I recall on this night that several of us headed for the club to "hoist" a few. Most of us were "short timers" coming to the end of our tour. I, of course, had more than my share and literally crawled back to the barracks "well lit".
A few hours later we were jarred awake by the sound of explosions coming from the direction of the airfield. The rush was on to get to our bunkers. Naturally, I was a little unsteady, so was a bit slow moving out. I had my pot on my head, flack jacket on, M-60 rounds draped around my neck, ammo can in one hand, and the M-60 machine gun in the other.
I was just heading towards the door when someone yelled to see if I was on my way. As they left the barracks, I yelled back that I was right behind them. As I was nearing the front door, I heard a bang on the roof of our barracks and smell of burnt powder. In my "juiced mind", I thought some joker was throwing rocks on our tin roof.
Out the door and down the stairs on a dead run, I was headed to the bunker on the other side of the supply yard. After crossing the road, I forgot about the new fence and ran right into it. Down I went. I picked myself up off the ground and continued my journey to the bunker.
The sun was starting to come up when the alert was called off. We headed back to the barracks, climbed the steps to our quarters, opened the door to find a mortar round buried in the floor of our hooch by Don Elkin's bed, a mere 5 yards from the front door. (Greg Lang served in Company A from February 67 to February 68.)