The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  Again, he looked around. Everyone was safely in the caves and he was alone. He studied the empty gun emplacement, sorry they had to abandon it. It wasn’t often a site was so well situated. But movement was life. What do the Americans call it? Shoot and scoot? Another thought came to him. Give them what they want.

  “Bring the big canvas tarpaulin,” he called, “and four cans of petrol.” In less than a minute, the big tarp was spread out over the empty gun emplacement. Two men rushed out of the far cave carrying four twenty-litre cans of the precious gasoline used to power the communications generators. Tran rolled a small boulder into the center of the tarp, depressing it into the shape of a giant saucer. Overhead, the sound of jet fighters grew louder.

  “Pour the petrol on the tarpaulin,” he ordered. Rapidly running out of time, he told the men to open the jerry cans and let them drain into the makeshift canvas bowl. He rushed them all to safety inside a cave as the first jet screamed down on a bomb run. It was an F-4 Phantom.

  It missed by over a kilometre.

  Tran uttered a curse in Vietnamese about pilots being born from dogs. The second F-4 rolled in but pickled off its load early and pulled off high. Tran’s luck held and four explosions walked down the valley, the last one detonating 400 meters from the empty gun emplacement. Shrapnel from the five-hundred pound Mark-82 rattled against the karst cliff face above the cave. Desperate, Tran called for a hand grenade. One was quickly passed forward and he ran from the cave, pulling the pin. He threw the grenade into the gun emplacement, hoping the petrol had not leaked out of the canvas. He darted back into the cave as the grenade detonated. A flaming cloud erupted from the emplacement and rose into the dark sky.

  Tran breathed in relief. He had created the illusion of a secondary explosion, the sign that a bomb had destroyed a target of value. Now it was time to move again while the moon was still up and they had enough light to see. For a brief moment, he considered leaving Dinh sealed inside the cave. But he needed the communications gear and the six comrades still inside. He sighed mentally and gave the order to clear the cave entrance.

  *

  Phu Bai, South Vietnam

  “It sure gets dark quick after the sun goes down,” Bosko said. The worry in the co-pilot’s voice was palpable as an eerie silence settled over the Army base. Fortunately, the setting moon was still casting enough light for them to see on the darkened flight deck. “The VC do their best work at night.”

  Warren looked out the pilot’s side window. The burnt out wreckage of three helicopters and six trucks were grim reminders of recent attacks, and he shared his co-pilot’s concern.

  “I wonder when the repair team will get here?” he wondered. “We need to get the hell out of here.” It was the age-old military tradition of hurry up and wait. Now they were waiting.

  “I’m not so sure they’ll rig lights to work at night,” Hale said. The tech sergeant had changed many wheels and knew what was involved.

  The rumble of an outgoing artillery barrage echoed over them. “Damn, that’s close,” Santos said. Warren agreed with him.

  The loadmaster’s head appeared at the edge of the flight deck’s entrance. “Chow anyone? I heated up some C-Rats.” The C-Rats, or C-Rations, were the latest version of the infamous K-Rations of World War II vintage. The individual packets held a complete meal that ranged from ham and eggs to chicken and vegetables. The beans and franks were the favourite, but all provided an edible meal, especially when heated. While they were still airborne, Flanders had opened six packs and heated the cans with the main entrees on the radio rack underneath the flight deck.

  “Sounds great,” Warren called, remembering how Colonel Sloan had made sure they were all fed while at Nakhon Phanom. What had Hardy said about the colonel? The best commander we’ve got. Always pay attention to the basics, he thought. He was still learning. Flanders passed the heated C-Rations up and the men tore into them, indulging in the traditional military pastime of ‘bitching and moaning’ as they chowed down.

  “Where is that damn repair team” Bosko moaned.

  “At Happy Hour with the Donut Dollies,” Santos quipped.

  “Where else,” Warren said.

  “Give me a wheel,” Hale said, “and I can change it.”

  Warren looked at him. “You can do that?”

  “Sure can,” the flight engineer replied. “Just dig a hole around the wheel.”

  “No shit?” Bosko said.

  “Piece of cake,” Hale explained, “as long as it’s the aft wheel. Won’t work on the forward main. Helps to have a shovel or two.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a wheel,” Warren said. They fell silent as they finished eating. Soon, only Warren was still awake as the others dozed off. Bosko had run the co-pilot’s seat full aft and was gently snoring. Santos and Hale had stretched out in back along with Flanders on the canvas jump seats in the cargo compartment.

  “Now look at that,” Warren said over the intercom, waking Bosko and Flanders. A C-123 was taxing in and headed straight for them. “I think we got our wheel. Not bad. We’ve only been on the ground an hour.” It always amazed him when the system worked with any efficiency. Maybe there’s a Sloan kicking ass and taking names in the world of tactical airlift. Then it came to him; Sloan never had to kick any one’s ass. It was all about leadership. “Okay, let’s make it happen and get the hell out of Dodge ASAP.”

  “Captain Warren,” Flanders said. “Boyle’s disappeared.”

  Warren muttered an obscenity under his breath. “Maybe he’s gone to the latrine.”

  “His AWOL bag is gone too,” Flanders said.

  “If he’s not back when we’re good to go,” Warren growled, “we’ll be gone too.”

  1900 HOURS

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Three figures moved along the hillside trail, still able to make their way in the rapidly fading moonlight. The setting moon was above the horizon but a deep blackness had captured the valley floor. The lead figure stopped on a ledge and pointed to the valley floor. They could barely see the dark mass of the special forces camp. A dim light cracked the darkness as another figure held back the canvas that covered a cave entrance. The three figures moved inside and the canvas dropped back in place, leaving only darkness behind.

  Kim-Ly dropped her heavy pack and handed her AK-47 to a woman. She looked around the dimly lit cave, getting her bearings. Sleeping figures rested against the walls, exhausted from moving the ZSU-23 a second time.

  “Major Cao,” Kim-Ly said, “please stay here and rest. We will bring you water.”

  The major collapsed against the wall without removing his pack. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the ordeal of the last few hours. They had darted forward, synchronizing their movements to the timing of falling bombs, moving fast but always finding safe refuge at the last moment. He wanted to return to the safety of the Binh Tram in Laos, but Kim-Ly had pressed ahead. Begrudgingly, he gave her high marks for courage.

  Kim-Ly thanked their guide and followed her escort deeper into the cave and to the regiment’s latest command post. She was careful to step over the telephone lines stretched across the ground. Tran looked up from the table where he was sitting. His face softened and, for a few moments, an inner calm captured him and the sacrifice and pain gave way to the reward of reuniting with his wife. They stood close, not talking or touching.

  “Someday,” he finally whispered, “we will have a son and daughter.” She shushed him. “Why did you come?” he asked.

  “Major Cao received a message from General Dong to rejoin Colonel Dinh. He is not to be left alone. I think they fear for his life.” The implication was clear. In wartime, and away from the highly controlled and protected surroundings of Hanoi, a rear echelon apparatchik like Dinh often led a brief but very exciting life. They always returned home as a fallen hero.

  “Dinh is a survivor,” Tran said. He shot a look at the sleeping colonel. Dinh was sitting in one of the command post’s si
x folding chairs, his chin slumped on his chest, breathing in honks and gasps.

  Major Cao limped into the light.

  “I must see Colonel Dinh,” he said. Tran pointed at the sleeping colonel. Cao moved forward and stumbled over a telephone line on the ground. He fell into Dinh, knocking him over. Dinh came awake, confused at first, not sure where he was. “My apologies, Colonel,” Cao said, his voice cringing with the appropriate servility.

  “You stupid fool,” Dinh growled. If it had been anyone other than Cao, he would have slapped him. “Why are you here?”

  “General Dong requests your status,” Cao replied, phrasing the general’s demands as tactfully as he could. “The attack must proceed on schedule.”

  “What? I sent a message as to our status after I destroyed the helicopter and the C-130.”

  Tran joined them. “We are out of contact with the Group, Colonel. No message has gone out.”

  “Make it happen,” Dinh ordered.

  “As soon as we can,” Tran replied. “May I suggest you only claim the helicopter destroyed. Our observers only reported a probable hit on the C-130 and no smoke or damage was seen.”

  “Do not tell me what I saw with my own eyes,” Dinh said. “Because we engaged the air pirates, we have moved forward. We will attack at the first opportunity.”

  Tran chose his words carefully, mostly for Cao’s benefit. “We have moved our command post and the Sergey forward twice, perhaps a total of a kilometre. However, many of our men are still moving into position and not ready to attack yet. As the moon is down, may I suggest we attack at first light?”

  “You may not suggest,” Dinh said. “And why should I wait once my forces are in place and ready?”

  “May I suggest the colonel step outside and see for himself how dark it is? Also, the Bru own the night and they will set traps for the unwary.”

  “And why do the Bru own the night?” Dinh demanded.

  Kim-Ly answered. “We only know they are ghosts at night. I suspect they have excellent night vision, probably a genetic mutation. Also, this is their land and they know it like a blind person knows his home.”

  “Utter nonsense,” Dinh said. “Keep moving into position. We will attack when I give the order.”

  *

  Phu Bai, South Vietnam

  The six-man repair team on the C-123 had changed C-130 wheels countless times and went through a well-practiced drill. The setting moon still gave off enough light for the team to insert heavy jacks underneath the fuselage and raise the wheel without rigging floodlights. They took shortcuts that would have driven their NCOIC, non-commissioned officer in charge, into spasms of despair and anger. But Warren was a firm believer that an officer told an NCO or airman when to do his job, not how to do it. If there was a problem getting the job done, then he would talk to the NCOIC and let him sort it out. Warren keyed off Hale, and since the flight engineer was satisfied with the way the wheel change was going, stretched out on a jump seat and was asleep in less than two minutes.

  A loud clunk and a little bump woke him when the repair team lowered the big hydraulic jacks and dropped the C-130 onto its main gear. The repair team had switched out the damaged wheel in less than forty minutes and were reloading their equipment on the C-123 when an Army fuel browser pulling a trailer drove up. It was an M49 fuel tanker based on the venerable Deuce-and-a-Half.

  “How much JP-4 you need?” the driver called.

  “We’ll take what you got,” Hale told him.

  “Got a full load. Twelve hundred gallons plus another 400 in the trailer.” The trailer was an unauthorized modification of a Water Buffalo water trailer. The driver and his fellow tankers had found a way to increase their efficiency and, at the same time, protect fuel by moving it out of the dumps, which were stationary and highly vulnerable targets. “Only got a hose though.” The M49s did not have a single-point refuelling nozzle, which was much more efficient and had to refuel C-130s over the wing with a conventional fuel nozzle. “Need a ladder.”

  “We ain’t got one,” Hale said. They waited while the C-123’s props spun up and the engines came on line. The small cargo aircraft taxied out.

  Flanders had been through the refuelling drill many times and crawled through the emergency hatch on top of the flight deck. He scrambled to his feet and walked out on the left wing. “I’m getting too old for this crap,” he called.

  Hale grinned, ragging on him. “Where’s Boyle when you need him?” He tossed the loadmaster a line to haul up the fuel nozzle. Flanders dragged the heavy hose along the left wing, over the fuselage, and onto the right wing, filling the tanks as he went. It was hard work and he was soon sweating. He was filling the last tank when another Deuce pulled up, stopping under the tail.

  Boyle hopped off the back. “I’m back,” he called. “I got it.”

  “What’s he up to now?” Hale muttered, loud enough for Warren to hear.

  2000 HOURS

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  A loud scream pierced the dark, echoing over the hillside and waking the gun crew sleeping beside the ZSU-23. The men stirred and tried to ignore it, but the screaming only grew more intense and more agonizing. Finally, the gun captain switched on a flashlight with a shrouded red lens and motioned for two men to follow him into the night. A few minutes later, the screaming stopped.

  The gun captain and the two men returned. Visibly shaken, the gun captain headed for the nearby cave that housed the command post to report in. Tran was waiting by the entrance. The young Vietnamese spoke in a low and trembling voice describing how a young woman who was searching for privacy to relieve herself had triggered a booby trap set by the Bru. She had broken a trip wire that released a bamboo stalk bowed horizontally that drove a sharp spike through her abdomen and severed her spine. The gun captain had applied pressure to her carotid arteries until she passed out, and then held it until she stopped breathing. Tran motioned him inside to brief the colonel from Hanoi. “He needs to hear it from you.” Tran didn’t think it would make an impression on Dinh but he had to try.

  Dinh listened impatiently as the young gunner repeated his story. “So you silenced a stupid woman.” He didn’t ask how and turned on Tran. “And can you explain how the Bru managed to penetrate your perimeter, and what you are going to do about it?”

  “We have discussed this before, Colonel. They will be gone by first light and safe in their camp before we can find them.”

  Dinh paced the floor. “Since you are unable to act, I must. Are my mortar teams in place?”

  “The mortar teams report they are in range,” Tran answered.

  “Are you in radio contact with the teams?”

  Tran glanced at the radio operator at the back of the cave. The woman nodded in the affirmative.

  “We are,” Tran said.

  Dinh glanced at his watch. “Order them to attack.”

  Tran spoke quietly to the operator to relay the order and followed Dinh outside to listen. Within moments, the dull thuds of 37mm mortars detonating echoed over the valley. Tran shook his head in disgust.

  “Without visual targets, the mortar teams are laying down a barrage in the dark hoping for success.”

  “Then you must go forward and lead them to success.” Dinh smiled in triumph. “Now.”

  *

  Phu Bai, South Vietnam

  The two pilots, navigator, and flight engineer gathered around Boyle at the back of the Deuce. Resting on the bed of the truck was a C-130 wheel with a fully inflated and balanced tire. “You said you could change the wheel if you had one,” Boyle said, very proud of himself.

  “I got to go,” the truck driver said. “Do you want it or not?” The private gave off a strong body odour, his jungle fatigues were a disaster, and he needed a shave and haircut.

  Warren made the decision.

  “We want.” He looked at the men. “Okay. Let’s get it off.” It took three of them to lift the wheel and roll it off the truck, letting it bounce on the
cracked asphalt. The wheel fell over and was still rolling around on its side when the truck driver darted back into the idling truck, ground the gears and accelerated away, disappearing into the dark.

  Hale stood bolt straight, a good four inches taller than the raggedy airman, and stared at him.

  “Boyle, where in God’s name did you find him?”

  “I ... ah ... well ... I know some people.”

  “And I suppose,” Hale snapped, “that rat-bag private just happened to know where a C-130 wheel was lying around ready to be traded for something useful.”

  “That’s the way it works” Boyle said. He was obviously confused. Boyle honestly thought everyone knew how the military black market worked where almost anything, including women, weapons, or vehicles, could be traded for drugs and liquor. “You said you wanted one.”

  “So what did you trade for it?” Hale asked.

  “You know. Stuff.”

  Warren’s inner alarm went off. “Where’s your AWOL bag?”

  Boyle’s head jerked and he blinked. “Don’t know, must’ve lost it.”

  “By any chance, did it have some ‘stuff’ in it that scumbag might have wanted?” Warren asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The sound of the fuel truck echoed over the men as it drove away. Warren turned in time to see Flanders crawling into the top hatch. Warren pointed at the wheel.

  “Get it on board. We’ll take it back to where it belongs.” He headed for the Hercules, more than willing to put the problem of Billy Bob Boyle on a back burner.