The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  “I see you get to deliver the Golden Spirochete.”

  “Do I detect a trace of humour, Captain?”

  “I’m trying to hide it,” Warren replied.

  She forgave him with a smile. “It is funny. But I’m a surgeon and like to think I’ve better things to do.” That explained her firm grip. She didn’t mention that she had been assigned the duty after being introduced to Colonel Mace and firmly rejecting an offer to share his bed. Fortunately, that situation had been covered at Sheppard in an informal training session with a veteran nurse. Her “no” was followed with a reference to the chaplain. The trip to Nakhon Phanom was Mace’s revenge, a pathetic attempt to stroke his damaged ego. For the most part, Captain Lynne Pender considered it an adventure but felt better venting her frustration.

  The Passenger Service bus was back and slammed to a halt. A different sergeant jumped down, closely followed by the two captains from Intel, Judith Slovack and Ronald Huckabee. The sergeant helped them off load four suitcases and two stuffed B-4 parachute bags with all their personal belongings. Flanders, the loadmaster, quickly signed the manifest and helped the sergeant and two officers lug their bags to the loading ramp at the rear of the aircraft.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Flanders said in a loud voice. “I am Staff Sergeant Glen Flanders, your loadmaster for this first-class flight to Nakhon Phanom. By regulations, I am required to brief you on emergency procedures. In the event of a fire, you will hear me shout ‘Follow me!’ Please do so in order to avoid becoming a crispy critter. Once we have your bags loaded, follow me aboard and we can finish your passenger brief and we can get this delightful experience on the road.”

  Warren shook his head at Flanders’s very non-standard passenger brief and climbed through the crew entrance. A tall and gangly teenager was waiting just inside. “Airman Boyle?” Warren asked.

  “Yessir,” the airman answered.

  “Welcome ...”

  Boyle cut him off in mid sentence. “Am I the loadmaster here or not?”

  Warren took the airman in, not liking what he saw. His flight suit was dirty, his hair too long for a tropical climate, his boots needed cleaning, and his survival vest hung loosely over his shoulders. Warren didn’t care about spit and polish, not in a war zone, but he did care about basic hygiene. “Staff Sergeant Glen Flanders is the loadmaster on this aircraft. You can learn a lot from him.” He shouldered Boyle aside and climbed the short ladder onto the flight deck.

  “But Flanders is a ...”

  Warren turned and stared down at him. “Sergeant Flanders is a what?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Warren had caught Boyle’s hard twangy southern drawl and chalked his attitude up to racism. He decided to give the teenager a break. “This is the Air Force, Boyle. Get used to it. Now, go give Sergeant Flanders a hand.” Fortunately, Boyle read Warren correctly and disappeared down the crew entrance steps without a word.

  Warren settled into the left hand pilot’s seat and unzipped his survival vest, getting comfortable. Steve Bosko was already in the co-pilot’s seat running the cockpit checklist with the flight engineer. Dave Santos was seated at the navigator’s position directly behind Bosko, facing outboard to the right, still sorting out the paperwork. The flight engineer, Technical Sergeant Mike Hale, was sitting behind and between the two pilots. His seat was slightly higher so he could reach the overhead instrument panels. But that was no problem for the skinny six foot four sergeant. He was the tallest man in the squadron and his red hair covered numerous scars from banging into low objects on the aircraft. He had to be especially careful of the sextant, when installed for overwater flights, that hung from the overheard directly behind his seat. A pleasant demeanour, friendly blue eyes, and a mass of freckles concealed a very intelligent and deeply religious man. He was known for ‘going by The Book’, and wanted to make chief master sergeant before he retired.

  “Time to light the fires,” Warren said. “Aux power on.” The flight engineer’s hands danced over the instrument panel as he fed power from the auxiliary power generator into the electrical bus, bringing the aircraft to life. Bosko turned on the radios and checked in with ground control. Before he could request an engine start, ground control told them to shut down. Another passenger was on his way out.

  “Hurry up and wait,” Santos moaned.

  “Must be a VIP,” Bosko decided.

  “I think I’ll go howdy our passengers,” Warren said. He wanted to find out why Colonel Mace had kicked Huckabee and Slovack off his base. And there was the attractive captain.

  *

  The Laotian-South Vietnamese Border

  “Why are we going this way?” Colonel Dinh moaned, reluctant to leave the safety of the cave so soon after the B-52s had carpet-bombed the valley.

  Tran heard the panic in his words and suppressed a smile. “It is the only way to the command post,” he replied. “Besides, we must be seen if the cadre is to have confidence in our orders.” An explosion echoed over them and Dinh flinched, struggling to remain calm. Both men knew they were being watched and evaluated by every man and woman in the Binh Tram. Reluctantly, Tran decided to run cover for the colonel, allowing him to save face. “Ah, that is our clearance teams at work. They immediately detonate any bomb that has not exploded. Some are duds but the Americans also use delayed-action fuses on bombs they drop. Those are the most dangerous.” Another explosion punctuated his sentence.

  Dinh flinched again, on the edge of panic. “How many more?”

  “We cannot be sure. Intelligence tells us that each B-52 coming from Guam carries sixty-six bombs, and we counted six B-52s.” He ran the numbers for Dinh, again disgusted that the colonel didn’t know what they dealt with in the forward operating area. “That means the Americans dropped 396 five-hundred pound bombs for a total of 198,000 pounds, almost 90,000 kilos, of explosives. Normally, three percent of the bombs fail to detonate, or twelve bombs.” On cue, two more explosions echoed over the valley. “That was number eleven and twelve,” he explained. “Our teams will continue to search, but we must get back to work, salvage what we can, and prepare for tonight.” He fixed Dinh with a steady look. “The war does not stop for B-52s.”

  Silently, they made their way into the valley, following the small stakes with strips of green cloth wrapped around the top. The carpet-bombing had turned the thick jungle into a massive green trash heap. A nearby explosion deafened them and Dinh fell to the ground, screaming incoherently. He slowly calmed. “You said that was all!”

  Tran squatted beside the prostrate colonel. He suppressed a smile. “I said we cannot be sure and our clearance teams are still searching.”

  Dinh came to his knees and Tran offered him a hand. Dinh shook his head and struggled to his feet unassisted. “I must survey your losses.” He pulled himself to his full five-feet two-inches and fixed Tran with a hard look. “There will be consequences for your dereliction.”

  Tran’s face was impassive. “Perhaps the colonel can show us how to avoid the bombs.”

  “The directives are very clear,” Dinh explained, his voice patronizing. “It is called ‘dispersal’. Do not concentrate the material in your care. Even a child understands that.”

  “Ah, yes,” Tran replied. “Even a child.” He spun around and headed down the marked path, into the devastation. Dinh scrambled to follow. It was the bravest thing the colonel ever did. Tran paused by an old bomb crater that had been dug out and encircled by a reinforced berm of logs and sandbags. Inside, a stack of crates and sacks of rice were neatly stacked. “Only a direct hit can destroy a cache like this,” Tran explained. “The directives only ordered us to disperse our stores and equipment, not how to protect them.” They followed the path, assessing the damage. Tran calculated that one out of every six storage areas had taken a direct hit. It could have been worse, much worse. They finally reached the far side of the valley and scrambled up a low ridge and into a large bunker dug into the side of the hill. “Our command post,” Tran
said.

  Kim-Ly was waiting and handed Dinh a folded note. “A confidential message from General Dong.” General Dong Sy Nguyen was the commander of Group 559 and responsible for the Ho Chi Minh trail. She waited for Dinh to sign that he had received the message. She handed Tran a clipboard. “The first damage estimate,” she said, loud enough for Dinh to hear. “We estimate eighteen percent destroyed or damaged. They missed the petroleum dump.”

  “Casualties?” Tran asked.

  “Two members of the clearance team were killed when a bomb they were defusing detonated prematurely.”

  “And your operational status?” Dinh demanded.

  Kim-Ly thought for a moment. “Our teams need six more hours to fully sweep the area and be fully operational.”

  “Unacceptable,” Dinh growled. He was answered by another explosion.

  Tran spoke in a low voice, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Perhaps the colonel will personally train our clearance teams how to be more efficient?”

  Every man and woman in the command post caught the insult and Dinh knew it would spread like a wild fire, racing up the trail by word-of-mouth and reaching Hanoi within days. But thanks to the message in his hand, he had another card to play. “Your disrespect is duly noted. But that is not my concern. The message I just received orders me to find out why the necessary logistics are not reaching our gallant soldiers fighting and dying at Khe Sanh – and to correct it.” A satisfied look spread across his face. “As this is your area of responsibility, please explain.”

  Tran sensed the danger. “I am fully aware of the problem.” He stepped to the large-scale map on the back wall of the bunker and pointed to a town inside South Vietnam. “As the Colonel knows,” he said, using the standard politically correct jargon, “this Binh Tram is the logistical base for our gallant soldiers fighting the Americans at Khe Sanh.”

  “I’m not a fool.” Dinh snapped. He pushed Tran aside and used his fingers to span off the distance from their location to Khe Sanh. “Thirty-five kilometres,” he announced. He made no attempt to conceal the contempt in his voice.

  “As the bird flies,” Tran replied. “However, it is over seventy kilometres by trails that only porters can use. The situation on the ground is much more complicated than on the Truong Son Strategic Supply Route.” He used the official North Vietnamese name for the Ho Chi Minh trail. Tran pointed to a spot eight kilometres to the east of their headquarters and well inside South Vietnam. “This is the hamlet of A Xóc.”

  “And that is your bottleneck?” Dinh said, not really asking a question.

  “The hamlet is deserted. Unfortunately, the Americans have turned it into a Special Forces camp that blocks the ford crossing the Se Pang Hieng. The Se Pang Hieng is not a big river, but the crossing is very treacherous and it blocks the way south to Khe Sanh. The Americans know this and have reinforced the camp they call Se Pang with Bru, who pride themselves on killing Vietnamese.”

  “Attack and destroy it,” Dinh said.

  “General Dong is aware of the situation.”

  “And my orders are quite clear. Must I repeat myself?”

  “I only have one company of infantry available, less than one hundred men under Captain Lam. They are light infantry and to attack a fortified camp like Se Pang is a sacrifice of good men.”

  “You have other personnel. Use them.”

  Tran stared at Dinh, wondering if the man was a complete idiot. “Most of the cadre are drivers, porters, mechanics, guides, engineers, medics, cooks, and specialists. They not trained soldiers.”

  “You have your orders.”

  Tran carefully chose his words. “I’m sure the Colonel is aware that General Dong has ordered four attacks on Se Pang. Each time the Americans called in their forward air controllers and attack aircraft. The firepower is devastating.”

  “I am familiar with their tactics.”

  But not the destruction and havoc they cause, Tran thought. It was fall-back time. “May we step outside for a word?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he motioned for Kim-Ly to follow him. Dinh hesitated before following them outside.

  Tran walked down a side path until they were well clear of the command post. He scanned the area to be sure no one could overhear them. “Colonel Dinh, you need to hear from my closest advisor.” He motioned for Kim-Ly to join them. “My second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Du.”

  Dinh threw her a contemptuous glance. “Ah, your woman. And is she a lieutenant colonel because she shares your bed?”

  Kim-Ly lowered her head in submission and Tran stifled a reply. Dinh should have known that General Giap introduced them when she was a newly-promoted lieutenant colonel. Giap had warned Tran that Kim-Ly was well named. “She is truly a golden lion,” Giap had said, giving emphasis to her given name. Both understood that Giap intended for them to serve the communist party as one.

  “Colonel Dinh,” Kim-Ly said, her voice soft and non-threatening, “I am a mere woman and do not fully understand your responsibilities and cares. Please forgive me for what I am about to say. General Dong has sacrificed over five thousand of our frontline soldiers trying to destroy Se Pang.”

  Dinh stiffened at the number. He was not a fool and knew what that number meant, even for the People’s Army of Vietnam. “Where did you get that number?”

  “I counted them,” she replied. She let it sink in. “May I offer this? Why doesn’t General Dong himself issue the order for another attack? Is it because he knows what the Americans can do, and if the attack again failed would the political costs be too high? Is that why he ordered you to solve the problem?” She fell silent, her eyes fixed on Dinh’s face.

  A little tick played at the corner of Dinh’s right eye. “Are you suggesting that General Dong needs a scapegoat?”

  “The Colonel can answer that question much better than me,” she answered, throwing it back at Dinh. She had made her point, and the tick at the corner of Dinh’s eye grew more pronounced.

  Dinh had survived in the cutthroat world of Vietnamese politics by playing one side against the other, but now he was the other side. He ran the options through his mental abacus, subtracting and adding the variables that spelled success or failure. “Today, the first day of Tet, is the day we launch phase two of Tong Cong Kich – Tong Khoi Ngia. This is the General Offensive, the general uprising we have been planning for years. We are attacking the American pirates and their worthless allies on hundreds, thousands, of fronts. They are being overwhelmed and will not be able to send their aircraft, or reinforcements of any kind to Se Pang. It is only eight kilometres away, and you will attack at first dark. Victory will be ours!”

  *

  I Corps, South Vietnam

  Tanner ran the numbers as they headed for the fuel dump, guesstimating distance versus fuel remaining. It was going to be tight and they were pushing the envelope. Flying with a new crew was always dicey at first, even under normal conditions. But this was far from an average day, and he had to find out exactly who he was flying with. He knew Tony Perkins was fresh out of helicopter training at Fort Rucker, Alabama, with barely 200 hundred hours flying time – just enough to get him killed. It was the job of the older heads to teach him how to really fly, and given time, the baby-faced pilot might make it. But the crew chief and medic were totally unknown. “Listen up. With full fuel, we can just make Firebase Lonzo and make it back to a fuel dump. But it will be tight. How’s the machine?”

  The crew chief answered. “She’s good, Mr. Tanner. She flies by the numbers, fuel consumption on the good side.”

  “Sounds good,” Tanner replied. “By the way, what’s your handle?” In the rush of launching he had not seen the crew chief’s name tag.

  “Specialist First Class Rick Myers.”

  “Been in-country long, Myers?”

  “I’m a short timer. Eighteen days and a wake-up, then I’m gone, back to the land of the big PX.”

  “Medic,” Tanner asked, “what about you?”

  �
��Specialist First Class Hal Collins. This is my second in-country.” A second time in Vietnam meant that Collins was a volunteer, and probably a “lifer” who planned to make the Army a career. Tanner doubted that either man was over twenty years old, but both were highly experienced. Where do we find them? Tanner wondered.

  Tanner had a visual on the fuel dump and could make out the black amoeba-like fuel bladder, the pump, and four small PSP landing pads, one in each quadrant. “Okay, let’s do this one by the numbers. We need five hundred pounds of fuel. In and out in five minutes. Can you make that happen?”

  “Can do,” Myers promised.

  Tanner headed for the nearest pad and gently set the Huey down. He kept the engine running for a hot refuel. Without a word, Myers pulled the release pin to Tanner’s chicken plate and slid it back before following Collins out of the aircraft. Collins closed the right door, exposing the fuel cap, as Myers ran for the pump. Collins quickly connected the grounding lines to the helicopter and refuelling hose as Myers hit the pump’s start switch, bringing it to life.

  “You’ve got the controls,” Tanner told Perkins as he unstrapped.

  “I’ve got the controls,” Perkins replied.

  Tanner was out and running for the empty rocket tubes half-buried upright in the ground that served as relief tubes. He stood there, surprised by his bladder’s capacity. Finished, he sprinted for the helicopter and bailed into his seat, quickly strapping in. “I’ve got the controls.” Perkins was already unstrapped and jumped out, his turn to hit the relief tubes. He passed Collins, the medic, who was on the way back after his turn at the tubes. Tanner checked the fuel gauge. “Four hundred pounds,” he told the crew chief. They were almost full.

  Myers backed off the flow and topped off without spilling a drop. Collins grabbed the nozzle and disconnected the grounding wires as Myers now ran for the relief tubes. Perkins and Collins were strapped in and ready to go when Myers made the dash back to the aircraft. He snapped Tanner’s chicken plate into place and bailed into the back. “Less than five minutes, Mr. Tanner,” he yelled as the shrill whistle of an incoming mortar echoed over the fuel dump.