A story by William L. Smutko
The rapid-fire whop, whop, whop of the helicopter’s rotors and the rush of wind from the hole where the door should be heightens Staff Sergeant Carl Walton’s senses and brings his mission into tight focus.
As the sun begins to rise, Walton uses a camo stick to draw wide streaks of black across the bridge of his nose, cheekbones, chin, and hands. He fills in the empty spaces with green and brown, then he closes his eyes and mouth tightly, pushes the button on top of the olive-green spray can, and shrouds himself in a mist of bug repellant.
The light observation helicopter has been flying ten to fifteen feet off the ground to avoid detection. Near the starting point for the mission the pilot slips the chopper in near a tree line a couple feet off the ground. Walton jumps out with his rifle and gear and disappears into tall, rotor-washed grass. The chopper leaves, but the kerosene smell of its jet exhaust lingers. He feels adrift in the ocean, watching the ship disappear over the horizon. There is no evidence of sharks but they’re around.
Motionless in the grass for thirty minutes, fighting the adrenaline rushing through his body. He makes the sign of the cross and silently prays.
Heavenly Father, keep me safe on this mission and give me the strength and will to perform it.
The tall grass hides his crawl to a large palm in the tree line. He rises to his knees and examines the area in a complete circle, then does it again through the scope on his rifle. Nothing catches his attention, so he stands, checks the ground ahead of his foot, making sure nothing will make noise then reexamines the area for a hundred yards in a full circle around him before taking another step. It takes him twenty-five minutes to cover the ten-yard depth of the tree line.
At the far edge of the trees, Walton kneels down and digs up a clump of tall grass with his bayonet, then waits ten minutes before harvesting a tree branch. Finished gathering the grass and branches he’ll need, he attaches them to his rifle, tiger-striped jungle fatigues, and jungle hat.
Satisfied with his camouflage, Walton lowers himself onto his stomach and lies there lifeless for an hour to establish his being just another lump on the ground. The spot he needs to reach is a small hill about a mile away across a clearing full of small shrubs and grass. He moves forward about one-half inch and stops for a long count of five, then moves another half inch. The technique of a stalk is to move without appearing to do so, as a glacier does. After two hours, the movement becomes unconscious and automatic, almost like breathing.
* * *
Walton enters the major’s office, stops in front of his desk, and salutes.
The major returns the salute. “At ease, Sergeant Walton. Take a seat,” he says, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. The major stands up, comes around the desk, and half sits on the front of it. “You’re our best sniper,” he says. “Hell, you’re probably the best in the whole damned army. Because of that, there is a special mission for you.” He shifts his position. “Intelligence has discovered a North Vietnamese Army general in a large camp near the Cambodian border.” He shifts again. “The plan is to take him out with sniper fire. Your mission, as you’ve probably guessed, is to eliminate the general.”
* * *
The dew is gone, and the ground is heating up under the morning sun. The aroma of the herbs and grasses being crushed beneath his body envelops him. Sweat trickles off his nose and runs off his back into his fatigues. Walton’s muscles are starting to criticize his choice to remain in the same position for so long. He closes his mind to them as a marathon runner does.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
The early morning is dark and clear. It is a cold twenty-six degrees, six degrees below freezing. The dew that fell out in the early evening has turned to frost and it’s thick on the path making for slippery walking. He has to move more slowly than he likes. The deer stand, a seat nailed ten feet up in an old oak overlooking a major deer trail, is still a mile ahead.
* * *
Walton moves steadily forward one-half inch at a time. He can hear other creatures moving through the grass near him. His belly reminds him that he’s had nothing to eat or drink since early this morning. Again, he locks it out of his mind. His focus, the objective.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
They are slogging through the water and mud of the rice paddies west of Tan Tru. The point man stops their movement and calls the platoon leader up to him. The lieutenant comes back and takes Walton forward with him. Point is lying against a dike and gesturing toward a group of eight to ten Viet Cong about five hundred yards ahead. Walton lies down in the muck of the rice paddy and rests his rifle across the top of the dike, puts the crosshairs of the scope on the spine between the shoulders of the closest VC, centers his breathing, and squeezes the trigger. The VC goes down. Walton moves to the next and repeats the process. He kills three of them before they understand they are under attack and find cover. When it’s over, Walton’s hands start to shake, and it takes all he has to keep his breakfast down. They are his first kills.
* * *
His mouth is as dry as the dust he’s crawling through, and his stomach is rumbling with hunger. Walton wishes he could risk the movement of bringing his canteen up to take a drink. His left calf is cramping. He slowly moves his left arm back and massages the knot out of it. He forces pain and thirst out of his mind and continues inching along toward the target as he urinates into his pants.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
The platoon leader, point squad, and Walton walk up on his fifty-sixth kill. The VC had been carrying a rocket propelled grenade launcher and two RPGs, but he is a boy of about ten. Walton’s not successful keeping his lunch down this time.
* * *
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Walton says over a quivering chin in the dim confines of the confessional. “My last confession was over two months ago.” His shoulders slump and his head hangs down. “Since then, I’ve been with prostitutes several times, gotten drunk ten times, and killed fifty-six people.”
An embarrassed silence hangs between them for several minutes. “My son,” the priest, seated behind the screen, finally says. “In the heat of battle, how can you possibly know how many people you’ve killed?”
“I’m a sniper, Father,” He snaps back. “When I pull the trigger, I see them go down. I see the surprise on their faces when the bullet hits.”
“For your penance, say five Our Fathers and make ten Acts of Contrition.”
* * *
Walton’s right calf is cramping. He massages it and drives the discomfort out of his mind as he keeps inching along toward the shooting spot.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
A mango in the line of trees two hundred yards beyond the berm at Dong Tam supports Walton’s back. He’s dressed in tiger-striped camouflage jungle fatigues and jungle hat in their many shades of green, and his face and hands are painted with a medley of green, brown, and black camouflage paint. Division Intelligence has info that a Viet Cong sniper is in the area.
A little after dark Walton sees him move from a dike toward the tree line. The starlight scope’s crosshairs are on the VC’s chest. The fingers of Walton’s right hand start to tingle. He continues squeezing the trigger and watches as the VC crumples into the mud. Number fifty-seven.
Turning around, he looks back toward the Dong Tam perimeter. Three helmets are clustered together showing above the berm. They would have been a perfect target for the sniper. Walton puts the crosshairs about two feet below the top of the berm in line with the center soldier and watches them scatter as the bullet hits harmlessly below them.
* * *
Sweat drips off his chin and seeps into the waistband of his skivvies as he inches along. His shoulders and neck hurt from holding his head up to see where he’s going. Walton lowers it to the ground to rest the aching muscles.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
Walton and his partner are in a free fire zone between Tan Tru and Binh Phuoc. They are each wearing—in surprising contrast to deep camouflage—clean, white sneakers. Anything that moves in the free fire zone and is not wearing white sneakers they consider a target to be killed. Walton and his partner were inserted by helicopter an hour before dark, and then they split up. Walton’s worked his way to a cluster of trees about three hundred yards west of a known trail and has found a tree that seems like a good place to hide, until a banded krait slithers away. Walton builds his nest at the base of a different tree. In position for about an hour, he sees targets moving along the trail in single file. The M-14 nestles into his shoulder and the scope aligns with his eye. He looks through it and counts fifteen VC. The crosshairs settle on the one in front and he gently squeezes the trigger. His trigger finger starts going numb. He keeps squeezing and drops the target, then moves to the next in line and kills that one as well. He moves the scope to the rear of the formation, kills the last two, then dissolves into the bush. There is no feeling in his trigger finger at all as he crawls through the leaves and twigs of the jungle floor. Numbers fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, and sixty-one.
* * *
The calf on his left leg is starting to cramp again. Slowly he reaches his left arm back and massages the knot until it disappears.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
Angel of God, my guardian dear
Whom God’s love commits me here
Ever this day be at my side
To light and guard, to rule and guide
Walton is six years old kneeling at the side of his bed, his mother behind him watching.
* * *
It is late afternoon. The ground under his chest and thighs is almost burning. He can feel some bruising on them, and he hears a tiger chuffing in the trees off to his left. He forces the pain and fear out of his awareness.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
Walton’s parents, his three sisters, his older brother, and he are seated at the family table in the dining room. In the center of the table is a platter of sliced pot roast. Next to it is a bowl of the vegetables cooked with it, a gravy boat, white bread for sopping up the juice and a sweating pitcher of milk.
* * *
Walton continues his autonomic movements toward the target, his fatigues are drenched with sweat, the continuous pressure on his knees and forearms is starting to raise blisters, and his body is screaming for water.
Lord, strengthen my will.
* * *
Walton’s back in the free fire zone where his targets show up well after dark. Five green images appear in the scope. He puts the crosshairs on the center one, takes a deep breath and lets half of it out, and begins squeezing the trigger. His right hand is starting to go numb. He manages to kill two VC before it goes completely dead. Numbers sixty-two and sixty-three.
* * *
The sun finally goes down. He gets his compass out and takes a reading on his shooting spot and sets an azimuth to follow when it will be too dark to see where he is going. Walton uses the cover of darkness to change his position slightly, drink some sun-heated water that tastes of plastic, and eat a dry, hard D ration bar. He picks up his pace to three quarters of an inch. He’s been creeping toward his target for twelve hours, but he’s only about five hundred yards closer. Mosquito and other insect bites are starting to creep into his consciousness. He blocks them out. He hears the tiger again. It seems to be closer this time.
Lord, strengthen my will.
Six hours later, Walton, ignoring the pain and fatigue, glacially moving closer to the target.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Like a song that leaks out of your memory into your brain and won’t leave, this prayer washes around in his skull in an unending loop.
It’s dark and quiet. Walton’s eyes start to roll back into his head. He shakes it, stretches his whole body, and takes a big drink of water to wake up.
Lord, strengthen my will.
He has been using his compass to maintain direction. He can smell the cinnamon trees and hear the bats flying around above.
* * *
Helle is spooned up next to him, the silkiness of her naked back and hips against his chest and thighs. They are in his bed in his hotel room in Kuala Lumpur. Walton is on R&R. She is on vacation from her job as a stewardess with Lufthansa. They had caught each other’s eye near the pool four days earlier. Her soft, even breathing tells Walton she’s asleep. She smells of cinnamon soap, perfume, and sex. Her warmth creeps into him and unties his emotional charley horses.
* * *
As the sky lightens before dawn, Walton drinks some more water and eats another D ration bar. There are still three hundred yards to the shooting spot and the blisters on his knees and forearms have broken. He can smell the camp latrines in the breeze. He rolls to his side to narrow the worm trail he’s leaving and restarts the half inch at a time.
Another prayer creeps into his mind.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.
Thy Kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive others who have trespassed against us.
And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.
Amen
Scores of ants have crawled into Walton’s clothing and are biting his chest and waist. Enemy soldiers are moving around within fifty yards of him. The adrenaline rush brought on by their proximity paints over the thirst, discomfort, and pain. He continues worming his way toward the grass-covered rise he will shoot from.
More and more soldiers are moving around. About twenty-five yards from the shooting spot, two NVA soldiers walk within three feet of him. His adrenaline pumps faster.
Finally at the rise he can see the tents designated by intelligence as the command post and the general’s quarters.
The adrenaline rush is subsiding. Walton’s muscles are contemplating mutiny and he’s very, very thirsty, just this side of dehydrated. An intense sense of mission is all that is keeping him going.
Lord, strengthen my will.
He waits, and the prayers keep coming.
O my God, I am heartily sorry
For having offended thee.
And I detest all my sins
Because of Thy just punishments.
But most of all because they offend Thee my God,
Who art all good and deserving of all my love.
I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace
To sin no more and avoid the near occasion of sin.
Amen
The sun is hovering over the trees to the west when the general comes out of the command center and heads for his quarters. Walton picks him up in his scope. The general calls out, and a woman and two teenage children come out of his tent. He concentrates on the general. He can see the mustached lips lift into a large smile and puts the crosshair on the general’s heart, centers his breathing, and tries to squeeze the trigger. His right-hand refuses to respond. None of the fingers on it will move.
This work was featured in issue #15a