and out came a second lieutenant. I was halfway through my salute when I realized I didn't have to-saluting officers was a reflex every bit as automatic as blinking my eyes.
The second lieutenant didn't know what to make of me, a first lieutenant saluting him. He started to return the salute not once but twice, before catching himself-but still not sure, either.
"Goddamned second lieutenants!" I muttered. Arthur was in stitches.
Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam Page 28