Silent Warrior

by Charles Henderson

  “We have lots of places for you here, at Division Schools,” the lieutenant colonel said, cheerfully welcoming Carlos. “You’re quite a legend, and I know you can do us a great job.”

  “I would do a better job in the bush, sir,” Carlos said.

  “Things have changed significantly since you were here, Staff Sergeant Hathcock,” the lieutenant colonel said slowly, in a lower voice, suddenly tinged with melancholy. “Morale is in the shitter in a lot of places. Dope is a big problem out there. Project 100,0001 has brought us that many problems. I even heard that an entire Army company refused to go on an operation. Most men would give their left nut to be up here. Besides, you paid your dues. You’ve got a hell of a lot of grass time.”

  “Sir,” Carlos began, “I appreciate what you mean. I wouldn’t feel one bit guilty taking a job here either. Nothing to be ashamed about. But, I know I can do the division and the Marine Corps a whole lot more good leading a sniper platoon than up here teaching. Now, don’t get me wrong, sir, I do love to teach marksmanship and sniping, but I think those Marines out yonder in the bush need me more. Especially if I can make a difference as a small unit leader.”

  The lieutenant colonel shifted his eyes downward to Carlos’s service record book, which he had laid open on his desk. While thumbing through several pages, he said, “I had a few people already tell me you would most likely ask for line duty. But I still had to give you the pitch because I would honestly like you here teaching. However, if I did that to you, I think you would struggle.

  “There is a truck headed for Hill 55 in half an hour, and you can hitch a ride on it. You’ll be attached to 7th Marines. I’ll make a call to your new commanding officer, Colonel R. L. Nichols, and tell him you’re on the way.”

  Carlos fought back a smile and shook the lieutenant colonel’s hand when he offered it across his desk. Then the staff sergeant snapped to attention, took a step to the rear, executed a nearly flawless about-face, and marched out with his orders and record book gripped in his left hand, under his arm.

  THREE HOURS LATER, Hathcock sat in a cane-back chair on the plywood front porch of a 7th Marines staff NCO hooch, next to a sandy-haired gunnery sergeant named David Sommers, sipping a cold Coca-Cola. The two Marines gazed at the sunset, the distant mountains, and the valley below them.

  The regimental sergeant major, Sergeant Major Clinton A. Puckett, had assigned Sommers, the 7th Marine Regiment’s career planner and Headquarters Company’s company gunnery sergeant, as Hathcock’s sponsor.

  On the porch beside Carlos’s chair lay his new best friend, Yankee—a red mongrel, dingo-looking dog who, according to Sommers, had the ability to forecast incoming artillery and lob-bombs several minutes before anything struck.

  Yankee was lying on Hathcock’s bunk when Sommers had shown Carlos his new quarters. The dog immediately took a liking to the new staff sergeant. The gunny expressed his amazement, because Yankee rarely liked anyone. He was a cautious dog, usually distant to any stranger. Furthermore, he said that the dog would never before go inside a hooch, even if a person threw a steak on the floor, and the fact that he was not only inside but waiting on Hathcock’s rack was even more unusual.

  Sommers immediately shooed the dog off Carlos’s bed, and the mongrel dashed outside. Then Hathcock had called him back inside to pet him, and the dog trotted directly to him. The gunny told Carlos about the dog’s ESP talents, and said there had to be something special about the new staff sergeant for this particular dog to be so immediately comfortable with him.

  The rest of that day and into the evening, Yankee remained close to Hathcock. But at rack time, the dog went to his every-night sleeping spot on top of the bunker just outside the staff hooch.

  Besides another blistering day of nearly cloudless sunshine, it gave Staff Sergeant Hathcock his first reality check. After an unpleasant morning of waiting, checking into the company, waiting, seeing the sergeant major, waiting, and then finally seeing the commanding officer, Carlos met his platoon. The sight and experience underscored what the lieutenant colonel at division headquarters had told him two days ago.

  First, when Carlos walked inside the sniper hooch, he found the former platoon sergeant lying in his rack, reading a magazine, and drinking a beer. The hooch itself had not seen any cleaning in months. The roof looked like a colander and the door tilted off a broken hinge with a flap of screen hanging the other direction.

  The sergeant could not tell Hathcock the number of Marines in the platoon, and only knew that the men had either disappeared to goof off, or filled their daily quota of a dozen nonrates to police the hill and burn shitters.

  When the staff sergeant finally managed to gather his platoon for its first formation in many months, the sight of them nearly took him off his feet. All of the men needed haircuts. They wore cutoff utility trousers, and either no shirts, slogan-emblazoned T-shirts, or unbuttoned utility uniform tops with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. Every man had a variety of hardware and jewelry draped around his neck, from peace symbols and iron crosses, to beer openers and beads. Nearly all of them had their heads festooned with maroon, black, or green berets, or bush covers decorated with so many pins and ornaments that they reminded Carlos of a fly fisherman’s hat.

  By afternoon’s end, Hathcock had sent the derelict sergeant packing, had burned the berets, gotten the men into clothing that more resembled Marines, and had managed to have the platoon clean the hooch and surrounding area.

  DAVID SOMMERS WAITED in a chair in front of the staff hooch for Carlos to eat evening chow with him. When the gunny saw the staff sergeant storming up the trail from Finger 4 and the sniper hooch, he grinned at his new arrival.

  “I can see by your expression and demeanor that overall you have had yourself a completely wonderful first day,” Sommers said.

  Hathcock looked sidelong at the gunny and then grinned back. “I’ve had worse. But it might take me a while to think of one.”

  “Quite a variety show down there,” Sommers said as he stood and walked next to Hathcock toward the hooch-styled chow hall.

  “Now, on that count, I have not ever seen worse,” Carlos said, and laughed.

  “To your credit, though,” Sommers said, “they made a hundred-percent improvement just this afternoon. I have never seen that bunch work any harder. And that sergeant never looked worse than when I ordered him to the police tent to hand out toilet paper and brooms until he rotates.”

  WELL BEFORE DAWN the next day, Carlos sat at his desk, looking at his platoon’s roster, pairing his snipers into two-man teams. He had chosen a corporal named John Perry, a Marine from London, Ohio, as his own partner.

  Carlos had taken a quick survey of the platoon’s rifles and knew a difficult road lay ahead for them. They were the same weapons that had been there three years earlier, and their condition suggested that an armorer had done no repairs on them in that time either.

  To start his rebuilding program, Hathcock had decided to take the entire platoon outside the wire, and zero the rifles from scratch, while putting his men through a day of badly needed training.

  Later that morning, Sergeant Major Puckett fumed. He wanted Hathcock standing at attention in front of his desk, explaining why he had not sent his men to fill the daily police duty quotas, and why the staff sergeant had not answered the telephone when he called. In his final frustration, he sent David Sommers to find the wayward Marine.

  In the meantime, the sergeant major sent the former sniper platoon sergeant back to Finger 4. He had taken exception that the staff sergeant had relieved the man without his consent.

  At eleven o’clock, a jeep roared to a halt at the small firing range that Carlos had helped Captain Land construct in 1966.

  Gunny Sommers casually asked Carlos, “You ready?” He did not have to say more; Hathcock already knew the trouble.

  “Corporal Perry, take charge of the platoon and move them back through the wire at fifteen hundred this afternoon, if I’m not back. Spend t
he rest of the day working in pairs, practicing stalking and movement. Don’t get all bunched up and keep your security out.”

  When the jeep halted at the sergeant major’s tent a few minutes later, Sergeant Major Puckett stood outside with his arms folded.

  Carlos stepped up to the sergeant major and smiled.

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant Major?” he asked.

  “Be there when I call you, Staff Sergeant,” Puckett growled.

  “I got my platoon up early this morning, getting them ready for operations,” Hathcock responded. “We’ve got a whole lot of work to get done. I’ve got this here list of supplies I need, and I gotta get authorization to go down to Da Nang to get cammies for my snipers. Sure could use your horsepower. Could you help us?”

  “When you leave your hooch, I want you to carry a radio,” the sergeant major said. “I had several things happen this morning and I needed to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be glad to carry a radio,” Carlos said. “You get me one and I’ll carry it. In fact, I could use three or four.”

  “See the comm chief, he’ll sign them out to you,” Puckett said.

  “Second thing,” he continued. “Where were your men who had police detail this morning?”

  “I wasn’t aware of anyone who had police detail, Sergeant Major,” Hathcock answered. “Which Marine was he?”

  “About a dozen men in your platoon!” Puckett said, trying not to raise his voice at the staff sergeant.

  “I only have twenty-one men,” Hathcock said. “That’s more than half my platoon. That’s a heavy quota. Do all the other units give up sixty percent of their Marines to burn shitters?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Staff Sergeant,” the sergeant major snapped. “We have priorities, and your men have not been committed to any action, therefore they will pull police duty or whatever else is necessary around this hill. They aren’t paid for doing nothing.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sergeant Major,” Carlos said. “My men have been working all morning. They will be working long after everyone else has kicked back for the night, too. We have a lot of lost ground and training to get caught up on so that we can get back into action. We will pull our fair share of duty. Every man, including myself.

  “With all due respect . . .”

  “Can it, Hathcock!” Puckett growled. “I’ll hit the other units for quotas. You will pull your fair share, too. If I find one of your men lazing around the hill, I’ll have your hide for it. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hathcock answered.

  Then, standing at attention and looking as sincere as he could manage, he said, “Sergeant Major, I’m on your side. In fact, I would be honored if you would consider joining us. I’ll set you aside one of the best rifles.

  “I just need your help. I need supplies. My men need working uniforms. You help me get this and I will give you a sniper platoon that 7th Marines can brag about.”

  Puckett expected an argument, not an invitation to join what he considered a band of outlaws. Now, suddenly confronted with a red carpet and a welcome mat, he could only do what all his years as a Marine, always loyal to his troops, dictated.

  “I don’t want your best rifle,” the sergeant major answered, “any one of them will do. You give the best rifles to the men who will need them most. I’ll do what I can for you, if you’re serious. Don’t you embarrass me.”

  Carlos reached inside the large cargo pocket on the leg of his camouflage trousers and pulled out a list that he had typed in the low light of a small lamp early that morning. “Here’s a copy of my shopping list. I sure appreciate the help.”

  As the sergeant major folded the paper, Carlos walked back to the jeep where David Sommers waited, and then left with him.

  All the way down the hill, the two men laughed.

  “Hell, Hathcock,” Sommers said, “he’ll probably deliver the stuff himself. You sure stuck your chin out, inviting him to become a sniper. The sergeant major’s just gunji enough to do that.”

  “Good!” Carlos exclaimed. “If he’s one of us, then he can’t be against us.”

  “Yeah,” Sommers agreed. “But he will still be a pain in the ass. You know, he’s got to take care of everybody else, too. Your platoon isn’t the only one hurting for new uniforms and boots.”

  “I hope he does take care of everybody else, too,” Hathcock said sincerely. “I just want to be left alone long enough to get my platoon back into action. I have to start all over again and sell the sniper program from the ground up, here. I can’t do that with my men on police duty. We’ve gotta produce kills, and show these company commanders how adding two snipers to their ranks can make the enemy turn tail.”

  “He’s not going to leave you alone. He’ll grab every loose body you have around your hooch,” Sommers said.

  “I plan to keep them in the field,” Carlos said. “I’m gonna start farming them out as soon as I’m satisfied they can go on an operation and kill the enemy without getting killed themselves. Meanwhile, they’re gonna be in the field every day, under my personal control.”

  “Sergeant major’s gonna get pissed when you’re not at the hooch when he calls,” Sommers said.

  “He gave me a radio, remember?” Carlos said, grinning.

  Sommers laughed as the jeep halted again where the sniper platoon continued to train.

  Carlos smiled. “I’ve also got some radios in mind that will give me a long-distance punch, too. He didn’t say anything about staying close, just in touch.”

  “You did all right with this first round,” Sommers said. “But what about round two? That’s when the other command sections start bitching about their people getting pulled for shit detail. There are a lot of gunnies and tops who have a lot more pull with the sergeant major than you do. I’ve got a hunch that he’s going to want to get out of the middle of the mess real fast, too. Once the word gets around, there will be a bunch of folks wanting to pin your ears back.”

  “That’s too bad,” Hathcock said. “But I never got in this to become popular. I’m obliged to my men. I’ve got a job to do.”

  Sommers waved good-bye as he wheeled the jeep away and Carlos Hathcock went back to work.

  That evening when the snipers returned to their area, Hathcock found the former platoon sergeant again lying in the rack. Carlos just looked at him.

  “You think you can generate enough energy to answer this telephone if it rings?” he asked the sergeant.

  “Yeah, no problem,” the surly man answered.

  “Good,” Carlos said with a smile. “For the next two weeks, you’ll be phone watch.”

  IN THOSE WEEKS, Hathcock managed to get his men shooting on the paper, acting again like snipers. In that time, too, he found an enthusiastic combat unit that welcomed his snipers, 1st Battalion, 7th Marines, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel John Aloysious Dowd, an officer who led with devotion and held Carlos’s greatest respect.

  During April, Dowd’s battalion led the regiment in combat action. The Marines of One-Seven killed 160 North Vietnamese Army troops, 51 Viet Cong, and took one prisoner. The 2nd and 3rd Battalions, combined, killed 58 NVA and 85 VC in the same period. Additionally, during May, Dowd’s Marines tallied 44 NVA killed in action, 41 Viet Cong, and took two prisoners, while the 2nd Battalion killed none and the 3rd killed 30 NVA.

  While six snipers operated with One-Seven, Carlos sent eight others to the division’s sniper school at Da Nang. Next month he planned to send four more, and two others after that. Based on their progress now, Hathcock expected that by August his platoon would be ninety-nine percent operational.

  “Platoon’s looking sharp now,” David Sommers told Carlos one late June evening.

  “Thanks,” Hathcock said, and smiled while gazing at the stars in the clear night sky.

  Then he looked across his shoulders at Sommers, wrinkling his brow.

  “Still,” he said, “those sticks of ours need work bad, and now. No matter what I do, they still shoot groups
that look like a shotgun made them.”

  “Any word on that new assistant?” Sommers asked.

  “Naw,” Carlos said, looking back at the sky. “Boy, it’d be nice if this guy knew how to work on guns. You know?”

  Both Marines laughed and their conversation quickly fell away to the subject of blind dates and embarrassing moments, allowing their minds to drift away to better times. More pleasurable times. Peaceful times when war and Vietnam did not exist in the language of teenagers in penny loafers, crew socks, and greased-back ducktail hairstyles.

  They told stories of their youth and watched the darkness—accented by the red streaks of tracers and orange bursts of artillery shells exploding in the distance—deepen from gray to black, blending the shapes of the hills where the battle now broiled into the shapelessness of the night sky. And as the roar of that war drifted across the wide valley that separated them from the fighting, it cued their thoughts back to that of war and reality and doom.

  With those thoughts now filling each man’s consciousness, they adjourned from their quarters to the low sniper bunker on Finger 4 where they could watch the fight in relative safety. The thought of lob-bombs and rockets and mortars coming their way prompted that unconscious survival response.

  It was not long before Hill 55 came under attack along its long Finger 3 where sappers hurled explosive-filled satchels into the wire, blowing wide holes in it. Then, the enemy invaded through the caps, attacking the sentries positioned there. No Marines died. The Americans repelled the sapper assault and killed four VC.

  That same night of June 22, 1969, while Carlos and David watched the light show from the top of the sniper bunker, while attacks continued at Charlie Ridge and Hill 55, a four-man reconnaissance team from the C23 Recon Company of the 31st NVA Regiment fell short of fully scouting out avenues of attack on Hill 327 when Marines on security patrol there caught them infiltrating the wire. Three soldiers escaped, but the Marines captured the fourth, who told interrogators that his regiment planned to attack the communications facility there, as well as the Hoa Cam training center.