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I
especially remember my first mortar attack.
I had hurt my foot and was the only one in my
section at base camp. It was early in the morning. I was in the tent
alone, asleep, and the mortars landed all around the buildings and tents.
They woke me up but at first I didn’t realize what it was until one
hit by the end of my tent. A ball of fire came in and it sounded like
someone had thrown a handful of gravel on the wood floor of the tent.
Then I knew what it was, and I rolled out of the
bunk, put on my steel pot, flack jacket, pistol belt and boots. I laid
beside my bunk and counted the time between the mortars (like we had
been trained) and a good thing, if I had taken off running, one hit
the end of the tent where I was headed. I waited until one hit, then
I took off running until another one was about to hit. I got down and
waited until it hit.
I finally got to the bunker I was assigned to, and I was the
only one in that bunker. All I had on was my underwear and tee shirt.
I had no cigarettes, I was all alone, and didn’t know if the VC were
coming through the wire. I was in the bunker about two hours with flares
going off (scared to death) for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally
it started to get light out and I was cleared to leave the bunker.
That was one night I’ll never forget, 1967.
EDIT NOTES:
Transcribed by Chuck Gall
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