By
Christopher Ziebarth
Through this jungle there lurks a soldier
One man who's smarter, stronger, bolder
A match grade rifle in his hand
He is known as White Feather through this land
He's the best soldier of his breed
One with very special skills indeed
He's crept along in the brush for hours
Along the floor he quickly scours
He has his mission, its set in its ways
He's been in the jungle alone for six whole days
Ever so slowly he's getting very near
The enemy hears something and is stricken with fear
The leader searches in the grass like hay
But he won't find his man for he's a mile away
He sets up his hide and gets his rifle ready
On two sandbags his rifle rests steady
He can't find the enemy and doesn't know the distance
But he searches the jungle with everlasting persistence
He finds the enemy, four in all
The first one is hit, the rest stricken with awe
One tries to run after he fired
But little does he know he'll only die tired
The others run for cover behind a massive rock
Way in the distance lies Carlos Hathcock
There he lays for two hours ready
His rifle to his shoulder, his cheek rested steady
In a little while they come out from cover
To little surprise, two dead comrades they discover
He works his magic one more time
The last one lets out a chilling cry
Even though that scene may give you a chill
That was the last for Carlos, his 93rd kill
Even now at home, he is remembered as brave
Not for the lives that he took, but the lives that he saved
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