from the center line again broke the morguelike hush.
As the preparatory time ended, the targets dropped together into the pits and the voice announced, “Gentlemen, when your targets come out of the pits, you will have three minutes to fire one round.”
Next to his data book, Hathcock’s watch ticked the seconds away. He glanced at the row of red flags, peered at the mirage through the spotting scope, and then glanced at his watch,
“You got all the time in the world, Carles,” he reassured himself. “Don’t rush the shot. Wait for the lull.”
With one and a half minutes gone, the flag dropped and Hathcock fired. It felt good. His trigger squeeze was steady. He knew that it would have to be a major problem with the round, or his rifle, in order for that shot to not find the center of the target. Hathcock picked up the pencil that lay on his data book and drew a small black dot in the center of the small target on the page that represented the call of his second shot. He again jotted 14-L in the square above the small target, reminding himself of the 14 minutes of left windage he had turned on his scope.
With the second entry made in his data book, Hathcock relaxed over his rifle and awaited the call from the center of the line to cease-fire. He now felt more relaxed. He had forgotten the crowd, the bands, the cameras, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps, who intensely watched for the second round of eliminations’ verdict—who would walk and who would stay. “Cease-fire, cease-fire,” the voice called to all the participants.
The targets again disappeared into the pits, and quickly, one after the other, their top edges appeared above the berm as the pit crew raised the targets to half-mast.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk all misses.” Again there was the hushed pause followed by the announcement, “There are no misses.”
The crowd cheered, and Hathcock, oblivious to the sound of the spectators, looked downrange through his spotting scope, awaiting his target.
Two shooters hit the three-ring and left the line. They were followed by four men who shot into the four-ring. There were no fives. Hathcock and the other six remaining marksmen, one of whom was Sanchez, had again found the center of the target.
In the stands, Land and the others on the rifle team now felt excitement as they looked down at the last seven shooters and realized that both Sergeant Sanchez and young Corporal Hathcock had a real chance at taking the national one thousand-yard championship—the Wimbledon Cup.
Hathcock felt his stomach tighten as he drew out his third round and lay it under the towel next to his data book. He glanced downrange at the red flags fluttering and pushed himself back into position, again locking into his natural point of aim at the black center of the target.
“Gentlemen, you may load one round,” the voice from center-line announced. And again the rippling sound of seven bolts locking home broke the windy quietness on the Camp Perry one thousand-yard range.
For the third time, Hathcock double-checked his position and natural point of aim and again checked the movement of the mirage while he awaited the targets rise from the pits.
“Gentlemen, when your target appears, you will have three minutes to fire one round.”
As Hathcock’s target rose from the pits and steadied on its carriage, the range flags fell with the wind and he fired. Again he felt certain that he had found the center of the target. He though that he could now win the title that just one hour earlier had seemed a dream. The three minutes slowly passed.
“Cease-fire, cease-fire,” the command from center line came for the third time as the targets descended into the pits for scoring and marking.
On this round, there were no misses, threes or fours. Four marksmen shot into the black but penetrated the paper to the right of the white circle that marked the V-ring.
Hathcock watched them leave and felt the tension, irrepressibly tight in his stomach, now closing on his throat. “You’ve got to settle down,” he commanded himself sternly. “You have to concentrate on your next shot. It could be the difference between another handshake and victory.”
He looked at the mirage rolling and then again at the range flags fluttering in the strong wind. “Looks like it’s picking up some,” he told himself. “Hathcock, watch the flags and don’t forget the time.” He looked at the second hand sweeping around his watch face and thought, “Three trips around the dial, that’s all. Three sweeps of that hand. Watch it. Watch the wind.”
“Gentlemen,” the voice again announced, “you may load one round.”
Hathcock took the round that he had laid beneath his towel and dropped it into the breach of his rifle. In one smooth stroke, he shoved his rifle’s bolt forward and locked the handle down. Taking a deep breath, he sighted in on die horizon above Lake Erie behind where his target would stand.
The targets came up, and the three minutes began.
“Get aligned, sight on the target, and then concentrate. Watch the cross hairs. Watch the clock. Watch the wind.”
The lump left him. He thought of nothing but what he had to do to make his shot find black paper within the center ring, one thousand yards in front of him.
Two other shooters, one of them Sergeant Sanchez, lay contemplating the same puzzle—when to shoot and where to hold.
The wind continued blowing, and Hathcock watched the second hand on his watch finish its first sweep around the dial. Crack, came the sound far to his left where Sanchez lay. Hathcock glanced through his spotting scope at the rolling heat waves and then looked at the range flag. He wondered if Sanchez had allowed for that much wind. Hathcock continued to wait while the second hand on his watch ticked on and the wind blew the range flag straight.
Boom. The sound of the other marksman with a bolt-action rifle sending his round downrange caused Hathcock to again glance at his watch and follow the second hand as it completed its second trip around the dial.
“Less than a minute left,” Hathcock told himself. He leaned to his side, taking a quick glance at the mirage, and then lay back into his position. He focused on his rifle’s cross hairs and watched the range flag continue to ripple in the periphery of his vision. The second hand ticked, forty-five seconds left. Now thirty… now twenty seconds.
Hathcock looked at the watch as the second hand swept past the fifteen-second mark, pulled slightly with his right toe, shifting his reticle to the seven-o’clock position of the bull’s-eye, and began squeezing the trigger.
Focused on the cross that the fine wires inside his sight formed, Hathcock noticed the range flag dip somewhat as the wind’s speed dropped. A sudden feeling of relief filled him.
Jim Land sat on the bleachers with Hathcock’s other teammates, nervously counting the ticks of the sweep hand of his watch. “Shoot, damn it, Carlos,” Land said aloud as the second hand drew itself across the final few seconds of the three-minute time limit.
It was almost as though Hathcock had heard Land’s tension-filled plea, the report of the rifle following on his last syllable. The target dropped as the bullet ripped through the target and disappeared into Lake Erie. “Cease-fire, ceasefire,” the voice from the public address system again commanded.
Two minutes later, the tops of three targets emerged together from the pits and stopped at their half-mast position.
“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time we will disk all misses. There are no misses.
“At this time we will disk all threes. There are no threes.
“At this time we will disk all fours.”
Two targets emerged from the pits. Both had black spotters three inches to the right of bull’s-eye.
Hathcock kept his eye fixed in the rear lens of his spotting scope, waiting to see his target. He did not hear the grandstands filled with cheering people, applauding his victory.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk the score of the 1965 National Champion, Marine Corporal Carlos N. Hathcock III of New Bern, North Carolina,” the voice from the tower at the center of the line announced. And as Hathcock’s target emerged from the pits, a red disk rose to the center of the target, covering the bull’s-eye. Hathcock looked through the scope, and when the disk lowered, he saw a white spotter in the outer edge of the black. He thought to himself, the wait for the slight break in the wind had been worth the gamble. He had won by a matter of four inches.
