“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk all threes.” A target frightenly close to Hathcock’s rose from the pit, sending a chill through him. He saw the black spotter two inches right of the four-ring’s line at the three o’clock position on the target. “Wind got him,” Hathcock silently concluded. And as the disk rose to the left side of the target, the shooter to the right of Hathcock rolled up his mat, lay his rifle across his folding stool, stuffed his gear into his shooting bag, and carried his equipment off the firing line.
A murmer rose from the stands, followed by consolatory applause as the eliminated marksman walked to a group of people, who huddled around him. A dark-haired woman hugged the man, and in a matter of seconds the group turned to watch the next targets to rise from the pits.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk all fours.” Two targets rose from the pits and the two shooters walked away from the line, as the audience applauded their efforts. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk all fives.” Four targets rose from the pits, one to the left of Hathcock. Those shooters joined the other eliminated marksmen and became spectators.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk all Vees.” Hathcock’s target rose from the pit with a white spotter in the center of the target. He leaned away from the spotting scope and again worked himself into the position that gave him the first center shot.
Again sighting in on the target, he found his natural point of aim and awaited the call from the center of the line to load his second round.
The remaining thirteen targets dropped into the pits and, in a moment, rose to half-mast.
“Gentlemen,” the voice from center line announced, “you may load one round.”
Thirteen bolts shoved thirteen shells into thirteen chambers with a ripple and clatter.
Hathcock settled behind his rifle for the second shot. He found the bull’s-eye and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to find his sights still in position. “Good,” he reassured himself as the announcement from the center line again broke the morguelike hush.
As the preparatory time ended, the targets dropped together into the pits and the voice announced, “Gentlemen, when your targets come out of the pits, you will have three minutes to fire one round.”
Next to his data book, Hathcock’s watch ticked the seconds away. He glanced at the row of red flags, peered at the mirage through the spotting scope, and then glanced at his watch,
“You got all the time in the world, Carles,” he reassured himself. “Don’t rush the shot. Wait for the lull.”
With one and a half minutes gone, the flag dropped and Hathcock fired. It felt good. His trigger squeeze was steady. He knew that it would have to be a major problem with the round, or his rifle, in order for that shot to not find the center of the target. Hathcock picked up the pencil that lay on his data book and drew a small black dot in the center of the small target on the page that represented the call of his second shot. He again jotted 14-L in the square above the small target, reminding himself of the 14 minutes of left windage he had turned on his scope.
With the second entry made in his data book, Hathcock relaxed over his rifle and awaited the call from the center of the line to cease-fire. He now felt more relaxed. He had forgotten the crowd, the bands, the cameras, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps, who intensely watched for the second round of eliminations’ verdict—who would walk and who would stay. “Cease-fire, cease-fire,” the voice called to all the participants.
The targets again disappeared into the pits, and quickly, one after the other, their top edges appeared above the berm as the pit crew raised the targets to half-mast.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now disk all misses.” Again there was the hushed pause followed by the announcement, “There are no misses.”
The crowd cheered, and Hathcock, oblivious to the sound of the spectators, looked downrange through his spotting scope, awaiting his target.
Two shooters hit the three-ring and left the line. They were followed by four men who shot into the four-ring. There were no fives. Hathcock and the other six remaining marksmen, one of whom was Sanchez, had again found the center of the target.
In the stands, Land and the others on the rifle team now felt excitement as they looked down at the last seven shooters and realized that both Sergeant Sanchez and young Corporal Hathcock had a real chance at taking the national one thousand-yard championship—the Wimbledon Cup.
Hathcock felt his stomach tighten as he drew out his third round and lay it under the towel next to his data book. He glanced downrange at the red flags fluttering and pushed himself back into position, again locking into his natural point of aim at the black center of the target.
“Gentlemen, you may load one round,” the voice from center-line announced. And again the rippling sound of seven bolts locking home broke the windy quietness on the Camp Perry one thousand-yard range.
For the third time, Hathcock double-checked his position and natural point of aim and again checked the movement of the mirage while he awaited the targets rise from the pits.
“Gentlemen, when your target appears, you will have three minutes to fire one round.”
As Hathcock’s target rose from the pits and steadied on its carriage, the range flags fell with the wind and he fired. Again he felt certain that he had found the center of the target. He though that he could now win the title that just one hour earlier had seemed a dream. The three minutes slowly passed.
“Cease-fire, cease-fire,” the command from center line came for the third time as the targets descended into the pits for scoring and marking.
On this round, there were no misses, threes or fours. Four marksmen shot into the black but penetrated the paper to the right of the white circle that marked the V-ring.
Hathcock watched them leave and felt the tension, irrepressibly tight in his stomach, now closing on his throat. “You’ve got to settle down,” he commanded himself sternly. “You have to concentrate on your next shot. It could be the difference between another handshake and victory.”
He looked at the mirage rolling and then again at the range flags fluttering in the strong wind. “Looks like it’s picking up some,” he told himself. “Hathcock, watch the flags and don’t forget the time.” He looked at the second hand sweeping around his watch face and thought, “Three trips around the dial, that’s all. Three sweeps of that hand. Watch it. Watch the wind.”
“Gentlemen,” the voice again announced, “you may load one round.”
Hathcock took the round that he had laid beneath his towel and dropped it into the breach of his rifle. In one smooth stroke, he shoved his rifle’s bolt forward and locked the handle down. Taking a deep breath, he sighted in on die horizon above Lake Erie behind where his target would stand.
The targets came up, and the three minutes began.
“Get aligned, sight on the target, and then concentrate. Watch the cross hairs. Watch the clock. Watch the wind.”
The lump left him. He thought of nothing but what he had to do to make his shot find black paper within the center ring, one thousand yards in front of him.
Two other shooters, one of them Sergeant Sanchez, lay contemplating the same puzzle—when to shoot and where to hold.
The wind continued blowing, and Hathcock watched the second hand on his watch finish its first sweep around the dial. Crack, came the sound far to his left where Sanchez lay. Hathcock glanced through his spotting scope at the rolling heat waves and then looked at the range flag. He wondered if Sanchez had allowed for that much wind. Hathcock continued to wait while the second hand on his watch ticked on and the wind blew the range flag straight.