The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  Tran Sang Quan savoured the quiet moment and breathed calmly, gathering strength for what was to come. He stood exactly five-feet six-inches tall and weighed 130 pounds. At thirty-two years old, Tran was the youngest colonel in the People’s Army of Vietnam. However, there was no rank or insignia on the green uniform that hung from his wiry frame. That was a violation of army regulations, but the generals who made policy in Hanoi didn’t have to live and fight in the jungles of Laos and South Vietnam. Tran’s hair was cropped short, and his eyes and facial features revealed a trace of European blood in his heritage, but there was no doubt that he was Annamese. In full light, a doctor might notice the slight trace of yellow in his eyes caused by the yellow fever he had contracted in Central Africa while escaping from Algeria in 1957.

  Tran was an eager student in Paris in 1956 where he was seduced by the success and charisma of Ho Chi Minh in his battle to liberate Vietnam from its French masters. A college professor at the Sorbonne, a dedicated communist, had arranged for Tran to travel to Algeria and experience that war first-hand, learning how to defeat the French. It was a rare opportunity and he had spent his twenty-first birthday observing the Battle of Algiers, the most dramatic and blood-stained episode of the Algerian War. It was the last of the old-style “colonial wars” pitting the French army and colonists against the indigenous Arabic tribes. Because of his ethnicity and fluency in both French and Arabic, the young man had moved between both sides, watching and learning. He had seen how the French used brute force and torture to terrorize the population and cut through the FLN, the Front de Libération Nationale.

  Equally appalling, he photographed the FLN’s use of terrorist bombs, killing and maiming innocent children, women, and men. But the most valuable lesson for Tran was the infighting he witnessed that had wracked the leadership of the FLN. Later, both the FLN and the French wanted to capture and interrogate him. Tran ran for his life, escaping southward across the Sahara. He finally boarded a freighter in Durban, South Africa, that carried him to India where he made his way to Hanoi, returning to the city of his birth. It had been a gut-wrenching experience for the young Vietnamese, but he had learned an invaluable lesson – how to defeat a modern, western army.

  “Colonel Tran,” a woman’s voice said, capturing his attention. It was Lieutenant Colonel Du Kim-Ly his second in command and his common-law wife – all in accordance with party doctrine. “The cadre are accounted for. The Regiment is safe.”

  Tran’s face was impassive. “Double-check.”

  “We have,” the lieutenant colonel replied, fully aware of Tran’s methods. “But I will check again.”

  “That is not necessary,” Tran said. His concern for his people was unique among the higher ranks of the People’s Army of Vietnam, and, as a consequence, he had earned the distrust of his superiors. Valuing personnel over material was considered an American weakness. But the men and women under his command would follow him anywhere, and he did more with fewer resources than any of his fellow commanders, and, more importantly, he had a well-earned reputation for literally delivering the goods.

  “Colonel Dinh has not arrived,” the woman said.

  “The Colonel’s guides are not familiar with the area,” Tran replied. “They’re probably lost.” Nothing in his soft tone betrayed the deep contempt he held for Dinh Hung Dung, who was a well-placed member of the Military Affairs Committee that coordinated policy and strategy between Hanoi and the geographic commands in the field. Dinh and three of his braver staff were traveling down the Ho Chi Minh trail on a so-called inspection tour. In reality, it was a political shakedown reminiscent of the infighting Tran had seen in Algeria. Sooner or later, Tran would have to choose sides, a decision he didn’t want to make.

  “Please ask Captain Lam to find Colonel Dinh and bring him to safety,” Tran said. Lam was the commander of the infantry company under Tran’s command and would carry out the order, even if it meant carrying the corpulent Dinh up the mountain.

  “Yes, Colonel,” the woman replied, leaving him alone. Tran sat down on his haunches and slept, his back against the rock face of the cave’s low entrance.

  *

  Loud voices echoed up the trail and woke Tran long before the missing men arrived at the cave. Captain Lam led the way, setting a brisk pace for the men following him. “Quickly, quickly,” he urged in a low voice, motioning the men into the cave. He kept glancing to the east, looking for the bombers he knew were coming. A small soldier carrying the rotund Colonel Dinh staggered out of the thick underbrush. Dinh was straddling a wooden frame strapped to the soldier’s back that was normally used for carrying wounded. He complained loudly. The soldier almost collapsed as he sat Dinh on his feet. “Well done,” Lam told the young private. “Go inside.” Lam turned to Tran. “My apologies, Colonel.” Tran motioned Lam into the cave as the last of the rescue party arrived. Like Dinh, all three of his staff were carried on the backs of soldiers.

  Dinh was in high dudgeon and turned on Tran. “You exceeded your authority. Members of the Military Affairs Committee are not herded like water buffalo or carried like sacks of rice. And why did your captain apologize to you? I deserve the apology.” Dinh waited expectantly. Although he and Tran were equal in rank, in the grand pecking order of the People’s Army of Vietnam, Dinh was a celestial being and Tran a mere mortal.

  “Captain Lam apologized for the noise,” Tran explained. From the look on Dinh’s face, the celestial being didn’t have a clue. “The Bru have sharp ears and know how to set ambushes.”

  “The Bru?” Dinh asked.

  Tran hid his disgust for the portly Dinh as he explained what the desk-bound colonel should have known. “Bru is the name of the local Montagnard tribe who scout for the Americans.” The Montagnards were the indigenous hill people of the Central Highlands and were closely allied with the American special forces operating in the area.

  “The Americans are fools,” Ding snapped.

  “Maybe in Saigon,” Tran replied. He had interrogated a downed American pilot before shipping the wounded officer up the Ho Chi Minh trail. The American had described the brass in Saigon as “REMFs”, rear echelon motherfuckers. Discretion had kept Tran from sympathizing with him. There was no doubt that Dinh was the Vietnamese version of a REMF. Again, discretion marked Tran’s words. “But the Americans here know how to fight.”

  Dinh wasn’t having any of it. “Perhaps we need regimental commanders who possess the will to fight.” The threat was obvious. “For the truly motivated, the Americans are easily defeated.”

  “Perhaps,” Tran said, his voice low and without emotion, “the Colonel can instruct me on how to easily defeat that.” He pointed to the east where two B-52s in close formation overflew their initial point and headed for the valley below where Dinh had been minutes before. Two more B-52s rolled out behind the first element, slightly displaced to the south. A third element of two was right behind. The bombs started to stream down, and, thanks to long experience, Tran knew what was coming. “We must go inside,” he told Dinh, leading the way into the dark cave. Two soldiers hurried to board up the entrance with heavy planks as the first of the rolling explosions shook the mountain, turning the heavy jungle below into a mass of green pulp.

  Tran checked his watch. It was exactly 0600 hours. “Amazing,” he whispered. The bombers had flown over 2400 hundred miles and hit their time-on-target almost to the second. Dinh held his hands over his ears, his face contorted in fear. “It is safer down there,” Tran said, motioning deeper into the cave. The stench of the packed bodies inside was stifling and overpowering. Dinh bolted in the direction Tran was pointing.

  Tran stared at Dinh’s back. His second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Du Kim-Ly, stepped out of a small alcove hidden in the shadows. “Why didn’t you let him die in the valley?”

  The memories of Algiers came back. “That would have been counterproductive. We do not fight among ourselves.”

  “Dinh will have you replaced in disgrace after he sees w
hat we lost from the bombing,” she predicted.

  “But we will be alive,” Tran replied.

  “And so will Dinh,” Kim-Ly added. “He is a fool.”

  “Fortunately, he is capable of learning. That is why General Giap sent him here.”

  Kim-Ly stared at her commander, her lover, her world, wondering how he knew what motivated Giap. There was no doubt in her mind that Tran was the best commander in the People’s Army of Vietnam, and she would personally slit Dinh’s throat if he was a threat to Tran. She hurried into the cave, calculating how to monitor Dinh’s every word and action. She knew just the girl.

  0600 HOURS

  Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam

  Most of the officers filing into the main briefing room in wing headquarters for the morning intelligence briefing were from Maintenance or Logistics with a sprinkling of Security Cops and fighter pilots from the 12th Tactical Fighter Wing. Warren and Bosko were among the last to arrive and found places to stand against the back wall. “Like you said,” Warren said in a low voice, “the best show on base. I think we’re the only trash haulers here.”

  A major came through the side door at the front, took a deep breath, and bellowed: “Room! Ten-hut!” Everyone came to their feet as the wing commander, Colonel Robert L. Mace, and his staff marched into the room and took their seats in the front row. The last man in line was Lieutenant Colonel Stanley Hardy.

  “It figures,” Warren muttered.

  “He’s working on the Brown Nose Cluster to the MSM,” Bosko replied. Warren chuckled at the co-pilot’s play of words on the MSM, or Meritorious Service Medal. The medal was awarded for outstanding staff work, and an Oak Leaf Cluster indicated it had been awarded a second time. “Hey,” Bosko added, “you gotta kiss a lot of ass to get the Brown Nose Cluster.”

  “Seats, gentlemen,” Mace called. The audience shuffled back into their seats. Immediately, the lights dimmed and two captains wearing jungle fatigues stepped to the podiums. The tall and lithe, and very attractive, Judith Slovack took the podium on the right as the short and wiry Ronald Huckabee stepped to the podium on the left. He made a show of climbing on a wooden crate to reach the microphone.

  Slovack opened the briefing. “Colonel Mace, gentlemen, good morning. This is your intelligence briefing for Wednesday, January 31, 1968.” The screen lit up with a 35mm slide of the logo of the 12th Tactical Fighter Wing superimposed over an outline map of South Vietnam. A big star was superimposed over Cam Ranh Bay, and Colonel Mace’s name filled the bottom. The soft click of the projector echoed over the room, and the screen cycled to a photo of the American embassy in Saigon. “Today is the first day of the Tet Festival celebrating the lunar New Year. It is the most important celebration in the Vietnamese culture. The Viet Cong opened the festivities by attacking the American Embassy at approximately 0300 hours. The VC rapidly breached the walls and ran through the compound. The action is on-going, and at last report, most of the compound has been secured. There was also a wave of similar attacks, mostly in I and II Corps. Headquarters MACV” – she pronounced it MacVee – “is not overly alarmed and is discounting the significance of the attacks.”

  The image cycled with a soft click and the image of the coastal city of Qui Nhon came into focus, creating a zooming in effect. Huckabee stepped to the side of the screen with a handheld microphone. “On Sunday, January 28, South Korean combat teams from the White Horse Division captured two small groups of VC and took possession of two pre-recorded audio tapes, both with the same message.” Huckabee pressed a button and a stream of Vietnamese echoed from the loudspeakers. After a few seconds, Huckabee cut it off. “If I may translate, ‘loyal comrades are urged to join in the general offensive, which has started in already occupied Saigon, Hue, and Da Nang.’ The tone of the words is definitive and positive, announcing an accomplished fact. To make a statement like that and then be proven wrong would be a major loss of face.”

  Now it was Slovack’s turn. The image on the screen cycled to another map of Vietnam, this time with little fires scattered across all four Corps areas of South Vietnam. “As of 0500 hours this morning, attacks have been reported in over one-hundred towns, including thirty-six of the forty-four provincial capitals. The timing and extent of the attacks indicates a well-coordinated plan. We queried MACV by flash message as to the current status but have not received a reply.”

  Huckabee stepped to the front of the stage. “Colonel Mace, gentlemen, the scale and timing of the attacks is so unique that I’m forced to conclude the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese have mounted a major offensive. Expect a wider outbreak of fighting within the next twenty-four hours.” A hard silence came down as Huckabee and Slovack stood together at the front of the stage ready to answer any questions.

  Colonel Mace stood. “I’ve just gotten off the secure line to Headquarters Seventh Air Force in Saigon and they assure me that this activity is little more than the death spasm of a defeated enemy. You Intel pukes need to spend more time reading intelligence summaries than the headlines from the commie sympathizing press in the States.” He turned and scanned the room. “Let me remind everyone here that the way home is through Hanoi. We’ve got more important work to do than listen to defeatism from liberal Intel pukes. Dismissed.” He stormed out of the room with his staff in tow.

  “Ouch,” Bosko said. “Will Mace fire them?”

  “Probably,” Warren replied.

  “Do you think they got it right?”

  Warren’s lips pulled into a frown. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Let’s go,” Bosko urged in a low voice. “Hardy’s seen us. Coming our way.”

  “Crap,” Warren muttered. They scooted towards the exit.

  “Gentlemen,” Hardy called, “hold up.” He pushed through the rapidly dwindling crowd. “While I’m glad you made the briefing, your time would have been better spent at the barber shop. Or are you suffering from short-term memory loss?” He fixed them with a hard look. “We take our marching orders from Colonel Mace, and you are not to discuss what you’ve heard here with anyone. It is defeatism pure and simple that we will not be a party to.”

  Warren was confused. “How is a warning of an enemy attack in a war zone defeatism?”

  Hardy’s face turned to granite. “Are you hard of hearing? A defeated enemy does not attack.”

  “Apparently the VC haven’t got the word,” Warren replied.

  Hardy’s face turned red. “I don’t have the time to discuss strategy, much less policy, with a captain. Your orders are simple and I don’t like repeating myself. Make sure everyone on your crew gets a haircut today and get some polish on your boots.” He turned to Bosko. “And you will trim your moustache. Today. Have I made myself clear?” The two junior officers nodded, anxious to escape. “As always, I expect you to conduct yourselves as members of the world’s finest Air Force. That is why I told Colonel Mace you will fly the Air Force Surgeon General’s Golden Spirochete to Nakhon Phanom in Thailand today. Needless to say, Colonel Mace wants it off his base ASAP.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Warren conceded. He managed not to smile.

  Hardy did a sharp about face and marched for the exit. The two pilots looked at each other and broke out in hoots of laughter. The Golden Spirochete was a purple guidon, or fanion. Guidons are small, swallow-tailed flags with a unit’s identification mounted on a six-foot staff and carried on parade. In a very real sense, they represent the unit. This particular guidon was embroidered with a golden spirochete, the spiral-shaped bacteria that caused syphilis. It was awarded each month to the hospital or clinic with the highest venereal disease rate in Southeast Asia, supposedly in an effort to motivate the unit to curb the soaring rates. “Hey,” Bosko finally managed, “we can get a Thai haircut while we’re there.” The Thai barbershop outside the main gate at Nakhon Phanom was famous for the pretty girls who worked there and infamous for offering much more than haircuts.

  “All things considered,” Warren said, “I don’t think that would be a wise id
ea.”

  Again, they roared with laughter. Hardy heard them and turned, fixing them with his command look before disappearing through the door. “Yep,” Bosko said, “he’s definitely oh-six material.” O-6 was the alpha-numeric designation for a colonel while O-5, Hardy’s current rank, indicated a lieutenant colonel. Warren, a captain, was an O-3 and Bosko, a first lieutenant, an O-2.

  “Rank times IQ is a constant,” Warren intoned.

  Bosko paused as it sank in. “Hey, that’s funny.” Their laughter echoed over the deserted room. The co-pilot made a mental note to pass the remark on to Santos.

  *

  Phu Bai, South Vietnam

  Three hundred miles north of Cam Ranh Bay, and fifty miles below the Demilitarized Zone that separated North and South Vietnam, the sun was breaking the horizon and casting long shadows over the big U.S. Army base outside the town of Phu Bai. Phu Bai had been a sleepy town in Quang Tri, the northern-most province of South Vietnam but the war had changed all that. Now, Quang Tri Province, along with the four northern provinces, made up the military region known as I Corps.

  A lone runner circled the parking apron where the helicopters were lined up in precise rows, each parked in its own L-shaped revetment. Each revetment cast a long shadow across the PSP matting, the pierced steel planking that held the mud at bay. The Army had also used the planking to sandwich sandbags between two walls of PSP, creating the open bunkers the Hueys could easily taxi into for protection.

  The runner automatically counted the helicopters. “Twenty-nine,” he muttered. The 571st Medical Company Air Ambulance had lost another aircraft, but he fully expected it would be replaced within hours. Dust Offs had that priority. He made a mental note to check on the status of the crew. Unfortunately, he had been in-country eight months and knew the odds. He picked up the pace.

  The crew chiefs servicing the helicopters looked up as he pounded past. For the most part, they shook their heads. More than one muttered something about “fuckin’ stupid” as no one ran in their Army unless they were ordered to, or they were running away from something, like incoming rockets. WO-1, Warrant Officer-Grade One, Wilson Tanner was a strange sight. He was wearing a tee shirt, running shorts, and combat boots. He would have worn his Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, if he could have found a way to keep the shoulder holster from flopping around. Other than when he was running, the Combat Masterpiece was his constant companion. He kicked into high gear. There was no doubt the wiry twenty-one-year-old could run. At five foot eight inches, he set a blistering pace, his shaved head glistening with sweat.