while she was training to become a sniper platoon commander and intelligence expert. The notebook was mildewed now, and its water-stained pages were filled with the records of her numerous encounters with the enemy.
She looked at the large face of the man’s wristwatch that she wore on her left arm, opened the book to a clean page, and began writing of the activity that she observed.
Squatting in the tall, saw-blade elephant grass, she swore in Vietnamese and spit out the betel nut she had been chewing. She realized that the Marines she had tormented so successfully were leaving, and an entirely new unit was replacing them. The progress she had made with the old residents of Hill 55 was nullified. She would have to begin anew.
She crawled through the thick grass to the edge of a rice field where other women, dressed as she was—in black silk blouses and pants and wearing broad-brimmed, rice-straw hats-worked. The women knew better than to take any notice of her. When a few of them walked back toward the village, she followed behind them. Once they reached the cluster of huts, she made her way to a hut at the far side of the village, next to the edge of the jungle and, reaching in its doorway, took hold of a canvas rucksack and her most prized possession, a Russian M1891/30 Mosin-Nagant 7.62 ? 54mm sniper rifle with a 3.5-power PU scope mounted atop its receiver.
Glancing over her shoulder at the women huddled at the other end of the village, their eyes turned away, she stepped quickly behind the hut and disappeared into the jungle.
On Hill 55, four Marines who had gotten off one of the helicopters that had flown them there from Chu Lai, walked to an empty, hard-backed tent on the edge of the compound and laid down their packs. A lieutenant from the intelligence section met them outside the dark green canvas-covered, plywood-and-pine-board structure, with its large, screen-covered windows and doors, and introduced himself to Captain Land.
“What’s the good word, Lieutenant?” Land asked cheerfully, as he pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.
“How soon are you and your men going to be in operation?”
“Give us a little time to get our racks made and office in order, and I’ll tell you.”
“Come see me when you’re ready to go after Charlie,” the lieutenant said casually. “I can put you onto some leads, and I can certainly use the input from your sightings.”
“I plan to do that. What can you tell me about this place?”
“It’s one of the most active areas in the country,” the young officer said. He unfolded a plastic-covered map that he carried in the cargo pocket on the leg of his trousers. “Our west are Charlie Ridge and Happy Valley. Just south is An Hoa, and right there is Dodge City. Up north we have Elephant Valley, and over here, across this river, is Oklahoma Territory—all Indian country, just crawling with gooks.
“You could set up on finger four of this very hill, just out back of this hooch,” he said, pointing toward a panorama of rice fields, hedgerows, and jungle overlooked by a small bunker a few feet away from the tent’s rear screen door, “shoot off into that general area and probably kill or wound more VC than you ever saw down at Chu Lai. If you’re into huntin’ Charlie, you’ve come to the right place—he lives down there.
“The boys that vacated this fine country estate tell me that Charlie puts on his own special brand of entertainment for the troops at night. The local VC hatchet lady, who we code-named Apache, likes to get her hands on a young boy and make him sing real loud to the troops on the hill. I haven’t heard it yet, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before we get our first serenade. I could tell you stories though.”
Land glanced down at his three Marine snipers, who had sat down on the wooden cots that lined one side of their new home, “You want to hear about this?”
The three Marines nodded and Land and the lieutenant sat on the racks by them, and the intelligence officer began to tell what he knew.
“I think this woman has some sort of sexual problem concerning men—she hates them. She’s been known to carve on a man all night long, just to hear him yell, and she’s always coming up with new innovations in torture, which serves to demoralize the hell out of anybody going on patrol. For example, it seems there was this civilian contractor over here a few weeks ago who farted around and got himself kidnapped by the VC. I guess she figured that he was some sort of CIA spook, and he might have been, for all I know. But she wanted to make him talk about all the secret shit that the spooks got going on over here.
“She cut on him awhile, and that didn’t do anything but… make him scream. Finally, she gets mis great brain stroke and has a couple of her boys go out in the trash pile and catch a bunch of rats—you know the kind, those great big motherfuckers that eat cats and shit and attack you if you get close to them.
“Well, she has this poor asshole stripped naked and tied to a bamboo rack where he can’t move. She gets a big straw basket and sticks it on the guy’s head and sews the bottom up around this bastard’s neck.
“Her henchmen come back with a half-dozen big rats and they drop them in the basket and sew the lid shut.
“I don’t know how long it took for that son-of-a-bitch to die, but when the patrol found him, there was nothing left of his head except for hair and bone and a two-inch hole in the basket where the rats gnawed their way out.”
Land looked at the lieutenant and shook his head. Hathcock shrugged his shoulders and shivered, “Sir, I reckon we ought to put this Apache right at the top of our list.”
“Hathcock, she will be our top priority,” Land said tersely. “How many Marines did she torture like that?”
The lieutenant frowned, “I don’t have a firm number for you, Skipper, but I know it’s more than a dozen in the past three months. She’s done it to ARVN troops too. Tied them to trees and skinned them alive. She keeps the fear factor high.”
“Well,” Land said, “maybe we can increase her fear factor in the next few weeks. I’d love to snag her up and feed her to the fish.”
“You and every Marine who has cut down a buddy from a tree after she finished with him,” the lieutenant said.
Hathcock gazed through the screen windows of the hooch, staring down the hill at the rooftops of the huts that surrounded the rice fields, and the emerald jungle and bush country that surrounded them.
A faint wisp of white smoke drifted from a small hole in the ground hidden by thorn bushes northwest of Hill 55. The smoke came from cooking fires in a kitchen chamber. It was part of a tunnel network that comprised the company headquarters of the Viet Cong sniper platoon that hunted the Marines of Hill 55. The underground compound consisted of an ammunition bunker, three sleeping chambers, a conference room, and, finally, an observation chamber that was some distance from the main body of tunnels and chambers, connected to them by a narrow spider hole.
Beyond the kitchen a network of tunnels lay booby-trapped, to welcome any Marine or ARVN patrol that happened upon them. Just beneath the ground’s surface, in the opposite direction from where the faint white smoke drifted and disappeared into the hazy morning air, the woman sat beneath the light of a kerosene lantern. She was marking notes on a map spread across the top of a crude table made of rough pine boards taken from ammunition crates. Two men sat across from her. They watched as she moved her index finger down a page in her small notebook and then wrote on the map.
Across the many rice fields and hedgerows that stood between the Viet Cong headquarters and the Marine compound atop Hill 55, six Marines dressed in camouflage uniforms and wearing bush hats boarded a green, twin- rotor helicopter that would take them and two companies from the 26th Marine Regiment to a hill position. From there, the men would sweep for three days the broad flood plain that flanked a wide and muddy river. The snipers, led by Captain Land, would guard their flanks at a sandy point, checkered with rice fields and tall grass, that jutted into a wide bend in the river. From that position, they could cover an expansive area of tall grass and low-growing bushes and trees.
A tall, thin Marine major met the snipers as they bounded from the roaring helicopter.
“Captain Land?” the major said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Follow me. You can brief me on your plan while we walk.”
Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, Gunnery Sgt. James Wilson, Lance Cpl. John Burke, Staff Sgt. Charles Roberts, and M. Sgt. Donald Reinke followed Land and the major to the far side of the hill where a general purpose tent, sprouting antennae and draped with camouflage netting, billowed in the easterly breeze. Inside the tent was a large acetate-covered map mounted on a four-foot by eight-foot sheet of plywood. Land stood before the map and pointed to the bend in the river, “We’ll set up three two-man positions along that point and cover the flats on the far
