Marine Sniper

by Charles Henderson

  “Damn you, Hathcock,” Captain Land shouted in the blackness of the sniper hooch as the two Marines crouched in the doorway at midnight. The silhouettes of the two men stood out in the moonlit sky as the captain rose to his feet and bear-hugged them together. “I haven’t slept for two days, worrying about you two! What happened?”

  “Got that boogerman for you, Sir,” Hathcock said, proudly holding out the long rifle. “Shot him in the eye. Thought you’d like to go back to the World with that problem solved.”

  “That’s one hell of a good going-away present, Carlos, but I’ll tell you both, I’m a lot happier to see you two back here alive.”

  Hathcock put his name on the tag on the bloodstained, Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle and turned it into the command headquarters. He was hoping to save it as a special souvenir, but he never saw the rifle again.

  One day later, Capt. E.J. Land departed Vietnam, leaving Hathcock and Burke. He passed his concern for their safety to his relief, Major Wight.

  “Hathcock’s a dichotomy,” Land told the major. “The man will put himself into the most dangerous situations imaginable, yet once he’s out there on his own, he’s the most cautious and thorough sniper I’ve ever seen. The only reason he’s alive is because he is so damned good, once he’s in the bush.

  “Burke’s just like him. Hathcock taught him everything he knows. They’ll never say no. So watch ’em. Don’t let them get in over their heads.”

  14

  Stalking the General

  THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN SHONE THROUGH THE CAMouflage netting draped over the old plantation house that now served as a North Vietnamese Army division’s command center. The yellow light cast spotty shadows through the window and over the old commander who sat behind his tablelike desk, scratching out a note.

  His division continued to expand and improve. But the old commander was like the great tiger that lived in these mountains and now limped because of a thorn that festered in his paw. This “thorn” was the increasing number of U.S. Marine snipers and especially the one who wore a white feather in his hat—a symbol that enraged the Communist general because he saw it as an insult to the abilities of his best guerrillas. News of someone sighting the sniper who wore the white feather spread fear among his troops, as well as among the local peasants. Whenever this man was seen, people died.

  He gazed out the window, looking through the blotchy netting as the blood red sun stood at the crest of the mountains that arose from the sanctuary of Laos. The setting sun’s highlights sparkled from the gold and silver that ornamented the large, red patches sewn on his collar. He thought of the war and the increasing numbers of American soldiers and weapons that now flooded into South Vietnam. And he thought of the increasing number of heavy bombs dropped daily from the bellies of high-flying B-52s.

  AS THOSE BOMBS FELL ALONG THE DEMILITARIZED ZONE AND THE Laotian border, Hathcock wadded a green-and-white cigarette pack and tossed it into the wooden ammunition box that he had turned into a combination nightstand, stool, and trash container. He lay back on his cot and took a long and deep drag off his last cigarette. The sun now set behind the distant hilltops in the west, and he watched the blazing orange sky turn dark as night fell.

  As he lay there, he thought of his conversation with Gunny Wilson earlier that day just after he’d finished writing to Jo; recounting his past six months as a sniper made him realize that many things had permanently changed in his life. The Carlos Hathcock who reported to Maj. George E. Bartlett at 1st Marine Division’s military police company nearly one year ago at Chu Lai, and who worked there as a machine gunner and desk sergeant, was a completely changed person from the Carlos Hathcock who spent the last six months on duty as a sniper and assistant chief sniper instructor at Da Nang. When he reported to the “Mustang”* major, himself a competitive marksman, Carlos had never killed anyone. He had never known the heat of combat or the reality of war. Now, he had eighty kills confirmed to his credit and had trained several hundred snipers, more than one hundred of them personally. When he came to Chu Lai, he equated marksmanship to targets. Now he equated targets to living, breathing human beings.

  In a few days, he would pick up the orders that canceled his temporary additional duty as a sniper, and he would return to the Military Police Company, his parent command, that would process him for travel back to the World. He came to Vietnam a green kid, twenty-three years old, still immature and full of ideals and dreams. Now, his face bore wrinkles at twenty-four years, his ideals and dreams were tempered by the lessons of combat. And his boyishness had disappeared, drained from his soul at Elephant Valley, Charlie Ridge, An Hoa, and Da Nang. Now he felt old.

  Hathcock looked at the letter that he had written to Jo apologizing for not telling her that he was actually a working sniper, not just an instructor. The idea of her reading about it in the newspaper continued to rouse his anger. “Once I got home, I would have told her,” he thought. “I just didn’t want her worrying.”

  “Sergeant Hathcock! You in there?” a voice called in the night.

  “Yo!” Hathcock called from his cot and raised himself on his elbows to see outside his hooch. “Yeah, Burke, what’s up?”

  Burke peered through the screen door. “Gunny needs to see you. I think they want you for one more trip to the bush.”

  Hathcock sprang to his feet like a fireman hearing the alarm sound. “What do you know? They tell you anything?”

  “No. Gunny just said for me to roust you up.”

  Hathcock slipped on his shirt as he walked toward the sniper headquarters where he could see two figures standing outside.

  “Looks like some sort of powwow,” Burke said in a low voice as they drew near.

  A hulking Marine captain who looked as though he could play on any National Football League team’s front line stood next to the gunny. Wrapping his enormous paw around Hathcock’s outstretched palm, he started shaking it.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, especially from Major Wight. That’s why I made the trip down here to see you. We have a very risky job. And we think you’re the only man who can pull it off and survive. I know you’re due to go home in a matter of days, so I’m not here to order you. You may accept or reject our proposal. I can only tell you that the need is urgent.”

  The words “the only man who can pull it off” overshadowed everything else the captain said. No sales pitch was necessary beyond that. Hathcock knew that if they believed that he was the only man who had a chance at surviving this mission, then he must accept. If he rejected the request they’d select a less experienced sniper. A man who had less chance of surviving. He couldn’t go home with that on his conscience.

  “What’s the job, Sir?” he said, folding his arms, ready for some sort of hint at this very dangerous assignment.

  “I can’t say. You have to accept or reject this request based totally on the prospect that it will be extremely hazardous. The odds of your surviving are slim, so I can only ask you to volunteer.

  “If you accept, you will come with me and receive a briefing and a package containing all the information and planning that we’ve done on this mission. You can then tailor this plan to suit your needs and abilities. You will receive total support.”

  Hathcock scraped the toe of his boot through the dirt and thought of the short-timer stories about Marines who took one more mission with only days remaining in-country and died on it. To take such a mission violated a superstition. Go on patrol when you’re a newbee or a short-timer and you’re dead. But, he also thought that the odds stood in his favor more than in any other sniper’s, despite the short-timer superstition.

  HE LOOKED AT BURKE, STANDING SILENTLY IN THE MOONLIGHT. What if they turned to him or to the gunny or the top? Which friend would he allow to go in his place?

  He looked at the captain and took a deep breath. “Sir, I’ll go. I wouldn’t be able to face myself if I didn’t.”

  The captain put his arm over Hathcock’s shoulder and patted him. “I’v
e got a map and some recon photos up at operations, we’ll talk there.”

  The two Marines walked away from the sniper hooch, and Burke watched them disappear in the darkness. A feeling of emptiness suddenly pulled at his soul: he would never go hunting with his partner again. The reality of it struck him as he watched his friend leave. He wished he could go too.

  “OH, CARLOS, OH, CARLOS, YOU AIN’T A COMIN’ BACK ALIVE FROM this one! You and your big ideas,” Carlos Hathcock said aloud. Johnny Burke sat on a wooden crate scrubbing his M-14’s bolt-face with a doubled-up pipe cleaner. Carlos sat on another crate. Between his feet a topographical map and several photos lay spread on the dirty plywood floor of the sniper platoon’s command hooch.

  “How on earth did I ever get myself into this one?” Hathcock said with a sigh.

  “You’re the best, Sergeant Hathcock. That’s why you wear that white feather, isn’t it?” Burke said, looking up.

  Hathcock glanced at his partner. “Maybe. But, I ain’t so sure about this one. Come here and look at these recon photos. I tell you, this one’s suicide.”

  Burke laid his bolt on a towel and walked across the hooch. Hathcock had drawn an orange line on the plastic film that he had laminated to the face of the map to make it weatherproof. The line represented the path that the patrol, which dropped him off, would take. He was pondering the best route from there to his mission’s ultimate destination.

  “There ain’t a stitch of cover within two thousand yards of that place,” Hathcock said, pointing to an aerial photo that corresponded to an area on the map around which he had drawn a red circle. “I’ve got the tree line for cover up to here.” His finger tapped the circle as he spoke. “All I’m ever gonna get at the guy is one shot. I’ve gotta make it count. Once that round goes, all hell’s gonna break loose so the odds for a second shot are zero. I can’t gamble on connecting at two thousand yards—it’s gotta be eight hundred yards or less. That means I’ve gotta cover about fifteen hundred yards of open ground without being seen.”

  Burke knelt on one knee and shook his head. “Sergeant Hathcock, I don’t know!”

  Hathcock looked at Burke, an unusual expression of worry crossing his face. “I know.” He looked back at the map and photos and again leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together beneath his chin, as if in subconscious prayer. “I’ve gotta go worm-style across there and hope they don’t walk across me.”

  Burke walked back to his crate and sat down. He picked up his rifle’s bolt and began scrubbing its face with a fresh pipe cleaner.

  “Sergeant Hathcock, if anybody has the answer, you do. If it can be done, you can do it. But I gotta tell you the honest truth. Goin’ into the NVA’s headquarters and blowin’ away their stud duck takes one hell of a lot more guts than I’ve got. Too bad you can’t tell ’em to forget it.”

  “Nope,” Hathcock replied without looking up. “Ain’t my style. Job’s gotta be done.”

  CARLOS LOOKED AT HIS WATCH AND SOFTLY LAID IT INSIDE HIS FOOTlocker with all his other personal items. He would leave everything behind on this stalk.

  He took his bush hat with his left hand and gently slipped the wispy white feather from its hatband, dropping it between the pages of his Marine Corps issue New Testament. He placed the cigarette-pack size book in one corner of his footlocker and dropped shut the locker’s wooden lid. Snapping the combination lock on the big box’s hasp, he tucked on his bush hat, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and walked out to meet fate head-on.

  As he walked through Hill 55’s complex of deeply dug and heavily sandbagged bunkers, hard-backed tents, and antennae farms, Carlos listened to the new day come alive.

  “Goooood morning, Vietnam!” a voice boomed from a nearby radio tuned to AFVN. “It’s six-oh-five in the A-M and time to…Shout!” Joey Dee and the Star-Lighters’ all-time rock and roll favorite,

  “Shout,” echoed through the camp from scattered radios tuned to the Da Nang American Forces Radio station.

  A black Marine with a gold-capped front tooth sat on a stack of sandbags next to his rocking and rolling radio. His steel helmet pot, half-filled with milky colored water, sat in the dirt before him. Lather covered his face, and he stretched his neck tight as he shaved under his chin, rolling his eyes downward in order to look in a mirror balanced atop the radio. Hathcock thought about how long it had been since he had stood in front of a bathroom sink and shaved with hot water.

  He walked down the hill beyond the bunkers and joined a group of Marines wearing helmets and flack jackets. Each man had two fragmentation grenades and several pouches full of ammunition, balanced by two full canteens hanging on their cartridge belts. Carlos had only his rifle, one canteen hooked to his belt and a KaBar knife. He reached in his pocket and touched the tube of camouflage greasepaint resting there. He was scared.

  The walk to the landing zone did not take long, neither did the flight—due west and well into the high mountains that bordered Laos.

  The Marine rifle squad moved quickly taking him to the departure point, and by noon Hathcock sat alone, his back against a tree, surrounded by heavy vegetation. He was preparing himself mentally for what he knew lay ahead. The fear that lay like a heavy animal inside his chest would need some calming.

  Day One

  Carlos had calculated perfectly, as always in the past, and arrived at the tree line’s edge just as the sun set. He covered his exposed skin with shades of light and dark green greasepaint from the tube that he carried in his pocket. Every buttonhole and strap on his uniform held various-shaped leaves and grass.

  Here, at the edge of the open country, he saw the NVA’s heavily guarded buildings with their camouflaging and their fortified gun positions. He had no idea where in Southeast Asia he was at the moment and had not wished to ask. The terrain map he had studied had had no place names. From their flight path and the distance covered, he would not have been surprised if he was in Laos or even North Vietnam.

  Under the cover of darkness, Carlos retouched his camouflage paint and exchanged the forest’s deep green leaves for the lighter green and straw-colored grass that now surrounded him and covered the vast open land ahead. He drew his canteen and poured a capful of water. He brought the lid to his lips and sipped, his eyes constantly shifting and looking for signs of movement, his nose testing the air for any smell of other men.

  For the next hour, he continued preparing himself, drinking sips of water from his canteen lid and relaxing in the tree line’s cover.

  Finally, his every move fluid and slow like that of a clock’s minute hand, he lay on his side and slipped into the open. His Winchester rifle was clutched tightly against his chest.

  His body was in constant motion, but the motion was so slow that a man staring at him from ten feet away would in all probability have seen no movement. He traveled inches per minute and yards per hour. From now until he reached his goal, Hathcock would not eat or sleep and he would drink rarely.

  He had had no idea that he would have to move this slowly. The dry grass was about a foot above his head as he crawled slowly on. Hathcock noticed the stars in the clear night sky and prayed for rain. If it came he could move quickly, since the enemy’s vision would be obscured and the shower’s noise would cover his. Dampness would also soften the crackling dry grass and weeds.

  The Marine sniper had crawled approximately thirty feet from the tree line when he heard the first enemy patrol approaching his position. His eyes strained to find them in the moonless dark. He knew they were closing in on him by each crunching footstep’s increasing loudness. Hathcock held his breath. The patrol was very near. His lungs burned, and his heart pounded. Sweat gushed from every pore on his body. He was worried they would smell him. Absolutely motionless, he stared back at the trail of bent and broken grass that lay behind him.

  Hathcock thought, “If they see me, then that’s how. They’ll see my trail.” His lungs could take no more pain—he must have air. He felt like a pearl diver gone too deep,
seeing the water’s mirrored surface over him. Too much distance lay between him and the sweet air above. He remembered, as a boy, diving deep and swimming up, and how his lungs ached just as he reached the water’s surface. Hathcock relaxed his lungs slowly—silently releasing the captive breath. He longed to gulp a replenishing surge of oxygen, but instead filled his lungs silently and very slowly with tiny puffs of air.

  Movement near his feet nearly made him scream. A leg flashed by him. Another and another flickered past. The NVA patrol was now between him and the safety of the trees.

  He heard one soldier clear his throat. Another whispered something in Vietnamese. Hathcock thought, “These guys are goofing off. They aren’t even looking. They’re safely in their own backyard and don’t suspect a thing.”

  As the patrol passed, Hathcock watched them traipsing along beside the tree line, oblivious of his presence. “That looseness just might save my life,” he thought. “Boy, will they be sorry,” he told himself. A smile crossed his face, and his confidence soared. As soon as the enemy was out of earshot, he pushed on through the night.

  Day Two

  The hour before sunrise has a sleep-inducing effect. Nearly any soldier who has had to remain awake through the night will testify that the worst hour, when fighting sleep poses the greatest challenge, occurs when the night is darkest, coolest, and quietest—an hour or so before dawn.

  Hathcock had to rest, but he could not afford risking sleep. In the past months, he had taught himself to nap, yet remain awake, his eyes wide open. He did not know what sort of self-hypnosis made it possible, but he always felt very rested following one of these ten-minute respites.

  The flickering light from a small cooking fire caught his attention and brought him out of his catnap. “These dumb hamburgers!” he thought. “Another time and another place, and you would have been mine, Charlie.”