The fighting wasn't any harder in one area than in another, just totally different. I didn't know it yet, but in the bloody year of 1968 I would be one of the few Marines to fight with both the 1st and 3rd Marine divisions. Both divisions were facing the same enemy: hardcore NVA regulars reinforced by full-and part-time Viet Cong guerrillas. The major difference was that 3rd MarDiv (as it was also called) had to contend with North Vietnamese heavy artillery from the north side of the Ben Hal River. Their large-caliber guns-mainly 130mm and 152mm- shelled all the Marine fire bases at will, as far south as ten miles below the DMZ. One day in 1967, for example, Con Thien-an isolated firebase overlooking the DMZ-received more than 1,200 rounds of enemy artillery. Up north, it was closer to the kind of combat experienced in Europe during World War II than in any other part of Vietnam.
Outside Da Nang, 170 miles to the south, the NVA was far more resourceful and relied on psychological warfare by the placement of thousands of booby traps. They played a real head game on anyone who had to walk for a living; a grunt never knew if his foot would still be attached with each step he took. Tankers had to tie down their aerials so as not to snag booby traps placed up in the trees that were designed to kill the unwary tank commander.
FOLLOWING THE, GIANT cluster fuck of the sinking tanks in Happy Valley, Bravo Company received orders assigning its tank platoons to different combat bases southwest of Da Nang. All five tanks in our platoon were sent to support 2/27 (pronounced "two-twenty-seven," which stood for 2nd Battalion, 27th Marine Regiment). They were part of the 5th Marine Division and had arrived in-country just weeks earlier; they were part of the same stateside reaction force to the Tet Offensive that we were.
We packed up our gear for a trip that took us past Hill 55 to 2/27's newly established fire base. Fire bases were common to the Vietnam War and consisted of a defensive position that had at least a battery of artillery set up inside of it. Artillery's role was to support the patrols that went out beyond the fire base as well as other fire bases within range.
Weaving throughout the Da Nang TAOR were countless numbers of rivers, which meant lots of bridges. If there was one truism in I Corps, it was that bridges always came in pairs. There was the wooden one you actually used, and the steel one that had been blown up a decade or so before. It seemed that the French hadn't done a very good job of guarding the steel bridges. But that was another war, and besides, they lost theirs-something that we, early in 1968, couldn't imagine ourselves doing.
The French influence was obvious throughout all of Vietnam, which was sometimes a little disconcerting in view of what we all knew became of them. But their most frequent souvenirs were the concrete bunkersor what was left of them-usually found at both ends of most steel bridges.
Our platoon was assigned an area within the fire base. The base was about two hundred meters in diameter, with plenty of room for our two large tents and our cots. Not bad, I thought. At least we wouldn't be sleeping on the ground. Little did I know that we would almost never sleep on the cots. Once set up, we had to build an ammo bunker for storing extra tank ammunition. That hot, nasty job required the filling and stacking of thousands of sandbags. The temperature was still cool by Vietnamese standards-meaning that during the afternoon it was in the low 90s. As for the humidity, I was sure it could have been assigned a measure of viscosity.
It took us three days to build the ammo bunker and another day to unload and stack the spare ammunition that was brought in by truck. For that first week, we were still together as a complete tank platoon, but slowly we were introduced into the routine of Vietnam. At night, we always stood watch in our tanks on the battalion's perimeter, and soon we began to accompany the morning road-sweep teams as a security force.
Every morning, all over The Nam, road sweeps took place at the same time-about an hour after sunrise. They consisted of two men waving mine detectors back and forth, seeking out little gifts that Charlie might have planted during the night. It was a slow process that required the presence of a security force to protect the sweepers. Generally, two tanks moved along fifty feet behind, their turrets pointing at opposite sides of the road in anticipation of an ambush. Following behind the tanks would be two or three trucks carrying additional grunts as a reaction force should we be ambushed.
Nights at the fire base were spent on the tank, usually assigned to one of several slots around the battalion's perimeter. An earthen berm made up the fire base's perimeter; each slot was a revetment into which a tank could drive, leaving only its turret exposed level with the berm. Occasionally, if all the platoon's tanks were inside the perimeter for the night, we kept one tank next to our living area as a reaction unit, just in case it had to be summoned elsewhere on the perimeter. Embesi rotated the crews through that enviable reaction job. That meant that every fifth night I got to sleep on a cot and didn't have to stand watch. In The Nam, you didn't often get a full night's sleep unless you were an officer or a senior NCO.
Occasionally, G-2, the division intelligence section, alerted the battalion to expect a possible attack on a given night. Such warnings guaranteed two things: first, that we'd get only four hours' sleep because half the crew would have to be up and ready all through the night; and, second, that we wouldn't get hit at all! G-2 was not known for its reliable intelligence.
There were hot showers within a short walking distance of our tents, and the mess tent was nearby too. We had left behind the luxury of the movies and the NCO Club, but-naively-I began to think this wasn't so bad, that I could handle the twelve months that lay ahead. I had no idea how lucky we had been so far.
The first day of our arrival at the fire base, several men sought us out to say hello. These were ex-tankers who had been plucked from 5th Tanks at Camp Pendleton to fill grunt positions. They immediately recognized the presence of several strange faces in our platoon. When we told them these were amtrackers who had taken their place, they became justifiably enraged. Who could blame them?
One of these former tankers was a friend of mine-I'd been best man at his wedding only three months earlier-who gave me some first-hand scoop on just how bad it was to be a grunt. "The worst things are the booby traps," he said. They had already lost several men since arriving in-country a month earlier. He was afraid that as a grunt he would never make it out alive, that the odds were stacked against him. "It's only a matter of time," he told me. Like all the other ex-tankers, he wanted to get back into a tank outfit in the worst way. Several months later, I learned that he didn't make it after all. His story read like a script from a cheap Hollywood war movie, where the guy just knows he's going to get it-and does.
During the day, there was an endless list of details you could get assigned to, but I never got stuck with any of them. True to form, I owed my "luck" to Embesi. He was watching out for me; my getting assigned to the platoon sergeant's tank wasn't just a stroke of luck, after all. Embesi usually saved the really bad chores, like burning the shifters or mess duty, for disciplinary cases. Burning the shifters was a morning routine all over Vietnam. It meant dragging the collection cans from the outhouses, adding diesel fuel, and lighting the contents. Just what the purpose was is still a mystery to me today; the practice continues, even through the war in Iraq.
Embesi called the group of troublemakers his "shit-birds," men who always seemed to be on the edge, trying to see what they could get away with, getting into some kind of trouble and waiting for Embesi to bail them out. He stood behind his men but made them pay for it later with the lousy jobs.
At the head of the list for platoon troublemaker was Cpl. Gary Gibson, a round peg looking for a square hole. Gary was a really good guy, dependable under fire; he knew what he was doing but was always trying to see what he could get away with. His mouth and Irish temper often got him into trouble.
Gary had served with Embesi during a previous tour in The Nam. One night, while standing watch in the field, Embesi told me a story about Gibson and another guy stealing some food from the mess hall, late one
night.
The two men had managed to sneak inside and put together quite a stash before the mess hall's gunnery sergeant caught them. Fuming and wanting justice, the gunny demanded to know what unit they were from, then asked for their platoon sergeant to be summoned to the mess hall.
When Embesi arrived, he acted surprised and disgusted, and verbally dressed the two men down. Then he told the gunny that he'd like to punish the men right then and there. Would the gunny stand outside the mess hall door and keep a look out for any officers? The gunny was from the Old Corps, so he watched Embesi roll up his sleeves; he knew exactly what this young sergeant had in mind. That suited the gunny just fine-those two deserved a good ass-whipping.
Embesi grabbed the two men by their collars, flung them into the mess hall, and snarled, "I'm gonna make sure you don't do this again!" The gunny just smiled and stood guard in front of the door, listening to the gratifying sounds of a full-blown brawl. Embesi was beating the tar out of them. Chairs were thrown, fists connected with flesh, bodies crashed on the mess hall deck. Against Embesi, a multi-degreed black belt in karate, they didn't stand a chance.
It was all over in a few minutes. Embesi dragged the moaning figures out of the mess hall; they were holding their faces in their hands. "They won't be doing that again!" he promised the gunny, as he took the two in tow. Satisfied with their punishment, the gunny dropped the charges against the pair that had violated his mess hall. Unbeknownst to him, Embesi never laid a hand on his men; he just bailed them out the best way he knew how. He staged the entire fight!
You had to like a guy like that. He didn't let any outsider impact the men under his command. You didn't get away with anything and the administration of any discipline stayed within the platoon.
BUILDING THE AMMO BUNKER was exhausting work. At lunchtime it was too damned hot to eat, and several of us preferred to rack out. About six of us were lying on our cots when Corporal Gibson dreamed up a prank to pull on our new lieutenant (LT). We had picked him up when we left 1st Tank Battalion, and nobody had much respect for him. After all, he was a second lieutenant and didn't know diddly squat about tanks or The Nam.
Gary got hold of the LT's poncho liner. These liners were relatively new to Vietnam. Made of a soft nylon material with a camouflage pattern, they also served as blankets and were prized by everyone. Gary filled a small cup with battery acid and, as if it was Holy Water, sprinkled it all over the liner. Once he finished blessing the blanket, he folded it up and put it back at the head of the LT's cot, right where he found it.
That night, the crews were all out on the berm with their tanks. Several days later, I heard the rest of the story from Embesi.
After playing cards, Embesi and the lieutenant decided to turn in. The lieutenant's cot lay near the entrance to the tent. A single lightbulb hung from the tent's center beam. Facing the light, the LT shook open his blanket. The shadowed side of the blanket was pierced by dozens of beams of light streaming in from the bare bulb.
The LT stood there, dumbfounded, looking at what appeared to be a giant slice of camouflaged Swiss cheese. "S-s-s-ergeant Embesi!" he stuttered, "What happened to my poncho liner?"
Embesi knew what-the LT's blanket had fallen victim to an old tanker's practical joke. "Moths, sir?" he asked.
"Moths that eat nylon?" The lieutenant was really pissed; he knew somebody had messed with his blanket. "There's a chemical smell to it, but I can't tell what it is."
Embesi took a sniff to confirm his own suspicion-but he never shared it with the LT. He also had a pretty good idea who the culprit was, because he had supplied Gary with the battery acid earlier that afternoon for his tank. But he kept that to himself. He simply promised the whiny lieutenant that he would get him a new blanket.
Gary Gibson had made Embesi's shit list once again.
Chapter 5
First Rites
very war has its own nickname for the infantryman. World War I had its Doughboys. World War II had its GIs. "Grunt" was my generation's term for the combat infantryman. No better term could have been found for this war, in this ungodly hot country where men in the field had to pack eighty to one hundred pounds of gear on their backs. "Grunt" said it all.
For any new man in The Nam, the first thirty days was a make-itor-break-it situation. In order to survive, you had to digest-quicklyan overwhelming amount of information never mentioned in training. A grunt, in particular, could not afford to be a slow learner, nor would his comrades tolerate it.
There was an endless list of things to learn:
• Upon arriving in Vietnam, the first thing you learned was not to wear both dog tags around your neck. You removed one and tied it in the laces of your boot. The reason behind this practice wasn't very reassuring to anyone who just arrived in The Nam. Its purpose was to increase the likelihood of identifying your body if you got obliterated by an explosion.
• A green star cluster-a pen-sized device that shot up colored fireworks-meant that a patrol was coming in. A red star cluster signaled an enemy ground attack.
• Take one white malaria pill every day, and the big red one on Sunday.
• Take your salt pills four times a day.
• Don't aim the tank's main gun over the driver's head. In case your tank hits a mine, he won't split his head open on the gun tube.
• When you hear a flare pop in the night sky, cover one eye. That way, you can retain night vision in the other eye.
• Never use the word "repeat" over the radio. It's an artillery term that means "Keep firing until told to stop." Rumor had it an entire company had been wiped out by someone's misuse of the word over the radio. Supposedly, the unit moved into an area that had just been heavily shelled by artillery. A radio operator with the grunts was having trouble understanding a garbled message and said, "Repeat your last."
Unfortunately, the artillery unit that had just done the fire mission was monitoring the same channel. What they heard was a request to repeat their fire mission. We all doubted the story, but we never used "repeat."
• Before inserting your rifle magazine into your weapon, tap it against your helmet, so that the bullets don't jam as they feed into the rifle.
• The first P-38 can opener you find, attach it to the chain with the dog tag around your neck. A P-38 was the only tool that could open a can of C rations.
• Never go on a night ambush with a canteen not filled to the very brim. Anything less than full would slosh and make noise.
• Before starting the tank's engine, shut off all radios to avoid blowing their fuses.
• Before shutting down the tank, turn off the radios-for the same reason.
• If the enemy is close by and you can't talk over the radio, one click of the radio's handset means "Yes" and two clicks, "No."
• Tape down the spoon on every grenade in the tank, in case a pin should rattle loose and set one off.
• Keep more tension on the tank's track than in the States to discourage it from coming off.
And so on, ad infinitum. There was so much to remember and so little time in which to learn it, that-especially if you were a grunt-you only hoped you got it all before it got you.
DURING LONG OPERATIONS, Marine grunts were beasts of burden, inhumanely loaded down with equipment either in, or on, their 782 gear. The Marine Corps called its antiquated ex-Army packs 782 gear; it was used to hump a grunt's basic living essentials into the field. Nonessential items were limited to what you were willing to carry in the hundred-plus-degree heat. Needless to say, personal effects were kept to a minimum.
On extended operations, packs usually contained extra pairs of socks, two or three meals of C rats, an extra canteen of water, salt pills, and a few personal items such as a toothbrush and maybe a razor, depending on how strict your CO was. Troops shaving in the field was a sign of a unit with discipline.
I remember thinking that shaving in the field was an officer trying to impress his superiors by demonstrating his authority at the expens
e of his men and their morale. Every man bitched about keeping his chin clean, but today I can appreciate the method behind the madness. Something as mundane and senseless as shaving provides a traditional reminder of the normal world. It helps maintain discipline in the midst of insanity. More importantly, it instills pride and self-respect.
Every grunt's pack contained the last letter from home, along with a spare bottle of"bug juice." All Army and Marine grunts wore their primary bottle of insect repellent on their helmets, held in place by a thick black rubber band.
It was also common practice to secure the plastic poncho to the outside of the backpack to make room for extra C rats, Claymore mines, and trip flares to be hauled out each evening to set up night defensive positions in the boonies. The poncho not only kept the rain off, but doubled as a makeshift stretcher, with a Marine at each corner to carry its owner to the rear-and hopefully to medical attention. Its last job was to act as a body bag, a drape to cover the dead in the field. Contrary to Hollywood, regular body bags were used only in the rear areas; they were never brought to the field.
Attached to the pack was an entrenching tool used to dig foxholes, although not everyone carried one. The infantry carried other items too, in a collaborative group effort toward their mutual survival. You could see some men hauling a couple of 81mm mortar rounds, while others carried extra belts of machine gun ammunition. Both mortars and machine guns devoured large quantities of ammo, and when the shit hit the fan, running out of ammo could spell instant extinction. So everyone carried as much ammo as he could.
Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam Page 7
