Editor’s note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.
It was December 13, 1968, and our platoon leaders briefed us before we boarded the trucks: Recent intelligence hinted at increased Viet Cong activity on Monkey Mountain.
The trucks rumbled to a halt at the sharp bend in the winding road, marking the trailhead that led up the mountain. As the dust settled, my company disembarked from the trucks and formed a ragged line along the start of the trail’s edge.
I could not shake the feeling that today was going to be a scary day. I am not usually superstitious, but this time it was different.
History books never fully capture the reality of day-to-day combat. The horror of living in an active war zone is that death could come at any time and in any way.
I faced wild tigers, booby traps, and blood-sucking leeches. A venomous snake once slithered across my legs while I sat on the ground talking with buddies. I was lucky that the snake feared me as much as I feared it.
Our mission was to hunt down a small number of VC. We weren’t enthusiastic.
With the holidays near, we were all hoping for a break from the endless cycle of patrols, guard duty, and dangerous helicopter assaults deep into enemy territory. I wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of Friday the 13th. Most of the men were superstitious, and our fears were rubbing off on each other. It was contagious.
I was assigned to the company as an additional forward observer, joining two others already with the unit. My job was to coordinate with the nearby artillery base, helicopter gunships, and even Air Force jets if we needed air support.
Monkey Mountain loomed ominously, shrouded in mystery. Its towering heights were hidden by dense early morning fog and the thick jungle foliage that wrapped around the twisting, narrow trail. The fear of a VC ambush haunted us while we ascended the trail.
In Vietnam, combat often meant ambushes. Deadly, quick, and chaotic. Many men were killed, wounded, or maimed by booby traps during such attacks.
And then there were monkeys. Monkey Mountain was home to wild, noisy monkeys. Their constant screeches made us jittery. How could we distinguish their raucous cries from the stealthy movements of the VC scouts? War was full of unknowns. Death could arrive at any moment.
I usually moved with the point group, the vanguard of our company. I wanted to be near when trouble came so I could help my friends. On this day I was fourth in line.
We didn’t know how long our mission would last. Our objective was simple: Locate and neutralize the VC. This could take one day or maybe several. We anticipated a minor skirmish. Typically, the VC fled unless they thought they could unleash a successful ambush. Often, they fled after briefly firing at us. Sometimes they set booby traps and ran.
We advanced slowly, step by step, every move filled with apprehension, ever-watchful for signs of danger. My radio operator stayed close by, ready to call in artillery support if we walked into an ambush.
Early on we were swarmed by hordes of mosquitoes, Vietnam’s second enemy after the VC, followed by snakes. Mosquitoes brought diseases, some of them fatal. Many of the snakes were poisonous.
Our heavy backpacks slowed us down. We stopped frequently to hydrate and reapply mosquito repellent, which quickly became ineffective once we sweated it off. The bites we had endured were painful reminders of our unforgiving surroundings. As we climbed higher, the air cooled and the mosquitoes disappeared. But not the snakes. They were still with us.
Then the point man stopped abruptly and signaled for caution. Footprints made by sandals, discarded food wrappers, and broken underbrush—these unmistakable signs indicated a recent VC presence. The enemy was near. So was danger.
The trail was the only known way up or down the mountain. How many actual VC were there? The enemy always found creative ways to surprise us, like hiding in a tree.
The sky darkened and the clouds hinted at rain, a lingering storm hesitant to make way for the dry season. It felt like an ominous warning.
Dave, the radio operator, asked me if the day frightened me as much as it scared him. I admitted that it did. This was my first Friday the 13th in combat. Bad things happen in war. And we were hunting an enemy who might be watching us.
“Move out,” came the call. Dave and I grabbed our packs and started up the trail, falling behind the third soldier.
We were near the top of the mountain when the rattle of AK-47 shots erupted. We had found the VC.
Dave and I moved forward. The noise was deafening from the sound of the AK-47 gunshots along with our M-16s. I ducked behind a thick tree trunk and used my map to pinpoint the enemy’s position, but I needed to move closer to the VC to ensure the accuracy of the artillery shelling location.
The VC position was a fortified horseshoe of sandbags and logs, with bunkers connected by trenches. Unknown to us, the VC had spider holes, concealed pits for ambushes in front of the trenches.
As the first platoon advanced, enemy gunfire intensified. I moved forward to gain a better view. While crouching down, I spotted a VC soldier pop up from a nearby spider hole and toss a hand grenade at me. The grenade bounced past me and exploded. I felt a burning sensation on my back. (Dave later told me I had a hole in the back of my shirt.)
I gave Dave the VC’s coordinates to pass on to the artillery unit. Within seconds, artillery shells whistled through the air, landing beyond the VC bunkers. I adjusted the artillery fire. The next barrage found its mark, spraying shrapnel through the trees and pounding the VC’s position.
The artillery fire sent the VC a message: It was time to leave. The AK-47 gunfire stopped.
Blood trails revealed that some of the VC were wounded and perhaps killed. Three of us were wounded. The worst injury was the loss of a few toes. Friday the 13th was indeed ominous—but not for us.
When we got back to base camp, I changed out of my dirty fatigues and showered. Fortunately, my wound was superficial; infection was my biggest concern, so I had the medic check out and bandage the wound.
Afterwards, I laid on my bunk, smoking a Camel cigarette and talking with my buddies. We were lucky that no one was killed or seriously hurt.
That 13th had passed but another Friday the 13th was coming. Christmas came and went. So did 1968. I tried to stay optimistic as the new year approached, but in Vietnam, danger lurked everywhere.
This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.
Stanley Ross was raised by a single mother in public housing before joining the Army in 1967. He spent two years in Vietnam, starting with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, followed by a year with the Military Assistance Command Vietnam, Pleiku. He later earned multiple degrees, owned and operated several small businesses, worked as a financial advisor for a financial services firm, and was a tenured business college professor at Bridgewater State University until his retirement in 2022. He has written published business articles and three business textbooks.
