Every Ambush in Vietnam Held Surprises. This One Ended in Death

Photos courtesy of Stanley Ross /> More than five decades after 1968, an especially violent year of the war, the rain, hunger, and calamity in Vietnam’s Central Highlands remain etched in my mind. Death was the purpose of our ambush, and we found it.

I was assigned to the 173rd Airborne Brigade, 3rd Battalion’s A Company as a forward observer, tasked with bridging the gap between our company and the artillery, air support, and helicopter gunships. We were airlifted there because of a heavy Viet Cong presence nearby.

The relentless rain made our lives miserable, especially for me because I wore glasses, which constantly had to be wiped clear.

Resupply was nearly impossible since we were positioned on a cloud-hugging mountaintop. Our rations were dwindling to dangerous levels, and we faced the possibility of needing to move off the mountain for resupply.

Though helicopters could resupply troops in the field, hiking to the landing zone would have meant abandoning the mission described in this essay. (Photo courtesy of Stanley Ross) alt="" class="wp-image-43743" title="" srcset="https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=1030%2C1001&ssl=1 1030w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=400%2C389&ssl=1 400w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=768%2C746&ssl=1 768w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=1536%2C1493&ssl=1 1536w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=2048%2C1991&ssl=1 2048w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=1200%2C1166&ssl=1 1200w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=1024%2C995&ssl=1 1024w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=2000%2C1944&ssl=1 2000w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?resize=780%2C758&ssl=1 780w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4.jpeg?w=2340&ssl=1 2340w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-4-1030x1001.jpeg?w=370&ssl=1 370w" sizes="(max-width: 780px) 100vw, 780px" />

Our single greatest fear, besides walking into an enemy ambush or stepping on a lethal booby trap, was depleting our radio batteries. Without communication to battalion headquarters, we were vulnerable to attack and being overrun by VC. We kept a single spare battery in a waterproof bag for emergencies.

Hiking to the landing zone for more supplies at the mountain’s base was an option, but it meant abandoning the mission. The threat of a VC ambush loomed large, making such a move impractical.

On the fourth day of the operation, the lieutenant and platoon sergeant briefed us on an upcoming assignment: Two squads would organize an ambush; I was to accompany them as the forward observer.

I meticulously prepared my gear while hoping for a break in the weather. The downpour persisted, but our determination to succeed was unwavering.

In the early morning of the ambush, the site was shrouded in darkness as the rain pounded the trees and bushes. It sounded like machine gun fire. My equipment and pack got soaked during our march to the ambush site. I prayed that our vigilance would guard us from being surprised by the enemy.

With a clean and oiled M-16, along with six ammunition magazines in my sling and one in my rifle, I was prepared to confront the enemy. I sat on my spare poncho to keep dry and wrapped the other around my shoulders.

I laid my hand grenades next to me, ready to grab and throw.

The sergeant checked our positions to ensure that no one was in the line of friendly fire. Two of my buddies each placed a claymore mine along the length of the ambush site. If the VC came from either direction, one of the men would trigger the claymore, sending hundreds of small metal pellets flying toward the enemy.

We needed to sit tight, be quiet, remain patient, and stay awake. We had a lot of experience setting up ambushes and being ambushed. Sometimes we caught people and sometimes not, but we never had to kill anyone.

Time stretched on with the torrential downpour. Having to clean my eyeglasses kept me mostly awake. I just dozed, unlike my friends, who were out cold all around me.

Those hours seemed like days, and the rain tapping on the vegetation now sounded like a lullaby. Fear gripped me as I realized that sleeping jeopardized our safety.

Suddenly, I spotted several VC fighters sauntering towards us, AK-47s slung over their shoulders, oblivious to our presence. I felt a rush of adrenaline and dread when an enemy soldier’s face suddenly appeared in front of me.

A burst of shots pierced the silence as I pulled the trigger. Chaos erupted and everyone started yelling. One guy set off his claymore as the VC fled, leaving one of their own behind.

The author, standing left, at a mountaintop campsite in Vietnam with his company in 1968. (Photo courtesy of Stanley Ross) alt="" class="wp-image-43744" title="" srcset="https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=1030%2C1002&ssl=1 1030w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=400%2C389&ssl=1 400w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=768%2C747&ssl=1 768w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=1536%2C1494&ssl=1 1536w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=2048%2C1992&ssl=1 2048w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=1200%2C1167&ssl=1 1200w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=1024%2C996&ssl=1 1024w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=2000%2C1945&ssl=1 2000w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?resize=780%2C759&ssl=1 780w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5.jpeg?w=2340&ssl=1 2340w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-5-1030x1002.jpeg?w=370&ssl=1 370w" sizes="(max-width: 780px) 100vw, 780px" /> The dead VC was no older than we were, a haunting testament to the horrors of war. I felt numb in the realization that I had taken a life.

The following day, the company packed up and marched to the landing zone, where helicopters airlifted us back to the battalion base camp. We were thankful that our mission had ended with no casualties on our side.

In theory, the mission was a success.

But the memory of that ambush—the rain-soaked nights without food, and, in particular, the dead soldier’s face—continues to haunt me.

He was likely our age, maybe younger. The spiritless, empty look on his face is frozen in my mind. “Does death look like this?” I wondered. His body was like an inanimate object, not the living, breathing person he had been.

Although years have passed, I can still see him moving through the brush, turning his head just as I pulled the trigger. I did not miss.

It was the first time I had to kill someone.

Stanley Ross posing with his rifle in 1968 as his company prepares drop supplies for another mission. (Photo courtesy of the author) alt="" class="wp-image-43745" title="" srcset="https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=1030%2C1001&ssl=1 1030w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=400%2C389&ssl=1 400w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=768%2C746&ssl=1 768w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=1536%2C1492&ssl=1 1536w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=2048%2C1990&ssl=1 2048w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=1200%2C1166&ssl=1 1200w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=1024%2C995&ssl=1 1024w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=2000%2C1943&ssl=1 2000w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?resize=780%2C758&ssl=1 780w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6.jpeg?w=2340&ssl=1 2340w, https://i0.wp.com/thewarhorse.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/06/null-6-1030x1001.jpeg?w=370&ssl=1 370w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 780px) 100vw, 780px" /> When it was over, he lay a few feet away, his eyes still open. I remember kneeling beside him, waiting for a sound, a breath, that never came.

I took a photo. I told myself it was for the record, but perhaps it was something else. Perhaps proof that I had actually done it. Or guilt. For weeks, I couldn’t look at the picture. When I finally did, I couldn’t let it go.

I thought about his family: a mother waiting for her son, a father who’d never know where he was buried. We laid him in a shallow grave on that mountaintop, the wind cutting through us while scavenger birds circled overhead, looking for a meal.

We were told by our leaders that war was simple: either the other guy or me. At the time, I believed it; now I’m not so sure. That day, I lost a piece of myself I never got back. The boy in me died with that VC. I will always carry the burden of killing another person, marking me forever with the echoes of a distant past.

Sometimes, when the night gets too still, I see his face again. And I remember the moment when everything changed.

This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Paul Szoldra wrote the headlines.