The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  “This is gonna get sporting,” Warren said. “Sergeant Flanders, get everyone strapped in. I’m gonna plant this one.”

  “Roger on the Navy landing,” Flanders replied.

  “Before descent checklist,” Warren said, starting the landing routine. They were nine hours into their crew duty day, fatigue was taking a toll, and long experience had proven that checklists were critical to safe operations. It wasn’t glamorous or macho, but it worked. Although his shoulder still ached from the gunshot wound, Warren flew a perfect approach into the special forces compound, landing to the west.

  *

  Se Pang, South Vietnam

  If a high-speed camera had recorded the landing from the edge of the runway, it would have documented how the main gear actually sank six to eight inches into the hard laterite surface on touchdown, only to pop back to the surface, leaving a slight depression in the landing wake. Warren reversed the props as he stomped on the brakes, stopping with 500 feet to spare.

  “Remind me to never do this at night,” he told Bosko.

  “How about never again,” Bosko replied. “Jesus H. Christ, Boss, it doesn’t get much narrower – and it’s downhill!”

  “Scanner in the rear,” Warren said, before backing up. He released the brakes and the big aircraft taxied slowly in reverse. An Army captain wearing the distinctive Special Forces green beret was waiting for them when they stopped. He ran up the ramp and hurried forward to the flight deck as the marines rapidly deplaned.

  “I’m Wes Banks, the social director of this fun-filled resort,” he told Warren. “The Bru, the local Montagnards, say we’re about to take a pounding, that’s with a capital ‘P’ in the next few hours. It won’t be pretty if we get overrun, and the NVA will slaughter the Bru. We need to get their families out.”

  Warren never hesitated. “How many you got?

  “One hundred and eighty-two. Mostly women and kids, a few old folks. Eighty-five adults and ninety-seven kids.”

  “Not good,” Bosko moaned, reaching for the flight manual to determine their take-off distance based on weight, field elevation, and air temperature. The C-130 was a great tactical airlifter, able to operate out of short strips like Se Pang but weight was critical. “How much runway you got?”

  “Just over 1600 feet,” Banks told him.

  Warren flipped over his flight data card and jotted down some numbers, working the problem with his co-pilot.

  “How we doing on fuel?” he asked Hale.

  “11,500 pounds,” the flight engineer answered. That translated into 1770 gallons, or three and a half hours flying time.

  Bosko rapidly calculated their total allowable take-off weight for 1600 feet of runway.

  “82,000 pounds max,” he announced. We can on-load 9,500 pounds. The manual says 180 pounds per passenger, so we can take fifty-three adults, or two kids for every adult and be legal.”

  Warren worked the problem. “Captain Banks, the Bru aren’t very big, are they?”

  Banks knew where Warren was going. “Not big at all, maybe 130 pounds for the adults, and forty pounds for the kids.

  Warren scratched more numbers, rounding off. “Figure 4000 pounds for all the kids, which means we can take forty-five adults.” But he was tired and needed a double check. “Sergeant Flanders, what do you come up with?”

  The loadmaster had been expecting the question. “I figure all the kids and forty adults. Captain, I’m looking at ‘em right now, and they look skinny as hell. I think we can take fifty, maybe fifty-five adults.”

  Warren stared straight ahead, looking down the runway.

  “It is downhill,” he said. “What’s the gradient?”

  “No idea,” Banks replied. “It’s pretty steep. C-123s get off pretty fast.” The C-123 was a high wing, twin-engine Air Force cargo plane vaguely similar to the C-130 but much smaller.

  Warren pulled into himself, bringing four years of experience and over 2000 hours of flying the Hercules to bear on the problem. How much could he safely load? He knew what the manual called for, and the Monday-morning quarterbacks at headquarters would crucify him for taking off over-gross on a short dirt runway – if they found out. But there was another intangible; how well was the Herk performing? For reasons he could not quantify, he had a great deal of confidence in this particular aircraft. He turned and looked at the flight engineer.

  “Sergeant Hale, how’s she performing?”

  “469 is a good bird,” Hale answered. “Nice acceleration.”

  Warren made the decision. “Load all the kids and fifty adults. No baggage. We’ll come back for the others.”

  “Will do,” Flanders replied. The loadmaster was infamous for his causal, laid-back attitude, but he was a hard-nosed professional when it came to loading the Hercules and making sure the weight and balance was correct. “According to the book, we’ll be a thousand pounds overweight,” he announced.

  “The tables have a built-in fudge factor,” Bosko said. “I’m guessing ten percent. I think we’re good to go.”

  “Anyone have a problem with that?” Warren asked. He was greeted with silence.

  Banks stared at the aircraft commander, fully knowing it could be a death sentence for those left behind. But he was military to the core and accepted it.

  “See you when you get back.” He spun around and swung down from the flight deck.

  Moments later, they felt the Bru piling on board. Warren leaned back in his seat, trying to relax and gain a few moments rest. A strong whiff of unwashed humanity drifted up from the cargo deck, capturing his attention. It was sour, heavy with sweat, dirt, and urine. And it was life. He almost ordered Flanders to load another ten passengers. But he was responsible for all their lives, and Lynne Pender certainly qualified as a high-value passenger. Was he risking too much? Was he making a bad decision because of fatigue and the wound?

  “Damn,” he moaned to himself.

  “Good to go,” Flanders called from the rear, sounding very confident.

  Warren looked at Bosko. “Hey,” the co-pilot answered, “this is what we get paid for.”

  “Let’s do it,” Warren said. “I’m gonna back up as far as we can, main gear on the hard pack. Sergeant Flanders, keep the tail clear and tell me when to stop.” He nudged the throttles and backed up another sixty feet before the loadmaster told him to stop. “Before take-off checklist,” he said. The crew rapidly went through the routine. “Here we go.” Warren firewalled the throttles as he and Bosko held the brakes. The props dug in as the Hercules strained to be free, shaking violently. Then, “Go!” The two pilots released the brakes simultaneously and the Hercules started to roll, slowly at first, but then with increasing momentum.

  At what he judged the halfway mark on the runway, Bosko called the airspeed.

  “Forty knots. It’s gonna be close.” They still had enough runway left to abort the take-off, but Warren held the yoke forward with his right hand, keeping the nose gear on the ground, and his left hand on the nose gear steering wheel. “Boss ...” Bosko warned. Warren felt the big vertical stabilizer exert its authority and steered with the rudder pedals. He grabbed the yoke with both hands, still holding the yoke forward as Bosko called the airspeed. “Eighty, eighty-five, ninety ...”

  At exactly ninety-three knots, Warren pulled back on the yoke, lifting them smartly into the air, well before the main gear crossed the end of the runway.

  “Gear up.” Bosko’s left hand shot forward and he snapped the gear handle to the retract position. The two pilots inched the flaps up as they gained airspeed and climbed, clearing the ridge in front of them.

  “Nice one,” Bosko said. There was admiration in his voice. “Room to spare.”

  “We could’ve taken ten more bodies,” Warren said, his voice edged with frustration.

  “We were pushing it,” Santos said. “After taking battle damage at Chu Lai, the freakin’ REMFs are gonna go over everything with a fine tooth comb. Why give them more ammo?”

  There
was no doubt in Warren’s mind that he would hear from the colonels. So what are they going to do? He thought, Send me to Vietnam? One of the realities of the war was that many field grade officers worked hard to minimize their exposure to actual combat by keeping junior officers in country. Warren grinned at the sergeant.

  “Gotta give the heavies something to keep them busy,” he said. Then, seriously, “I think we could’ve loaded more.”

  Bosko nodded in agreement. “Taking off downhill made the difference.”

  “So where do we take them?” Santos asked.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Warren answered. “Boz, see if you can raise an ALCE.” Bosko worked the radios while Warren checked on their passengers.

  “Sergeant Flanders, how are you folks doing back there?”

  A deep chuckle on the intercom answered. “Got ‘em packed in like sardines. Stinks like hell and most of the kids are screaming like hyenas. Captain Pender is examining a few of the babies. She’s asking for water.”

  “Give ‘em what we got,” Warren said.

  “I raised the ALCE at Da Nang,” Bosko said. He snorted in contempt. “I got the standard answer – standby.”

  “Lovely,” Warren muttered.

  The TACAN, or the tactical air navigation system, finally locked on, giving them the bearing and distance in nautical miles to Da Nang.

  “About time,” Warren said. Inertial navigation systems were just coming on line in the more advanced fighters and bombers, the Global Positioning System was decades away, and trash haulers had to rely on dead reckoning, map reading, limited radar, VOR, and TACAN for navigation in-country.

  Santos spun his circular slide rule, the so-called Air Navigation Computer.

  “ETA Dan Nang 1711 hours local. Man, I could use a good meal.” It was his way of urging Warren to call it quits for the day.

  A frustrated voice came over the UHF radio. “Roscoe Two-One, Da Nang ALCE. Say number of passengers.”

  “Da Nang ALCE,” Warren answered. “We have 147 souls on board.” They waited for the reply.

  Another voice came over the UHF. “Roscoe Two-One, be advised we will need to see your passenger manifest and authorization for a pickup for over ninety-two passengers.”

  “Some REMF playing cover-your-ass,” Bosko said.

  Warren thought for a moment. He knew how to play the “be advised” game. He keyed the radio. “ALCE, Roscoe Two-One copies all. Be advised we have priority through cargo for Cam Ranh and are running short on crew duty time. Tell passenger service to meet us with transportation for 147 Bru. For the record, Bru are Montagnards and a translator is required.”

  “Roscoe Two-One, standby.”

  Bosko snorted. “Handling that many Bru will ruin their day.”

  “Roscoe Two-One, ALCE. Say Special Forces detachment the Bru are from.”

  “The great shuffle begins,” Warren muttered to himself. “Anyone know what Special Forces Det we’re dealing with here?”

  Flanders had the answer. “Special Forces Detachment A-101.”

  Warren relayed the information to ALCE over the UHF. Within moments, the ALCE controller was back. “Roscoe Two-One, you are cleared to Phu Bai to off load passengers. From Phu Bai, proceed directly to home plate with priority cargo. Do not exceed crew duty time.”

  “Roscoe Two-One copies all,” Warren replied. Then, over the intercom, “Boz, Dave, make a log entry that we were directed to Phu Bai just in case some REMF gets a hard-on.” Warren gave a silent thanks there was no ALCE detachment at Phu Bai, and they were, more or less, on their own.

  “Hell of a way to fight a war,” Santos grumbled. “Heading zero-nine-zero.” He checked his watch. “Phu Bai on the hour.” He reached for the journal in his navigation bag to record the incident in detail.

  “Still going to write the great American novel about the war?” Warren asked.

  “That’s the plan,” Santos replied, putting the journal safely away. I will write it, the navigator promised himself. Someday.

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Tran squatted on his haunches beside the freshly dug bunker and surveyed the river valley below him. Like a good commander, he studied the topography of the battlefield below. The valley was oriented east to west, and framed by ridgelines on the north and south sides. The northern ridgeline was the highest and the terrain on that side of the river all but impenetrable. He was on the southern side of the river looking north, across the river. He was approximately a hundred meters above the valley floor, and at the top of a slope that led up to the sharp face of a karst formation towering another hundred meters above his head. Hopefully, spotters would be on top and string a land line for communications by sunset. Below him, the river flowed west to east down the valley and appeared to be at a low stage. But could his men ford it?

  He had an excellent view of the airstrip and Special Forces camp on the other side of the river, approximately two kilometres to the east. He could still see a few flames and smoke from an earlier mortar attack. The Type 53, 82mm, mortars had given a good accounting of themselves. Now the mortar crews had to move to safety before nightfall.

  The open area on his side of the river worried him, for his men would have to cross it to reach the river. The more he studied the lay of the land, the less he liked it. Loud breathing captured his attention, and he looked down the trail leading up from the valley. He waited, his face impassive.

  Much to his surprise, Dinh huffed his way up the last few meters, leading two of his staff officers. The corpulent colonel collapsed to the ground beside Tran.

  “I couldn’t catch you,” he admitted. They had travelled five kilometres in five hours, which, on the trail, was good time.

  Tran handed him a flask of water.

  “Drink slowly,” he cautioned. Dinh ignored him and emptied the flask. “What happened to Major Cao?” Tran asked. He suspected that Dinh’s chief-of-staff was there to keep an eye on Dinh and report back to Hanoi.

  “I sent him back to coordinate with General Dong at the 559th Group. The General must be apprised of our situation.” It was a lie. Dinh’s inner alarms had finally overwhelmed him, and he had ordered Major Cao to keep an eye on Kim-Ly. For some reason he could not bring into sharp focus, he distrusted her. Long experience had taught him not to ignore his misgivings. He changed the subject. “And did I see a plane take-off earlier?”

  “You did, sir. It was a C-130. It took off at 16:49 hours.”

  Dinh looked up at the two camouflaged cannon barrels sticking out of the bunker.

  “Is that the ‘Sergey’ you spoke of?” He had never seen a ZSU-23 up close before and was surprised at the length of its twin barrels. “And is it fully operational?” Tran nodded in answer, letting the colonel from Hanoi absorb the reality of the weapon. It had taken an herculean effort for the gun crew to carry it forward and quickly reassemble it. Dinh checked his watch. “And was it fully operational ten minutes ago when the C-130 took off?”

  “Yes,” Tran answered simply.

  “And why didn’t you shoot it down?”

  “We watched the C-130 load women and children,” Tran explained. From the expression in Dinh’s eyes, it was obvious that he didn’t care about violating the Geneva Conventions. “And it would have revealed our position.”

  Dinh studied the camouflage spread over the gun emplacement, not convinced. He pointed at the runway.

  “You will destroy any aircraft landing there.”

  Tran sensed there was nothing he could say to change Dinh’s mind until he had experienced actual combat.

  “Be careful of what you order, sir. You may bring down the wrath of God on our heads.”

  Binh humphed. “There is no God.”

  1700 HOURS

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Reluctantly, Dinh joined Tran and three officers under the hastily rigged canvas canopy that served as a make-shift command post for their second meal of the day. They sat in a
circle as the cook passed out bowls of rice. Because Dinh was sharing their meal, the cook had added vegetables and served him first. Dinh looked at the bowl and started to say something but thought better of it. The regiment only ate twice a day and the lack of variety and small quantity was a problem. Tran gave the colonel good marks for his silence and sharing the meal with the cadre.

  The telephone operator sitting at the nearby portable switchboard handed Tran a note. The observers at the top of the karst formation a hundred metres above their heads had spotted an inbound helicopter to the east. At the same time, the ZSU, which was twenty-five metres away from the command post but still in sight, traversed in that direction as the twin barrels elevated to forty-five degrees.

  “What’s happening?” Dinh demanded.

  “Our observers report an inbound helicopter,” Tran replied. He stood and a woman handed him a pair of high-powered binoculars. He joined the gun captain who was scanning he eastern horizon with a matching set of binoculars. They pivoted as one, trying to visually acquire the helicopter.

  “There,” Tran said, pointing to a spot on the horizon.

  “I see it,” the gun captain said. He spoke into the intercom dangling from his neck and the barrels of the ZSU traversed ten degrees to the left and lowered.

  The telephone operator spoke quietly, her soft voice barely audible. “A red cross is reported on the helicopter.”

  “Stand down,” Tran ordered. “It is a Dust Off.”

  “What is a Dust Off?” Dinh demanded.

  “An unarmed medical air ambulance,” Tran explained.

  “Destroy it,” Dinh said.

  “Is the colonel aware a medical air ambulance transports wounded and is protected by the Geneva Conventions?”

  “And is it carrying wounded now?” Dinh asked, his voice low and hard.

  “It is most likely coming in to pick up wounded from our mortar attack.”

  “Then it is not protected by the Geneva Conventions until the wounded are on board. You will engage and destroy it.” He pointed at the gun captain. “Do as you are ordered.”