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by Stanley Ross
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My colleagues Texas, Skipper, Boogie, and I sat on the ground at a base outside of Bao Lac in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, waiting on the choppers. “Hurry up and wait” was the going motto. Waiting was always boring and tedious. The intensity of the sun, the extremely hot temperature, and the bothersome mosquitoes along with the wind and dust from the choppers landing was terrible.
The whirling noise from the approaching choppers grew louder. Sergeant McCann yelled “Everyone up and form by squad; Get ready to load up.” I put on my backpack and helmet, grabbed my weapon and shovel, bent over to minimize the effects of the swirling dirt from the chopper’s propellers. and walked towards where the choppers would land.
I had learned that the battalion’s mission that day was to trap and destroy a Viet Cong battalion that was discovered by air reconnaissance encamped twenty kilometers from Bao Lac. The brigade commander’s order was to destroy the enemy battalion before they could attack a South Vietnamese military base located northwest of Bao Lac.
I would be with Company A, who would block the VC battalion, with company B following behind by approximately five hundred yards. Company A would stop after reaching a level section of the ridge that was wide enough to spread a platoon across. Our platoon would lead the way up the ridgeline. Companies C and D would chase the VC from the other direction towards my company, the first blocking company. This was the hammer and anvil strategy. The VC would confront Company A and then, if they succeeded in getting past us, Company B would be the next anvil. Companies C and D were the hammers.
After a short flight, the choppers swooped in like a flock of birds, three at time and in column formation, hovering over the landing zone (LZ) and then they landed. Pick up and deliver the goods. We were the goods. This was another combat assault. I had stopped counting all my combat assaults at this point. I only hoped that the landing zone was not hot, with no enemy there to greet us.
The choppers slowed and descended toward the LZ. It was covered with elephant grass that I hoped wasn’t deep so the pilots could land. It was, though. As the choppers hovered above it, I offloaded by jumping, hoping I wouldn’t break an ankle or worse. I fell through the grass, glad that my paratrooper training had taught me the parachute landing fall technique. I rolled through the grass on my left side. No sprained or broken ankle.
I was one of the first ones on the ground. I always was since I was a forward observer. It was a dangerous job since I had to be up front all the time to be ready to direct artillery fire, mortar fire, jet bombing or helicopter gunship support; whichever was needed. I was always alert because I feared the worst. This time was no different.
When I moved out towards the tree line, a voice yelled “Hey Boston.” It was Skipper’s voice, a distinct, raspy, penetrating voice. I was given this nickname because of my Boston accent. He had been kneeling nearby. He asked me about the plan, being one known for not paying attention during briefings.
After Company A landed, everyone gathered together by platoon. Our platoon leader, Lieutenant McCann, reviewed the plan with us and our role.
I was up front, moving with the lead squad of Lieutenant McCann’s platoon. Once organized, the lieutenant ordered us to “move out.” From the distance of a hundred yards the ridge looked narrow, thick with jungle, a winding trail visible through the jungle and up through a steep slope. I faced an exhausting, sweaty, and muscle aching slog carrying a sixty-pound backpack loaded with ammunition magazines, canteens, hand grenades, a claymore mine, food, and other items. My M-16 was always in my left hand, the strap bit into my shoulder, and I carried a shovel in my right hand. The shovel was my walking stick when plodding mountain trails and digging protective foxholes to hide in if we were attacked while encamped.
I was marching to my death, I feared, with no choice. Silence was key to avoid giving ourselves away to the VC. Speed was essential to gain our position as the first anvil if the plan was to work. I smoked my “Camel” cigarettes to steady my nerves.
Being up front, the VC would attack us immediately. What frightened us was knowing that our platoon’s chance of surviving was remote with hundreds of VC crashing into twenty-five grunts. Bad odds.
Sergeant Grant took the lead spot on the point. Skipper pulled up the rear of the point squad. I was not worried about being ambushed from the side. The ridgeline was too narrow for this type of ambush. Besides, I did not think the VC wanted a fight because the VC fought when the odds of winning were in their favor. Unfortunately, they would always fight when trapped, which was exactly what we were trying to do to them.
The beginning of the trail swarmed with hungry mosquitos. It was hot, muggy and dead air, along with wet conditions. I was glad there were no swamps because swamps were home to hungry leaches ready to suck my blood.
As I climbed up the steep, winding trail, the air began to cool and the trail became dryer. We left the nagging mosquitos behind us.
After slogging up the trail for two hours, we stopped to eat. Thirty minutes to chow down before moving out again. Skipper, Mex, Rick and I ate together. With no time to cook and no Kool Aid packets, I ate cold beans and franks and drank the bland, chemical-tasting purified water. It was a quiet meal besides Mex talking incessantly about his upcoming trip to Bangkok to control his nerves.
Sergeant Grant told us to pack up and prepare to move out. Second squad became the point squad. I had my usual, dangerous place, third in line. The slope of the trail became steeper, wider and showed a hardening that was evidence of heavy use. The trail signs made me more nervous because we were closing in on the VC. We began to fear an ambush across the trail because we could only move backwards, which meant colliding with the men behind us.
My snake radar drew me away from any thoughts of the pending battle and my musings about whether I would be brave or afraid. I had started to grab a clump of grass on the side of the trail to pull myself up the sharp incline. Staring at me, poised and ready to strike was a large, angry, poisonous green snake, a deadly killer. I was the target. Mex and Rick had likely disturbed the snake when passing by. I was to be the unlucky GI to receive the snake’s bite, the kiss of death.
I moved to my right and pivoted, moved up through the brush along the side of the trail. I turned and arrived at a spot above the snake, grabbed my machete, and chopped down on the snake. It wiggled around in a death spiral.
Up and up, “the ridgeline was fucking steep,” I said to myself. We stopped for five minutes. Boogie had taken the point after the stop. I was still third in line since Captain Moore, the company commander, always wanted an experienced forward observer up front. How lucky was I?
Captain Moore had halted the company. He came forward with his radio operator and two members of the headquarters team. They moved up past the point squad and me.
Later, he returned with the others and they moved towards the rear. Lieutenant McCann called the platoon together except for two lookouts.
“There are lots of new trails ahead with footprints, dropped food wrappings and freshly dug bunkers showing recent signs of VC activity, “ he said.
Lieutenant McCann quietly ordered Sergeant Grant to guide the platoon into their positions, two men to a trail and spread out along the entire ridge.
Skipper and I were paired off about ten feet apart, on a trail that showed lots of signs of recent VC movement; broken branches, footprints from sandals made of tire rubber, and flattened grass. I was on the left side of the trail and Skipper the right side. Being left-handed, I always took the left..
There was no time or thought about digging foxholes. Besides, the noise might alert any nearby VC. I found some vegetation to hide behind. I put my rucksack upright, sitting between me and the grass for added protection, I thought.
I looked to my left to establish eye contact with the guys over there, but there was too much vegetation between us for me to see anyone. I looked towards Skipper, signaled with a thumbs up sign that all was good so far. The anticipation was nerve-wracking because we had to wait and wonder with no way to learn if the enemy was near. There it was again: “Hurry up and wait.”
I needed to prepare as much as possible for an attack. My obsessive compulsiveness made me thorough, invaluable in situations like these. I took out six grenades from my grenade bag, placing them on my left side, within an arm’s reach. They would throw lots of shrapnel for killing, giving me more confidence than relying solely on my M-16. I wanted to kill as many of the bad guys before they killed me.
Next, I pulled out my M-16 magazines and put them on my right side. I always carried those seven plus a custom-made thirty round magazine that was in my M-16. I had engaged a local Vietnamese metal shop to make it for me. I wanted more immediate and plenty of fire power to respond to an ambush or something unexpected quickly and lethally. “Be prepared Boston.” This was my motto in Nam. This is still my motto.
I placed my canteen next to the grenades. A pack of Camels was in front of me, within easy reach. I needed them to calm my nerves. I was feeling nervous. My hands twitched, my eyes moved all around, and I needed to constantly pee.
I placed my machete on my left side by the grenades. Thinking about needing to use the machete was a scary thought. The idea of hand-to-hand combat freaked me out as it would be a personal, intimate affair and with the VC close by, it was a distinct possibility.
I was bored and scared. Bored with nothing more to do but just wait. Scared because I feared that the VC would run towards us and over me while they were shooting.
“Should I sit up?” I thought. I feared falling asleep while laying prone on the ground. Once I slept through an early morning sniper attack. Nam taught me to sleep under all types of conditions.
To help me stay alert, I started to think about different situations. One situation occurred during the early stage of the monsoon season. I had slept with three others in one big hooch, which was a tent made by connecting our rain ponchos together. We slept on a slope. A stream of water snaked through the hooch, flowing directly under my air mattress. The stream carried me partway down the slope. My feet extended beyond the protection of the hooch. The rain soaked my socks and lower pantlegs. I was miserable that night, feeling wet and cold.
Another incident was when mice crawled all over me while I was trying to sleep.
I switched my thoughts to my fun R & R trip to Australia. Skipper, Rick, Boogie, and I had agreed to hang together and travel to the resort area outside of Sydney.
Skipper called out in a low, husky whisper-like voice, asking me if I was awake. I turned gave him the middle finger as a signal to keep quiet.
My thoughts drifted again. My mind raced through a stream of incomplete thoughts from the stress. What I would do when the VC attacked? The thought scared me, making me unsure of myself. I needed to focus on a plan to follow when the VC attacked. Thinking about the VC, I wondered about their intentions. Did the VC know we were waiting? Would the VC walk into the trap unknowingly? When should I start firing? Would the VC send scouts ahead, probing, looking for us? Would the VC attack in an onslaught of men, attempting to overwhelm us with numbers?
My thoughts rattled like a machine gun on automatic. What if the VC avoided using the trail Skipper and I guarded? A stroke of good luck for Skipper and me but bad for the other trail guards. But if the VC attacked on the trail that Skipper and I guarded, we were doomed. I started to have panicky feelings. My eyes twitched, my mouth became dry and my tongue swirled around my dry lips. I wanted a cigarette in the worst way. I wanted the “shit to hit the fan” because actual combat eliminated the unknown.
I decided that laying down was the safest position as a lower profile makes me less visible to the VC. I thought that my backpack offered additional protection. Perhaps a silly thought with bullets and grenades flying all around.
Turning slightly to my left, I lifted my head and hoped I had Superman vision so I could see through the jungle and glimpse Armstrong and Mex. Unfortunately, the jungle was too thick and just like when I was a kid, I realized that I was not Superman.
A noise sounded behind us. I jumped, startled by the sound of moving bushes and feet swishing the grass behind me, thinking that the VC somehow worked their way behind us. But Sergeant Grant immediately called out, alerted us by identifying himself and that he was approaching.
Sergeant Grant announced that the VC escaped down the side of the ridge, moving down side trails that flowed down the side of the ridge. I could hear the whistling sound of artillery shells screaming like a jet overhead followed by the thump and echo of explosions off in the distance. I listened to the shrapnel from some of the shells banging into the trees like small hammers, cracking and snapping limbs and trees. Sergeant Grant reported that the artillery fire was directed towards the VC escape route.
The trap was not sprung. The VC either guessed or learned that there was a trap ahead. The VC made a smart decision and used a safe, though treacherous route that was steep, narrow and covered in thick jungle to avoid a confrontation. We did not follow.
Both the VC and us lived to fight another time.
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Stanley Ross served two years in Vietnam, earning a Purple Heart and Bronze Star. Serving with the 173rd Airborne Brigade the first year and the Military Assistance Command Vietnam during the second year. Stan earned a Bachelor’s, Masters and doctoral degree after leaving the military. He worked in the public and private sectors. Eventually, he became a business college professor for over thirty years before retiring.
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