It's mid-1966, in Vietnam. Marine Corps snipers Carlos Hathcock and John Burke lay in wait in ambush in the jungle, covered head to toe in camouflage.
All except for Carlos’ signature, a signature which earned him a name that would go down in history,
In vietnamese they called him Lông Trắng.
The White Feather.
Before them to the left is their home base and to the right is a dense wall of vegetation. They're on the hunt for a particular individual.
An NVA sniper who has terrorized the base for days, snatching the lives of Marines right at the doorstep of their own bunks.
They call him Cobra.
The phantom of the forest claims another soul, but they see where the shot came from. And set off on the hunt.
They’ll make this Cobra’s last victim, or they’ll die trying.
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Over an hour later, Hathcock and Burke maneuver their way around torn trees and shattered branches.
The entire forest had been shot to howl, with a tidal wave of lead crashing down every time an NVA sniper fired at the base.
Amidst it all, a particular position catches Hathcock’s attention. It doesn't look like much, but his experience can identify a firing position when he sees it.
The grass and leaves are ever so slightly squashed by the weight of the man who once laid there.
The view into the base was perfect, but most importantly, the position is right along a small ditch carved by a stream of water
that snakes down the hillside during the jungle's heavy rains.
It's a perfect place to take cover from dozens of furious Marines firing with machine guns.
He follows the ditch with his eyes.
Along its length, he can see some mud left along the foliage, too high to be natural,
left behind by someone's dirty clothing, and small grooves of a man crawling along the jungle floor dot the ground.
Hathcock turns to Burke and tells him: "There's a trail going uphill, let's go."
They move carefully, but deliberately crouching and silent like ghosts.
The stream brings them deeper into the jungle, Hathcock leading the way.
They follow the trail for hours until dark forces them to button up for the night
The hunt enters its second day. The jungle is soaked after significant rain during the night, but nothing the two Marines haven't tackled before.
They have themselves a quick MRE and carry on.
They push on for half the morning, but unease starts gripping the White Feather, this is supposed to be the NVA’s brightest.
They wouldn't leave a trail like this.
He stops and eyes his surroundings with suspicion.
He's here somewhere, waiting for them.
Waiting for him specifically.
He turns to Burke and whispers his thoughts.
They agree.
No more crouching. From here on, they'll crawl.
As the morning turns into afternoon, Hathcock peaks above the undergrowth, looking forward with his binoculars.
Between the trees and the bushes, he spots something ahead.
A burrow right at the end of the trail.
He lowers his binoculars, that voice of danger whispering in his ear.
The burrow has been cleared of leaves and sticks, making it far too obvious.
This can't be right, it has to be a trap.
Hathcock retrieves from his pocket a plastic topographic map of the area, tracing their steps with his finger,
he estimates their position and his fears are confirmed.
Just beyond the burrow is a draw, a depression on the landscape.
The Cobra is bound to be on the other side, crosshairs square on the trap before them.
He turns to Burke.
Let's go around.
They leave the trail behind and sneak around the draw.
They emerge at its end, over an hour of careful crawling later, looking right down its length,
they set up behind a rock with a ridge behind their backs.
The fake burrow to the left, Cobra’s hideout is somewhere to the right.
Hathcock immediately notices an abnormally large amount of birds gathering on the jungle floor, feasting on something,
Hathcock lifts his binoculars and takes a closer look.
Rice.
The Cobra had laid it down, so the sudden flight of birds would warn him of incoming danger.
"Clever."
Seeing a chance to use his own tricks against him, Hathcock takes a stick from the dead tree besides him and throws it at the birds.
The birds erupt, fluttering and chirping, and then there's deathly silence. The entire jungle feels as it stood still, not even the insects daring to make a noise.
Hathcock waits patiently.
Ready to fire, waiting for the Cobra to come and check on his birds.
But then Hathcock starts to notice a supremely faint wheezing, barely noticeable through the quiet of the jungle.
He looks to his right and realizes it's Burke’s breathing.
Concern grips him.
He must have caught a cold during their sleep in the rain.
If he sneezes or coughs, they're dead men.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, the Cobra has crawled all the way around and behind them, hidden by the ridgeline.
He can smell the Americans.
They're close, but his clothes snag on a twig.
The Marines hearts skip a beat as they stare at each other.
Behind us!
In a rush, they run out of their position, fleeing downhill and crashing through all the vegetation.
They run all the way down the slope and disappear into the thick undergrowth.
On the other side of the ridge, the Cobra curses his wretched luck before carefully crawling over the peak
and taking over the American's recently abandoned spot.
He prepares his rifle, scanning the jungle floor, but there's nothing.
Covered in the undergrowth, the two Marines gather themselves.
They don't even bother peeking, they know where he is.
Slowly they start crawling uphill, hidden under the bushes and weeds, in a search for place to shoot from.
Back on the ridge, the Cobra scans the area with his scope.
When he sees the faintest bit of movement piercing through the weeds. A small white spec.
He smiles.
He has them now.
He relaxes his breath.
Hathcock and Burke sneak over a log. Hathcock hears a rustle in the undergrowth.
Is it birds or something else?
His mind is on alert and the White Feather makes an uncharacteristic mistake.
Usually supremely careful with every footfall, he steps on an old tree which sinks slightly into the ground.
The Cobra makes a shot exactly at this moment, and the bullet flies right past Hathcock’s head.
The mistake saving his life.
He checks himself.
He's uninjured. He looks over to Burke, who has gone pale.
Looking down, he sees he's gripping his canteen on his thigh. It's been blown out, and its water is soaking Burke’s leg,
but miraculously there's no blood.
Atop the ridge, the Cobra hastily flees his firing spot, he escapes over the ridge and runs down the slope, disappearing into the bushes.
Hathcock and Burke hear the Cobra makes his escape and set off in pursuit.
They climb up the slope and set up atop the ridge, looking down onto the other side.
The White Feather searches the area with his rifle, while Burke helps him with the binoculars.
Meanwhile, between the weeds, the Cobra spots the Marines from below and raises his rifle.
Atop the ridge, the White Feather is scanning the area with his scope,
when suddenly a bright white flash shines from the undergrowth.
A gunshot washes through the jungle and the Cobra falls lifeless.
Later, while examining the body, Carlos Hathcock takes a closer look at Cobra’s rifle and finds the glass of the scope destroyed.
But not just at one end.
Both lenses front and back are shot out.
The shot had been right down the length of the scope.
“You shot him through the scope”.
“You saw the glint and shot him right through it”.
“He was aiming straight at you”.
“I just pulled the trigger first”.
The pair would separate and continue to fight across Vietnam.
Corporal John Roland Burke would be killed in action in June the following year.
Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Norman Hathcock would be brought back to the US after his personnel carrier hit a landmine.
He and other Marines who were riding on top of the vehicle were sprayed with flaming gasoline caused by the explosion.
He pulled 7 men to safety making sure that no marines were left behind but he was burned severely in the process.
He returned home with 93 confirmed kills to his name, the most of anyone, but he believed the true number to be past 300.
This episode was one of but many in an outstanding career.
He passed away in 1999, aged 56.
Of his actions as a sniper, he would state:
“I like shooting, and I love hunting, but I never did enjoy killing anybody.
“It's my job. If I don't get those bastards, then they're gonna kill a lot of these kids dressed up like Marines.”
“ That’s the way I look at it.”
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