The Mortar Attack Fredrick Hudgin   © Copyright 2025 by Fredrick Hudgin

Photo by Petra Brýdlová on Unsplash

Who would have believed that the Woodstock movie would be showing at our compound’s primitive movie theater in Qui Nhơn, Vietnam, in 1970? But there it was: Richie Havens, Joan Baez, The Who—all the bands I loved and never had the money or opportunity to see in person.

The night I saw Woodstock, I was enjoying one of those rare breaks from delivering fuel up and down the coast and into the Central Highlands of Vietnam. Occasionally, I got to spend the night at the company area, have a hot meal at the mess hall, and sleep in my very own bunk. Most of the time, when I delivered fuel to the Infantry Divisions and LZs (landing zones), it was too late to return to Qui Nhon, I would park in the Division or LZ RON (remain overnight) parking area, have a meal of cold C-rations, and curl up in my down sleeping bag on my worn-out truck seat.

But this night was different for many reasons. The hot water wasn’t gone from the showers—a rare and coveted event. The mess hall had baked turkey for dinner—one of the mess sergeant’s best meals. And the movie wasn’t some stupid thing you couldn’t pay me to watch.

I loved Richie Havens, Arlo Guthrie, and Joan Baez, but for me, the show stopped when Country Joe began his Fish Cheer.

Right in the middle of every enlisted man in the audience singing, “One, two, three, what are we fighting for,” the first mortar round dropped. I don’t know where it hit. I didn’t care, as long as it was somewhere I wasn’t.

The lights went out. The attack sirens started screaming. And every man in the theater took off like the devil was two feet behind him and gaining. All of us had an assigned place to hide when we were attacked. My platoon’s hidey-hole was in a bunker made from a buried steel shipping container covered with layer upon layer of sandbags full of dirt. Half of the rest of my platoon was already there when I ran into the access tunnel. Another mortar round hit. I took a seat on a box of ammo and waited for the attack to end.

Usually, they didn’t last too long—maybe five minutes. More than that, and the artillery battery could figure out where they were shooting from and return fire. And true to form, they ended after five. No one left the bunker for another five minutes, just making sure. Finally, we left. I walked back to the theater hopefully, but the show was over for the night.

Our supply officer, a brand-new second lieutenant who had been in the company for a couple of weeks, was in the supply room with his pant leg pulled up. He had a skinned knee. I offered to help him clean and bandage it. He sat back and let me give him first aid.

Our company commander, a captain, walked in as I was finishing up.

“Did you get that during the mortar attack?” he asked the lieutenant.

He hung his head. “Yes. I tripped over a damned stake while I was running to the bunker.”

“I’m putting you in for a Purple Heart.”

“Really?”

“Yep. You got injured during an enemy attack.”

Battalion kicked it back, of course. I would have loved to have been there when it crossed the battalion commander’s desk. He was an Infantry Lieutenant Colonel. He knew what the Purple Heart was supposed to be awarded for.