Incoming!”
The next sound that Ron McAbee heard was the grinding noise of glass and plastic crunching beneath his boot. He had stepped on his glasses.
“Shit!” he swore leaping off the bunker. He stepped inside the shelter as the sound of explosions shook the camp.
Nothing could make him feel worse than he already felt. Without his glasses he was useless as a sniper of spotter. Without his glasses, Hathcock would have to take Corporal Perry down to join 1st Battalion.
“Here, have a shot,” a voice in the bunker’s darkness said. It was Hathcock, and he handed a bottle of Jim Beam to Mack.
The two men lay drinking whiskey together while the dust from explosions swirled around them. The previous afternoon, they had noticed a small funeral procession passing near their camp. It seemed strange to both Marines that the men bearing the casket could only carry the large box (slung on two stout poles) a few yards at a time before having to set it down and rest. The men were outside the wire so Hathcock ran to operations and told the officer on duty.
“It’s nothing. Forget about it,” the Marine told them.
“You don’t care that these gooners are probably carrying rockets or 120-millimeter mortars in that casket?” Hathcock asked.
“We had enough trouble with your partner there taking potshots at the tombstone and getting the village chief all riled. Ask McAbee about that seventy five bucks coming out of his pay because of his little shooting spree. Now you want us to go roust a funeral in case there may be rockets in the casket? Are you going to pay the go-min money when the village chief comes raising hell this time?”
“Well, how about if Mack and me go down there and check them out?”
“No!”
They went to their hooch and got the same bottle of Jim Beam they were working on now and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in the bunker.
“I thought we killed this thing last night,” Mack said handing the bottle back to Hathcock.
“No. I thought it might come in handy for another night down here, so I saved it. Want some more?”
“No. That little bit’s all I care to drink tonight. You?”
“No. Need a clear head for tomorrow.”
“You gotta wait for me to go get another pair of glasses tomorrow. I can get a jeep at first light, drive to Da Nang, and be back here by noon or a little after.”
“That convoy is pulling out first thing tomorrow morning. I better take Perry and make sure we get down there.”
“Come on, Carlos. There’s an afternoon supply helicopter that will go down there, and we can fly instead of ride. Think how sore you’re gonna be when you get there, riding in the back of that six—by all that way.”
“You think that they can give you a pair of glasses by noon?”
“I’m positive. In fact, I’ll call ahead and the doc over at the aid station can read them my prescription over the phone. I’ll be back by noon and we’ll be down there by the middle of the afternoon. I promise!”
“Okay, Mack. Plan B. I’ll wait here and get all our gear double-checked while you’re getting your glasses.”
Before Hathcock had gotten off his cot the following morning, Ron McAbee had already gone to the motor pool and drawn a jeep. He and three Marines, who volunteered to ride shotgun, raced the nearly thirty miles to the hospital at Da Nang. Mack would be back at LZ Baldy before noon.
Hathcock sat in the mess tent sipping coffee at 7:30 on the morning of September 16. Across from him sat his good friend Staff Sergeant Boone, a counterintelligence Marine. They talked about a patrol that would leave LZ Baldy at 8:30 A.M. and move toward the Que Son area, and Boone invited him to come.
Hathcock turned down Boone’s invitation, but after nearly thirty minutes of speculating on what the patrol might encounter, Hathcock began to think better of it. He was already tired of sitting around camp, doing nothing, waiting for McAbee to return. He looked at his watch and realized that he had four more hours to wait for his friend and then two hours to wait for the helicopter.
Boone was halfway out the door when Hathcock shouted to him, “Boone, I’m going. Let me go get Perry and I’ll meet you at your hooch.”
“Perry!” Hathcock shouted as he pulled open the screen door on the sniper platoon’s command hooch.
The junior Marine sat straight up, wide eyed and startled, “What’s happening? Something happen?”
“Where’s your gear?” Hathcock said, slinging two rifles over his shoulder and strapping down his pack.
“In my hooch. Why? What—?”
“Grab your gear. Meet me back here in ten minutes. Better yet, meet me over at the CIT hooch. We’re going on a special patrol.”
Ten minutes later, Perry stood next to Hathcock watching a line of five amtracs* parked with their motors running, waiting for the “all aboard” signal to move out.
“If somebody is gonna take a hit, we need to be where we can help fast. So I guess we ought to get on the middle tractor.
“Hold my rifle while I climb on top. I’ll pull up the gear and then you can climb up,” Carlos told the London, Ohio, native as the two Marines walked to the third amtrac.
In a minute, both snipers sat with six other Marines. One of them was a first lieutenant who had just arrived in Vietnam. This was his first mission.
“Staff Sergeant Carlos Hathcock,” Hathcock said, extending his hand to the officer who seemed more friendly than most.
“Lieutenant Ed Hyland,” the Marine said, shaking Hathcock’s hand.
“This is my partner, Corporal John Perry,” Hathcock told the officer.
“You’re snipers?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m the sniper platoon sergeant, and Perry, here, is one of our ace trigger pullers.”
“What’s with that white feather in your hat? I thought that snipers were masters of camouflage. Isn’t that kind of a giveaway?”
“Yes, Sir. I wear it anyway. It’s been my trademark ever since 1966. I’ve got ninety-three confirmed kills and I don’t know how many thousands of hours of trigger time, and I’ve only taken it off my hat once. That was when I snuck into an NVA general’s compound and zapped him.”
Perry, taken by the opportunity to brag about his leader, said, “Staff Sergeant Hathcock has the biggest bounty on his head in Vietnam. It’s more than ten-thousand dollars!”
The lieutenant blinked and Hathcock smiled, “I don’t really know how much it is. It’s three years pay, whatever that might be.
“This is my second tour. The NVA published a wanted poster on me in 1966, and then last month I got word that they put it out on me again. I haven’t seen this new one. I suppose it’s still the same. However, now I do know what they call me.”
“What’s that?” Hyland asked.
“Long Tra’ng and then something after that, but mainly Long Tra’ng.”
“White Feather,” the officer said, translating the Vietnamese language.
“You speak Vietnamese?”
“I understand some of it. I guess they’d call you Long Tra’ng du K’ich.”
“That’s it.”
“White Feather Sniper,” the officer said with a smile.
The amtrac lurched forward and began rumbling down the roadway. Hathcock looked back through the dusty air toward LZ Baldy and thought of his friend. It would be all right. Mack would understand. But he still felt a pinch of guilt as he turned his eyes toward the fields and trees and huts and all the other places where Charlie might be hiding.
The noise of the convoy was so loud that further attempts at conversation ceased. The Marines sat on top of the vehicles, rifles poised, magazines inserted, looking out with caution at a seemingly tranquil world.
Ahead of the column, a mine sweep team carefully cleared the way, giving Hathcock a sense of security. Not perfect security, however. He only felt that when he was on his feet, in his element, stalking the enemy. In the bush
