The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  The gun captain shot Tran a worried look, not knowing what to do. Tran nodded, in effect giving the order. The gun captain spoke into his mike as everyone but Dinh turned their backs on the cannon and covered their ears. Dinh did the same, confused by the silence. They waited.

  The ZSU’s twin barrels roared with thunder, splitting the air with the sound of death as each barrel emptied a twenty round clip in less than two seconds. Dinh fell to his knees, stunned by the violence of the fusillade.

  *

  Se Pang, South Vietnam

  Tanner had the landing wired. There was no wind and he came in from the east, paralleling the river. They were decelerating, passing through twenty knots and less than fifty above the ground when the explosion tore the controls out of his hands. The Huey corkscrewed to the left before hitting the ground and rolling across the runway.

  Tanner was vaguely aware of coming to a stop. The Huey was on its left side and his shoulder was against the ground. Something heavy was laying across his face and he couldn’t see. He tried to push it away but it was too heavy. Frustrated, he reached for the engine control panel on the center pedestal to shut off the fuel. He couldn’t reach it. He pushed again at the weight laying on him. It was Perkins. He twisted his head, trying to see, as he pushed at the dead weight.

  He caught a glimpse of two men reaching for him as a sheet of flame washed over him. His right leg exploded in pain. His last conscious thought was of darkness and searing agony.

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Dinh staggered to his feet and looked to the east in time to see the helicopter spinning into the ground, leaving a corkscrew of dark smoke in its wake. He watched in fascination as it bounced and rolled across the eastern end of the runway. He shouted in jubilation and turned, waving his arms like a conductor.

  “Victory is ours!”

  He stared, not understanding what was happening. Everyone was rapidly packing up, taking the command post apart. The gun crew was disassembling the ZSU and loading four men with parts of the heavy mount. Four other porters were already moving out, carrying the barrels. “What are you doing? Where are we going?’

  Tran stopped long enough to get him moving and motioned to the east, closer to the airfield but up a higher slope. “To our next prepared position. We must hide before the Americans return.”

  “And why should we hide?” Dinh demanded.

  Tran swung his heavy pack into Dinh’s chest. “Carry this.” He pushed the colonel, moving him after the porters. “When we shot at the helicopter, we revealed our position to the Americans.”

  “So what? And if they return, I will also destroy them, just like the helicopter.”

  Tran tried to explain as they moved into the underbrush. “It is one thing to destroy a slow moving, unarmed helicopter, but an entirely different thing to engage one of their jet fighter bombers.”

  “And why must I repeat myself? I will order the Sergey to destroy them just like I destroyed the helicopter.”

  Exasperated with Dinh’s outsized ego, Tran worked to control his anger.

  “You see our cannon as a threat to the Americans. They see it as a target and are aggressive to a fault when they attack. Now we must hurry. Movement is life.”

  Dinh recalled hearing that “movement is life” before but couldn’t remember when, where, or who had said it.

  *

  Phu Bai, South Vietnam

  Smoke drifted across the runway, partially obscuring their approach as the C-130 came down final, landing to the west on Runway 27. Warren touched down long and threw the props into reverse, sending a wall of smoke out in front. He dragged the big bird to a stop near midfield and turned right onto the main Army parking ramp, opposite the forlorn civilian terminal on the other side of the runway. An Army private guided them into a parking spot and Warren kept the engines running.

  “Dear Lord,” Hale breathed, taking in the damage around them. “They really took a shellacking.”

  “Looks quiet now,” Bosko said.

  “Yeah, but for how long?” Santos asked.

  Warren checked his watch. “Okay, troops, listen up. We’ve got two hours crew duty time left. I figure we’ve got enough fuel and time to go back and get the rest of the Bru before sunset, drop them off here, and hotfoot it for Cam Ranh.” He was asking for a double check.

  Santos was already there. “Figure twenty minutes each way to Se Pang, an hour and ten to Cam Ranh. Add another fifteen minutes for approach and landing, plus ten percent reserve fuel, and we need 8,500 pounds of go-faster juice.” The standing warning among trash haulers held that not even Christ could get out of an accident from fuel starvation, which Warren agreed with. They fell silent as the ramp came down and Flanders off loaded the passengers, handing them over to a very confused Army private. “We’re pushing crew duty,” Santos warned.

  “Hey, isn‘t there a war on?” Bosko asked. “It sure looks like it to me.”

  “Say fuel,” Warren said.

  “We got 10,000 pounds,” Hale answered. They had 1540 gallons of JP-4, on board.

  Again, Warren ran the numbers. They had 1500 pounds, or 230 gallons, of extra fuel. It was enough, and if they did run into a problem, they could always divert into a field along the way.

  “Loadmaster, say when ready to taxi.”

  “Standby,” Flanders replied. “Okay, cargo compartment swept and negative on mementos. Ramp coming up.” The mementos he was concerned with were grenades, unexploded ordnance, body parts, or even babies left behind. It had happened before. They taxied onto the runway for a rolling take-off at midfield.

  “Seven minutes on the ground,” Santos said. “That’s a record.”

  “We’re definitely safer airborne,” Bosko said.

  “I hope so,” Warren replied.

  “ETA Se Pang, 1730 local,” Santos said. “Fifteen minutes of daylight remaining.”

  “Let’s make it a quick one,” Warren said.

  Lynne Pender climbed onto the flight deck, her face etched with fatigue. “I lost a baby, barely a week old.”

  Warren turned in his seat and reached out to touch her hand. The unknown infant was not the first death he had experienced while in command of a C-130, but he prayed it would be the last.

  “We lost a baby.”

  *

  Over South Vietnam

  Santos was standing behind the co-pilot when they crested the last ridge and descended into the Se Pang river valley. Warren called for the before landing checks as he flew a curvilinear approach to a short final. He dropped the gear and called for full flaps as he inched up the power, holding a steady eighty-three knots, five knots above a power-on stall. Two explosions flashed on the hillside approximately a mile in front of them.

  “What the hell!” Bosko shouted.

  A marine A-4 fighter pulled off a bombing run and circled above them.

  “I got two A-4s working.” Santos said. Two more explosions lit the hillside as a puff of green smoke drifted across the approach end of the runway. They were cleared to land. “I have green smoke,” Santos called, confirming the smoke. The navigator quickly strapped into his seat.

  *

  Se Pang, South Vietnam

  Smoke from the burning wreckage of the helicopter drifted across the approach end of the runway, partially obscuring Warren’s view. He slammed the Hercules down and reversed the props, landing in a shorter distance than before.

  “You’re getting the hang of it, sir,” Hale said, his voice full of admiration, breaking the mounting tension.

  “Scanner in the rear,” Warren called as they backed up.

  “Not much left of that Huey,” Bosko said as they passed the burnt-out helicopter. They caught the smell of burning flesh. “Poor bastards,” Santos muttered. Tech Sergeant Mike Hale’s lips moved in a silent prayer.

  “Come slightly to your left,” Flanders said, guiding them into the deepening shadows. “Stop!” The ramp was already coming down. The pla
ne shook as the remaining Bru rushed on board.

  Captain Wes Banks climbed onto the flight deck, this time wearing a helmet and not a green beret. Lynne Pender was right behind him.

  “Perfect timing,” Banks told them. “We took some deep serious mortar rounds, but close air is suppressing it for now. It’s going to get interesting after sunset unless we can get a flare ship to light things up. Our aid station took a direct hit, a marine and two navy corpsmen KIA. All told, we have a dozen or so wounded marines and a Dust Off pilot with a mangled leg and burns.”

  “We can take ‘em,” Warren said.

  Banks shook his head. “You need to launch soonest, while it’s still light. Besides, a Dust Off is inbound, five minutes out.”

  “A Dust Off can’t take that many,” Pender said. “So who’s taking care of your wounded?”

  “My sergeant and the Bru.”

  “Your aid station?”

  Banks’ jaw hardened. “Destroyed in the mortar attack.”

  Pender’s eyes narrowed. “So you don’t have any medical personnel or supplies, and no idea when you’ll get more air evac.” Banks nodded. She hesitated for a moment, making a decision. “I’m staying. I’ll come out on the last Dust Off.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” Warren told her.

  “Really? Oh, I’ll need your first aid kit.” She was gone.

  “Are you going to stop her?” Bosko asked.

  Warren was coming to terms with the new role of women and wasn’t sure if he liked it.

  “Short of handcuffing her, I don’t think I can.” Like we really got a choice when there’s wounded. Then, over the intercom, “Sergeant Flanders, off load our first aid kit for Captain Pender and button up. We need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “The Triple A that got the Dust Off is a mile away, off the west end of the runway, ” Banks told them. He pointed in the direction where the A-4s had been working. “It’s about one-third the way up the slope. Close air probably got ‘em, but can’t be sure.”

  “Got it,” Warren said. “We’ll keep it tight in and circle out to the south.” He reached out and shook Banks’ hand.

  “God bless,” Banks said. Then he was gone.

  “Good to go in the rear,” Flanders said. “That Captain Pender is one tough lady.” There was admiration in his voice.

  Warren ran the engines up and released the brakes. With fewer passengers and less fuel, the Herk leaped forward.

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  The gun crew collapsed around the ZSU-23, exhausted from their ordeal. Two women quickly covered it with a canvas tarp and spread freshly cut brush on top. “We are ready,” the gun captain told Tran, pride in his voice.

  “Well done,” Tran told the men. “Because of your effort, we will fight another day.” They had moved the anti-aircraft cannon a half-kilometre and reassembled it in less than an hour, record time. The terrain had helped. A clear and easy path had led around a sharp bend in the hillside, and a spinney ridge jutting out from the karst provided the protection and concealment they needed. Smoke from the bombs still drifted over them, but they were safe.

  Dinh stood beside the rock outcropping and scanned the airfield, now a little closer. “The American air pirates are taking off!” he shouted, gesturing wildly at the C-130 rolling down the runway.

  “Our observers report it is carrying women and a few old men,” Tran said. He pointed to the top of the karst and the observation team.

  “Destroy it!”

  Tran hesitated, not wanting to reveal their position and move again. “We will have better targets.”

  “And must I repeat myself? Do as you are ordered.”

  Again, Tran nodded slightly at the gun captain, giving the order to engage. The twin barrels traversed towards the aircraft that was turning in front of them. “Wait, wait,” he cautioned.

  *

  Over Se Pang, South Vietnam

  The gear was still coming up as Warren banked to the left, the wingtip barely clearing the ground. The C-130 climbed like a homesick angel. A solid line of red tracers reached out from the hillside, passing below Roscoe 21.

  “Triple A!” Flanders shouted from the rear. Warren jinked – rolled out, turned sharply to the left, rolled out, then down, quickly up, and then back to the left as he nosed over. As expected, the tracers drifted off to their right and above them as the gunner tried to anticipate Warren’s next move. Warren levelled off and then up as the tracers wavered, passing far behind. Well clear of the threat, Warren turned out to the east.

  *

  Over South Vietnam

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Bosko breathed. “That was a ZSU.” The antiaircraft cannon was rightly feared by aircrews. “Thank God there was only one.”

  “Probably a two-barrel,” Warren said. The four-barrel version, a ZSU-23-4, was radar aimed and much more lethal. “Check for battle damage.” The crew went through the checks.

  “Captain Warren,” Flanders said. “I did a visual on the main gear. The left aft wheel is flat and looks shredded. Probably took a round.” The Hercules had a tandem landing gear on each side, with one wheel behind the other. They were lucky and had only been hit by a fragment of a single high-explosive round from the ZSU-23.

  “Roger,” Warren replied. Landing with a flat tire, especially the aft one, on a paved runway when they were relatively light was worrisome but easily handled. They had done it twice before.

  “Boz, contact Da Nang ALCE and tell them we’re landing at Phu Bai to offload our passengers, and to send a repair team with a new tire. We’re pushing crew duty and will go into crew rest. Also, relay that Captain Pender is at Se Pang treating the wounded.”

  “They’re going to love that one,” Bosko predicted. He dialled in the radio frequency and relayed the message.

  As expected, they were told to “Standby.” Another voice came over the radio.

  “Roscoe Two-One, proceed to Phu Bai to off load and await a repair team. Once you are OR, you are cleared for a one-time flight direct Cam Ranh.” OR meant operationally ready. “Crew rest is waived for a one-time flight to home plate.”

  “Roscoe Two-One copies all,” Bosko replied.

  “The faeces must have really hit the fan to clear us for a one-time flight out of crew duty,” Santos said.

  “They need the airframe,” Warren allowed.

  ALCE was back on the radio. “Roscoe Two-One, confirm you left a manifested passenger on the ground at Se Pang.”

  Warren answered. “ALCE, that’s affirmative. Captain Pender was on crew orders and not a passenger.”

  The reply was a short “ALCE copies all.”

  “What was that all about?” Bosko wondered.

  “You don’t leave anyone behind without a damn good reason,” Santos replied. “Some 0-6 is shitting a brick.”

  “And we know which way that flows,” Bosko added.

  Exactly six minutes later, the radio squawked and the same voice was back.

  “Roscoe, Two-One, ALCE. On landing at home plate, you will be met by Security Police and the OSI. Until then, do not discuss the incident at Se Pang among yourselves.” The OSI was the office of Special Investigations that handled criminal investigations.

  “Copy all,” Warren replied.

  “The shit has definitely hit the fan,” Santos said. “Like big time.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Warren said. He called for the before landing checklist.

  1800 HOURS

  Se Pang, South Vietnam

  “Mr. Tanner, I’m Doctor Lynne Pender.” She cut his flight suit away, not liking what she saw.

  He looked at the voice. A very pretty woman wearing a flight suit was bent over his legs.

  “Where am I?”

  She talked as she worked. “You’re in a bunker at Se Pang.”

  “My crew?”

  Pender lied. “Sorry, I don’t know. They just brought you in.” She finished cutting his flight suit away. “Well, first t
hings first.”

  “Lay it out, Doc. What are you looking at?”

  An inner voice told her that the truth was the best approach with this man. Besides, she had lied enough about his crew.

  “You were caught in a fire and have first and second degree burns on the right side of your face. You were lucky.”

  Tanner closed his eyes and breathed heavily. “My peter pilot protected me. What else?”

  “Well, your flight suit was fire retardant and protected your body, but you will have an interesting burn scare down the center of your chest and stomach that looks just like a zipper.” She made a mental note to send that up channel and recommend they design an inner protective flap to shield the skin from the front zipper.

  “What about my leg? I can’t feel it.”

  Pender examined the lower part of his leg. His right foot was twisted at an odd angle, still attached by a splintered bone, tendon and skin. Part of the lower tibia jutted out of his boot. She released the tourniquet around his thigh. Blood gushed from a severed artery that she quickly sutured, sealing it off. “Can you feel this?” she asked.

  “Negative.” He raise his head and saw his boot dangling over the edge of the table. His foot was still in it. “That’s not good, Doc.”

  “I’m afraid the lower part of your right leg will have to be removed.”

  “Did they miss my pecker?”

  “You’re intact.”

  “Are you sure? We’ll need to do an ops check.”

  “Mr. Tanner, are you trying to make a date?”

  He grinned wickedly. “You bet.”

  “I will hold you to it,” she promised. She reached up and touched his cheek. “Mr. Tanner, I have to operate. I gave you our last shot of morphine and I’m not sure if it is enough. This will hurt. But you will survive.” She placed a tightly rolled bandage in his mouth. “Bite on this.” She motioned for the four Bru and the sergeant who had pulled him from the burning wreckage to hold him down. She bent over and whispered in his ear. “By the way, I’m very good in the sack.”

  “Go for it, Doc.”

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  “Quickly, quickly,” Tran said, urging everyone into the nearby caves. The sound of jet engines echoed over the valley, still faint but growing louder by the second. Luckily, they were able to pull the ZSU into a cave without disassembling it and handling the still hot barrels. He double-checked to be sure the mouth of the cave sheltering the command post was barricaded and sealed. Barring a direct hit, they could quickly clear the entrance. How much longer do we have? He gave a silent thanks the sun was down and it would soon be dark. But the setting moon was still casting enough light for the jet fighters to attack, and they knew where the gun emplacement was located.