The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  1500 HOURS

  Chu Lai, Vietnam

  Warren leaped over a low dune and sprawled into a shallow depression, landing on top of Pender. He let out an oomph as he rolled off.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. Much to his surprise, she rolled on top of him and pressed her hand against his right shoulder blade. “What the hell!”

  “You’re wounded,” she said.

  “I’m not hurt,” he protested.

  “You’re bleeding. Not bad. Just a bad scratch.”

  Three more mortar rounds walked across the beach, sending geysers of sand into the air and showering them with debris. The last round landed in the water and an eerie silence came down. Warren lifted his head to peer over the edge of the sand dune. Much to his surprise, the C-130 was undamaged.

  “Now look at that,” he said.

  “Sergeant Flanders,” Pender shouted at the top of her lungs, “I need the first aid kit!”

  “Roger that!” Flanders shouted as he sprinted for the aircraft.

  Warren tried to stand but the doctor pushed him back down. “Don’t move,” she ordered, gently pulling back the rip in his flight suit and probing the wound. “It’s a bit deeper than I thought.”

  “How in hell?” Warren wondered. He could not remember feeling anything. Flanders was back with a first aid kit. He ripped it open and handed Pender a small bottle of antiseptic. “How did that happen?” Warren wondered.

  Flanders grunted as he watched Pender clean and tape the wound.

  “You were grazed by a bullet,” the sergeant said. “Probably a sniper. Luckily, the bastard couldn’t shoot.” A burst of small calibre gunfire echoed over them and Flanders dropped to the ground. He bobbed his head up and quickly pulled back down. “Looks like the marines are sweeping the dunes at the far end of the beach.” A prolonged burst of gunfire split the air followed by a long silence. Flanders stood to get a better view.

  “Yep, they got someone. I’m guessing that was your sniper.”

  “My very own sniper,” Warren muttered. “Lucky me.”

  “You’re fine,” Pender said. “You don’t need stitches, but check with the flight surgeon at Cam Ranh.” She rolled to a sitting position, kneeling on the back of her calves.

  Warren came to his feet and looked around. “Round everyone up and check the Herk for damage.” Again, he swept the area, doing a head count. “Son of bitch, where’s Boyle?”

  “The last I saw,” Pender said, “he was headed for the latrine.” She pointed in the general direction of the makeshift outhouse she had used earlier. But it was gone.

  “Oh, shit,” Warren groaned, coming to his feet.

  Pender couldn’t help herself. “Pun intended?” But Warren didn’t hear her and was running for the latrine. She scrambled to her feet and ran after him.

  They reached the latrine at the same time and skidded to a stop. A mortar blast had blown the vee-shaped structure in on itself, and they heard a low groaning coming from underneath the wreckage. Together, they pulled at the splintered boards, clearing the debris away. “Boyle,” Warren shouted, “are you okay?”

  “Help me! Sweet mother of God! Help me! Help me!” Boyle’s shrieks crescendoed into a high- pitched scream. Now they could see his hands, reaching up from underneath and clasping the edges of the floorboards.

  “How did he get down there?” Warren wondered, pulling more floorboards free. Now they could see Boyle’s head barely above the dark muck floating in the trench. “Oh, no,” Warren groaned.

  Pender didn’t hesitate and plunged her left hand into the filth, grabbing Boyle’s collar. “We gotta get him out.” Warren didn’t move. She tried to pull Boyle free but failed. “I can’t do it alone,” she snapped. Warren quickly shed his survival vest and braced his right hand on the nearest board. He plunged his left hand down into the excrement, grabbing Boyle’s flight suit. Together, they pulled the screaming Boyle free and onto the sand. His arms and legs jerked violently as he twisted and turned, flailing in the sand.

  “Drag him into the water,” Pender ordered, coming to her feet. It took both working as a team to pull the hysterical Boyle over the sand, finally reaching the surf. Pender released the airman and quickly stripped down to her bra and cotton briefs.

  “You too,” she ordered. “Bath time.” Warren pulled at the quick release zippers on the tongues of his boots and stepped out of them as he unzipped the long front zipper on his flight suit. He shed it in one easy motion. Together, they dragged the screaming and twisting airman into surf. The doctor grabbed Boyle’s hair with one hand as she splashed water over his head and scrubbed his face. Warren pulled off Boyle’s boots and then jerked at the front zipper on the airman’s flight suit, finally pulling it off. “Get his underwear,” Pender said.

  Totally naked, they sat him up in the surf and used sand scrapped from the bottom to scrub him clean. Slowly, Boyle calmed and started to cough. “Scrub your genitals,” she said. Boyle spread his legs and piled wet sand over his groin. He rubbed his hands back and forth in a violent sawing motion. “That’s enough,” she said. “Okay, time to stand up.” The two officers each held an arm and lifted Boyle to his feet.

  Loud cheers and shouts from the parking ramp rained down on them. Four trucks, the venerable M35 cargo truck better known as the Deuce-and-a-Half, loaded with fifty marines and their gear had finally arrived. The young marines had been willing spectators to Boyle’s rescue and were showing their appreciation. “Lovely,” Warren muttered, looking for their clothes. He released his grip on Boyle’s arm.

  Boyle let out another scream and twisted violently, breaking free. Pender lost her balance and fell back into the surf as Boyle ran back into the water, desperate to escape the unwanted attention. He stumbled and struggled back to his feet, still headed out to sea.

  “He’s totally freaked out,” Pender said, coming to her feet. Her cotton briefs were thoroughly soaked and Warren had a vision of Venus emerging from the sea. From the loud cheers coming from the beach, he was certain the marines were thinking along similar lines.

  “Totally freaked out?” the pilot said, watching Boyle flail at water. “Is that a medical term?”

  “Damn right,” she replied. “He needs to be restrained.” Boyle had reached deep water and was swimming out to sea. She ran after the airman, ploughing through the shallow water.

  “Crap,” Warren muttered, following her. Pender started to swim, rapidly closing on Boyle. Warren started to swim, but couldn’t catch her. He was still thirty feet away when she caught the struggling Boyle. Her left hand flashed out and grabbed his left shoulder from behind. With one easy motion, she rose up and slammed her right hand down on the top of his head, driving his head and shoulder underwater. She quickly released him and let him bob back up, coughing and spitting. Still behind him, she grabbed his chin with her left hand and threw her hip into his back, lifting him to the surface. She swam for the shore with a strong overhand stroke. “Life guard?” Warren asked. She ignored him as she dragged Boyle toward the shore. The marines were still yelling and shouting, urging her on.

  Boyle started to struggle, still desperate to escape. Pender released his chin and grabbed his hair as she twisted around. Again, she held his head under water and quickly released him.

  “Calm down,” she ordered, “or I will drown your sorry ass.” Boyle believed her and went limp. Again, she grabbed his chin and swam a few strokes into shallow water where she could stand. She threw her right arm around Boyle’s waist and held his left arm around her neck, her left hand firmly clamped to his wrist.

  “Walk,” she commanded, bringing him safely to shore. Warren followed in amazement.

  Flanders was waiting, holding their clothes and Warren’s survival vest.

  “I don’t think you want to put these on,” he said. The filth from Boyle’s flight suit had rubbed off on their uniforms. “You need to wash them out.”

  Warren grabbed the naked Boyle by the right arm and shoved him towards Flanders, reli
eving them of their burden. More shouts from the marines carried down the beach as the two officers rinsed their uniforms in the shallow water.

  “Bosko has a spare flight suit that will probably fit you,” Warren said, thankful they had brought their AWOL bags. She ignored him as she knelt and rinsed her fatigues in the surf. She wrung the top out and pulled it on, quickly buttoning up. She stood and picked up her pants, wringing them out.

  The marines were still in full flow, shouting and laughing. “Hey,” one yelled, “I’d sure like some of that!”

  Pender turned and fixed the heckler with a hard look. She threw her pants and boots at Warren. “Take care of these,” she ordered as she strode through the surf, heading for the marines. The fatigue’s shirt reached to mid-thigh and offered a modicum of decency as her bare legs flashed in the sun. The marines fell silent as she crossed the sand with a measured stride. Only the soft crunch of her bare feet in the sand could be heard. She didn’t hesitate and marched straight for the heckler, stopping less than a foot in front of him, standing nose to chest. She read his nametag then pointed to hers as she looked up at the tall marine.

  “Private Denlow, in case you can’t read, you can call me by my nickname, Captain Pender.” She tapped the captain’s bars on her lapels. “Where’s your lieutenant?”

  “He’s gone ahead with the advance party,” Denlow said, a slight smirk on his face. That was a mistake.

  “Denlow, I think your sergeant needs to explain the difference between a captain and a private. Can you point the Gunny out?” She suspected the sergeant was watching, deferring to her rank, and waiting to see how she handled it.

  Denlow gulped. “Please, ma’am, don’t do that. The Gunny will ... will ...” The thought of what the veteran sergeant would do to him was too painful to think about. “I’m really sorry and promise to keep my big mouth shut.” He was pleading. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  A hard silence came down as the marines stared at her. She let them dangle for a moment, staring back.

  “Apology accepted, Private.” She shouldered past him and padded barefoot up the ramp and into the aircraft. As one, the marines stood at attention and didn’t move until she disappeared into the aircraft.

  “That’s one tough lady,” a marine whispered.

  “No shit,” Denlow breathed.

  “Gather ‘round ” Flanders ordered, holding the marines outside while Pender changed into Bosko’s extra flight suit. “I am Staff Sergeant Glen Flanders, your loadmaster for this first-class flight to Se Pang. By regulations, I am required to brief you on ...” The marines nodded in unison as the loadmaster went through his passenger brief.

  On the flight deck, Hale was filling out the maintenance forms.

  “I found six small punctures,” he told Warren, “five in the right main gear door and one in the vertical stabilizer. No other damage. I’m guessing shrapnel from the mortars. I used duct tape to patch the five in the gear door, but couldn’t reach the one on the stabilizer. It looks more like a puncture and is small. I don’t think any of ‘em will be a problem. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em, but we need to start engines and do a systems and controllability check.”

  “I couldn’t find anything else,” Bosko said. “And I went over her with a fine tooth comb.” The co-pilot had gone through the interior of the Hercules checking for battle damage while the flight engineer had checked the exterior.

  “So she’s good to go?” Warren asked the two men. Because of the battle damage, he could have cancelled the mission and headed for Cam Ranh Bay.

  “Yes, sir,” Hale said, “she’s good to go. But Maintenance really needs to go over the bird, pull panels, and crawl under the belly.”

  “Sergeant Flanders,” Warren said over the intercom, “hold the marines while we start engines and do a systems check.” He called for the start engines checklist and the crew brought all four engines on line. They were a well-rehearsed team as they checked out the Hercules, making sure all systems were a go. They finished with a controllability check, and, satisfied the C-130 was fully functional, Warren told Flanders to load the marines.

  “Dave, you ever been to Se Pang?” Warren asked.

  “Negative,” Santos answered. “After take-off, fly three-zero-zero degrees for 136 nautical miles to Khe Sanh.” They had been to Khe Sanh many times and could easily find it. “From Khe Sanh, fly three-three-zero for four minutes. Se Pang should be on the nose.” Santos was relying on classic dead reckoning to find the Special Forces camp.

  “Got it,” Warren said. “Okay folks, keep an eye on everything, and we’ll head for the barn after dropping off the marines – if this puppy can hold together that long.”

  “She’s a tough old gal,” Hale assured him. “And we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  “Roger on the excitement,” Santos said. “We really need to ... “ His voice trailed off as Pender climbed onto the flight deck wearing Bosko’s flight suit. She had cinched in the waist and rolled up the sleeves. Pender was not a small woman and she filled it out.

  Warren sucked in his breath.

  “Lieutenant Bosko,” she said, “thank you. It fits perfectly. Bosko could only nod in agreement.

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of tactical airlift,” Warren said, kicking himself for not coming up with something better. “Time to get this show on the road. Before taxi checklist.”

  *

  Chu Lai, South Vietnam

  Perkins stood in the shade of the Huey and took a long drink from a canteen. His stomach was still churning from the recent attack that had sent them scrambling for cover. He watched as a C-130 taxied out and took the active runway to take-off to the north. Tanner joined him, also drinking from a canteen.

  “Talk about rocket city,” Perkins grumbled.

  “Mortars, not rockets, “ Tanner corrected. He gestured at the C-130 as it lifted off. “I think that was the target. Poor bastards.”

  “I wonder where it’s headed?” the co-pilot asked.

  Tanner’s face twisted into a little grimace, half serious. “Who knows? Some place with a bar, air conditioned quarters, hot and cold running hooch, girls.”

  “Mr. Tanner,” Myers called. “We should do an ops check.” The crew needed to start the engine and check out the repairs to the transmission.

  “Can do,” Tanner replied, crawling into the left seat.

  1600 HOURS

  Chu Lai, South Vietnam

  Tanner shut the engine down, listening for any unusual sounds. All was normal.

  “Refuel and we’re good to go,” he told Myers.

  The crew chief waved a fuel browser down and motioned it over for fuel. Tanner and Perkins stood back while they went through the routine. Perkins lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “Filthy habit,” he said. “These damn things will probably kill me.”

  “Only if you get lucky,” Tanner joked. “Prefer cigars myself.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “When I can get Havanas.” The line chief drove up in his MUTT.

  “Gunny,” Tanner said, “your troops did good. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. We’ve salvaged a few Hueys and had the parts. Besides, you fix one helicopter, you’ve fixed ‘em all.” While not exactly true, there was enough commonality that a good mechanic could figure out how to repair another air frame.

  “We got wounded at Se Pang, Mr. Tanner. They’re calling for air evac.”

  “Never heard of the place,” Tanner replied. “Any idea where it is?”

  “About twenty miles northwest of Khe Sanh,” the gunny replied.

  “Been to Khe Sanh a couple of times. We’ll need to refuel coming out but we can cover it.”

  He turned and headed for the waiting Huey. “Okay, troops, time to get back to business and earn our pay.”

  *

  Over South Vietnam

  Santos played with the receiver gain on his radar and raised the antenna tilt a degree, finally breakin
g out the Y in the river where a tributary, with an unpronounceable name for an American, split off from the Se Pang river and flowed south.

  “Se Pang on the nose, seven nautical miles,” he announced. He took a mental snapshot of the radar display and quickly shaded in the ridge on his chart, capturing the return. He could find it again using radar, if they approached from the southeast.

  Warren leaned forward in his seat, finding the Y in the river. Although he couldn’t see it, he suspected the landing strip was on the far side, aligned along the river valley, and the Special Forces compound was on the eastern end, the side closest to the Y in the river.

  “Tallyho the fox,” Warren said, finally acquiring the short landing strip. “Got the camp.” He had guessed right about its location. “Well done, Dave.”

  “Got lucky this time,” Santos replied, downplaying the compliment. Still, he did appreciate it. It was one of Warren’s traits he admired and had written home about his new pilot, telling his father that Warren was a natural leader. Santos had lamented that it was a rare quality in the Air Force that was becoming rarer with each passing month, and mentioned that Warren was thinking of separating from the Air Force. His father had written back asking that Warren contact him when he was out.

  “Air patch in sight,” Bosko said from the right seat, confirming they had found the landing strip. Aircrews had mistakenly landed on roads or even open fields, often with disastrous results.

  “I’m painting the runway on the radar,” Santos said. “You got about 2000 feet, more or less.” He played with the radar gain and tilt, refining the image.