Silent Warrior
Page 15
“It’s about time,” Gunny Wilson said, seeing Hathcock and Burke step into the doorway of the general-purpose tent where he sat behind a small green field desk. “Our two prodigal snipers have finally returned to the fold.”
He looked over their filthy faces, torn clothes, and tired, aching bodies. “You don’t look like you could take much more R and R. Probably a good thing you got back here where you can go to work and get some rest.
“Might be a good idea to grab a rag and a bucket, go over to the water bull1 and clean a layer or two of that crap off your scuzzy bodies. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to get into some serviceable utilities before the skipper gets back.”
Ten minutes later, the two Marines stood in their shower shoes, slopping cold soapy water from a bucket over their bodies, washing away the grime from the previous day and night. Countless red sores covered the two men.
“Looks like chicken pox,” Burke said, gently scrubbing his chest with a washcloth. “Reckon we ought to put something on them?”
“My grandmother used to dab baking soda on my ant and chigger bites when I was a kid,” Carlos said. “I don’t know where we’d find any of it around here.”
“You have a problem with me seeing the doc at the aid station?” Burke asked. “I reckon he might have something we can put on them. I’d hate to get sick from these stings.”
Hathcock thought a moment, and considered the hazard of having raw sores or open wounds in the field. He had seen some of the bad infections prevalent here. Even an innocent-looking insect bite could become a serious enough problem to take a man out of action. He knew that in some cases a Marine could go on report or even get a court-martial over not taking care of his body.
Carlos recalled that in Hawaii a couple of the competitors on his intramural shooting team had fallen asleep while sunbathing, and as a result of their carelessness suffered severe blisters and sun poisoning. Not only did the men get dropped from the team, but wound up receiving nonjudicial punishment of a month’s restriction and a $100 fine.
“Whatever he gives you,” Carlos said, lightly washing his many bites, “be sure to get two of them.”
SEVERAL HUNDRED MILES south of where the sniper duo washed themselves, General Tran Van Tra, Commander in Chief of the People’s Liberation Army, sat on a stool in an underground command complex northwest of Saigon. Tran served as Commander in Chief of the Viet Cong forces throughout the Vietnam War and beyond its end in 1975. The general held equal status with General Van Tien Dung, the commander of the North Vietnamese Army, and was subordinate only to General Vo Nguyen Giap, Commander of all Communist forces, and to Chairman Ho Chi Minh. Following the war’s conclusion, General Tran led Vietnamese forces into Cambodia, defeating the Khmer Rouge after their invasion of Vietnam.
The middle-aged man cleaned his wire-frame spectacles with his handkerchief, and concentrated on controlling his anger while his chief of staff told him details of what he termed the Frenchman’s “assassination.”
General Tran hooked the glasses onto his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. He ran his handkerchief over his head, wiping away sweat from his thinning gray and black hair that he combed straight back. The stocky man who stood five feet, four inches tall, sat quietly in the dim orange light of a kerosene lantern and considered what the colonel had just told him.
“Do you believe these assassins are the same two Americans that our people have identified in the Da Nang and Chu Lai combat zones?” Tran asked his senior assistant.
“Colonel Ba is positive and I believe so, too,” the chief of staff answered. “He recognized them from three other engagements. Furthermore, one wears a white feather in his hat, just as the one at Da Nang and Chu Lai.”
“This whole platoon of men has become a significant problem,” General Tran said. “Not only do they disrupt operations and morale, but have succeeded in penetrating security and killing several key leaders. These two assassins are especially troubling. Intelligence sources in Da Nang have suggested it was just these two men who held and annihilated the company of regular Army replacements a few weeks ago in the Ca De Song Valley below Dong Den Mountain.”
“It is difficult to imagine that only two men could assess such a victory,” the colonel said. “Nearly 300 soldiers and officers died there. Many from the artillery barrage, but a significant number from direct fire.”
“The Americans claim it was just these two men,” General Tran said. “Whether or not this is so remains immaterial in light of the impact it is having on our morale. Many of our soldiers have heard this story and regard it as so.
“This fellow who wears the white feather has killed some of our most effective leaders and soldiers.
“Have any initiatives against this problem been pursued?”
“None specifically address it, General, sir,” the colonel answered.
“I want it established as a priority,” General Tran said. “I want the commander for that district to report to me, and discuss his proposals for initiatives that will eliminate this problem.”
Once the colonel had left the general’s small underground chamber, Tran Van Tra slapped his hand against the clay wall as he looked at a map showing the disbursement of his main forces throughout South Vietnam. The death of the Apache troubled him. And, despite the fact that he held little respect for the Frenchman, knew him only by reputation, and felt little grief at his loss, this man’s death nonetheless troubled the general. Philip was a man protected by one of his best field commanders, Colonel Ba. These snipers had not only penetrated their deep security, but had killed the Frenchman in the presence of that revered leader.
SEVERAL DAYS HAD passed since Hathcock and Burke had returned from their intelligence adventure into Cambodia. Since no one had said anything about it to either sniper, Carlos concluded that Gunny Wilson had likely said nothing to Captain Land or anyone else about his and Burke’s haggard appearance when they reported home. Wilson had asked them nothing about it since then, either. As far as anyone was concerned, the two snipers had spent an extra day down south and nothing more. Carlos and John felt satisfied with that, too.
Two days after Thanksgiving, Operation Rio Blanco ended. While Jim Land returned to Hill 55 with the majority of snipers, he left Burke and three others with Sergeant Hathcock to support the units that remained on Hill 263 to counter any resurgence of enemy strength.
“Carlos,” the captain said, looking at him squarely, “I expect you to properly supervise these men, and not get so absorbed in any hunting expeditions that you lose track of your greater responsibility. I expect situation reports from you every two days.”
Hathcock obeyed his captain at least for the first four days. Then business picked up so rapidly that he assigned his two teams out around the clock. Carlos hardly slept. He picked up all the slack, providing sniper support to units by himself.
In two weeks, the endless demands on his men had taken their toll. Even Burke looked like a walking scarecrow. The men’s eyes lay hollow and sunken in their faces. Their mouths turned down and hung open. Long lines cut along their cheeks and out the corners of their eyes. Kids only a month ago, now they looked like aged men.
“You’ve got to take these men back to Hill 55, John,” Carlos told his partner. “They’re used clean up. Can’t do anybody any good if they’re walking dead.”
“What about you, Sergeant Hathcock?” Burke asked. “Have you taken a look in a mirror?”
“You report to Captain Land that I sent you back because you can’t do any more good up here,” Carlos said, ignoring Burke’s questions. “You boys need to get some rest.”
“You sure this ain’t a mistake?” Burke asked.
The sergeant snapped back at his partner and friend. Fatigue had made his short temper even worse.
Burke pled again for Hathcock to reconsider, or at least allow him to remain at his side.
“Just tell the skipper I will keep him informed,” Carlos said, “and that I will be back
soon as they get things under control here.”
ALL THE CIRCUITS in Jim Land’s anger control center went red when Lance Corporal Burke reported with his three men and without Sergeant Hathcock. The man had done exactly what he had instructed him not to do. At least he had the good sense to get the completely exhausted Marines out of the field. However, Land knew that Carlos tended to be his own worst enemy, never saying no, always ready to accept more tasks. He had often joked with the sergeant, “You have an alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass.”
This time Land hoped it would not get his man killed.
Through the remainder of December, including Christmas Day, Hathcock patrolled nonstop. Many days he depended on ten-minute catnaps scattered throughout the day to fulfill his body’s requirement for rest. He considered more than four hours sleep wasteful. It was only on rare occasions that he even got that much sack time.
The sergeant literally met himself coming and going. Returning to the hill with one patrol, he would see a fresh departing patrol and just U-turn at the wire, going back out with the new bunch. He had lost so much weight that his trousers doubled all the way around his waist.
By New Year’s, he looked like a stick with sunken eyes and a bush hat stuck on top. His white feather now seemed too large, almost matching his ego and self-confidence. The Marine Sniper truly believed that if he died as a result of combat, it would happen in a situation where he had no control. A direct hit on his bunker, or a stray round from an accidental discharge on the hill. Certainly no Viet Cong or NVA soldier had enough cunning to outfox the fox.
Each day’s success, not only surviving but dominating on the battlefield, kept his belief reinforced. He was invincible.
“MORE BAD NEWS, General, sir,” the chief of staff told Tran Van Tra as he sat studying reports in a room inside a remote bamboo fortress. “One of the senior Chinese observers has been killed.”
“Yes?” the general said, not yet greatly disturbed.
“Our soldiers who witnessed this report that it was Long Tra’ng du K’ich,” the chief of staff added.
“What news do we have of the initiatives against this man?” General Tran asked.
“We have issued the reward flier, as you instructed,” the colonel said. “Three years’ pay for either the sniper or his captain should certainly increase initiatives.”
“What about direct action?” the general asked.
“Missions directly after this man? Nothing, sir,” the chief of staff answered.
“In two days we will return to my field headquarters,” Tran said. “Brigadier Le and Colonel Ba should come to discuss this with me. Be sure that they understand that this is not a casual invitation.”
The edge to the normally soft-spoken general sent a chill through the chief of staff. The colonel knew that one should not let Tran’s quiet, gentlemanly presence mislead him. He hurried to the aide-de-camp, quickly scrawled a message and instructed him to ensure that the communications officer handled the dispatch with his highest priority.
“GUNNY WILSON!” JIM Land bellowed as he stormed his way into the sniper headquarters. His voice echoed across Hill 55, causing the hair to raise on the gunnery sergeant’s neck. Land nearly broke the screen door when he slammed it shut, so Wilson cautiously peeked inside the hooch before stepping across the threshold.
Land rummaged through the file cabinet, cursing under his breath.
“I need about half a bottle of aspirin to clear this headache a certain wiry, little black-haired sniper has given me,” Land growled.
As the captain pulled the lid off the large glass bottle and dumped four white tablets in his hand, he looked at Wilson. Popping the pills in his mouth and swallowing them without water, Land said, “What’s the latest on Hathcock?”
“Sir, the last report in on him is two probable kills this morning,” Wilson said. “He claims one was a high-ranking Chinese officer—possibly a colonel. They have sent out ground units and air to try and recover the body.”
“I am sure it has endeared him even more to 7th Marines,” Land said. “I know it must have the enemy thrilled.”
“He has patrolled daily since the four other snipers came home,” Wilson said, hesitantly, not relishing the task of telling on Carlos. “The gunny I talked to told me that Sergeant Hathcock will come in with one squad, catch another going out, and fall right in with them without even taking his pack off. That gunny’s concerned.”
“Me, too,” Land said in a low voice. “Did you know that the NVA and Charlie have a bounty out on Hathcock and me? A big one? Several grand?”
“No, sir,” Wilson answered.
Then the captain unfolded a handbill that the 1st Marine Division’s senior intelligence officer had given him that morning. He spread it flat on the field desk and spun it around for the gunny to read.
“They have our names from a real wet kiss of a story published a couple of weeks ago in the Sea Tiger,” Land said. “Wonderful headline about Hathcock and company wrecking havoc on Charlie and the North Vietnamese.”
“Is this correct, sir?” Wilson asked, reading the translation written in ink below the printed words. “That’s got to be, like, twenty thousand dollars?”
“Ballpark,” Land said. “Three years’ pay. Officers’ pay. That’s for either my scalp or Hathcock’s. Colonel Poggemeyer told me to not even consider extending here. So I’m gone in a month.
“I think it’s time for Sergeant Hathcock to pack up and come home. I want you to go and get him—put him under arrest if you have to—but bring him home. I want him standing tall in front of my desk by tomorrow afternoon.”
“You want me to arrest him, sir?”
“That’s right, Gunny. I want you to hog-tie the little shit, if you have to. But he’s coming home. He’ll kill himself out there. The dummy won’t stop unless I lock him up or Charlie puts a bullet in his head. I’ll be go-to-hell if I’m gonna lose him now.
“You had better go and make your travel plans. See if you can get air—maybe a MarLog2 flight.”
THREE DAYS LATER, General Tran Van Tra sat behind an oak desk at his command headquarters. Two flags hung at angles from staffs behind him. On the left sat a banner divided horizontally by a red field on top and a blue field on the bottom, with a large yellow star in its center. On the right was a slightly larger solid red flag with a great yellow star in its center. The flags represented the Popular Liberation Front, for which the People’s Liberation Army—commonly called Viet Cong—fought, and the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, for which the North Vietnamese forces fought. He quietly wrote in a journal with a black mother-of-pearl fountain pen.
“Gentlemen,” he said, raising his head and screwing the cap on his pen. “Please forgive me for making you wait.”
Colonel Ba and Brigadier General Le stood at attention at his door.
“Please come inside and sit,” the general said standing and politely gesturing with his left hand toward two chairs positioned across a small mahogany coffee table from a single chair.
The officers walked to the chairs and waited until General Tran had sat down before sitting themselves.
As the general withdrew a cigarette from a blue pack, the two officers likewise took out cigarettes of their own. The aide-de-camp brought in a tea service, pouring first a cup for Colonel Ba, then Brigadier Le, and last General Tran.
“What can you tell me about this problem we have in your combat sector?” the general began. “It seems that with each passing week, I discover that these American assassins become more troublesome. Our latest embarrassment is the assassination of a visiting colonel from the People’s Republic of China.”
“They use very difficult tactics to counter, sir,” Colonel Ba said. “One man, two men, will shoot from more than a kilometer away, and then disappear. It is like trying to capture a puff of smoke.”
“In time, sir,” Brigadier Le said, “we will eliminate these men. They will make a mistake, and we will make them pay for it.”
“I must disagree, sir,” Brigadier Le said. “Our soldiers may have some anxiety about this insidious threat, but they are not fearful.”
“Semantics, my friend,” General Tran said. “This man Sergeant Hathcock is a distraction to them. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Le said.
“Actually, more than just this man,” Colonel Ba added. “Any time one of these soldiers kills even one of ours, it becomes very disruptive. The Americans have capitalized on the random nature of this tactic and its psychological impact.
“I agree with you, sir. We cannot well afford the luxury of time in this case.”
“When we have a wildfire,” General Tran said, “in most cases we find it ineffective to confront the blaze head-on with water hoses. We find that digging wide breaks and setting backfires proves itself the better tactic.
“I have already begun to implement what I hope is a more effective way of countering these assassins, especially the one you call Long Tra’ng du K’ich.
“In the north, a fourteen-man platoon of carefully selected soldiers is presently training at a hill identical to that from which these Americans operate. Our commandos will survive and operate mostly in solitaire without the luxury of most types of regular support. They will live off the land. They will be phantoms in the forests.
“Paramount to their mission is the elimination of this Sergeant Hathcock and this Captain Land.