Actually, the gun’s recoil mechanism had begun to leak red hydraulic fluid, but it had just as deep an effect on us as if it had been pure hemoglobin. No one, including the mechanic from battalion maintenance who was sent up to try and fix it, had ever seen such a thing before. Left unchecked, the gun could recoil right through the back of the turret—and I definitely didn’t want any windows added to my tank decor.
But the true miracle had yet to fully disclose itself. The mechanic who came up from Dong Ha confirmed that the fluid was, in fact, leakage.
“You figured that out all by yourself?” I asked. I loved sarcasm.
He declared that the tank would have to go back to Dong Ha and be looked at by a turret specialist. Because we were a month away from our scheduled PM, it was decided that we should leave the next day and take the mechanic with us.
But the miracle was still unfolding and had yet to reveal its full implication. Going back to Dong Ha meant hot meals, warm showers, and a cot to sleep on. What more could we want? Via the radio, I made arrangements for one of the tanks at C-4 to take our place the next morning. At the same time, we would leave our respective positions and cross paths midway on the beach between the bases. This wouldn’t be a happy reunion of two tank crews, because one crew knew it had just been screwed out of an easy stay at C-4.
Next morning, I received word over the radio that the relief tank had departed C-4. I had Pray for Slack cranked up. We left our sand dune position, exited Oceanview, and hung a right, south down the beach.
Five minutes later, we were racing along the shoreline. Soon I could make out the smoke and spray of our “willing” replacements approaching—half in the surf and half out, just as we were. Neither tank wanted to yield for the other and relinquish the safety of the water. Neither wanted to risk slowing down in this no man’s land between the fire bases. We charged headlong directly toward each another for a mile, 104 tons on a collision course at sixty miles per hour. It was a game of chicken played by leviathans, each daring the other to turn inland.
I had one pissed-off tank crew coming toward us, and they might just be crazy enough not to yield. After all, what did they have to lose? I didn’t want any part of a board of inquiry as to how two tanks managed to run into one another on an isolated stretch of beach in the middle of nowhere.
I told my driver to turn into the deeper surf at the last possible moment, “They’ll never expect us to go into the deeper water!”
We were going to Dong Ha and the good life; who cared if we had to eat a little humble pie? At least we could give them a scare.
The two tanks came within a few lengths of each other, then each made a quick turn to avoid one another by inches. The other tank swerved inland; it was surprised by our seaward move. We had both lost the skirmish of nerves, but I had the satisfaction of yelling over to the wide-eyed tank commander, “We’ll bring you back a hot meal!”
Both he and his loader promptly gave me a respectful one-finger salute.
After an uneventful trip down the beach, we got lucky once again: The Mike boat was waiting on our side to take us across the Cua Viet River. After crossing the river, we proceeded for another half an hour and pulled into the tank park at Dong Ha, where several tank crews and mechanics were busy working on a half dozen tanks. They were all in various stages of their PMs. After removing our personal gear from the tank, we moved into one of the nearby tents set up for visiting crews. We had a large tent and its half dozen empty cots all to ourselves.
My first duty was to check in at the maintenance shack and find out when we were scheduled for the PM to begin.
“First thing tomorrow morning” was the answer. I was ordered to have everything prepped before dark. That meant that these guys weren’t wasting any time. We had to start unbolting our armor plate and getting everything ready so that maintenance could yank out the engine and transmission as soon as it grew light enough.
After my crew started prepping the vehicle, I went to make a few house calls, going from tank to tank to see who was in and to catch up on the latest scuttlebutt from the other TCs. I was surprised to see Crispy Critters, John Wear’s tank, in the park; it had sustained mine damage and was off to the side, away from all the other tanks. The track was off the vehicle and the last set of roadwheels was missing on one side.
I found John half under the hull of his vehicle, struggling with the support arm that holds the roadwheels.
“Well, no shit!” I said to the prostrate figure. “If it ain’t my pet boy Sherman!”
“Is that you, Mr. Peabody?”
“Well, who else would be calling you his pet boy?”
We hadn’t seen each other since that night we polished off my mother’s baby bottles. I immediately wanted to know how his crew was. The mine had taken its toll on John’s flame tank. What was strange was that all of his tank’s damage was at the rear.
Sherman’s would be the only tank in The Nam to back over a mine! John seldom did anything the way the rest of us did, so I couldn’t help but kid him.
After razzing him for a few minutes and getting caught up on what each of us had been doing, I had to get back and help my crew with their pre-PM work. John and I agreed to meet that night for the long walk over to the mess hall.
Dong Ha’s hot, dusty tank park lay inside a huge perimeter atop a ridgeline; its top graded flat to create the park itself. Situated on top of the next ridge, half a mile away, was the mess hall. Many people found it to be too far away to make the long hot walk for noon chow. So during the noon-hour break, many of us racked out in the temporary tents that were provided for visiting tank crews.
John and I met around 6 p.m., for the long walk over to the mess hall. On our stroll over there, John warned me about the noonday and dinner surprises. In the rear—as we line-Marines considered Dong Ha to be—everyone kept to the same working hours they would if back in The World. Everything came to a halt for lunch, something Mr. Charles was very aware of. Several times a week, he aimed his large artillery pieces, hidden across the DMZ in North Vietnam, at the crowded mess hall. Dong Ha may have been the rear for combat troops, but for support Marines it wasn’t far enough back. John explained that you could hear the NVA guns when they fired, giving you exactly ten seconds to find a hole. They would try for the mess hall John explained.
We had a good time and quite a few laughs during dinner and our long walk back to the tents.
That next morning, our armor plate was pulled off and the PM began. At that point, the maintenance people took over. We were no longer needed, so I left the crew and went to check on Crispy Critters. It was getting close to noon when I found John rolling a new roadwheel over to his tank. He asked if I wanted to walk over with him for lunch in the mess hall.
I looked at him in disbelief “Just last night you told me the mess hall’s what the NVA aims for!”
“So what are you going to do, starve for the next three days? Besides, they haven’t hit the mess hall for a couple of months now.”
He was not doing a very good job of persuading me. Actually, without realizing it, he had given me a good reason to stay right there during all my lunches—out of the heat. I spent the next two lunches lying on my cot enjoying a quiet hour in the shade of the tent. I guess it was too hot for Charlie as well, because we experienced none of the shelling that John had warned me about.
In a normal PM, it takes about two days to pull the power train, steam clean the engine and transmission, and change the lubricants. Our main gun’s hydraulic leak kept us a day longer, while a senior turret specialist was flown up from Division Force Service Regiment (FSR) in Da Nang for another diagnosis. He confirmed that the gun was leaking.