need a doctor. “I guess that will do, but I’m gonna be keeping an eye on you. I don’t like the way you look. Just remember—life is hard. But it’s one hell of a lot harder if you’re stupid.”
Hathcock smiled as he recalled the John Wayne movie where he had first heard that line. “Yes, Sir. Don’t you worry about me. I may be ignorant, but I ain’t stupid.”
In his heart, however, he knew that life was getting one hell of a lot harder, and he could remain stupid only so long. Some day his secret would be out. The doctors would have to know. But now was not the time.
Less than twenty minutes later, the captain returned to Hathcock, carrying a canteen cup filled with hot chicken soup. “Here, drink this.”
“What is it? Chicken soup? Where you find that?”
The captain smiled, “That staff sergeant at the mess tent. I just asked him for some hot soup and he came up with this. I didn’t ask where or how… I just thanked him and left.”
Land picked up an ammunition crate that the Marines who lived in the hooch with Hathcock had used as a stool and set it down next to the cot and took a seat on it. “You sure you don’t need to talk to a doctor about this? You’re shaking pretty bad.”
“I’m okay, really. I just got a little flu or something today and got the shakes from it.”
Gently cupping his palm over Hathcock’s forehead, the captain did not feel any sign of fever. “You don’t seem to have a temperature. I guess you’ll be okay. Probably is just a little chill. You stay in mat rack tomorrow.”
“I will, Sir, unless I feel real fit. I’ll come see you first.”
“You be sure you do.”
At one o’clock that morning, Hathcock walked to the privy. He stumbled and staggered as though he had been drinking heavily. He was frightened that the problem would not leave before dawn.
Inside the plywood hut, he took short breaths and held them for several seconds each, trying to avoid smelling the stench of the excrement that filled a cut-down fifty-five-gallon drum positioned below the wooden throne on which he sat. He recalled watching a private lift the heavy cans onto the bed of a mule* and how the foul liquid sloshed on the man’s hands and clothes—how his utility uniform bore greasy black stains across the chest and down both legs from this chore.
Hathcock thought how lucky he was to be a sergeant. He did not have to pull shit detail, hauling the shit-filled cans down to the west side of the hill, topping them off with kerosene, and setting them on fire.
When Hathcock awoke the following morning, he felt better. The dizziness had almost gone. The trembling had settled to a slight twitching in his legs. He smiled as he put his feet on the oil-stained plywood floor and stood, feeling steady. “Maybe it was the soaking I took,” he thought.
Although he felt better, he did not go to the field for several days. He spent his time writing lesson plans and debriefing students. And planning patrols—patrols that he longed to lead.
On a sweltering monsoon afternoon, with the temperature and humidity both hovering near 95, Hathcock was writing the day’s report at the green, clapboard field desk. He took off his shirt and wore only his camouflage utility trousers and boots. The snipers had returned from the field early and empty-handed again. Their debrief was short.
Carlos sipped a cold beer. The gunny had bought six when the service club opened at five o’clock, and now two cans sat on the comer of the field desk, water beading down their sides, awaiting the captain.
A large, black mosquito landed on Hathcock’s arm and began drawing blood from skin marked by a tattoo of the confederate flag and the word “Rebel” written beneath it. “Go ahead and suck,” Hathcock said, watching the insect fill its stomach, stretching it round. Just as the mosquito was about to withdraw its proboscis, Hathcock pressed the tip of his finger on the insect and burst it, leaving a bloody smear on the red-and-blue tattoo.
“Damn mosquitoes,” Wilson said, slapping one that bit his neck as he sat on an ammo crate and reclined on his shoulders against the wall of the hooch. “One way or another, I’m gonna wind up leaving most of my blood over here—if Charlie don’t get us, then the bugs will.”
“Gunny,” the captain said, as he walked through the doorway, “if it wasn’t the bugs, you’d be bitchin’ about the heat or the dirt.”
“Now that you mention it, Skipper, this is about the hottest, filmiest sandpile I’ve ever spent time at anyway. I’d just as soon be livin’ inside a shit-can on the Sahara,” Wilson fired back.
“Don’t be joking about that, we’ll probably wind up there next,” Land said.
Hathcock smiled and said, “I don’t know what is so bad about living in this nice little house we got here.”
“You would like this dump, Hathcock. I forgot about you coming from Arkansas. It was probably a step up for you to come here and wear shoes,” Wilson said, evoking a chuckle from Land and a finger from Hathcock.
“We’re going out tomorrow,” the captain said, taking a healthy swallow from one of the dripping beer cans.”
“Sir, does that ‘we’ include me?” Hathcock asked hopefully.
“Yes it does, Sergeant Hathcock.”
When the sun rose, Hathcock and Captain Land already rested beneath the leaves of a short palm in a grassy hide that overlooked a clearing fifty yards wide that the Marines often used as a landing zone. Beyond the clearing grew short bushes and plants with broad, flat leaves. Farther on, a tree line followed the edge of a narrow stream. The water ran along the base of a hill that a barrage of napalm and heavy explosives had left bare except for splintered trees bristling up like the pins in a pincushion. A faint trail led across the front of the two snipers’ hiding place, made a left turn in the clearing, and etched its way between the bushes and plants, through the shattered timber and onto the top of the hill, where it connected with a road.
This junction was the focal point of the two Marines’ interests. Here they watched for the enemy to emerge, crossing one of the openings below this denuded hill, on the way to ambush American forces. And here they hoped they might also get a glimpse of the woman torturer who led the Viet Cong snipers thereabouts. This hill was two to three miles west of their base on Hill 55.
Hathcock shivered slightly from the coolness of the morning’s heavy dew, which soaked through the front of his uniform.
While Hathcock and Land lay behind their leafy blind, a lone Vietnamese sniper stepped carefully along the edge of the stream. The man wore a black shirt and pants with the legs rolled up past his knees, and he was undoubtedly heading back to his unit’s underground headquarters beyond the bomb-scarred hill. He stepped slowly and paused, sniffing the air for cigarette smoke and listening for any unnatural sound.
“Hathcock,” Land whispered. “You take the scope for a while. I’ll give you a break off the rifle.”
“Five more minutes, Sir. I got a feeling that Charlie is gonna step out any second.”
“You’ll have that feeling all day until you get a shot out. And when he shows himself, you’ll say, ’See, I told you so.’ Carlos, you’re not psychic. Let me take the rifle for a while.”
“Sirrrr,” Hathcock whispered, “Just five more minutes.”
Land said nothing but put his eye back to the rear optic of the M-49 scope through which he scanned the clearing and the lane that led to the hilltop.
“Hathcock. Give me the rifle,” the captain said after waiting fifteen minutes more. “I’m tired of looking through this scope. I need the relief, if you don’t.”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry,” Hathcock said softly, taking the rifle from his shoulder and slowly passing it to Land.
Just as the captain grasped hold of the weapon, and before Hathcock had released his grip from the small of the stock, both men saw a lone dark figure creep from the trees along the stream and step into the open, two hundred yards away. It was easy to recognize this soldier’s specialty by the long wooden stock of the bolt-action rifle that he carried across his back—obviously a sniper.
“Give me the rifle, Hathcock,” Land said, pulling the weapon toward himself, trying to loosen Hathcock’s grip.
“I’ll get him, Sir. Turn loose.”
“No, Carlos. I’ll shoot him.”
Hathcock pulled hard on the rifle, forcing Land to grunt, as he fought to win what had now become a tug-of- war. And rapidly the struggle between the two men escalated into a full-blown wrestling match.
“God damn it, Carlos. Let go of the rifle.”
Hathcock let go. Land shoved the bun into his shoulder and put his eye to the scope in time to see the fleeing
