side of the river. I’ll use the knoll located behind these rice paddies as my rally point.”
The major nodded in agreement as the five snipers under Land’s command looked closely at known enemy positions plotted on the map in red grease pencil. The markings showed heavy VC concentrations across the river on low hills overlooking the flats—the snipers* principal fields of fire.
As the six Marines walked from the bustling tent, Hamcock looked at his captain, “Sir, it looks like pretty good huntin’ over there.”
“Could be, Hathcock. It just could be.”
“Reckon the gooners will try to come across there? The water’s pretty shallow.”
“No. But I think we may catch a few breaking across those flats, trying to sneak around by the back door. One thing we have to keep on guard for is that concentration of gooners on those low hills. If they pick out our positions and set up on us, it could get a little hairy. The only high ground we have is that five-foot-high knoll behind the rice paddies, and that ain’t much. You guys look for my signal. Something breaks—we’re gone.”
The six Marines slipped down the hill, edged around the rice paddies, and made their way toward the sandy point. Burke and Reinke assumed the forward-most position in the center. Roberts and Wilson took the left flank, while Land and Hathcock set up on the right.
Hidden in the tall grass, the six snipers watched the hillsides and the flat country across the river.
Hathcock’s heart pounded against the matted grass as he lay prone behind his rifle. He saw something—a flicker of white. Just a flash. But it was enough to tell him that someone was moving through the thicket at the base of the hills, six hundred yards across the river.
Hathcock nudged Land, who nodded slightly. As they strained all their senses to detect any sign of the enemy, they suddenly heard the report of a rifle, three hundred yards to their left. Land turned his binocular toward the brush-covered river-bank opposite Burke and Reinke. Draped across an upturned tangle of roots a body hung with a crimson stain running down its back. Leaning into the roots, just beyond the dead man’s fingertips, rested a K-44 rifle.
The single shot also informed the Viet Cong in the hills above the river that their lone scout had met with trouble. The next patrol would be larger.
Several hours passed before Land sighted the VC patrol’s point man moving along the same route that the scout had taken. He knew Hathcock had seen him too, by the way he stiffened behind his rifle. Soon more men followed. Land found his sight picture and waited to fire following the report of Hathcock’s rifle.
Sweat seeped into the comers of Hathcock’s eyes as he put his scope’s reticle on the guerrilla in the center of the group, who appeared to be the officer in charge. He felt a tightness grow in his throat and stomach as he drew the slack from the rifle’s trigger-shooting men rather than targets was still something new and uncomfortable for him.
A matter of seconds seemed an eternity to him, as the rifle finally discharged the 172-grain bullet and sent it ripping into the soldier’s chest. Before the rifle returned to its rest from the recoil, Hathcock had drawn the bolt to the rear and had chambered a second round.
Land fired and caught the patrol’s point man in the hip. The other guerrillas had scurried for cover, and the wounded soldier disappeared into the brush before either Marine could finish him. “One KIA and one WIA,” Land said softly to Hathcock.
A few seconds passed and then the sound of gunfire broke die stillness. “Sounds like they slipped past us and got caught by the Top and Burke,” Hathcock said.
“I think that once the shooting stops, we’ll move out,” Land whispered. “We could wind up sitting ducks down here if we hang around too long. They have all their cousins up in those hills, and next time, they won’t send another patrol—they’ll blast us out of here.”
“Just give the word, Sir. I’m ready when you are.”
Land patted Hathcock on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go. I’ll pop a green star to signal the others.”
Thirty minutes later after the green pyrotechnic burned high in the air over the sandy point, the six Marines huddled at their rally point behind the five-foot knoll that offered them protection from direct fire. There they waited until the daylight faded.
After dark, the men reached the safety of the fire base. Inside the now sandbag-reinforced tent that housed the large operations map and the crackling radios, Captain Land and the major stood before the map talking. Land’s five snipers sat quietly outside in the darkness, waiting for their captain and straining to hear the conversation he was having with the major.
“Sir,” Land said, “I understand how rich a hunting ground that flood plain looks, and we did make contact. But that’s what worries me. I think the VC will be ready for us tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if they move in rockets or heavy mortars on us.
“I’d rather move on the hillside off to the right. We can still cover that area. We will just have to shoot at a thousand yards instead of six hundred. And all my snipers are excellent thousand-yard shooters. Hathcock, as a matter of fact, is the United States champion at a thousand yards.”
“Captain, I appreciate the skill of your Marines, but I don’t believe that you can compare fast-moving targets with the bull’s-eyes that you shoot out at the rifle range. If you’re more than half a mile away from your major area of responsibility, you’ll miss more than you hit.”
“If they kill us, Sir, we won’t be any good to anybody.”
“I don’t think that they will kill you. You didn’t do that much damage today. Take my word for it, Skipper, they won’t be looking for you.”
“Well, Sir, you may be right, but I feel uneasy about going back into the same position two days running. It goes against all sniper doctrine that I have read or encountered.”
Land saw it was no use discussing it further and agreed to go out the next day, only asking that some covering fire be prepared for them. “We’ll plot some targets on the hills above that flat,” said the major. “If you take fire, it will come from there. A pair of red stars will turn on the fireworks. Good luck, Captain.”
Land shook the major’s hand and walked out of the tent, tripping over Burke, who had crawled next to the doorway where he could hear the conversation more clearly.
“Do I need to explain anything to you men, or did you get it all?” Land said sourly.
“We got it all, sir,” Reinke said.
“What time we humpin’ out there, Skipper?” Hathcock said quickly, hoping to smooth over the mood of his captain.
“Plan on a zero four wake up. We’ll start down the hill at four thirty. We should be back in position well before daylight.”
The I Corps’ darkness that morning was blacker than any night Hathcock could remember. The dark shapes of the bushes and grass blended with the sky, offering his eyes no firm definition of form. He searched the horizon for a line of reference-straining his eyes, he finally saw the hilltops standing mute against the starless heavens.
As the troop of snipers descended into the black valley, Hathcock looked down at the river and its broad, flat bend. There he would spend his second day on this operation—and possibly, it occurred to him, his last day on earth.
Hathcock thought of the conversation he overheard the night before. He knew that Land had been right—it was foolish to move back into that flat two days in a row.
Hathcock sniffed the air, searching for the familiar scent of river mud and mildew. It was a sign that they were nearing their trek’s end. But at this point, all he could smell was the sour odor of sweat from his fellow snipers as they made their way across the flats toward the small knoll that would be their rally point.
There, the three teams checked their bearings and departed in three directions.
For Hathcock, the sound of his breathing and heart beating seemed amplified in the predawn’s stillness—as loud to him as the roar of the broad, muddy river fifty yards ahead. The two men had reached their firing point, and they crouched in the brush.
Soon Burke and Reinke, Roberts and Wilson also lay in position, awaiting the first gray light of day.
Hathcock focused on the input of his senses to keep his sharpness. He tasted the hint of salt in the air and smelled the faint fragrance of fish coming from a shallow cove where the river water eddied in a foamy swirl. In the distance he saw and heard a flock of white birds suddenly rise up screeching from the shallows. He also heard something else down river—it was the faint clank of metal.
Slowly, yet deliberately, he shifted his scope to his right, trying to find the source of the sound. He thought he
