He could feel the muscles in his neck tensing. "You do know bow many men you have, don't you?" "About twenty or so, I think." "How many rifles you have?" The sergeant shook his shaggy head. "Hell, I don't know. Ask the troops when you see 'em." "How many scopes you got? How many M-49s you got? Don't you know anything?" "Yeah," the Marine said spitefully, looking at Hathcock. "You're pissin' me off, hassling me about this shit. Where you comin' from anyway? We're doing just fine. Nobody bugs us and we don't bug nobody. We pull our details, do our time, and go back to the World... alive." "I remember you," Hathcock said. "You were here in '67.1 taught you myself." "Yeah, that's right. I got twenty-one confirmed kills and that's plenty." "In two years you got twenty-one kills. In six months I got eighty confirmed. In two years you ought to have a hundred. You must have just quit as soon as you got this platoon. You found a good deal, hiding out here, drinking beer, and collecting tax-free pay. "Well, I don't need you.
