American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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It seemed like everywhere I set up, I’d get a target. This started to
piss off some of the other snipers, who could spend whole shifts and
even days without seeing anybody, let alone an insurgent.
One day, Smurf, a fellow SEAL, started following me around as we
went into an apartment.
“Where are you setting up” he asked.
I looked around and found a place I thought looked good.
“Right there,” I told him.
“Good. Get the hell out of here. I’m taking this spot.”
“Hey, you take it,” I told him. I went off to find another spot—and
promptly got a kill from there.
For a while, it didn’t seem to matter what I did, things would happen
in front of me. I wasn’t inventing the incidents—I had witnesses
for all my shots. Maybe I saw a little farther, maybe I anticipated
trouble better than other people. Or, most likely, I was just lucky.
Assuming being a target for people who want to kill you can be
considered luck.
One time, we were in a house on Haifa Street, where we had so
many snipers that the only possible place to shoot from was a tiny window
above a toilet. I had to actually stand up the whole time.
I still got two kills.
I was just one lucky motherfucker.
One day, we got intel that the insurgents were using a cemetery at the
edge of town near Camp Independence at the airport to cache
weapons and launch attacks. The only way I could get a view of the
place was to climb up on this tall, tall crane. Once at the top, I then
had to go out on a thin-mesh platform.