“We’re headed home today!” Hathcock shouted.
“Where are you two standing right now?” the sergeant major shouted back.
McAbee looked at the map, and the lance corporal who operated the radios said, “This mountain is called My Dong,”
Carlos smiled and keyed the radio. “Right now, we are standing on My Dong.”
The next day Hathcock and McAbee were standing stiffly at attention in front of the sergeant major. “I get tired of the wild stories coming in here telling how Charlie finally got you. And how high the bounty is on your head! You’re both staff NCOs… I want a degree more responsibility out of both of you.”
“Sergeant Major,” Hathcock said, “Staff Sergeant McAbee is our armorer. We need him out where we operate. And I’ve got my snipers all paired and that leaves him and me. What do we do, go off separately by ourselves?”
“No. But you don’t disappear for a week either. I don’t expect you to just sit in camp. But I expect responsible leadership from both of you! The only way you two go to the field together is if your entire platoon is committed and both of you are required to maintain control over that tribe of yours.”
Hathcock smiled. At this moment, the sergeant major reminded him of another Marine. A Marine who became so frustrated with his disappearing that he confined him to his quarters to slow him down.
“You got a deal, Sergeant Major.”
Both Marines walked directly to the operations tent after shaking hands with the sergeant major and reassuring him that his worries were now over.
“What’s going on?” Hathcock asked the operations chief.
The month of September began with 7th Marines still pursuing two NVA regiments that they forced from the Hiep Due Valley. With the enemy fragmented and scattered to the east and north, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines, went to Fire Support Base Ross where India Company conducted a night move to a blocking position northeast of the fire base. Because they made only light contact with the NVA, three companies of 3rd Battalion moved on and began a northwesterly sweep through Nghi Ha Valley. While 3rd Battalion moved northwest, 1st Battalion, along with Mike Company from 3rd Battalion, set up blocking positions along the draws leading into the Phu Loc Valley while 3rd Battalion pushed toward them.
When Carlos went to the operations tent, he found that in two days, September 16, 1969, the operation would end, and 1st Battalion would move back to their area of operation in the eastern Que Son hills.
“We can go there,” Hathcock told McAbee. “Our snipers will be concentrated right there. The 90th NVA may be blown away, but the 3rd and 36th NVA regiments, the GK-33, and the 1st Viet Cong Regiment are all prime for the pickin’ down yonder. We could organize a regular operation against them.”
“You gonna tell Sergeant Major Puckett?”
“Yeah. It’s just a short jump down there, and with all our people already working with the battalions, he’ll see the logic.”
That night McAbee worked late on the rifles while Carlos cleaned both their gear. He was excited about what the operation down south might reveal.
“Reckon Perry can handle things back here?”
“Sure. His team will run local security operations while we’re gone.”
The September heat kept the night nearly as hot as the day with the humidity lingering at above 90 percent. On these hot nights, most of the Marines slent outside.
Yankee followed at Ron McAbee’s heels as the Marine laid a poncho liner and air mattress on top of the sandbags that covered the roof of the bunker outside the staff NCO hooch on the night of September 15, the day before he and Carlos would leave for the eastern side of the Que Son hills. Yankee always slept next to Mack since the six-foot two-inch Marine had arrived. He liked Yankee sleeping at his side because of the dog’s uncanny ability to sense incoming fire before any shell impacted. Yankee’s low, throaty growl was the big, blond Marine’s early-warning system.
As McAbee stretched out on his poncho liner—both of his boots unlaced but still on his feet—he took off his glasses and set them on the row of sandbags that ringed the bunker just below the roof. A stir of air relieved the steaminess of the night and soon lulled both the Marine and the red dog to sleep. Yankee slept with his head resting on Mack’s chest.
In the distance the crackle of radio static, muffled inside the operations tent, and the low drone of the generators, scattered on the hill, gave the Marines who stood watch in the towers and along the wire a sense of hypnotic tranquility. A bright moon rose, sending a shimmering silver light over the camp.
During the early morning hours something caused Yankee to stir from his sleep. The silvery moon sparkled in his clear, brown eyes as he pointed his ears and tasted the air with his nose. And deep within him, like the distant nimble of a faraway storm’s thunder, Yankee began to growl.
It wasn’t a loud growl at first, just a sound of uneasiness that quivered inside his throat, quiet and unheard. But whatever doubt the dog had suddenly vanished, and, sitting up on his haunches, he gave a full, barrel-chested growl.
Mack’s eyes popped open. He saw his bedtime companion snarling at the still quiet night, hackles raised and teeth bared. Ron McAbee knew that was no false alarm. He swung his feet down and yelled, “Incoming! 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.”