Embesi only smiled.
Just as he had described it, Goi Noi Island was bordered by two large rivers and a smaller one. It was a large chunk of uncontested ground that Charlie and his rich uncle, Mr. Charles, had owned for years. "Mr. Charles" was the term of respect we used to differentiate the hardcore North Vietnamese Army regulars from "Charlie," or the local Viet Cong.
The day before, 2/7-Second Battalion, Seventh Marine Regiment-had set feet on the island and stepped into a whirlwind. Resistance was so fierce that we were part of a reaction force to bolster the Marines' presence on the island along with 3/7, another Marine battalion. We soon found out that Ben Green, a tank commander from 1st Tank Battalion, had been killed in the engagement.
Embesi told the crews we would be gone for three days, but we were ordered to take several extra five-gallon cans of water. That was more than we usually carried, but with Embesi you didn't ask why, you just did it. Also, he had us load up five days' worth of C rats and all the machine gun ammo we could store in our gypsy rack. Did he know something he wasn't telling us?
The gypsy rack was technically called the bustle rack-the open area on the back of the turret, where we stashed personal gear, extra ammo, and anything else we didn't want cluttering up the inside. Every tank I ever saw had as much junk stuffed into this external area as possible. No one ever called it the bustle rack, and because it made every tank look like a gypsy wagon the name stuck. It was even more fitting because we operated like gypsies, with no permanent home, never longer than a week or two with any one grunt unit, shuffled continually between one unit and another.
It was mid-morning by the time we packed everything up and exited the fire base. We were to join up with other units of 2/7 and several tanks from 1st Tank Battalion under Lieutenant Scott. They would be waiting for us at Phu Loc 6, near Liberty Bridge. To get there, we had to make a long road march past Hill 55, down past Hill 42, through the Dodge City area, and past Hill 37. Liberty Bridge was a major landmark in the Da Nang area. We had all heard about it, but I had never seen it. None of us realized that it was no longer in service.
We arrived to find what had once been a very high wooden bridge, several stories tall in fact. It was a charred skeleton that extended only halfway into the river. We soon learned that during Tet, two months earlier, the bridge had been set ablaze during an enemy attack-by Marine artillery that had accidentally hit it. Was a Marine lieutenant involved? Someone must have gotten his ass chewed out pretty good over that one.
We were able to ford the Song Thu Bon downstream from the blackened remains and meet up with our infantry and tanks at the little fire base called Phu Loc 6. We would begin our sweep from there onto Goi Noi Island and link up with the Marine unit that had fallen into trouble the day before.
By mid-afternoon our combined relief force departed Phu Loc 6 in search of 2/7. We caught up with it by late afternoon and began a sweep of the western end of the island. We spent two uneventful days trying to locate Charlie, but the only thing we turned up was sporadic sniper fire. It wasn't effective, but it seemed to dog us wherever we went. It was Charlie's way of letting us know that he still cared about us.
On the third day we encountered our first enemy activity about two klicks (a klick, or kilometer, equals 1,000 meters) into the island. The grunts had gotten into a brief skirmish and had taken a few casualties, but none of our tanks was involved. A medevac (medical evacuation helicopter) was called in to take out the wounded. Before long, one of the antique eggbeaters came in to pick them up. With it came a foretaste of the kind of situation we were about to find ourselves in for the duration of the sweep.
At the helicopter's approach, one of the grunts threw a smoke grenade to signal the pilot where to land and indicate the wind direction. As the bird turned and started its steep descent, suddenly the serene afternoon exploded all around us in a maelstrom of heavy and light machine gun fire. We couldn't see the enemy's guns, just their green tracers streaking toward the chopper. The quiet countryside suddenly opened up with heavy machine guns all around us! What shocked us most was the size and astounding quantity of the enemy's .51-caliber Chicom machine guns. These were large crew-served weapons that took lots of effort and manpower to move around. It was suddenly obvious that around us was a large, as yet unseen, enemy force.
The bird made it in, and a few of the wounded were loaded aboard the chopper. "If they ain't dead yet," Embesi said to me, referring to our earlier flying experience, "they soon will be."
The chopper struggled away with its bleeding cargo, dodging the hail of enemy fire. We learned later that the bird was badly shot up and barely made it home.
The helicopter incident magnified the gravity of our situation. Later, other choppers carrying food and much-needed water tried to make it in but were turned back by the intense volume of fire. It was our first indication, though we didn't realize it at the time, that we couldn't count on getting much helicopter support in the coming days. Resupplying a reinforced Marine infantry battalion in the field can be done only by helicopter. Without them, grunts could last only a couple of days before having to head back to a fire base.
Another flight of choppers tried to resupply us with precious water and ammunition just before twilight. This time, they were the newer CH46 Sea Knight helicopters-larger birds with two sets of rotors and a large ramp at the rear that expedited the transport of troops and supplies. But even these capable machines couldn't make it in as the area around us erupted into a maelstrom once more.
After a few daring but unsuccessful attempts to land, they took the hint and flew off. "Fuckin' great!" said one grunt near our vehicle as he watched the birds vanish into the distance.
A few minutes later, the grunts threw several smoke grenades out along one side of the perimeter-we had no idea why. We were near where one of the smoke grenades was burning; the sweep had come to a halt. I was eating a cold can of beans and franks, with my head sticking up out of the loader's hatch. The top of the turret served as my table.
We heard them before we saw them. It was hard to tell where the sounds were coming from, when suddenly three Sea Knights popped over a hill, heading directly parallel to the smoke from the grenades. The helicopters flew low and fast down the battalion's front line, pushing supplies out the back as they skimmed across the ground at ninety miles per hour. The grunts ran out to scavenge everything they could find in what was otherwise a debris field. What was left of the supplies lay in a swath of broken ammo boxes, damaged C ration cases, and scattered bags of mail. Some of the wooden boxes, each holding two rounds of 90mm tank ammunition, had broken open when they hit the ground, flinging shells all along the wreckage path. But no matter how badly those ammo crates fared, they still did better than the plastic containers of water, which mostly ruptured leaving the grunts with a serious watershortage problem.
Average daytime temperature hovered between 110 and 120 degrees and the heat was taking an enormous toll on the grunts. Some were dropping from heat exhaustion, and several medevacs had to brave heavy fire to reach the men before they died. Rumors that the thermometer had reached 130 degrees began taking a toll on morale. Water quickly became a scarce commodity, worth almost its weight in gold.
That extra drinking water Embesi had us load aboard our tanks was never meant for us. From his past experience in The Nam, he knew the value of water. When we began dispensing that precious water, it endeared us to the grunts closest to our tank, the very troops we depended on to protect us from enemy RPG teams.
We didn't dispense our water for free. As with another army-the Salvation Army-the grunts got a sermon before their sustenance. As we poured water into their waiting cups, helmets, and canteens, we reminded them that we relied upon them for close-in protection. The grunts agreed to look out for us, and Embesi's extra water became our "insurance" policy.
The beginning of the fourth day, the battalion resumed its attempt to force an engagement with the enemy. We were trying to make Charlie fight on
our terms. We knew he was around from the very heavy fire he directed at our helicopters, although up to now he had pretty much eluded us. Typically, he fought only at a time and place of his choosingunless cornered.
That morning, the battalion CO, a lieutenant colonel, decided to send a small armored force of three tanks, a couple of amtracs, and a platoon of infantry back to Phu Loc 6. We were told it was going to be a milk run, a cakewalk. I was happy that our tank was chosen to lead the column; it would give us a chance to get off this island for at least one night.
We gulped down an uncooked breakfast as we kept an eye on the tree line in front of us. You never took your eyes off the tree lines anywhere in Vietnam. Meanwhile, a platoon of grunts climbed on top of two amphibious tractors. As troop carriers, the amtracs, or "tracs" as we usually called them, were slow, ponderous, and ungainly. They were never designed to be land taxis, the way we used them in Vietnam. But they were the only viable way for taking out the dead and not-so-seriously wounded. No one would ask a chopper to risk landing in a hot LZ for any but the most critically wounded or those suffering from heatstroke. More importantly, amtracs could return loaded with food, ammo, and the most critical item of all-water.
A stroke of luck had blessed this operation with an unusually large number of tanks. In this war, such foresight was rare. Someone must have expected serious trouble. Our departure would still leave the battalion with four tanks in support while we made our little jaunt off the island.
The tracs were loaded with the wounded and dead from the fighting the day before. We had barely finished breakfast when the word went out, "Crank 'em up!"
We were anxious to get underway, looking forward to delivering our morose cargo and the chance to shower, eat a can of warmed-up C rations, and get at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep.
The convoy started with our tank in the lead and Sergeant Kimbrew's tank following right behind. Trailing him were two amtracs, and another tank took up the rear. It was a powerful armored column, designed to complete its round trip of exchanging body bags for bags of water.
The grunts always preferred to ride on top of the amtracs. No one in his right mind rode inside a trac except the dead, for the belly of the beast was lined with hundreds of gallons of gasoline. Amtracs were so notorious for "lighting up" after hitting a mine that we often referred to them as Shake 'n' Bakes. Even though sitting outside, with no armor for protection, left the grunts exposed to rifle and mortar fire, they figured it was safer than being turned into charcoal briquettes.
Thirty minutes into our trek we were about to cross our third tree line of the morning. We were retracing the same tracks we left days earlier-a smart move, because in order to plant a mine Charlie needed to disturb the impressions we had left. Embesi kept a careful watch on the tracks in front of him, looking for the slightest disturbance in the old impressions.
As a precautionary measure, our main gun was pointed at the tree line we were approaching. It came at an angle from our left side, and we were about fifty meters from where it crossed our path. As the tank's gunner, my job was to slowly sweep the main gun back and forth, looking for any sign of movement within the trees. I alternated between the gunner's periscope and the powerful telescope mounted alongside the main gun. Through it, I could see nothing in the tree line that made me suspicious.
But when I went back to the periscope's wider field of view, I saw them. They lay ten meters in front of the tree line, in dry grass two feet high; their khaki uniforms blended into the grass. My first thought was that the grunts had gotten way too far ahead of us. Then I realized that each one had an RPG launcher on his shoulder, and they were all pointed at-me!
Immediately, without warning anybody, I opened up with our .30caliber machine gun. Embesi, who was startled at the unexpected firing, got only one word out of his mouth: "Cease-" before the world to our left front simply exploded. At the same time I wasted the two NVA, seven or eight RPGs whooshed out of the tree line, trailing their characteristic signature of yellow smoke. All were aimed at the two lead tanks. They scored a hit on the tank behind us, and several more RPGs narrowly missed us.
Over the radio came Kimbrew's voice. "I'm hit!"
Kimbrew's gunner, Gary Gibson, keyed his com-helmet so that all the tanks could hear him over the radio. "We're OK. Fire the goddamned fifty!" Gary was letting us know that he was pissed at Kimbrew for not returning fire with the TC's larger machine gun, but at least the tank was still functioning.
A heavy volley of machine gun fire raked the amtracs, and the grunts were swept off the vehicles as if by an invisible scythe. Those who were still alive rolled off to the amtracs' safe side, seeking the safety of their aluminum hulls. Those who fell off the front or remained on top were already dead. Several more grunts sought out the safety of the tanks, desperate to put anything between them and the volcano of smoke and fire erupting from the tree line.
More RPGs gushed wildly from out of the trees, but they missed their intended targets. Our immediate, voluminous return fire kept the NVA from taking good aim. All three M48A3 Patton tanks spit salvo after salvo of canister rounds into the trees and brush, all aimed at those twinkling lights.
We fired a dozen rounds of canister in two minutes. I kept the .30 firing nonstop. The heat and smoke inside the turret became intense; I had never fired so many 90mm rounds in such rapid succession. Hot brass shell casings littered the turret floor. Sergeant Hearn, the loader, kept feeding both the machine gun and main gun. In ten minutes he was knee-deep in three-foot-long hot shell casings that were burning his legs. Normally, the loader threw the brass out of the loader's hatch, but Hearn was having all he could do keeping up with the .30 and the main gun. The 90mm brass casings were slowly filling up the tight space of the turret.
I kept firing the machine gun, saturating the tree line, throwing out the book on "controlled bursts" that kept a machine gun barrel from overheating. Whoever wrote that advice never faced an onslaught like the one we were facing now. Three tanks pounded away at point-blank range, at a dug-in and tenacious enemy. The North Vietnamese stood their ground with maniacal intensity, trading blow-for-blow in a display of relentless firepower and determination.
After fifteen minutes, having gone through all the canister and beehive rounds in the turret that we could reach, we started using HE rounds, only to find that some didn't detonate when they hit the ground. We were too close for the projectiles to arm themselves!
Embesi got on the radio and tried to get the other tanks to maneuver, but they were all pinned in place by grunts clinging to them for cover. Given that torrential onslaught, you couldn't blame the grunts. It was any port in a storm. As we pounded away, the entire length of the tree line, which was two hundred feet long, spewed fire, dust, smoke, and exploding trees-and still RPGs came flying out of the dense vegetation. I didn't think it was possible for anything to live through the deadly volleys the three tanks were pouring out, but the RPGs continued to fly out of the tree line.
I was too busy concentrating on the tree line to pay much attention to anything else. My job was to take out the RPG teams, our primary threats. I continued to lay on the .30, following each yellow trail to the point at which it had exited the tree line, hoping to nail the shooter. But the RPGs still came on, unrelentingly.
After I had fired several thousand rounds of machine gun ammo, the gun became so hot that it began cooking off-that is, it sporadically fired on its own. The heat of the gun set off the bullet sitting in the chamber. In a vain attempt to cool it off, Hearn poured oil all over the gun. That only added more smoke to the already bad air inside the turret.
I fired the machine gun again, going for the last RPG trail. Suddenly, my tracers were flying wildly all over the place-I had shot the rifling out of the barrel. It was something I had only heard about and never experienced. The barrel was now worn smooth providing no spin on the exiting bullets, causing them to fly all over the place.
I got on the intercom. "We gotta change the ba
rrel on the thirty!"
That was the last thing anyone wanted to hear in the middle of a firefight. Taking the .30-caliber machine gun off line was one very serious matter.
It surprises laymen to learn how much we depended upon our.30s. Most tend to think that a tank's long main gun-its most obvious feature-would be its most critical weapon. But in this war of close-in fighting, the .30 was the heart and life of a tank, our key weapon to keep enemy infantry at bay.
Embesi got on the intercom and told Hearn to get ready to change the barrel while he prepared his .50-caliber machine gun with a new tray of ammo. Until the loader got the barrel changed, the .50 would have to do the talking. That would be the longest two minutes of the war so far. I had one round in the main gun, but had to use it judiciously until Hearn finished with the machine gun. He couldn't tend to two weapons at the same time. The machine gun's barrel was smoking and radiating intense heat, and all of its other parts were almost as hot, making the loader's job very difficult. He had to wear thick asbestos gloves, which made it all the more difficult to handle the small parts of the light machine gun.
Due to our infantry's increasing casualties, their rifle fire now began to wither away. Our close-in protection was slowly dwindling. The few grunts who were still alive were hunkered down behind the vehicles to ride out the storm. It didn't take Charlie long to make the grunts' lives even more miserable. Enemy mortars began to drop on the convoy's far side, searching for the men hiding behind the vehicles.
Of course, when the mortars began to fall, the grunts only huddled lower to the ground. Very few had their heads up to see the tree line. It was then that a small group of NVA soldiers rushed the column. Charlie really had his shit together that morning.
Before Embesi realized it, two NVA were on the back of the tank, over the engine. Each one had an AK-47 and a satchel charge, a large pack loaded with explosive designed to take out an entire bunker. With our main gun perpendicular to the tank's hull, the NVA were able to crouch behind the loader's side of the turret. Embesi immediately pulled out his pistol with one hand and turned the TC's cupola with the other, thereby placing his half-opened hatch between him and the NVA-who had their rifles up but not their heads.
Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam Page 11
