Praying for Slack: A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Viet Nam

by Robert E. Peavey

  The shells impacted all around us with tremendous noise and concussion. Over the radio, we could hear the grunts around us frantically yelling for the guns to cease fire. Hearn, Richards, and I had buttoned up the tank to wait it out, all of us pondering the same two questions. Where was Embesi? And could a tank survive a hit from a five-five projectile?

  More shells crashed into the perimeter. Over the radio, several voices screamed, "Cease fire! Cease fire!" which added to the confusion back at the artillery battery. But the same familiar voice came over the air again.

  "Repeat. I say again, repeat." He was asking the guns to keep firing. The guns didn't know who to believe, and after pumping out about ten rounds, they ceased fire.

  We waited about a minute. Then we stuck our heads out to see the results of so many large shells impacting in our perimeter. After the horrific noise and those concussions we had felt through the tank, it was hard to imagine that anyone could still be alive. A haze of smoke hung a foot above the ground. Out of the darkness came muffled cries from between clenched teeth, "Corpsman!"

  We soon discovered that one of the tanks from 1st Tank Battalion had come close to answering our question. One of the five-fives had landed right in front of the vehicle. It blew off everything including the searchlight, the TC's machine gun, both aerials, and most of the personal gear stored in the gypsy rack. The crewmen were slightly deafbut alive-and their tank was still operational.

  Then, almost magically, Embesi appeared from out of the smokefilled night.

  "Where the fuck have you been?" Hearn asked him. "We thought you bought it!"

  "I waited it out in a hole with one of the grunts."

  "That was some big stuff," Hearn added, referring to the size of the artillery attack we just experienced.

  Embesi shook his head. "Believe me," he said, pointing over his back, "it's a lot bigger when you're out there."

  It was a miracle that no one was killed and only a couple of grunts were wounded.

  That request for the fire mission, we later learned, hadn't originated from our battalion at all. It was our first experience with a mysterious voice we would hear from again. Whoever he was, he was fluent in English and knew our radio procedures, call signs, and map coordinateseven the lingo for requesting a fire mission.

  We heard from the voice the next day as it attempted to redirect our own air strikes on us. Our solution to the problem was one of the cleverest deceptions of the war I ever witnessed. Like many great solutions, its very simplicity made it so beautiful.

  It started the following morning, after we stepped into it again with Mr. Charles. Once more we called for air support. Our luck held. We got another pair of little Skyhawks that circled to wait instructions from the FAC.

  Before the pilots would deliver an air strike, we had to let them know exactly where the friendly lines were located. This we accomplished by popping a few smoke grenades along our lines to mark our boundaries for the pilots. The FAC's job was to tell the grunt CO when to throw out a smoke grenade of a particular color, and then to inform the pilots when the smoke would appear and what color to expect. The infantry CO, using a different radio frequency, sent the order out to his unit commanders.

  That hot morning, the grunts waited for the word to throw yellow smoke grenades in front of their position.

  The FAC was standing next to our tank. "Flight Leader, yellow coming out on my command," he said.

  "Now!" he told the CO, who immediately repeated the order to all his unit commanders.

  Ten seconds went by. Clouds of yellow smoke began to blossom up at three intervals along our lines. But a fourth plume of yellow smoke was issuing out of the tree line across from us-the very tree line we wanted the air strike on.

  No matter how the FAC tried to direct the pilots to the "bad" yellow smoke, they wouldn't drop any ordnance for fear of hitting fellow Marines. That fourth plume effectively nullified our air support for the rest of the day-making it painfully obvious that somebody was eavesdropping on our radio frequencies.

  That night, a lone helicopter swooped in from out of nowhere, picked up the FAC, and left without ever touching the ground. That sent a very clear message that we wouldn't be getting any close air support for the remainder of the operation.

  We were pissed. The FAC had given up and left us on our own. Goodbye! We all wished we could have told him. Enjoy your hot shower and hot meal, you chickenshit! At least he should have tried to work the problem through, although we couldn't figure out exactly how.

  Dawn broke to the groans of grunts all around our tank. They scraped their stuff together and ate a can of whatever C rats they had left. We were getting ready for another sweltering day with no hope of any air support. Suddenly we heard the distinctive noise signature of an H-34's blades slapping the air. It came diving into the perimeter, throwing dust and grass all over the place. We all hunkered down to wait for the mortars that were sure to follow.

  But the chopper didn't even touch the ground. It brought no water, no supplies, no ammo, and no mail, just a lone individual, who jumped off the bird before it quickly pulled away. It was the FAC!

  We were speechless. What the hell was he doing back here? This guy had it made, and he came back? He must be crazy!

  Our morale picked up at the prospect of having air support once again. Word quickly went around the perimeter: No one was to throw any smoke grenades unless the CO ordered it. More importantly, the color designations were going to be changed-yellow was now red, and vice versa. Suddenly the plan became obvious to everyone. We only hoped that our mysterious eavesdropper would take the bait.

  It didn't take long before we were back into it with Mr. Charles. The call immediately went out for air support. Two F-4 Phantoms loaded down with Nape and Snakes circled our position while they established contact with the FAC. We were near enough to hear him tell the pilots that our position was about to be marked with yellow smoke. The message went out over the radios for the grunt units to be ready to throw a "yellow" smoke grenade.

  A few minutes later, the FAC spoke into his handset. "Yellow smoke on my command." He turned to the grunt CO and yelled "Now!" The grunt CO ordered his units to throw yellow smoke grenades.

  Ten seconds later, red smoke billowed up from our lines. But yellow smoke came out of the tree line in front of us!

  "Get some!" was all the FAC needed to add over his hand mike. Unwittingly, the NVA had pinpointed their position better than any neon sign could have done.

  We never again had trouble with anybody eavesdropping on our transmissions, and we never heard from the mystery voice again. Napalm and 500-pound bombs had obliterated the area, ending someone's career in radio. The FAC, whom we had all cursed for leaving us the night before, had worked out the ruse with his fellow pilots back in Da Nang.

  A rumor began that an American had been turned by the NVA. Later, the story would include alleged sightings of a tall Caucasian among the NVA, packing an American PRC-25 radio. It made for a great rumor, but we all believed it was just that-scuttlebutt.

  During an air strike, the grunts counted every bomb that left the underside of each plane against the number of explosions they heard. As luck would have it, we ended up one detonation short, meaning that one bomb hadn't gone off. It further meant that someone had to go in and find the dud before Charlie did, because he was sure to make use of it. For an hour, the grunts made a fruitless search for the 500-pound Easter egg. It was no surprise that they couldn't find it-the ground was really marshy, and the bomb had probably buried itself dozens of feet below the surface.

  WE CONTINUED THE SWEEP into wetter and wetter ground. Embesi, who was growing very concerned, gave the driver a lot of pointers over the intercom. This was no place for an inexperienced driver to do something stupid and throw a track. It was easy in such marshy terrain to have a track walk off the sprocket much like a bicycle chain. Even so, it didn't take long before one amtrac became hopelessly mired. A tank was sent over to help out, but it s
ank into the same predicament itself as it struggled pulling against the trac's dead weight.

  Now we had two vehicles stuck, and the closest dry ground we could safely pull them from lay a hundred feet to their rear-way beyond the reach of our tow cables. Some of us wondered if we would have to abandon them both and blow them where they stood. But leaving equipment behind was seldom a Marine option.

  Someone, maybe Lieutenant Scott, remembered that there was a Navy LSD in Da Nang, where we could borrow some cable ("rope," to those who spoke Navy). Time was critical, because the longer an object sat in mud, the more it succumbed to suction, which was often so strong that a tank or amtrac might never get free. Also, it was getting late.

  A frantic callwent out to 1stTank Battalion's CP, asking them to arrange for a helicopter to pick up the cable from the ship and get it out to us.

  An hour later, we heard a Sea Knight chopper coming in with the desperately needed cable. Well before it arrived, Embesi had four tanks line up in a column, each one cabled to the next, sitting on the nearest dry ground behind the two mired vehicles. As soon as the chopper dropped off the cable, they ran it to the last tank in the column and hooked the other end to the mired tank. Then all four tanks pulled up slowly, taking the slack out of the tow cables.

  Anyone with half a brain stood well clear of the cables. They were known to snap and cut a tanker in half. On Embesi's signal, all five tanks-the mired one included-slowly and steadily applied power. Like four diesel locomotives in tandem, the lead tanks belched black exhaust, straining against the tonnage assigned to them. Slowly, inch by inch, the mud gave up its prize. We repeated the same process for the amtrac. At first it didn't look like the swamp was going to release it, but eventually, after several minutes of 3,000-horsepower persuasion, the muck surrendered its victim.

  Now the two vehicles were freed, but the afternoon was getting late. We had to find some spot to set up a perimeter for the night. One thing was for sure: The tanks and tracs were not capable of going any farther east on the island due to the marshy ground. The CO has made the decision that he wasn't going anywhere on this island without his tanks in support.

  WE SPENT ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT with everyone up and in position, awaiting an attack that never came. Each and every night, we had been so certain we would be hit that Charlie's inactivity began to perplex us. It just wasn't like him.

  Morning came on May 12; it was Mother's Day. We set out to return to drier ground on the other side of the berm. We retraced our steps and headed back toward the underpass. Because it was a vehicle's only way in or out of the area, we knew Charlie wouldn't miss such an obvious opportunity twice. This time, it would be mined for sure. Once again we called upon the minesweeping teams.

  The two teams swept their instruments back and forth, like old-time farmers scything at invisible fields of wheat. Each operator, through his set of headphones, listened for the telltale beep that indicated buried metal. The two teams extended their search all around the area in and out of the underpass.

  The grunts never liked sitting in one spot for too long. They got restless after waiting for about twenty minutes. But as far as the tank crews were concerned, the minesweepers could take all the time they wanted. For all we cared, they could sweep all the way back to Hill 55. Imagine our incredulous surprise when the sweepers declared the area free of mines.

  "No fuckin' way!" said Embesi in disbelief. He struggled to extricate himself from his seat and called for me to take the TC's position. Once in the TC's spot, I watched him ease himself to the ground and painfully hobble toward the minesweepers.

  Charlie had missed a few opportunities during this operation but never would he pass up one like this. Every tanker knew there was a mine there somewhere, hence Embesi's reluctance to move ahead.

  From my new perch, I saw a few of the TCs and minesweepers in a heated debate. Embesi was making animated hand gestures, pointing to the underpass and the area right in front of it. Although I was fifty meters away and couldn't hear a thing, I could tell he was refusing to move his tanks through until they checked it again. Finally the minesweepers lost the argument. Reluctantly they turned to resweep the underpass. Another half hour went by, but they came across ... nothing.

  While Embesi was arguing with the minesweepers, Sergeant Kimbrew was on the ground next to him. After the second sweep, when it became obvious that the TCs didn't have much of an argument left, Kimbrew turned back to his tank and circled one finger in the air. His driver cranked up the V-12 diesel engine. All the other tank drivers took Kimbrew's gesture as a signal to start up their engines as well. It suited us just fine to be moving out of here.

  Up until then, we'd been the lead tank during the entire operation. Now, for the first time in a week, we were second in a long line of vehicles. Kimbrew's tank, coming from the northern side of the perimeter, joined up with the column of tanks and amtracs. Kimbrew was part of our regular platoon, so it didn't make sense to break it up. Ordinarily, he would have waited for our entire column to pass before falling in behind us, but Embesi halted the column and signaled for Kimbrew to cut ahead of us.

  Embesi was still in a lot of pain; he limped slowly back to our tank. It looked like the show was finally getting underway. I climbed out of the turret and down onto the fender to help him climb up on the tank. Then I climbed back up on the turret, slid down through the TC's hatch, and settled into my solitary chair next to the main gun. After a lot of difficulty, Embesi finally got back on his makeshift chair. We put on our comm helmets, and I could hear him talking to Kimbrew. Embesi warned Kimbrew to be ready for a possible ambush on the other side of the underpass.

  Sergeant Kimbrew was justifiably cautious as his tank approached the underpass. Like a blind man looking for a curb that he knows lies somewhere in front of him, he crept forward cautiously, almost hesitantly. Even though the engineers had proclaimed the underpass clean, we all knew that Charlie wasn't about to let us pass unmolested. If it wasn't a mine, it had to be an ambush. Just in case it was, a company of grunts had already passed through the tunnel and set up a perimeter on the other side. Slowly Kimbrew's tank inched into the gap. Suddenly, the entire area was rocked by an earthshaking blast.

  I felt the concussion through our tank. Kimbrew's tank was lost in a huge cloud of dust, dirt, and smoke that engulfed the entire underpass and everything around it.

  "What the hell was that?" I asked.

  "Son of a bitch!" Embesi wasn't using the intercom, but I could hear him plainly. "I told those cock-sucking engineers there was a mine there, goddamn it!"

  It took a minute or two before we could finally see the tank. It was down on its right front; the blast had thrown two sets of 200-pound roadwheels in different directions.

  "Goddamn it!" Embesi repeated, again loud enough for us all to hear. "I told the motherfuckers!"

  I wasn't able to get a glimpse of the tank because I was scanning the closest tree line, about one hundred meters out, off to our left. It wasn't uncommon for a mine to signal the start of an ambush, and we had to be ready just in case. But the longer we waited, the more obvious it became that this was an isolated event.

  Gary Gibson was aboard Kimbrew's tank. We were indebted to him for saving our tank from the two NVA a few days earlier, with that wellplaced beehive round. After such an explosion I prayed the crew was okay.

  Over the radio, Embesi kept calling for Kimbrew or any crewman on the wounded tank to answer. All four were still inside, but none of them acknowledged. Finally, after what seemed like hours, we saw the first sign of life. Kimbrew re-emerged from his TC position. Then over the radio came Gary's voice, responding to Embesi's questions about the crew. It turned out everyone was all right, just slightly dazed and shaken up. Kimbrew was temporarily deaf; his head was outside when the mine went off.

  Their tank wasn't so lucky. The explosion had carved out a large hole you could have easily sat in. It must have been made by a large antitank mine, but how could two mine detector teams hav
e missed such a large object? Embesi, who was really pissed, verbally vented his frustration on the minesweepers-and their mothers, too.

  Half of the tank crews dismounted. Two men stayed on each tank to cover the surrounding area. All the tanks alternated their gun tubes' direction, so as to cover both sides of our column. Once again, Embesi told me to stay with our tank and assume the TC's position. I would make sure I didn't have another sinking-tank fiasco, but I considered myself lucky. Repairing a wounded tank was a backbreaking job that called for sledgehammers, giant crowbars, and gallons of sweat. A lot of spare track would have to be taken off other tanks and bolted together.

  Someone called up to me, and I turned to see that it was Johnny Cash. We had been stationed together in California and shared the same barracks. He had been thrown into a makeshift crew when its regular driver was hit in the mortar attack that had caught me outside ferrying ammunition. Now he asked to borrow our tow cables.

  I climbed out of the TC's cupola and started to unhook the cables from the back of our turret. We talked about the spectacular luck of Kimbrew's crew, particularly the driver's. Whenever a tank hit a mine, the driver was the most vulnerable because he sat so low in the tank's hull, only a few feet away from the set of roadwheels that triggered the blast. That was why we never left our main gun aimed straight ahead, directly over the driver's head. Too many drivers, ejected from their seat by the force of an explosion, had broken their necks against the main gun. I wanted to know if Kimbrew had ensured his driver's safety and Johnny confirmed that he had.

  Finally I got the cables unfastened from the back of the turret.

  "How bad is it?" I asked him.

  "They're missing the first two sets of roadwheels on the right side. Embesi thinks we'll be able to short-track it and tow it."

  Taking one of heavy cables' ends in each hand, he dragged them behind him toward Kimbrew's tank.

  The grunts were quick to forget how valuable we had been to them so far on this operation. Their adage was, "It's not what you did for me yesterday, but what are you doing for me now?"This latest setback meant they weren't going anywhere for a while. They would have to stay with us until we repaired the wounded beast, giving Mr. Charles time to regroup. The longer we sat in place, the longer Charlie could exploit the situation to his advantage.