by Stanley C. Ross
There was nothing special about the mountain other than North Vietnamese having been spotted at the top. We’d been airlifted to the bottom of the mountain and our mission was to climb up and kick them off. This was one of our traditional roles, finding and killing the bad guys, as paratroopers with the 3rd battalion, 173rd Airborne brigade. This was like a game I played as a kid, “king of the mountain.” Whoever was at the top of a dirt hill was the “king.”
My buddies and I often talked about what made someone a man. We bragged that smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol, and having hair on our chests were all signs of being men. I considered myself a man because I was a soldier, a paratrooper in the army. I had been in combat. But deep down was I actually a man? I could refer to myself as one, but was I?
On this mission early 1969 I was to learn the answer to my question.
The assignment that day was simple in concept but tough in execution.
Helicopters dropped us of at a landing zone near the base of the mountain. Fortunately, the landing zone was void of the enemy. But we were not under any illusion, the enemy was alert to our presence. A combat air assault near their base camp was an obvious signal that we planned to attack their base.
The mountain trail was steep and winding, overgrown with thick vegetation. Mosquitoes swarmed. Poisonous snakes were numerous. Wild tigers roamed throughout the area.
The trail was well-worn, too, showing signs of recent enemy activity. Sandal prints, crushed grass and bent tree branches were telltale signs of their presence. We fully expected to confront them at the top.
This was my ninth month in Vietnam. Though much of our time was spent on search and destroy missions seeking out the enemy, few of them led to combat. My most memorable action had been when I got wounded during a firefight at a place called Monkey Mountain. A mountain full of monkeys.
Though an experienced soldier, I did not think of myself as exceptional or inspirational. I had done nothing of significance among my peers. The best they could have said about “Stan Ross” was that he did his job. Today was different, though. It was a “breakthrough day,” one ending with my having formed a new destiny for myself.
The point team trekked up the mountain trail. We moved silently, watchful for recent signs of the enemy. As one of the forward observers responsible for coordinating artillery fire and helicopter gunship fire, I marched with the point team. Being close to the fighting, I could respond immediately with artillery support.
The backpack was heavy. I carried extra ammunition magazines for my M-16, a bag full of hand grenades, canteens of water and a spare battery for the radio. Besides carrying my M-16, I lugged a shovel to use for digging foxholes when we camped at night. It was tough going as the trail followed the contours of the mountain. Often, I pulled myself up the trail by grabbing at small bushes and branches of small trees. Wet ground made the path muddy and slippery, and it wasn’t long before I was soaked, adding to the misery.
After the first hour passed, we rotated off the point. Rotating the men walking the point kept us alert. The artillery sergeant was my replacement as the point forward observer.
The hot, muggy air along with the steep climb started to become unbearable. I soon learned that the trek was a struggle for others too, because men near me complained bitterly about the uselessness of this mission. I shared their sentiments, but I kept silent – I feared being labeled a complainer.
Eventually, the captain ordered a halt to rest and drink water. We sat on the side of the trail facing outward, watching for signs of the enemy. No sooner did I catch my breath, when the order was given, “Move out.”
I groaned. The break was too short to replenish my spirits, but I had no say in the time allotted to rest. Quitting was not an option, but the thought of giving in haunted me.
The trail became rockier and muddier. Up and up we moved, the trail almost vertical in places. I struggled to stay upright and not lose my balance.
I walked with my eyes glued to the ground in front of me as I battled to keep my footing. Looking up, I spotted a man in front of me sitting along the trail. As I passed him, he said, “Boston, I am beat.” (“Boston” was my nickname because of my Boston accent.)
“Why?” I asked.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he replied. That terrible phrase – I can’t – frightened me. There were many times I wanted to say “I can’t,” only to resist because I feared the judgement of others. I kept my mouth shut and moved on. I may have walked past him, but I could not get past the numerous mosquitos swarming around my face, suffocating humidity, and a trail that tortured me. “Quit, Stan,” I whispered silently to myself. But my other voice said, “No quitting, Stan.” My personal struggle over what to do was mind-numbing. I couldn’t decide whether to stop or push on.
Then I saw him.
Looking ahead I saw someone standing to the side of the trail, his backpack sitting on the ground, his M-16 laying across the pack. His helmet was sitting upside down on the ground, and he drank from his canteen and wiped the sweat from his face with his neck scarf.
He was no average guy. He was the man most admired by everyone. He was the strongest, a guy who lifted heavy tree branches himself. He won every fistfight.. His image among the men was without reproach. He was brave, often leading the point, an indomitable spirit that encouraged others to continue on when confronting challenging situations. He would always be the one to say, “Don’t quit now.” I looked up to him. Everyone did. His image among the men was without reproach Yet this trail defeated him.
I could not believe what I saw. I was shocked. Seeing him made me determined to push forward. I planned to move past him and then stop. This would be a minor victory for me. But I realized that this was foolish thinking.
Something changed within me. My legs felt stronger. My mind tolerated the steep incline of the trail. The mosquitoes bit me less or there were fewer of them. Regardless, I ignored their bites.
I had walked several feet when I came up to another man sitting on a rock, helmet off, backpack at his side, M-16 laying across his thighs. His head was down and his canteen was in his hands.
“Are you going to stop, Boston?” he asked.
I was exhausted, tempted to say yes, but instead I shook my head and mumbled, “No,” I said. Foolish me, I thought. Here was another opportunity to quit without suffering shame.
But seeing even more men stop gave me the strength to keep climbing up the trail. A sudden burst of energy made me more determined and positive. “I can make it to the top,” I thought.
I moved past others along the trail who were trudging more and more slowly.
I bent forward, head down, eyes focused on the trail, silently whispering to myself that I couldn’t quit. Then I began chanting “Can’t quit, won’t quit, all the way, airborne.” It was a song we had sung at jump school. It became my mantra.
All was quiet, the men too tired to talk or complain. But I continued chanting.
At one point I passed the point man, who asked, “Boston, where the hell are you going?”
“To the top,” I muttered. He called me crazy. Maybe I was at that moment.
But I left him behind and pushed up the trail, focusing on reaching the top.
The struggle was unbearable at times but I kept singing my mantra, “Can’t quit, won’t quit, all the way, airborne.” I kept walking. If anything, I moved faster.
At some point I looked up. Prior bombing had destroyed many of the trees. I was surprised to see that I was several yards from the crest.
I was pumped from excitement. “No quitting now,” I said and I redoubled my effort, shifting into fourth gear.
I reached the top and saw a large boulder. I dropped my backpack, laid my rifle on my pack and drank deeply from my canteen. I sat on the boulder, looking back down the trail.
Within minutes others were within sight. As these men moved towards me, each one congratulated me for achieving what appeared to be an impossible accomplishment, being the first one to reach the top of the mountain.
The captain arrived and congratulated me for being first to reach the top. But he admonished me too. “What would you have done if the enemy was there?” he asked.
His question dumbfounded me. It was more of a statement.
I had no answer. He was right, of course. I could have become a dead “can-do” paratrooper. I was lucky.
I never did anything reckless like that again. But I didn’t need to. After this day my reputation spread through the company as a crazy and fearless soldier. I did not consider myself crazy, only foolish. However, I learned that I was tougher than I thought. I was a “can-do” man rather than just a soldier. Later I became a “can-do” civilian who does not quit. Someone who can remain disciplined when things get tough.
That day I learned I was a man.
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Stanley C. 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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