I was standing in the TC’s position, with Steele next to me in his loader’s position. Suddenly we heard a buzzing noise that grew louder and louder, until finally we all ducked without knowing why. The buzz ended with a Thud!, impacting the ground right next to the tank.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked the crew over the intercom, trying to get back in my own skin. “Did anybody see where it came from?”
A few minutes later, another buzz was followed by a similar thud. This one landed a little farther away, but behind the tank, inside the compound.
I immediately contacted the CP on the radio and told them we were taking some kind of incoming fire, except their rounds appeared to be duds. Just then, another buzz grew in intensity and ended with the same Thud!—this time, only five feet from my side of the tank.
Some kind of projectile had hit the sand dune with a very sharp impact, again without exploding. Even so, this one really scared the shit out of me. “Jesus Christ!” I yelled, still on the radio. “That son of a bitch just missed me!”
Whatever they were, they sounded large, and they were getting too goddamned close and scaring the hell out of all of us. We were being shot and bracketed, the target of some weapon that gave no indication where it was located. At least its ammunition was defective—so far!
I had the driver start the tank and was prepared to move, but then I realized something didn’t add up. I had seen no muzzle flashes. We could hear the rounds coming, so they were traveling too slowly to be fired at us. That, plus the unlikelihood that all of them were duds, kept me from moving the tank from this key position.
These things kept impacting all around and inside the perimeter. Their rhythm was almost predictable. A terrifying buzzing grew in volume until it impacted the ground, solidly. It was that approaching sound that really freaked us out.
Yet another buzz was getting louder and louder. We all ducked inside the turret and immediately heard—as well as felt!—a loud clang.
“Motherfucker!” screamed the driver. “Did you hear that? We just took a hit!”
“Of fuckin’ course I fuckin’ heard it!” I yelled back. “I might be short, but I ain’t fuckin’ deaf!”
Whatever these things were, one had just made a direct hit on my tank. If this was some NVA kind of psychological warfare, it was working marvelously. Man, I thought, I’m too short for this shit!
Again, I got on the radio and explained the hit we had just taken. I had both the driver and the loader button up, but somebody had to keep a lookout. First I peeked over the very lip of the cupola, keeping the TC’s hatch down on my head with one hand. Then I decided to get out of the turret and at least investigate where the thing had hit.
From the direction of the sound, I was sure it was the tank’s right fender. The rest of the crew agreed with me, so I climbed outside. I crawled on hands and knees, feeling my way around the top of the tank, groping for the impact site to get some idea of what in hell it was—scared shitless that I would be this thing’s first victim.
We weren’t the only ones with the shit scared out of us. Down from where we sat, the grunts along the perimeter had only a hole to hide in; they were totally vulnerable to whatever these things might be.
I found a dent pushed in about a half-inch in diameter on the fender, near the driver’s position. What could have made such a pronounced dimple? I felt around in the dark to see if I could learn what it was. Jumping down off the fender, I got on my hands and knees, and groped around in the dark, but didn’t find anything odd, much less solid just sand.
I felt like a damned idiot. If it was a dud projectile, did I really want to find it? Buzz-z-z-z…
I dropped to the ground and covered my head, feeling absolutely helpless and totally vulnerable, like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
Finally thunk! Another one impacted, just behind the tank. This was doing nothing for my short-timer’s paranoia. I had had enough of this crap. I scampered up on the tank and into the safety of the turret.
A minute went by, then buzz-z-z-z… thud! This one landed out in the wire, directly in front of us. The grunts were getting vocal about the mysterious buzz bombs.
Meanwhile, the firefight going on at Gio Lihn had died down. The sky above the base was still illuminated with the flares that hung over it.
Another minute brought another buz-z-z-z and thud! One more of those whatever-they-were landed even closer to the front of our tank. Now that I thought about it, the sounds had been evenly spaced—almost clock-like in their regularity. I looked back at Gio Lihn, where the firefight had simmered down to a few sporadic flashes. Then it suddenly dawned on me what these things were.
I told the crew. They didn’t believe the idea, so I had them all look toward Gio Lihn. “Wait for the next illumination flare to go up.”
Just as the last flare was about to burn out underneath its parachute, we saw a new one burst in the sky above it.
“Get ready,” I told the crew. “One of the buzz-bombs is about to pay us a visit.” As if on cue, the buzzing sound began its approach, terminated by a now-familiar thud! behind our tank.
My crew didn’t say a word. They wanted to confirm my hypothesis with a second example, so they waited for that far-off flare to extinguish itself. Sure enough, just before it started to fade and go out, another flare broke above it. After a few seconds went by, buzz-z-z-z… thud!
I dropped into the turret, switched on the red light, and got out my maps. Mentally, I drew a line between Oceanview and Gio Lihn, then extended it on past Gio Lihn. When I unfolded and joined the next map, my straight line continued on to Con Thien.
Over the radio, I gave the Oceanview CP my hypothesis: The ARVNs were getting their illumination from either The Washout or Con Thien. I figured that an illumination round fired from Con Thien was crossing over Gio Lihn when it released its flare, illuminating the battlefield. But the projectile itself continued on course and fell to earth at Oceanview.
It took a few minutes before the CP could confirm it: A gun battery at Con Thien was indeed providing the illumination. The CO was able to get the illumination lifted, and the mysterious buzz bombs finally ceased.
The next morning revealed the mystery thud-makers—as I’d suspected, howitzer illumination projectiles. This place was getting crazier and crazier. Now I had to worry about being conked on the head by a five-pound projectile from one of our own guns!
Just as I had suspected all along, everybody was out to get me—even the friendlies. I could just see my mother opening the letter: Dear Mrs. Peavey, We regret to inform you that your son, who almost made it out of Vietnam, was killed during enemy action while serving in northern I Corps on the Demilitarized Zone. He was hit in the head by a buzz bomb.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, via the radio, the message I’d awaited for thirteen months finally found its way to me: “Papa 2283 was to report to the Battalion CP in Quang Tri the next day.”
Papa stood for the first letter of my last name; 2283 was the first four digits of my serial number—a way of identifying an individual over the air without revealing his name, lest the enemy possibly use that information on the home front. It was my orders to return to Dong Ha on the next day’s resupply run, without my tank, for the start of my long trip home.