Marine Sniper (34 page)

16

Return to Vietnam

"AiNT CHANGED MUCH," Hathcock said as he put out his hand to a sandy-haired Marine with a strawberry complexion who stood on the plywood porch of a hard-backed tent on Hill 55. "Looks like they improved the hooches some since *67. I'm Staff Sergeant Hathcock."

Gunnery Sergeant David Sommers took the outstretched hand of the slim-built Marine who Sgt. Maj. Clinton A. Puck-ett, a man who would later become only the sixth Marine to hold the title Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps,* had assigned him to sponsor. Sommers had already heard much about Hathcock, and he wondered how such a slight looking man could command such a reputation. He had expected a much larger, tougher looking Marine.

"I'm Gunny Sommers, 7th Marine Regiments' career planner and Headquarters Company's company gunnery sergeant. I also keep house in this hooch. I've got you a cot all the way down at the end."

Sommers opened the screen door, and Hathcock stepped inside the hard-back tent, which had a tin roof and long canvas awnings over each window. New metal cots replaced the old wooden ones that he had known two years earlier, and new plywood covered the floor.

Hathcock looked toward the end of the hooch and saw his cot. And there, atop his new bed, sleeping in the breeze that blew through the rear screen door, lay a shaggy red dog.

"Yankee!" David Sommers yelled, clapping his hands loudly. "Get off there! Get! Get!"

The dog awoke with a start, sprang from the cot, lunged into the screen door, knocking it wide open, and bounded outside like a startled burglar.

That dog!" Sommers said frustratedly. I've never seen him inside before. Usually you couldn't get him inside any kind of hooch, even if you threw a steak on the floor."

The slim but hard-muscled gunnery sergeant walked to the cot where the dog had left dirty paw marks and began sweeping off debris with his hand. "Yankee's really not a bad dog," he said. "I guess he's like any other dog..."

"Or Marine," Hathcock said, looking back at the front door where Yankee now sat, his tongue lolling out the side of his open mouth and tail wagging across the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Hathcock whistled and knelt to one knee, and seeing the invitation, the dog nosed open the door and trotted to his new-found friend.

"He must sense something about you. Nobody could have gotten him back inside this hooch. I would have taken money on it. That dog is really picky about who he chooses as his friends."

"What you got around your neck?" Hathcock said to the dog, ruffling the fur on Yankee's throat and noticing a military dog tag fastened to a makeshift collar that someone had fashioned from an old belt. As Carlos read the tag he laughed.

It read: "Yankee" on the first line, followed by a row of numbers on the second and the initials USMC on the third line. Sex was indicated by the letter M, religion simply said, "All," But it was the last item that brought on the chuckles- "Blood Type: Dog."

"We'll have to go down to LZ Baldy if he ever gets shot," Hathcock said, grinning. "That Army camp is about the closest source of doggie blood."

Both Marines laughed, and Sommers said, "I don't think Yankee would like it. He'd probably rather try to get by without it."

"Sure a fine-looking dog," Carlos said. "Does he do any tricks?"

"He's full of 'em. But the smartest thing about him is that he knows an attack is coming ahead of time. You hear him start growling, head for the bunker. I don't know how he can tell, but a couple of minutes after he starts growling we'll start getting hit."

Gunnery Sergeant Sommers took Hathcock's sea bag and set it in the corner next to a foot locker. He looked out the door at the heat waves that boiled across the horizon and said, "I guess you know all about Arizona Territory."

"Pretty much. But it sure looks a lot different now. I remember there being a whole lot more trees."

"There were more trees. The war has gotten a lot worse since you were here last. Mostly what you see now is broken trees and bare fields."

Hathcock stood next to Sommers and looked out at the hills and valley below where forests had once flourished thick and green but which now revealed mostly gray skeletons in leafless desolation. "Arizona Territory. That all used to be a free fire zone. We never patrolled over there, just shot across at Charlie."

"We operate out there today," Sommers said. "Still lots of bad guys. Mostly the 90th Regiment and the 2nd NVA division. I think that we do most of our fighting there. One hot spot in particular is a little valley between here and Charlie Ridge. It has more shootouts than a Saturday night western. Troops call it Dodge City."

"1st Battalion, 26th Marines is over there. A good friend of mine, Boo Boo Barker, is with mem," Hathcock said.

"Since I've been here, that's where a lot of the action has been."

"How long have you been here?" Hathcock asked.

"I reported to 7th Marines in late November. I didn't really like the idea of coming to Hill 55 because mis place stays under constant artillery and rocket attacks and lots of lob-bombs."

Hathcock nodded his head, "I know about lob-bombs. Charlie sets off explosives underneath a satchel charge and lobs the thing in your lap. It's kind of like blowing a firecracker under a tin can."

"Right. It seems like every day we get hit. So when I came up here, I was anxious to get with a unit that would be off the hill more often than on it. But Sergeant Major Puckett, bless his soul, wants to keep me up here as the company gunny and career planner. He gets mad as hell when I go off in the bush."

Hathcock laughed, "Career planner in Vietnam? I don't envy you your job."

"That's the way I felt when he told me I was the career planner. Right off the bat, I decided to make the best of it and be just like the career planners back in the World-always out. I got me a boxful of those Mac Marine cards-the ones with 'It's a Good Career, Stick with It* printed on one side and the pay scale printed on the other. I walked down to the LZ and caught a chopper out to the battalions, right in the middle of Operation Meade River."

Sommers started laughing. "I got out there and started passing those cards out to the troops on line. Bullets and mortars were flying everywhere, and there I was standing over a hole, handing these two Marines those cards and telling them to come see me. I heard a little zip, zip, zip blowing past my head, and one of the Marines down in that hole gave me a funny look and said, 'Gunny... You're the braaaavest man I eeeeversaw!'"

Hathcock roared and Sommers fought to finish his sentence between bursts of laughter. "It suddenly dawned on me that the zip, zip, zip were bullets whizzing past my ears. You should've seen how fast I jumped in mat hole. I guess word got around about me because I have the highest reenlistment rate in I Corps now."

"Sergeant Major Puckett must like that," Hathcock said.

"Are you kidding? I thought Puckett was going to kill me. My only saving grace has been die reenlistments. He told me that I must stay close by the home fires. And that's why I stay in dutch with the man. I still get off this hill every chance I can, and he stays mad at me. I want to give you fair warning, I lead the sergeant major's hit parade."

Hathcock laughed. "I usually hold that distinction myself. I guess I'll meet the sergeant major tomorrow. That's when I get to see my new platoon."

"Yeah, you'l! see 'em, all right," Sommers said a little grimly. "By the way, I think you ought to know that Colonel Nichols doesn't like snipers. He stays up there in that air-conditioned hooch, and from what I hear, snipers just don't figure in his scheme of maneuver."

"What's the colonel's name again?"

"R. L. Nichols."

"You think he might come around?"

"I wouldn't count on it. Your best bet would be to get after Charlie and win over the sergeant major. If he's on your side, he'll keep trouble off your doorstep. Besides, Colonel Nichols is on his way out. His replacement, a colonel named Gildo S. Codispoti, is already inbound. He's due to take over in a month. Work on impressing him."

Sommers looked down the hill at the rusted tin roof of a distant hooch and said, "Part of the reason the colonel has bad feelings about snipers is what you're going to see tomorrow. That platoon is nothing to write home about. But before we get into that, let's get you checked into the company. You'll step into that rats' nest soon enough. You got your orders?"

17 The Tribe

HATHCOCK WIPED SWEAT from his face as he walked from the 7th Marines command post, now on his way to the more familiar finger four where the sniper platoon's hooch still stood. He had spent the morning waiting to see the sergeant major and the commanding officer. When he finally did, he'd been given a typical welcome aboard filled with the standard rhetoric told to all new officers and staff NCOs and culminating with the cliche", "My door is always open. I'm glad to have you aboard." The meeting confirmed Hathcock as the new sniper platoon leader and gave him the license to walk down the hill and begin assuming responsibilities.

It seemed strange to Carlos that the outgoing platoon sergeant had not come to meet him. As he walked down the trail to the low hooch and the bunkers on finger four, he began looking for signs of life-anyone who might tell him where he could find the platoon sergeant.

"Anybody here?" he shouted as he walked close to the old canvas-covered hooch-the same hooch that he helped build two and a half years ago.

"In here!" a voice shouted back.

The place looked dirty and worn now, just like much of the country. Several tears in the canvas hung loosely open and the roof revealed hundreds of small holes, made by years of harassing small-arms fire. As Carlos stepped near the door, he lifted the torn screen with his hand and wondered why no one had tacked it down again. The unpainted door frame was now dark from weather. Black streaks stained the wood from the rusting nails that held the door together-the same nails that Hathcock and Burke had driven in in the fall of 1966.

The door screeched as Hathcock pulled it open on its rusty hinges and stepped inside. The room was filthy. It smelled like a combination of mildew, body odor, and stale beer. Odd gear leaned against the walls and littered the floor. Boxes and bins overflowed with empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and trash from C-rations.

"Where's the platoon sergeant?" Hathcock asked, standing in the open doorway.

"I'm him. What ya need?" the sergeant said, lying on a cot at the rear of the hooch. He slurped a beer and gave a healthy belch. The Marine wore a dirty green T-shirt and cutoff trousers. His jungle boots lay topsy-turvy on the dirty floor, among the cans and men's magazines.

"I'm your replacement."

The sergeant leaned on one elbow. "Welcome to the war."

"You guys just get back from the bush?" Hathcock asked.

"Naw," the sergeant said, gulping more beer. "They don't have any idea of how to use snipers. We just burn the shitters, fill out the mess-duty quotas, and stand perimeter security."

"Where are all your snipers?"

"Out, I guess."

"Where?"

"Don't know," the sergeant said, and opened up a Playboy.

"How many men you have?" Hathcock said. He could feel the muscles in his neck tensing. "You do know bow many men you have, don't you?"

"About twenty or so, I think."

"How many rifles you have?"

The sergeant shook his shaggy head. "Hell, I don't know. Ask the troops when you see 'em."

"How many scopes you got? How many M-49s you got? Don't you know anything?"

"Yeah," the Marine said spitefully, looking at Hathcock. "You're pissin' me off, hassling me about this shit. Where you comin' from anyway? We're doing just fine. Nobody bugs us and we don't bug nobody. We pull our details, do our time, and go back to the World... alive."