Robert Peavey - Praying for Slack - A Marine Corps Tank Commander in Vietnam

Finally the shelling ended. Heads popped up around the perimeter like prairie dogs sniffing the air for danger.

By now, John and I had had our fill of milk and sandwiches. We decided to forego lunch and go see what was left of our tents. During the long walk back, we mentally inventoried our gear, neither listening to the other.

“God, I hope my cassette player is alright,” I said. It was brand new and the format was very unusual in early 1969.

“Hope my camera is okay,” said John.

Our tents were still standing, a little out of whack. Mine, the closest as we approached, was shredded with hundreds of holes. I quickly ducked into the smoky tent. For all I knew, there might be dead and wounded in there. Inside, a hundred shafts of light came beaming through the dust-filled air. It was like a planetarium gone berserk, with stars twinkling all around me.

I saw what was left of my things. Shrapnel had torn my cot to shreds. Several of its wooden legs were severed…. “Oh shit!” I said. My most prized possession—the one item I totally forgot to mention to John on our walk over—was a pair of fireman’s boots that my mother had sent me. After I sent her snapshots of my tank mired in knee-deep mud, she went to the local firehouse to ask who their supplier was and where she could buy a pair. What a mom!

They were worth their weight in gold. With two top straps on the sides of each boot, they pulled on fast. They could reach as high as my thighs, or I could wear them rolled down to knee-high. They were the envy of every tanker who saw them. When I was about to be rotated back to The World, I expected to sell them for a tidy sum.

Now they were shredded, cut in half! Gone, along with my cassette player, all my clothes, and most of my personal gear. But what if John hadn’t talked me into going with him that afternoon? I would have been sacked out on the cot.

His stuff, in a tent next to mine, had survived better, and he came over to see what I was able to salvage. “Hey, do you want to go to chow tonight?” he asked with a knowing smile.

“Buddy, I’ll go anywhere you ask!” I answered.

You would think that the Miracle of the Immaculate Ejection had already occurred in the form my eating sandwiches in the trench instead of lying on my cot and getting cut in half by shrapnel. But no, it had yet to manifest in its true glory.

After the PM on Pray for Slack was complete, one of the mechanics told me to report to the maintenance shack—and there, the rest of the miracle revealed itself. When I reported in, the maintenance officer told me that the gun couldn’t be fixed in Dong Ha, that I would have to take the tank to Da Nang!

“Da Nang?” I asked, incredulous. “I’m supposed to drive all the way there? It’s over a hundred and fifty miles!”

“No,” he said. “The tank will be transported by boat.”

Shit, I thought to myself. That meant we would be sitting around until it came back. The last thing you wanted to be found doing was sitting around with nothing to do. No telling what they might have you doing until it got back—if it ever got back.

“You and your driver will take the tank to Da Nang and Division FSR.”

I couldn’t believe it! We were to proceed to the mouth of the Cua Viet River, where we would be met by a ship and taken back to Da Nang. That meant at least a week away from the Z while our tank was being repaired. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

The maintenance officer instructed me to unload all of the tank’s ammo, because it would not be permitted on the boat. That worried me, because I didn’t like driving around with empty guns. On our half-hour drive to Cua Viet, we could run into an ambush, however unlikely that might be. To the rear-echelon officer, I explained that I wasn’t about to drive to Cua Viet without taking a couple of canister rounds and a thousand rounds of machine gun ammunition.

The crew and I spent the next couple of hours unloading the rest of the ammo and stacking it in a bunker near the tank park. Over the radio, I updated my platoon leader and alerted him to pick up the two crewmen I would leave behind in Cua Viet. As you might expect, my gunner and loader weren’t happy about being left behind, but it wasn’t all bad news for them. They would get to stay at C-4 until we got back.

At Cua Viet, I was expecting to meet a large LST that would take us on a leisurely cruise to Da Nang. I was looking forward to getting a warm meal on a large ship. Instead, they pointed us toward the Cua Viet ferry. “That’s your ride,” said the old Navy chief.

Hell, I didn’t think a Mike boat could travel that far.

We were one of several vehicles making the trip, but nothing else aboard the LCM was near our size. The others were a menagerie of hapless jeeps and small trucks, all obvious casualties of the war. Our tank was the only vehicle accompanied by its crew. To keep the boat’s weight centered, we were told to stop in the middle of the deck, shut down the engine, sit back, and enjoy the eight-hour pleasure cruise.

Never before had the Navy guys seen a tank up close. Once we got underway, two of them became inquisitive and peered inside the turret. There, surrounded by dozens of empty racks, our two lonely canister rounds stood out like sore thumbs.

I thought the squids were going to pass out. “You got ammo on board!”

“Well, what did you expect?” I asked. “Last I checked, this was still a war zone!”

“Chief!” one yelled toward the bridge. “They got ammo in here!” The squids were waving for the petty officer who ran the boat. He came over and climbed up on the tank. His crewmen pointed out the two projectiles.

“Can’t go into Da Nang with that,” he said.

Ah, military logic at its finest. I pointed out to him that every day, in that same port facility, dozens of ships were unloading pallets of ammo in wholesale quantities—stuff like aerial bombs with a lot bigger bang than anything we had.

He shrugged. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

I explained why we had brought a couple of rounds for the run from Dong Ha and offered to throw them overboard.

Then I saw an idea cross his mind. “Hey,” he said, “don’t waste ’em. Wait till we get out a ways, and you can shoot ’em of. We ain’t never seen a tank shoot before!”

“Okay,” I agreed, “maybe we’ll get us a few fish.”

About an hour went by. The coastline was already below the horizon when the chief asked, “Wanna let ’er rip?”

I looked around the LCM and its cargo of small, battered vehicles. There was just enough room for me to traverse the gun tube over the side of the boat, with our muzzle barely clearing the edge. I told the driver to jump into the loader’s position, put one round in the chamber, and stand by with the second round in his hands. “Let’s show these squids just how fast we can pump out two rounds!”

The chief and his crew were standing on their small customized bridge at the rear of the boat. A large tarp, stretched tight over their heads served as an awning to keep the sun off. The bridge also had a homemade windshield of glass panes to shield the helmsman from inclement weather and bow spray.

I checked once more with the chief. He gave me a thumbs-up. “On the way!” I yelled for all to hear—including the driver, who was serving as loader—and pulled on the TC’s override control handle.

Wham! As soon as I heard the breech slam shut with the second round, I pulled the trigger again. Wham! Both rounds fired in less than two seconds! God, we’re good, I thought. Eager to see the squids’ reaction to how we “real men” were fighting the war, I looked over to the bridge—or rather, what was left of the bridge!