The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  That was enough confirmation for Tanner and he headed for the clearing. “All clear,” Perkins called from the left seat as Tanner flew a short approach into the clearing. “Wind’s right to left,” Perkins said, confirming Tanner’s reading. He turned into the wind to kill their forward airspeed and flared hard, banging the tall grass down. The two marines broke from cover. The lead man carried a body across his shoulders. He gently passed his buddy to Collins who pulled him into the cabin. The two marines scrambled aboard.

  “Clear!” Collins shouted. He held onto the wounded marine as Tanner lifted off and spun the Huey around. They were clear. He quickly checked the Marine’s pulse and gently removed his equipment belt. There was nothing he could do and he looked up at the two other Marines and shook his head.

  They nodded in answer. “No way we were going to leave him behind,” the taller one said.

  Collins spoke into his mike. “Mr. Tanner, we have a casualty.” He didn’t say wounded.

  “Copy,” Tanner replied. “What happened at Lonzo?”

  “I’ll put the corporal on headset,” Collins said. He passed a headset to the Marine, and repeated the question.

  “We were overrun,” the Marine said. “They kept coming up the south side. It was a turkey shoot, but they just kept coming. Like lemmings. Couldn’t even touch our barrels they got so hot. We were getting low on ammo when they overran the communications bunker. That’s when the captain ordered a fall back to the northern side. He ordered us three to make a break for it. We went down the side.” He looked at his fallen comrade. “Jake took a hit.”

  “Were they VC or PAVN?” Tanner asked. PAVN was the abbreviation for People’s Army of North Vietnam, the American name for the North Vietnamese army.

  “PAVN all the way. But we made ‘em pay for it.”

  Tanner’s jaw hardened. But at what cost? “We need to get you to your unit. Where to?”

  “Chu Lai.”

  1200 HOURS

  Nakhon Phanom, Thailand

  Two staff cars coasted to a stop on the parking ramp as Roscoe Two-One taxied into the chocks. The airman driving the lead car jumped out and snapped the passenger door open. Colonel Bill Sloan, the wing commander, unfolded from the back seat. He was not wearing a Class A blue uniform as protocol dictated for meeting a code three, but a set of jungle fatigues. He stood beside the car, his arms folded across his chest. The deep frown on his face was ample indication this was a distraction he did not need. His eyes followed the four ambulances that drove up to the rear of the aircraft, and he came to attention when the C-130’s crew entrance door flopped down.

  Sloan’s frown turned to granite when Hardy emerged through the hatch and he saw the silver oak leaf on Hardy’s flight cap. A lieutenant colonel was far removed from any code three. Warren and Pender, who was carrying the furled guidon, deplaned next. Huckabee and Slovack were the last off.

  Hardy took one look at the waiting colonel and went into damage control. He stopped Pender and pointed her in the direction of Base Operations and Passenger Services, directing her as far away from the wing commander’s wrath as possible. The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he watched Pender walk away with the guidon. He knew what it was and why she was on his base. He spoke to his airman driver and gestured in Pender’s direction. The airman jerked his head in understanding and ran after Pender. Hardy marched up and threw a sharp salute.

  “My apologies, sir, but I had to get your attention and transportation.”

  The colonel studied Hardy’s nametag before returning the salute. “Lieutenant Colonel Hardy, do you have any idea what’s going down around here? I don’t have time for dumb-ass games, and this certainly qualifies.”

  “Sir, may I introduce Captains Slovack and Huckabee?”

  “I know who they are,” Sloan growled.

  Hardy explained. “They debriefed the Heavy Hook team who were on board your Jolly Green that went down at Ban Nap. They need to get to Intel soonest. We called for transportation when we were inbound but only got the run around, which is typical for trash haulers. But this is critical and I had to get someone’s attention. And, sir, you really need to hear what they’ve got.”

  “Then let Intel get it directly from the Heavy Hook team,” the colonel growled. “Not second hand.”

  “The team are all wounded, sir, and need immediate medical attention.” He gestured at the last ambulance as it pulled away.

  Sloan had not become the wing commander of the 56th Air Commando Wing by being slow or stupid. In fact, his IQ hovered around 135 and he had an exceptional sense of situational awareness. “This had better be good, Hardy, or I’m putting your ass through the meat grinder.” He motioned Hardy, Huckabee, and Slovack into the second staff car and sent them on their way. He looked at Warren, reading his name tag. “You the aircraft commander?”

  “Yes, sir,” Warren replied.

  “Get your ass in the car,” the wing commander growled, folding his lanky frame behind the steering wheel.

  Warren hesitated before climbing into the front passenger’s seat. “Sergeant Hale,” he called, “turn the bird and slap a patch on that bullet hole in the ramp.” The flight engineer didn’t need to be told what to do and Warren had said it for the colonel, hoping he understood battle damage. Warren crawled into the car and squeezed against the door, anxious to get as much space between himself and the colonel as possible.

  Sloan grabbed the radio mike and keyed the transmit button, calling his command post. “Invert, send the Roach Coach out to Roscoe ASAP and get the crew fed.” The Roach Coach was a well-stocked mobile lunch van that prowled the flight line and Maintenance twenty-four hours a day, and there had better be no misunderstanding what he wanted.

  “Roach Coach on the way,” Invert replied.

  Sloan mashed the accelerator. “Okay, Warren, you got my attention. So who made the decision to take your C-130 into Ban Nap?”

  Warren did a quick re-evaluation of the colonel. He obviously knew what was going down in his area of operations, which meant his staff was doing its job, and he was not a man to trifle with. “I did, sir.”

  “Who called the code three inbound?”

  “Colonel Hardy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Captains Huckabee and Slovack need to get to Intel ASAP. I called for transportation to meet us at the chocks when we were inbound, and all I got was the run-around. That’s when Colonel Hardy jumped in. Given the confusion that’s going down everywhere, we needed to get someone’s attention.”

  The colonel humphed. “Roger on the confusion. Any clues on what Huck and Judy have?” Like most commanders, Sloan did not like being surprised.

  Warren caught the “Huck and Judy” and his estimation of the man went up another notch. “No idea, sir. But based on what I’ve seen in the last eight hours, they’re the only ones with a clue.”

  “Tell me,” Sloan replied. He fell silent as they made the mile drive to the Tactical Units Operations Centre, better known as TUOC, where Intel was located.

  The staff car slammed to a halt in front of the sign announcing “TUOC – Where the Action Starts.” Sloan jumped out of the car and strode into the building, a bundle of controlled energy. Warren was right behind him as the colonel led the way into the main briefing room. The chief of Intel, a lieutenant colonel, held the door open and followed them in. Huckabee was already at work in front of a Plexiglas-covered wall chart. He used a grease pencil to mark in a series of circles and arrows.

  The wing commander found a seat next to Hardy and lit a cigarette. “Captain Huckabee, I’m Colonel Bill Sloan and in charge of the organized chaos around here. Glad to have you aboard. What have you got that has me playing chauffeur when I’ve better things to do?” The colonel was still playing the hard ass, but his words were laced with a sardonic humour.

  Huckabee tapped the last circle he had drawn on the wall chart. “Colonel Sloan, your Jolly Green took battle damage when it extracted a Heavy Hook team, less than six
kilometres west of the Special Forces compound at the Se Pang River ford.” He didn’t have to explain that whoever controlled the ford controlled the movement of material and personnel out of North Vietnam into western Quang Tri Provence and Khe Sanh. Huckabee spoke quietly. “The Heavy Hook team had monitored battalion-sized movement in broad daylight moving across the border into Quang Tri Provence.” Again, he did not have to explain the significance of troops moving during the day, but he did. “Expect a major attack on the Special Forces compound at the Se Pang River ford within the next twelve hours, probably after sunset, which is 1745 hours local.” With deliberate slowness, he circled the Special Forces compound in red.

  “Has this been up channelled?” Sloan asked.

  The chief of Intel answered. “It’s on the wires but message traffic is backed up. Even FLASH – URGENT message traffic is taking two hours to get through. I’ve got two troops working the secure telephones trying to get the word to Headquarters Seventh Air Force. No joy so far.”

  “Keep trying,” Sloan ordered. He pulled into himself, analysing the threat with his own special abacus. “How certain are you, Captain?”

  “It will happen tonight, sir,” Huckabee replied.

  “Okay.” Sloan turned to the chief of Intel. “Get the mission planning pukes in here.” The lieutenant colonel hurried out to find the three officers who planned special missions.

  Sloan had already made the decision to throw whatever he could at the threat. “So who am I up against?” Hard experience had taught him that his opposite number was a critical factor and leadership made all the difference. “I need a face.”

  Huckabee was expecting the question but didn’t have the full answer – yet. “Sir, we’ve intercepted wire traffic tracking a Colonel Dinh working his way south on the trail. Dinh is the daddy rabbit of the Military Affairs Committee in Hanoi and Giap’s hitman. He’s one bad actor. He has a history of showing up whenever Hanoi launches a major offensive.” He relaxed when Judy Slovack slipped into the room and stood quietly against the back wall. She was holding a thin folder and gave Huckabee a thumbs up. She had found what she wanted in a top secret safe.

  Sloan snorted. “Dinh is a political hack and Giap’s far too smart to put him in command of even a latrine. So who’s the real talent that I’m taking on?” For Sloan, combat was a very personal thing, even at the command level.

  Slovack stepped forward. “Colonel Sloan, if I may.” She handed him the folder she was holding. “Meet Colonel Tran Sang Quan, the commander of the logistical transportation regiment in Laos opposite Se Pang.”

  Sloan opened the folder and read. Slovack watched his eyes move down the pages, fully aware that he could read far faster than she could talk. She waited as he scanned the folder. The three captains who made up the mission planning cell filed in and stood against the rear wall. They all wore flight suits and were highly experienced pilots who had flown countless missions over the Hi Chi Minh trail, engaging the North Vietnamese. They knew the area, the enemy, and the defenses they were going to take on. The three officers were not the rear echelon, deskbound officers at higher headquarters who thought they were fighting a war. They were the foot that knew how to step on the enemy and kill him. Sloan’s eyes narrowed as he digested the contents of the folder and passed each page along to Hardy, who, in turn, passed it on to Warren.

  Thanks to the French SDECE, Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage, they had a detailed dossier on Tran, and there was no doubt the French wanted him dead. The colonel studied Tran’s photo, fixing the enemy in his mind, and then passed the photo to Hardy and Warren. “This guy is bad news,” he said. “I wish he were on our side.”

  Slovack stood quietly, taking the measure of her new commander. She noted, with interest, that he was not wearing a wedding ring. “Can we answer any questions, sir?”

  “Why Se Pang?” Sloan asked, more for the benefit of the three pilots and to reinforce the importance of what they were doing.

  Huckabee had been expecting that question. “By capturing Se Pang and controlling the river ford, the PAVN can make an end run around the DMZ. It opens up a short and direct supply route into South Vietnam, and gives the PAVN an invasion corridor into I Corps and Quang Tri Province.” He traced the twisted route that led southward from Se Pang and ended at the small town of Khe Sanh.

  “Why Khe Sanh?”

  Again, Huckabee was ready. “Taking Khe Sanh accomplishes a number of objectives. First, from Khe Sanh the NVA can launch a major attack towards the coast, peeling away the northern most layer of South Vietnam. We have no option and must honour the threat. Second, it will be a major effort on our part, draining both men and material from other areas further to the south. Third, it will distract our attention away from other lucrative PAVN objectives.”

  Sloan was not a happy camper, but he was a realist. “So, they get us looking where they want us to look.”

  “Yes, sir,” Huckabee replied.

  “But what if it fails?” Sloan asked. “Won’t that be a major setback?”

  “Only in manpower,” Huckabee answered. “From PAVN’s perspective, it could prove to be a Verdun for the U.S., bleeding us dry.”

  Sloan nodded, understanding the analogy with the bloody WW I battle of Verdun where the Germans systematically butchered the French army in a vain attempt to bleed it dry. “The political fallout in the U.S. would be devastating.”

  “Exactly,” Huckabee said. “A no-lose situation for them.”

  The airman that Sloan had sent running after Lynne Pender burst into the room carrying a flight suit. Sloan stood and peeled off his fatigues to change into his working uniform. “Captain Slovack, eyes front.”

  “Damn,” Judy Slovack muttered under her breath. She liked the colonel’s tall and rangy looks.

  “Well, Captain Huckabee,” Sloan said, “let’s make it a lose-lose situation for those fuckers. How do we make it happen?”

  “Classic interdiction,” Huckabee replied. He stepped to a second, much larger scale map of the river valley that led from Se Pang into Laos. He circled an area just inside Laos with a grease pencil. Now he was briefing everyone in the room, even though it meant repeating what Sloan already knew. But it was critical in getting everyone on the same page. “This is the closest Binh Tram, which is commanded by Colonel Tran Sang Quan who is, without doubt, the best commander the PAVN have in the field. We need to target him, and I think we know where he will be headquartered when he moves into South Vietnam.” He drew another circle on the chart less than two kilometres from Se Pang. “There’s a well-developed cave complex just above the river.”

  Sloan stood. He had heard enough. “Colonel Hardy, you were right. I needed to hear this. Thank you. It’s my understanding you need to get to Ubon and take over the Blind Bat operation. Captain Warren, get him there ASAP. Now get going, we’ve got work to do here.” Warren headed for the door with Hardy in close trail. “Captain Warren,” Sloan called. “Give my thanks to your crew. Well done. And pick up that captain of yours. She should be at wing headquarters with my Exec. I’m letting him deal with the Spirochete.” A wicked look flashed across his face. “Colonel Hardy, I’m not happy with that. What would you do about it?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” Hardy replied.

  “I know what I’d do,” Warren said.

  Sloan actually cracked a smile. “And exactly what is that, Captain?”

  “Post it at the guard shack at the main gate with a box of condoms. Make that a crate of condoms. Any swingin’ dick headed for town has to salute it and take a pack of condoms.”

  “The chaplains are going to love that one,” Sloan muttered. “Now get your ass outta here and in the air.”

  “Yes, sir,” Warren replied. He followed Hardy outside.

  “Captain Warren,” Hardy said, “you have just met the best commander in the entire Air Force. I would follow that man anywhere. I hope you learned something.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Warren repli
ed.

  *

  I Corps, South Vietnam

  “Good visibility,” Perkins said from the right seat. He relaxed as he flew the Huey and scanned the horizon. The bright blue of the South China Sea stretched across the horizon in front of them. “This is a beautiful place,” he allowed, “and I’m gonna come back some day and see it right when no one is trying to shoot your ass off.”

  “Roger on getting your ass shot off,” Myers said from the rear. “I’ve counted eleven firefights out my side alone.” A bright flash on the ground mushroomed into a cloud of smoke and flames. “Make that twelve,” he said.

  “I’ve counted six on the right,” Collins added.

  Tanner checked his chart and fixed their position. “Chu Lai on the nose,” he announced. “Tell the gyrenes we’ll be on the ground in less than five.”

  “They’re both asleep,” Collins answered.

  “Let ‘em sleep. You know where the morgue is?”

  “The medics can handle it,” Collins said.

  “Lots of apron on the north side between the runways,” Perkins said. “I see a red cross.”

  “Good as any place,” Tanner replied. “You want the landing?”

  “Got it.” Perkins took control and headed for the big parking ramp.

  “Stay north of the river valley,” Tanner advised. A shallow river valley opened onto the coastal flood plain where Chu Lai was located. It ran westward into the highlands and offered good concealment and a way to approach the big base.

  “River Valley on my right,” Perkins said. “We’re a mile north.” He turned to the left, banking sharply away from the river valley. Before he could roll out, the Huey rocked violently to a loud bang. “What the fuck!” The young pilot quickly regained control. “We took a hit.”

  Tanner let Perkins fly the helicopter as his eyes scanned the instrument panel. All okay. He twisted around to check on the cabin and check for battle damage. The marines were wide awake, their eyes darting back and forth. He didn’t see smoke or smell anything burning.