As Embesi later explained it, "The dink or Marine who made the first move to shoot at the other would be a dead man." It was a Mexican standoff on top of our tank.
All of this was transpiring without the rest of the crew's knowledge.
Embesi, cool as ever, got on the radio. "Kimbrew! Scratch my back!"
"Scratch my back" was a term all tankers immediately recognized-and feared, for it meant that enemy infantry had overrun a tank and were on top of the vehicle. Scratching another tank's back was the act of one tank shooting its machine gun at a sister tank in an act of desperation.
It was our good luck that Kimbrew's gunner, Cpl. Gary Gibson, had served with Embesi on a previous tour in Vietnam and instantly recognized Embesi's plea. Suddenly, Embesi saw the turret on the tank behind us whip around until-in less than two seconds-its gun tube was aimed directly at him.
Gary's voice came over the radio: "Embesi! Duck!"
As we found out later, Gary had both hands on the electric trigger grips of the gunner's control handle. He didn't waste time flipping the power switches from main gun to machine gun. He just squeezed the electric triggers to fire the 90mm beehive round in the chamber.
Embesi ducked. An explosion of 4,400 metal darts washed over the tank. A tidal wave of smoke and flame, along with dust and debris, filled the inside of the turret. My first guess was that an RPG had hit us. But I knew I was all right and was focused too intently on the tree line, still spewing out its deadly volume of fire. For only an instant, I turned my head from the periscope to check Sergeant Hearn's progress on changing the machine gun barrel. I needed that .30!
Hearn didn't bother to take the time to investigate the sudden smoke and debris filling the turret. He was too focused on the immediate task of bringing the gun back on line. It could save our lives. In fact, the only man on our crew aware of the two NVA had been Embesi.
Everything in the gypsy rack, along with the two North Vietnamese, had just been turned into shredded wheat.
"Thirty's up!" yelled Hearn. By then he had thrown off those cumbersome asbestos gloves and burned his hands getting the hot gun back in action.
The battalion was still two klicks away, but it was well aware of the fierce firefight going on. Over the radio, they could hear desperate pleas from the few remaining grunts who still hugged our vehicles; the battalion had already turned to come to our rescue.
Inside of thirty minutes we had gone through about forty rounds of our main gun ammunition, or more than two-thirds of it. Preoccupied with keeping the .30 oiled and the main gun fed, Hearn couldn't keep up with the brass expenditure, and the turret floor was covered with thousands of .30-caliber shell casings and dozens of the three-foot-long 90mm brass shell casings. Suddenly, the turret wouldn't move.
"Turret's Jammed!" I yelled.
Embesi's voice pierced through our comm helmets. "Get that fuckin' brass outta here!"
Somewhere in the ocean of brass, a shell had wedged itself between the turret and the tank's hull. I couldn't aim my guns.
Embesi immediately opened up with the.50, giving Hearn a chance to throw the 90mm shell casings overboard. Hearn looked like a sailor bailing out a foundering ship. Three-foot-long casings flew out of the loader's hatch as he searched frantically for the one offending casing. The grunts outside, using us for cover, yelled as the brass shells rained down on them.
After what seemed to take forever, Hearn found the guilty shell. He yanked it free and I was back in business.
Sweat was running off our bodies. The constant deafening chatter of the machine guns was interrupted only by the firing of the main gun. In addition to that, we had the combined voices of three TCs screaming over the radio, making a bedlam of insanity.
Never letting my hands off the triggers, I yelled for the forty-first time, "On the way!" That warned the loader to clear himself from the breech before it kicked back in a two-foot blur and dropped the next hot smoking shell casing on the now-visible floor.
Hearn had already pulled another 90mm round out of its rack and was shoving it into the breech. Ka-chung!-the breech slammed shut. "Up!" he yelled. During that interval of only a few seconds I had switched back to the .30 and was taking the tree line under fire.
With Hearn's yell, I switched back to the main gun.
"On the way!" The tank rocked as our main gun fired for the fortysecond time. Another hot brass casing hit the deck, and the process began all over again.
Typically, Mr. Charles's tactics were of a hit-and-run nature. It was unusual for him to stand and fight this long. Later, we found out that the NVA were in steel-reinforced bunkers that allowed them to hang tough against our armored column. We also discovered that the steel in their bunkers was actually the rails that once led to the Ha Dong Bridge!
Why did they put up such a maniacal stand? In hindsight, it should have been obvious-the NVA wanted the infantry battalion to come to our rescue. We were just the unwitting bait for their far larger trap.
Retracing our route, the battalion encountered the same two tree lines we had crossed uneventfully half an hour earlier. They passed through the first and were approaching the second. The eruption that leaped out at them was so loud and intense that we could hear it over the slowing, sporadic gunfire of our own ambush.
They too came up against steel-reinforced bunkers, but these were equipped with .51-caliber Chicom machine guns. As the grunts tried to assault and flank the bunkers, it was carnage. The tanks we had left behind with the battalion took on the bunkers, one by one, with their main guns and eventually swung the tide of the battle. As the sounds of their ambush grew in volume, ours-conversely-began to slacken.
An FO (Marine artillery forward observer) with the battalion called in fire from the big 155mm howitzers several miles away, on Hill 55. He walked the "five-fives" exploding shells along the tree line to give the grunts a chance to maneuver against the bunkers and, finally, assault the enemy position at a cost of many casualties.
Back at the ranch, we were quickly running out of ammunition and still pinned down in our own ambush. But it had slackened off somewhat. Dead and wounded grunts had our tanks pinned in place. We couldn't move if we wanted to, and besides, leaving dead and wounded behind was never an option in the Marine Corps. We had a long and proud tradition that you always came out with all your equipment and men-dead and alive. Nobody got left behind.
Finally, with artillery support, the battalion slowly began to make its way toward our position. It took them what seemed like forever to reach us. They were as shot up and as low on ammo as we were.
It had been an all-day event, or so it had seemed. I was in unimaginable sensory overload, surrounded by varied loud noises, the tank rocking with every squeeze of the trigger, and endless voices screaming through my comm helmet. I was sitting in the turret's intense 130-plusdegree heat, in the confined space of the gunner's position, unable to get a breath of fresh air. Smoke expended from thousands of shells, along with the smoke from the oil Hearn had squirted on the hot machine gun, plus the sharp smell of our own anxious sweat. It was all beginning to overwhelm me. I yelled for the loader to turn on the air extraction blower to vent the choking fumes.
As the battalion reached us, things finally, but slowly, quieted down. There was suddenly nothing for me to do when it dawned on me that I was hungry-very hungry. I had no idea what time it was, but I was certain that it was late afternoon. We had missed lunch, and now, possibly dinner as well.
"Hey, guys," I said over the intercom, now that the firefight had subsided, "How about passing down a box of C's?"
Embesi told Hearn to throw me down a box. "Didn't you eat before we left?" he asked.
"Yeah," I told him. "Of course I did."
"And you're hungry again?"
"Hell, we missed lunch! Aren't you guys hungry too?" I asked.
"Peavey, it's eight o'clock," Embesi's voice came back. "We only ate breakfast ninety minutes ago!"
For me, slow time had been in effect that
morning, stretching a forty-five-minute firefight so much that I figured an entire day had passed. Part of the cause for my confusion was not having a hatch to stick my head out of. I had no direct link with the outside world, the sun in particular. Shit! I thought. I had already notched off one day on my mental calendar, and now I was forced to relive it.
The gunner's world was as myopic as my perception of time. A tank's gunner was condemned to wearing a powerful set of binoculars for eyes. He could see far better than anyone else on the tank, but only in a very narrow area and at a great distance. The gunner, just by the nature of his position, never saw the whole picture. If I couldn't see it in my gun sight, it didn't exist. More than once, I climbed out of the turret late in the afternoon, only to be totally surprised by what my surroundings looked like.
Often a gunner becomes so engrossed in his work that he is even unaware of his orientation to the tank itself. Unless he takes his eyes away from the sights to look down at the turret floor, he can easily lose all relationship between the tank's direction and where his gun tube is pointed. More often than not, the tank commander jerks him back to reality by using the TC's override control handle, abruptly taking control out of the gunner's hands. The gunner could sit helplessly, peering through the gun sight, as the turret turns without his input. Then, just as suddenly, the turret stops, and the TC tells the gunner what to look for at some new spot.
The gunner is usually very confused-until the crap hits the fan. During a firefight like the one we had just endured, he has the best seat in the house. He has control over the laying and firing of the guns, and can see the results of his work, up close and personal.
During a firelight, ironically, the loader-who usually rides chesthigh out of the turret and can see everything-is the one man in the crew of four who has no idea what is going on. Too busy keeping the machine gun fed and the main gun loaded, he cannot take time to look outside. Also, he can only imagine the results of all his hard work. Meanwhile, all those machine gun cartridges littering the turret floor makes his job that more difficult; it is like walking on marbles in an environment in which he cannot afford to lose his balance. As the gun recoils, he also has to be especially wary of not getting in the way of the breech. If he steps in its path, it will be lethal. Of the whole tank crew, the loader has the most demanding and physically intense job. But for only short periods of time.
Normally, the driver has one of the most desirable jobs. But during a firefight he can contribute nothing and is suddenly the most helpless person on the crew. He can only drop down in his seat, close his hatch, and keep his foot on the brake. His vision is limited to three glass prism blocks, fixed periscopes. Once the shooting starts, he is strictly an observer. He can contribute only an extra pair of eyes, and a pistol is his only defense.
The function of the tank commander (TC) is an entirely different story: He is as busy as the driver isn't. His job is to be aware of the overall situation and the tank's tactical position within it. The TC is responsible for selecting targets, prioritizing their threat potential, and choosing the right type of ammunition to deal with each one. He also has a .50caliber machine gun that he has to load and fire and he also has to stay in continual contact with other tanks around him and coordinate their fire. He can also stay in communication with the infantry leader on the ground, via the radio or on the tank-infantry phone mounted on the back of the tank-an item that sounded like a great idea, even though it was rarely used.
More than any other crewman, the TC has to keep his head outside the turret, which makes him a popular target of enemy snipers. He is one very busy individual, with a huge responsibility.
THE FIREFIGHT SUBSIDED as soon as the battalion got up to our position. We formed a perimeter, assessed our damage, and licked our wounds. Embesi surveyed all the tanks to see how much total ammo we had. The three tanks involved in the initial ambush were pitifully low. Over our intercom, Embesi told Hearn to run over to the latecomers and borrow some 90mm ammo.
It was just the opportunity I had been waiting for. "Let me go!" I interrupted Embesi. "I need a breath of fresh air down here." I had to get the hell out of there, if only for a few minutes.
"Go ahead," Embesi replied.
I squeezed past the main gun, waited for the loader to get out of the way, climbed up, and stuck out my head. The 120 degree heat outside temperature suddenly felt cool. Drenched in sweat, I took a deep breath, climbed out of the turret, and sat on top of the tank for a minute to get oriented. Now I could see where the ambush had taken place, and it was totally different from what I had imagined.
Embesi pointed out which tanks I was to get ammunition from. He warned me to wear my helmet and flak jacket, which I put on before I jumped down. It felt good to be on my feet again. I quickly walked over to one of the newly arrived tanks and yelled up to the TC, "You got some ninety for me?"
I realized it was Staff Sergeant Siva from 1 stTanks-everyone knew Siva. He was a hard-drinking and hard-fighting American Indian and was famous in Marine tanker lore. You either loved him or hated him and it was a mutual understanding. He said something to his loader down inside the turret, and up out of the loader's hatch came a round of main gun ammunition, followed by the loader himself. Right away, I saw it was a WP round.
"Don't you have any canister?" I asked.
"Beggars can't be choosers," said Siva with a smile. He knew I wanted canister-we all wanted canister!
I made the trip across the perimeter, back to our tank, and yelled up to no one in particular to take the heavy round. Embesi took one look and snarled, "I told that sonnuvabitch I wanted canister. What's he givin' you Willy Peter for?"
It was a rhetorical question. I was just the delivery boy.
Embesi moved his mouthpiece down from his helmet, keyed the radio switch, and shouted something that ended with, "No fuckin' HE, Goddamn it! I want canister! You got extra on the back of your tank, damn it!"
It was true, there were several 90mm ammo boxes tied down on the back of Siva's tank that were left over from a recent supply drop and they were all canister rounds. I made six trips around the perimeter, hitting up all the TCs for extra ammo. More than anything, it was great just being outside. But this would be one volunteer mission where the adage "be careful what you wish for" would suddenly apply.
Three of us, each from a different tank, were going between the newcomers and redividing the main gun ammunition equally. I didn't notice the approaching helicopters until someone threw a smoke grenade into the middle of the perimeter, about one hundred meters from me. Then I realized that a number of wounded had been carried near to where the smoke was billowing.
While I was halfway across the perimeter, carrying a round of HE, the birds started their steep decent. Their landing gear touched the ground and compressed under the full weight of each machine. The men near the noisy choppers couldn't hear the distinct series of bloop! bloop! bloop! noises in the distance, or the shouts of "Incoming!"
Familiar with the sound of enemy mortars by this time, I dropped to the ground on my knees, cradling the four-foot-long round, and laid it carefully on the ground next to me. It was the first time I had ever been caught out in the open, and I was terrified.
Crack! crack! crack! Black puffs followed brief orange flashes as the mortars exploded inside the perimeter. I spread out on the ground, trying to get as flat as I could, as several more rounds crashed into the area. They were landing only seventy-five feet away. Starting with my head, I worked my way down, trying to flatten my body into the earth itself. I flattened my ass, turned my ankles sideways, put my cheek against the earth, and flattened out my fingers on the ground. I could smell the burned powder of the exploding projectiles and hear the pieces of hot shrapnel buzzing through the air on their hunt for human flesh, sounding like the killer bees they surely were.
Unlike the sound made in war movies, an exploding shell's noise was extremely short in duration, a sharp Crack! more like the report during the finale of a firework
s show. A dozen explosions sounded all around me. I thought they would never end.
From those unlucky enough to have been close to the noisy choppers, screams went out: "Corpsman! Corpsman Up!"
A small metal sliver landed harmlessly in front of my hand. Realizing this chunk of metal was of North Vietnamese origin, I wanted it as a souvenir to take back and show the crew just how lucky I had been. I slowly moved my arm, keeping it flat on the ground. I closed my thumb and forefinger around the object.
"Shit!" I screamed. I felt like the idiot I was, and for several days I had the blisters to prove it.
Totally exposed and absolutely scared to death, I went back to trying to melt myself into the ground through osmosis. I wanted to be a drop of water melting into desert sand, but I felt more like an elephant with two burned fingers in a tiny shooting gallery. Now I knew why I was never meant to be a grunt. As I lay there, running through every scheme to make myself smaller, it dawned on me. Jesus Christ, here I was, lying parallel to a 90mm HE round-a brass cylinder filled with twenty pounds of explosive. And it took only twelve pounds of pressure on the right spot to set the damned thing off.
Minutes ago, I was delighted to have it. Now I couldn't distance myself fast enough from the damned thing, but I wasn't about to get up. Then I came up with a brilliant plan. Maybe if I pushed hard enough, I could roll it away from me. Keeping my right hand flat against the ground, I moved it up toward my head, working it between the round and my body.
Crack! Crack! A few more mortars landed nearby, and I waited for the next round to impact. Then I pushed the top of the projectile away from me as hard as I could.
I hadn't given my plan a lot of thought. If I had, its consequence would have been obvious. The long round was like an upside-down ice cream cone, its top narrower than its base. When I shoved the projectile's top away from my head, it simply turned 180 degrees on its wider base and bumped against my leg.
Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam Page 12
