No other single force in Vietnam put as much fear into the hearts of the enemy nor gained his respect more then the American snipers. This is a story about one such Marine sniper team, in 1964/65 "Delta-Two- Foxtrot" who helped blazed the trail, gave their best, who hunted the enemy in its own back yard, took out assigned targets without the Viet Cong knowing they were present. Who was feared, hated and yet respected by the Viet Cong. The sniper team was hunted and chased for days and used every trick they knew to get back to base alive. Some teams made it back and still some brave heroes didn’t. Semper Fi

Vietnam, The Making of a Sniper

By Jerry Melvin Mitchem

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Jerry Melvin Mitchem
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6187-0

Chapter One

This is about a time in my life when I should have walked away from trouble, but being a young gung ho Marine with no fear of death, I ran toward it.

As a 22-year old Marine, I found myself sitting nestled down in 3-foot tall grass, on a ridge in South Vietnam, overlooking a prime Viet Cong village that we had code named Cong3. It was October 21, 1964, and I waited, watching for my target to appear. He was a lieutenant colonel (Lt. Col.) who had been trained by the Russians in Hanoi. Our intelligence had information that he was an expert at breaking code. Intelligence was determined to end his services to the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong.

Lt. Col. Huc Po Pauhu was a communication expert who could speak five languages - Vietnamese, Russian, Chinese, English, and French. We were afraid he would intercept our messages from intelligence and combat units in the field. My orders were to take him out before he could break our code and train others.

For three days, I had waited, from dawn to sunset, and he had not arrived at this village as scheduled. It was so hot that the blowflies were fanning each other. For about the fifth time I checked the windage on my special designed sniper rifle, a 300 Weatherby Magnum in .300 caliber, bolt action, with a 4X9X variable Redfield scope and flash suppressor. I was using a 173-grain soft point bullet that would be lethal on most all North America game animals and three-fourths of the big game in Africa. I had to have the windage precise to insure the 540-yard shot to the mayor's house in the village was dead-on target. I needed to hit a target the size of my fist at this distance. This Weatherby Magnum delivered about 2,037 foot pounds of energy upon impact at 500 yards with a bullet drop of 26.04 inches.

I was growing tired and only catnapped for a few hours each night after the Viet Cong (VC) patrols called it a night. The grassy spot I selected was 30 yards below the crest of the ridge at the eastern end overlooking the village, and it was as close as I dared get. Their patrols were searching up to 300 yards out from the village. I had an excellent view of the village plus a quick and silent escape route back through the high grass, over the ridge and down to a large marsh 100 yards from the hill, where I could silently continue my diversion tactics and, hopefully, reach my pickup point.

I had 48 hours left to complete my mission. A helicopter would fly over the primary pickup points, only once, every other morning for six days. There were three designated pickup locations. If I didn't reach one of these three locations by the morning of the sixth day, I would be left, which required walking back to the base camp through 16 miles of VC held territory - something I was trying hard to avoid.

The sharp sound of a vehicle horn brought me back to reality, fast! A rusty colored old car was trying to avoid pigs and chickens as it headed toward the west end of the village, where the mayor lived. I looked at my watch, 0856 hours.

I quickly laid flat on the ground in a prone firing position. Making sure I still had a good view through the grass, I eased the rifle to my shoulder, pulled the stock in real tight, and just melted around the weapon, trying to become one unit, while peeping into the 9X variable special Redfield scope. I checked the windage again. It had dropped to near 3 knots, so I readjusted the windage on my rifle and quickly picked my spot - the porch steps. This should not be too difficult a shot.

Everything was ready, and my target was now fast approaching. I had about 20 seconds before the old car reached the house; and in less than two minutes, I would be leaving. The driver of the old rusty sedan jumped from behind the wheel and hurriedly opened the rear door for Lt. Col. Huc Po Pauhu, who was all of five feet five inches tall at best, thin as a toothpick, and wore the traditional Viet Cong dirty brown uniform of a senior officer.

My scope centered on his left shoulder as he quickly climbed the steps. As he neared the top step, I had already found his shoulder blade and centered the cross hairs near his heart. His lifeless body fell face first onto the old wooden porch. I knew the 173-grain soft point sniper bullet had found its mark, creating an exit hole the size of a golf ball. Recoil on the 300 Weatherby Magnum is something that takes a while to get use to - 'It's a Bad Mama.'

Only after firing did I hear the shot as it echoed across the small valley. Looking around very quickly, I saw that the patrols had not pinpointed the shot origin, and there was a lot of confusion in the village.

I had the morning sun at my back. No one looking up in my direction from the village or from the slope down below my position could see me, for the rising sun would blind them.

Quickly, I slipped on my gear and cautiously moved up toward the crest, going back over the hill and down toward the marsh and the river.

Thirty minutes later, I reached the edge of the marsh. I quietly eased into the slimly water, crouching low to keep most of my body underwater with only my head and my weapon above the surface. I quickly moved further out into the slimy green marsh. I had 200 yards of swampy marsh to cross before I could reach the river and the thick jungle just beyond.

Instinctively, I suddenly decided to turn north, going deeper up into the marsh, instead of crossing it. The VC trackers could be arriving anytime now. I wanted them to assume I had gone on east toward the river. I had only moved about 50 yards away from the crossing when nine VC entered the marsh at a run. I eased behind an old rotten tree stump that was next to me and slowly lowered myself even deeper into the water, trying to avoid detection. They were moving fast, splashing water with every step; the slime was near their waists, but they kept moving, without saying a word, toward the river. I froze until they passed, keeping my weapon and only part of my face above the surface.

I knew I might have to deal with them later, but right now, I just wanted distance between them and me. After they passed out of sight, I slowly moved northward up the marsh, crouching all the while to keep my body under, and only my head and the Weatherby above the slime. My knees and legs hurt like crazy from crouching so low.

Four hours later, I emerged from the marsh on the river's side, about two miles north of where I entered. I was totally exhausted, having moved so slowly in the marsh with just my head and weapon above the slime. I had stopped for 10 minutes every hour to catch my breath and relieve the cramps in my legs. I suspected some of the trackers would possibly double back when they did not find any sign of me crossing the river and could be close because the natural sounds of frogs and birds had stopped, and there was now a deathly silence in the marsh. I still had about three hours until sunset.

Time to move again - moving so slow that I appeared to be a part of the terrain. This was a real key to staying alive out here.

I changed directions again, this time I headed straight for the river where I would cross and head southeast.

I chose to stay in the thick undergrowth and slip ever so slowly that it would be difficult for anyone to see my movement or me. I knew that 'getting in a hurry' would get me caught or killed. That was not what I wanted.

When being hunted by other humans, it does cause one to used extra precaution. By knowing that the hunters are as intelligent as the hunted, it becomes a mind game.

With me now being the hunted, I remembered Uncle Leroy Brown teaching me to track wounded wild hogs and deer and how the animals used their sense of survival to try to get away. Staying off trails, they would move along the thick swamp undergrowth. Even one big old hog had hid himself from me by finding a narrow ditch full of leaves and limbs and crawled under all that with just his big old black snout barely sticking out so he could breathe. It took me almost a week to find him. Then, and only with the aid of nearly a dozen buzzards, I saw how he had evaded me and died right there in that ditch.

Back to the present - suddenly, through the undergrowth, I saw a movement about 30 yards to my left; it was the barrel of a rifle moving back and forth. A lone tracker was moving along a path that would bring him within a few yards of me. He was moving slowly, bent over at the waist, searching the ground for my tracks in front of him. Occasionally he looked up. He was slipping along a narrow trail that connected the upper area of the slimy marsh and the river. This VC tracker was hunting me - I began to sweat.

I strained my eyes looking for others, but saw no other movement. I had two choices, let him go, or kill him! I knew what I had to do, so I began to position myself for the task. Very gently, I placed the Weatherby on the ground. Then, I eased the K-bar from its scabbard just below my right knee. I knew I was taking a big chance trying this. I could not use my rifle; and I could not let him fire his weapon, alerting the other trackers of my location. He slowly closed the distance between us.

I was standing in thick undergrowth, which gave me excellent concealment. My tiger stripe clothing blended well in here. I had painted my face black and green earlier this morning, and I just hoped my face paint had not completely come off after my morning episode in the marsh. As long as I made no sudden movement, he wouldn't see me. He was getting very close. He smelled like raw fish! With the big knife securely in my right hand, I waited.

With almost no movement other than my right elbow very slowly bending backwards, I eased the big knife up to thigh level. I could almost reach out and touch him now.

He was searching for me. He was so intent on looking at the ground, trying to pick up my trail, that he was totally unaware I was less than eight feet from him. I just knew he could hear my breathing or my heart beating like a drum. My knees began shaking uncontrollably. Large beads of sweat were running down my face.

I waited for the right moment. I saw his nostrils flare, as he slowly lifted his head and smelled the air. Suddenly! He stopped, he didn't move. Did he smell me? He turned his head around very slowly and looked over his left shoulder back toward the river. I made my move. In one quick stride, I was within killing range and the big eight-inch razor sharp blade rapidly plunged upwards, under his ribcage, toward his heart. His eyes and facial expression showed disbelief. Our eyes met and I saw his fear, his mouth opened and his own bloody bile oozed out and ran down his chin before depositing itself onto his shirt. He clutched at my hand that held the knife and tried to push it from his body, but I held it steady and then gave it a violent twist, letting the big blade cut his insides even more. His eyes rolled upwards as he took his last breath.

His weapon fell from his hand to the ground. His finger never made it to his trigger.

He was actually dead before I let his young muscular body slide down to the jungle floor.

Hurriedly, I searched him and found nothing useful. Grabbing his arm I quickly dragged him into the thicket where I had been hiding. I picked up his weapon and threw it in there on top of him. I noticed my knees were not shaking anymore. I located my Weatherby and slowly made my way to the river, still some 60 yards away. I still had a long rough road ahead of me.

When I reached the river, I replenished my water supply and then began searching upstream for a sharp bend that would allow me to cross while limiting my exposure to others. In less than an hour, I found where the river made a sharp bend. There, just above the bend, I crossed the river and knew it was only a matter of time before the trackers would find the VC's body and my trail. They were like bloodhounds.

The Viet Cong really were excellent trackers, so good they could follow a trail that was two days old. I walked backwards from the edge of the jungle out into the river; then as I emerged from the river, I made sure I walked backwards into the jungle again, hoping to fool them for a little while and, just maybe, adding a few more minutes of distance between them and me.

I decided to go to my primary pickup point first. If things got rough, I would still have 24 hours to make it to the final pickup point. The pickup locations were set in a large triangle, with each point of the triangle designated as a chopper rescue point - these three locations were five miles apart. The chopper would be over the first point at a certain date and time. If I had not arrived, the chopper would be at the second point exactly 10 hours later and follow the same scenario for the third and final pickup point. Therefore, I conceived a plan to go to my first pickup point; if for whatever reason I missed the chopper, I would make my way to the third pickup point. This pattern gave me a better chance for survival and the best chance for pickup by the chopper.

There were now eight trackers somewhere out there still searching for me. By doing what they didn't expect would help me make it back alive. I did not want to end up missing or having my body never found. The Viet Cong were very ruthless fighters. They would chop me up like liver in a heartbeat. So to have the best chance to stay alive, I had to think positive and keep them guessing and leave as few tracks as possible. Far into the night, I continued moving southeast. I only stopped when I thought it was necessary to check my position, using the compass and map. I didn't know how close the other trackers were. I just knew they were relentless in pursuit by nature.

Suddenly, it began to rain very hard. This was very common here in Vietnam. I could move a little faster in this downpour. I still had another two miles before I reached pickup point Alpha - that should take maybe two hours at most in this weather. The chopper was due at dawn - 0538 hours. It was now 0210 hours. The signal for my pickup was to set off a green smoke flare when I saw the chopper approaching.

The rain was so hard that vision was limited to 20 yards. But the rain was also a blessing, as it would wash out my tracks, making it impossible for the Viet Cong to follow my trail.

The ear shattering sound of many semi-automatic rifles firing suddenly shattered the night's stillness. Many weapons were firing at once. Instinctively I found myself hitting the ground trying to get under the first layer of mud, wanting the earth to swallow me up - but all I managed to do was pee all over myself.

I thought, 'They've found me!" I didn't feel any pain from being shot, so after discovering I was not hit, I began to concentrate on my situation again.

It's raining like cat and dogs, so they couldn't have gotten a good target of me." I didn't know how many VC there were, or where they were. Soon, I discovered they were not shooting at me after all. The firefight sounded like it was somewhere off to my right, maybe 150 yards away. In this weather, it was hard to pinpoint exactly the direction or distance. I knew one thing for sure, now was the time to ease out of this area.

When the rain stopped just before dawn, I was waiting at pickup point Alpha. I had not heard or seen anyone else since the firefight during the night. I just hoped the chopper would be on time. Knowing how my luck worked, it would be late or something would happen when they tried to pick me up. I had made a sweep around the entire landing zone (LZ) prior to daybreak to insure the VC had not set an ambush. I heard the familiar sound of the chopper rotors; and as it approached at about 300 feet above the clearing, I set off the green flare. Once airborne, the pilot radioed that he had picked up the hitchhiker.

A military policeman (MP) driving a jeep met us at the airfield. The MP said, "I am to take you directly to Headquarters Intelligence." Minutes later, I gave a full briefing upon arrival to the duty officer. By 0900 hours, I had taken a shower and begun the task of cleaning my weapons.

One hour later, as I crawled into my cot, Gunnery Sgt. Davis came by to talk about the mission. He told me that last night a squad of South Vietnamese Marines and a few of our Marines had gotten in a firefight with a group of VC up near pickup point Alpha. I didn't mention to him just how close we were to each other. I just grunted, told him I had heard it, and then I turned over and passed out.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Vietnam, The Making of a Sniperby Jerry Melvin Mitchem Copyright © 2010 by Jerry Melvin Mitchem. Excerpted by permission.
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