I think he took a liking to me because I had never been assigned to any of the countless shit details that were always available. Also, he gave me the opportunity to attend NCO School and NBC—Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical—School. I respected him as a leader and never wanted to do anything to disappoint him.
I was in awe of him. He pulled off countless little tricks, shortcuts, and miracles that never appeared in any tank manual, freely sharing his knowledge with anyone who showed an interest. All the other platoon sergeants looked up to him, deferring to him whenever a question came up that they couldn’t answer. Embesi was a superb leader and the acknowledged tank expert within the battalion. His remarkable knowledge of the tank’s weapons systems was responsible for my coming to love the TC’s .50-caliber machine gun—a most misunderstood weapon, and the scourge of most tank commanders. Later on, another of his .50 caliber lessons would make me an instant hero.
Whenever someone asked a puzzling question, the usual reply was, “Ask Embesi.”
I had been assigned as gunner to a tank in the 2nd Platoon. When I heard that its number was B-24—the platoon sergeant’s tank—I knew immediately that Embesi had a hand in my assignment.
My new tank commander was Sergeant Hearn, a tough Irishman who was proud to show how he could remove the front teeth from his mouth. I had no reason to doubt what he told everyone, that his original ones had been knocked out in a bar fight. When I learned the real story—which was much scarier—it convinced me I had been assigned the right tank commander.
Hearn had been on Operation Starlite, America’s first large-scale operation of the war, and one of its most successful. It had been a true Marine-type operation, with amphibious landings and simultaneous helicopter assaults that enveloped the enemy’s rear and resulted in more than a thousand enemy dead. Sometime during Starlite, a detachment of tanks and amtracs was sent out on a resupply run and was ambushed. The flamethrower tank that Hearn was commanding was hit by 57mm recoilless rifle fire and RPGs—rocket-propelled grenades. One of the recoilless rounds penetrated the TC’s side of the turret, taking off Hearn’s belt buckle and nearly cutting him in half.
Fearing that the huge napalm bottle inside the tank might blow, he and his crew abandoned their burning vehicle. Hearn had the foresight to take the tank’s .30-caliber machine gun with him and continued to fight off the enemy.
He was wounded in five different places. One bullet had entered his cheek and exited his mouth, explaining his removable front teeth. His crew fought alongside him, armed only with pistols, and they were all wounded. With his entire column wiped out, Hearn hid in the brush and managed to evade and avoid enemy patrols until a Marine patrol rescued him the next day. For his heroism, he was awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart.
Two months later, I would discover just how the terrifying experience had affected him. Hearn would be my tank commander unless the 2nd Platoon was deployed in force. If so, Embesi would take over the TC’s position, leaving Hearn free to select the crew position he wanted.
Going by the book, the next job down was the gunner, followed by the driver, and then the loader. Few men wanted to be the gunner, because he was the only crewman without a hatch to stick his head out of. On field operations, a gunner never saw the sky or breathed fresh air. Most men preferred the risk of getting their heads shot off by a sniper than being confined inside a hot, cramped tank all day. But the gunner’s job suited me just fine.
After I introduced myself, Sergeant Hearn told me that a couple of the amtrac people had been made TCs because they outranked some of the tankers. Rank alone was enough justification for you to be assigned a leadership job, whether you were qualified or not.
It was downright dangerous to place men’s lives in the hands of an ill-trained, incompetent TC. I had yet to serve in Nam, but I knew that any tanker with thirteen months’ training was a lot more valuable then a rookie sergeant from amtracs. I was lucky that Embesi wasn’t about to put any rookies on his crew.
After I saw the new Bravo Company roster, one thing seemed certain: The newly reorganized unit had too many Vietnam veterans. Some had done their tour of duty, been in the States a year, and were waiting for their discharge in six months. Most weren’t career Marines. There was no way we could possibly be going to Vietnam with so many short-timers.
There was also a hefty number of career Marines, “lifers.” Most had been to Vietnam at least once, if not twice—which fueled the rumors even more. What was our final destination going to be? Everyone had his own guess. North Korea was at the top of the list, and that idea just felt good. Being part of rescuing a Navy crew had an appealing dash of glory to it. But everyone was discussing Vietnam.
Two days later we mounted the fording kits and new hardware; we packed up our gear and stowed it on the tanks as well. Our sea bags were full of our nonessential and noncombat gear, so we turned them in, to be held for us until we got back from wherever we were going. All we knew for sure was we would be making a beach landing somewhere in the world. We just didn’t know which Berlitz language course to buy.
The twenty tanks of Bravo Company were driven to the embarkation point on the beaches of Camp Pendleton. Anchored a mile offshore was the USS Thomaston—a Landing Ship, Dock, or LSD. From her stern came two Mike boats—Landing Craft, Mediums, or LCMs, ferrying three tanks and their crews out to the mother ship at a time, which took most of the afternoon. This kind of loading was always a slow job, no thanks to a landing craft’s ramp, which was exactly twelve feet wide. A tank’s width measured eleven feet, eleven inches. Squeezing fifty-two tons through, with only half an inch on either side, was tricky and tedious.
We loaded onto one of the LCMs and it motored out to the Thomaston’s stern. Slowly we entered the LSD’s cavernous well deck, and the Mike boat beached herself inside. After our boat dropped its ramp on the well deck, each tank carefully inched its way off and was guided by Navy personnel to a pre-assigned location. We were surprised to see that ours weren’t the only vehicles on the ship. Packed well forward in the LSD’s hold were several cranes, bulldozers, and other large noncombat military vehicles.
Each tank crew was responsible for chaining—or in Navyspeak, “dogging down”—its vehicle to the well deck, which required four large, heavy chains.
What made it even harder was the lack of room between vehicles. The Navy sure knew how to use every square inch of available space, but that severely limited our working area. The tanks were packed asshole-to-elbow, with only eighteen inches between them. What could have been a ten-minute job took two hours.
Once Bravo Company was aboard and dogged down, the LSD raised its stern, pumped out the water, and we got underway. Only then was our destination finally, officially announced over the ship’s PA system. Our destination was the port facility of Da Nang, Republic of South Vietnam.
The impossible had happened! Some Nam veterans who hadn’t been back in the States for even a year yet had been caught up in the mount-out and were going back again. You could hear jaws dropping all over the ship.
Sergeant Hearn, who had only a few months left to serve in the Corps, was one of the most pissed-off. The perceived wrong only magnified the seriousness of our rapid deployment. The enemy’s Tet Offensive, then in full stride, had touched every city and hamlet throughout Vietnam. Someone had desperate need of us, and we were on our way.