We also carried white phosphorus, or “Willy Peter,” which was just like an HE round except that it was loaded with phosphorus that burned on contact with the air. It was very effective against bunkers, but was used more often for marking purposes to show aircraft where a target was located. Most tanks hated to carry the stuff for fear that it could ignite inside the tank if hit by an RPG. There was another main gun round that was being phased out that we sometimes came across called high explosive plastic (HEP). The projectile was made up of soft C-4 plastic explosive that flattened out against the target before it detonated; it was actually an antitank round that was marginally okay against bunkers but did not have the penetration capability of HE nor its deadly shrapnel. The last type of round we carried was high explosive antitank (HEAT), which was excellent against armor or steel-reinforced bunkers. It was not the round of choice in 1st Tank Battalion’s TAOR, but was the number one round in 3rd Tank Battalion tanks. This was due to the enemy armor threat that was purported to be up north along the DMZ. It was up to the tank commander to decide the mix of ammunition he wanted and where and how it would be stored.
We also unloaded case after case of machine gun ammunition. Typically we carried 10,000 rounds of .30-caliber ammo and 2,000 rounds of .50-caliber machine gun ammo. It all had to be broken open, spliced together, and laid in the huge ammo boxes inside the turret. The remainder was packed on the back of the bustle rack. You could never carry enough.30!
Twenty tanks would require almost seven hundred cases of main gun ammo, eight hundred cases of .30, two hundred cases of .50, and several cases of .45-caliber pistol and submachine gun ammunition. It was an enormous, backbreaking effort, and the hot March sun didn’t make it any easier. Anytime an FNG complained about the heat, the veterans chuckled among themselves and told him, “This ain’t shit…. Wait until July.”
We also scrounged up as many pieces of spare track as we could find lying around the tank park and bolted it to the sides of the turret, but spare track was in very short supply. Slowly we began to look like a vehicle ready for combat.
A few days later a Captain Johnstone, who had been in-country a few months, replaced our company CO. We then moved out as a full tank company, taking all twenty vehicles to a firing “range”—actually an area that bordered on a free-fire zone. These were zones designated as being “open season, all season” for anything caught moving within them. It meant that you could shoot with no questions asked, for anything found inside these areas was the enemy. There was no reason for anyone to be in those areas, and all the locals knew it.
The area we were going into was actually the entrance to a wide preserve called Happy Valley. According to the veterans in our unit, some of whom had previous first-hand experience in the valley, it was anything but happy.
The reason given for our little excursion was to “sight-in the guns,” the most ridiculous excuse ever given to a bunch of men. After all, these tanks had just come from Pendleton, the perfect environment for setting up guns and sighting systems. No, the real reason for our jaunt was to give a little training to the amtrackers. They had never so much as seen a tank fire, let alone driven one. They were totally unaware of the complex ballet that goes on within the turret during live fire.
We traveled a dirt road through an area covered by scrub and low bushes. It was hot, dry, and dusty. A column of dust trailed behind us as twenty tanks churned up the dry earth. Our tank, B-24, was in the middle of the long column.
We had been on the road for only twenty minutes when the column came to a halt. Over the radio we heard that somehow the lead tank had become mired in a mud bog. Just where the mud came from was anybody’s guess.
The rest of the tanks formed a large defensive perimeter around what looked like a prehistoric beast stuck in a tar pit. Embesi and Hearn jumped down and took our Navy line with them. Embesi told me to get up and man the TC’s position and keep watch on our side of the perimeter. I traversed the main gun to cover an area dense with scrub and brush. The driver remained in his position, keeping an eye out as well. He and I talked over the intercom as I kept him abreast of the rescue mission to our rear.
Between talking with the driver, watching the perimeter, monitoring the radios, and occasionally glancing over my shoulder at the progress being made on the stuck tank, I failed to notice that our tank was… moving. It was imperceptible to both the driver and me, but it was, nonetheless, moving. At some point, something just didn’t look right. We both noticed it and even commented upon it, but neither one of us could put a finger on it.
Looking over at one of the other tanks manning the perimeter security, I noticed immediately that it had settled about a foot into the ground, halfway up to its roadwheels—and then it hit me! Our tank was also slowly sinking into what looked like dry, dusty ground!
I jumped out of the turret and onto the fender to take a closer look at our situation. We had sunk further than the tanks on either side of us, but my first thought was that Embesi was going to kill me!
“Pull up!” I yelled to the driver, “Pull ahead! We’re sinking!”
The driver overreacted, added too much power, and caused us to sit down even further in the quagmire until the tank’s hull was sitting on the ground!
The noise we made by revving the engine had drawn everyone’s attention, causing Embesi to run back to the tank. I was afraid he would be really pissed and blame me for the situation I had gotten us into—and he wouldn’t have been wrong. At the same time, all the other TCs ran back to their own tanks as soon as they discovered that they had the same problem too; most had sunk at least a foot or more. It had quickly become a scene where the rescuers might be the ones in need of rescuing—a giant cluster fuck; it later became known as Johnstone’s Folly.
Our tank was hopelessly mired. Embesi ran to the other tanks of his platoon, warning them of the danger of applying too much power and allowing the tracks to spin and dig themselves into a deeper hole, as we had done. By applying a slow and steady amount of power, all the tanks were able to extricate themselves from the mud. Embesi then backed one of the freed tanks up to ours, hooked up the tow cables, and with a lot of difficulty, finally pulled us out.
Once free of the mud, the tanks had to keep moving in order to avoid sinking again. That day, the driver and I both learned something vital that would come in handy time and again, during the coming months: Never take anything for granted, not even dry dusty ground!
Embesi never said a word to me. He knew that I had just learned a lot from that little incident. Nevertheless, as we started to move out of the area, he did say, “That was the damnedest ground I’ve ever seen” and warned me later to be more observant.
Jesus Christ! I thought. I had to watch the bushes, check all the potential avenues of approach for an enemy I was certain was out there, and monitor the radios. I also had to keep an eye on how they were doing with the mired tank, make certain we didn’t run down our batteries—and I was supposed to watch our height above the ground too?