The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  Flanders was on the flight deck filling out the maintenance log. “We took on 10,400 pounds of JP-4 for a total of 17,400.”

  Warren automatically divided the fuel on board by 3300 and calculated they had over five hours endurance. “More than enough to get us back to the barn,” he said. He settled into the pilot’s seat and waited for his crew to manhandle the wheel on board and tie it down. Bosko was the first to join him. Santos and Hale were right behind.

  “We’re good to go,” Hale said.

  It was pure music to Warren. “Time to get the hell out of Dodge.” He checked his watch. It was exactly 2015 hours local and now fully dark. It had been one hell of a day and he was feeling it. “Hey, Boz. You want this take-off?”

  The co-pilot grinned at him. “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll do it from the right seat. Good practice.”

  Warren gave himself a mental kick for not letting Bosko fly more.

  *

  Over South Vietnam

  Warren handled the radios as they climbed into the night sky, heading south for Cam Ranh Bay. “Damn,” he muttered. “they’re jamming the livin’ hell out of the radios.”

  “The VC at work,” Hale replied. Like Bosko and Santos, he had switched off the radio channel to spare his hearing.

  “Work the backups,” Bosko said, referring to the alternate radio frequencies.

  “I’m trying,” Warren said. He finally found a clear frequency and tried to transmit. But he was stepped on by priority traffic and two Maydays. They were just trash haulers heading for home plate so he quit trying. Then he heard it. “Boz, Dave, listen up on the VHF. Someone is calling for an emergency med evac.” They often transported wounded soldiers between field hospitals, and rigging the C-130 for litters was a routine operation.

  The three men listened, trying to sort out the chatter. “Oh, my God,” the navigator groaned, finally making sense out of the chatter. “It’s Se Pang.”

  “Why aren’t the Dust Offs handling it?” Bosko asked. Helicopters flew the wounded out of combat to battalion aid stations or MASH units, not C-130s. “Has a Herk ever done that?”

  “Not that I know of,” Warren replied.

  Flanders was listening on the intercom. “It’s been done. Back in ’66. Before I got to Okinawa.”

  Warren hit the transmit switch. “Da Nang ALCE, say situation at Se Pang.”

  “Aircraft calling Da Nang, say call sign.”

  “ALCE, Roscoe Two-One, You are coming through broken,” Warren answered, barely able to read the airlift command element.

  “Roscoe Two-One, are you headed for home plate?” Now, the radio transmissions were coming through more clearly as they flew south.

  “That’s affirmative, ALCE. Say situation at Se Pang.”

  “Numerous marines wounded. Dust Off fully tasked and not available.”

  Warren looked at Bosko, then Hale. “What do you think?”

  Flanders answered from the rear. “It’s what we do.” The NCO had simply cut to the heart of why they were there. It was nothing profound, but a basic truth.

  “Go for it,” Hale said.

  “We’re too late for Happy Hour anyway,” Bosko added.

  “I guess that means no pussy tonight,” Santos muttered.

  Warren hit the transmit button. “ALCE, Roscoe Two-One will cover tasking into Se Pang.”

  “Roscoe Two-one, negative. Repeat, negative. Continue to home plate and report in as directed.” The frequency was now clear and the radio transmission loud and readable.

  Warren shook his head and made the decision. “ACLE you are unreadable. Roscoe Two-One transmitting in the blind. Proceeding direct Se Pang for med evac.”

  “Roscoe Two-One, proceed to home plate. Repeat, proceed to home plate.”

  “Too bad I couldn’t understand that last transmission,” Warren muttered.

  “Heading 301 degrees” Santos said. “ETA Khe Sanh 2104 local.”

  “Sergeant Flanders, start rigging for litters,” Warren said.

  “On it,” Flanders answered.

  2100 HOURS

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Captain Lam knelt in the brush and motioned Tran to follow him. They darted across an open area.

  “Over here,” a voice whispered in the dark. Lam directed the red beam of his flashlight in that direction and led his commander to the mortar team hidden in the undergrowth. Lam crouched down and dowsed his light. He could hear the river flowing in front of them and estimated they were less than 300 meters from the airfield on the far bank.

  Tran smelled the men on the mortar team but couldn’t see them. He spoke in a quiet voice. “We saw the fires you started. Well done.”

  “We were lucky,” a voice replied. “We heard them and focused on the sound. But they are learning fast and are quiet now.”

  “How many rounds do you have left?”

  “Six,” the voice replied.

  “Dig in and wait for a target,” Tran said. “Do not be afraid to strike in the dark. Once you have fired your last round, retreat to safety.”

  “We understand,” the voice said.

  “Excellent,” Tran replied. He touched Lam on his forearm. Lam quickly moved out, paralleling the river bank, searching for the next mortar team. He did not use his flashlight this time.

  *

  Over South Vietnam

  “Over Khe Sanh now,” Santos said. “Fly 330. Se Pang on the nose in four.” They were four minutes out. Ahead, flashes of light marked the night sky. “Okay, Se Pang ford on the radar.” The distinctive Y of the river ford and east-west mountain ridge lighted the radar repeater in front of the pilots. Warren reached up and turned the gain down, making the screen go dark. He needed to preserve his night vision and Santos would keep them clear of high terrain as he directed them to the Special Forces compound.

  Bosko was still flying the Hercules from the right seat and Warren keyed the UHF radio.

  “Se Pang, Roscoe Two-One three minutes out.”

  Banks, the Green Beret captain, answered. “Roscoe Two-One, hold clear. We are taking incoming mortars, the field is closed. Repeat, the field is closed.”

  “Lovely,” Warren muttered. “Boz, hold south while I sort this out.”

  “Rog,” Bosko replied. He turned hard to the left and entered a race track pattern. He would vary the altitude and pattern, never flying the same heading twice. “Dave, keep us out of trouble.” Then, “Lights out.” Hale reached up and turned off their navigation and anti-collision lights. They were running in the dark.

  Warren stared into the night, trusting Bosko to fly the aircraft. He relaxed, closed his eyes, and let his mind work the problem. He did a mental pull-back, going for a bird’s-eye view of the situation. Suddenly, it hit him. What the hell! We’ve got twenty flares on board and Flanders knows how to use them. He hit the transmit button.

  “Se Pang, Roscoe. Say type of incoming.”

  “Roscoe, Se Pang. We’re taking small stuff from the south side of the river. Probably 37mm mortar shovels, maybe a 50mm.” The 37mm mortars had a range of 300 meters and the 50mm a range of 800 meters, which meant they were close in.

  “Se Pang, say status of Trip A.”

  “Roscoe,” Banks transmitted, “a flight of F-4s hit them after you departed. They got a secondary. Looked impressive from here.”

  “Copy all,” Warren radioed. “I’ll try to arrange something.” He dialled in a radio frequency he remembered from flying Blind Bat, the night flare mission over the Ho Chi Minh trail. He may have been dog tired, but there was nothing wrong with his memory. He listened for one minute. Nothing. He dialled in a second frequency and listened for another minute. Again, no radio traffic. He dialled in a third frequency, still with the same results. He cycled back to the first frequency to repeat the listening watch. He hit pay dirt.

  A flight of two marine A-4s, call sign Condole, was on the frequency trying to establish contact with a FAC on the ground at Khe Sanh. But as so often h
appened, the coordination between the Army, Marines, and Air Force had broken down and there was no response.

  “Pity,” Santos said, “We’ve got a target for ‘em.”

  “No way Moonbeam will release them to a trash hauler,” Bosko said. Moonbeam was the airborne control and command post that ran the air war at night over Laos and I Corps and controlled all fighters. But Moonbeam was an Air Force unit and the marine A-4s were an independent bunch who barely tolerated being controlled by the Air Force.

  “Maybe we won’t have to ask,” Warren said. “Time to play FAC.” He keyed the radio, calling the marine fighters. “Condole, Roscoe Two-One. How copy?”

  A gravelly voice answered. “Condole copies you five by.”

  “We have trade, twenty miles north of your location.”

  “Negative on the trade, Roscoe. Moonbeam wants us to hold while they find tasking.” Warren caught the perversion of Moonbeam’s call sign and that the pilot had said ‘tasking’ and not ‘a target.’ He had an opening he could work – if he played it right.

  “Condole, we’re taking it in the neck here.” Warren was betting the pilot leading the flight of two fighters would catch the allusion to leathernecks. Hopefully, the controller on Moonbeam would be too preoccupied to make the connection. He was right on both counts.

  “Go cheap suit,” was all the marine said. Cheap suit was $29.95, the price of a famous stateside tailor’s men’s suit. Warren changed the radio frequency to 299.5. It was an unauthorized frequency aircrews used to talk among themselves without Moonbeam’s knowledge. Warren checked in. Condole was waiting for him.

  “Roscoe, Two-One, authenticate Sierra Hotel.”

  Santos let out a hoot of laughter. He had expected the challenge and response and had already spun his code wheel, setting S opposite H, the initials for shit hot.

  “Sierra Hotel authenticates Tango,” he told Warren. Later on, Santos recorded the incident in his journal but changed the authentication to Foxtrot, making a connection to the f word.

  “Roscoe Two-One authenticates Tango,” Warren transmitted.

  “What ’cha got?” the marine asked.

  “A company of marines is in contact at Se Pang with wounded. We’re trying to air evac ‘em out but need fire suppression to land.”

  The marine never hesitated. “I can do that, if I can find ‘em.”

  “I’ll kick some flares and light ‘em up.”

  “Sierra Hotel!” the marine radioed. “Coming your way.”

  Warren turned in his seat and looked at the other three men while he spoke. “Sergeant Flanders, can you and Boyle drop some flares by hand out the port parachute door?” On a normal flare mission, the loadmasters placed twelve flares in a dispenser rack mounted across the end of the ramp and literally kicked the flares out the back.

  “Piece of cake,” Flanders replied. “I’ll tether us in. Just fly straight and level while we’re doing it.” They would be standing in the open door without parachutes.

  “How long you need?” Warren asked, wondering how long it would take to uncrate the flares and hook up their harnesses.

  “Ready in three,” Flanders replied.

  Now Warren had to get his crew in sync. “Okay, here’s the game plan. The Gomers are on the south side of the river, and I’m guessing within 800 meters of the field. No way we’re going to engage a ZSU, but I’m willing to bet that brace of F-4s nailed it.” Trash Haulers avoided anti-aircraft artillery like the plague for good reason, but this particular AAA had raised its head and paid the price. But Warren wasn’t ready to write it totally off. “We’re gonna do a Blind Bat and drop some flares, and see if the Condoles can kick some ass. We’ll run in on a westerly heading right up the river valley, 8000 feet, displaced to the left of the river with the air patch on our right. I wanna kick two flares and then circle back to the left to see if we lit anything up. Everyone, keep your eyeballs peeled and try to get my eyes on anything you see that looks like a target. I’ll call the Condoles in using the flares as a reference.

  “Except for Sergeant Flanders, I know this is a first flare drop for you. I also know that a ZSU may still be out there, but it has to get a visual and we’re dark. I’m also betting the Gomers, if they are there, will hear the Condoles and not engage. They know a Blind Bat can bring down holy hell on ‘em. There is a chance they might try for a lucky shot once we’re past and they’re at our deep six. But we’ll be jinking like hell and I’ll turn out to the south to get the ridge between us for terrain masking. Any questions?” There were none.

  “Dave, you’ve got to find the compound on radar and guide us in, right down the river valley, but keep us to the left of the river. If we can’t get a visual on the field, you’ll have to make the call.”

  “What’s the command?” Santos asked.

  Flanders answered from the rear. “’Ready – ready – kick’ works best for me. We’re good to go in the rear.”

  “Boz, I’ve got it,” Warren said, taking back control of the Hercules. He keyed the radio. “Condole, say state and position.”

  “Flight of two. Two Mark-82s. Playtime eight. Lox sweet. Overhead, no joy.” The two A-4s were each carrying two 500-pound bombs, could stay in the area for eight minutes, had good oxygen, and were in the area but did not have the Hercules in sight.

  “Condole, Roscoe Two-One is at angels eight. There may be an active ZSU in the area.”

  “Condole at angels fourteen, looking.” The two A-4s were at 14,000 feet, 6000 feet above the Hercules and looking for it.

  “Okay, folks,” Warren told his crew, “here we go. This is gonna go down fast. Dave, inbound heading.”

  Santos’s face was buried in the radar scope. He played with the receiver gain and antenna tilt, breaking out the ridgeline and distinctive Y in the river. It matched the returns he had shaded in on his chart, and they were two miles southeast of the Se Pang river ford.

  “Fly 345, expect a hard port turn to 270 in eighty seconds.”

  Warren turned to the new heading. “Anti-collision light on.” Hale reached up and hit the switch turning on the bright strobes located on the top and bottom of the fuselage.

  “Condole has you in sight.” This over the UHF.

  “Strangle anti-collision,” Warren said. If the two A-4s could see them, so could any AAA gunners on the ground. Hale turned the beacon off. Warren reached around to his side console and lifted the guard over the toggle switch that opened the air deflector doors. “Air deflectors open,” The air deflector panels located on each side of the fuselage just forward of the parachute doors opened thirty degrees, protecting anyone standing in the parachute doors from wind blast. “Port parachute door open,” he ordered.

  Flanders was ready. “Port parachute door open.”

  They were almost ready. “Loadmaster,” Warren said, “set two flares for parachute, delay twenty-five seconds.” Flanders and Boyle quickly set the two dials in the top of each flare and held on to the four-foot lanyard that would arm the flare when dropped. The flare would fall for twenty-five seconds before the parachute would deploy and the flare ignite. It would burn for about three minutes, descending around 1100 feet, lighting up the ground below with two million candle power.

  “Turn in ten seconds,” Santos said. “Ready – ready – turn. Heading 270.”

  Warren rolled 45 degrees and turned to the inbound heading. He rolled out and rooted their indicated airspeed on 150 knots. “No joy,” Warren said, indicating he could not see anything on the ground.

  “No joy,” Bosko repeated.

  “Come right three degrees,” Santos said, still directing the Hercules, his eyes locked on the radar screen.

  “Kickers in the door,” Warren ordered.

  “Kickers ready,” Flanders replied.

  “No joy,” Warren repeated. “Dave, you’ve got it.” Santos would have to call the drop.

  And he did. “Ready – ready – ready – KICK ONE!”

  “One gone,” Flanders said. He q
uickly stepped out of the door for Boyle to step in for the second drop. But the airman just stood there, frozen with fear. Flanders jerked the flare out of his hands, almost dropping it, grabbed the lanyard, and stepped onto the open door.

  “Ready – ready – KICK TWO!” Santos called.

  “Two’s gone,” Flanders said, quickly stepping out of the door. He pushed Boyle into a jump seat and sat down, holding on. “Secure in the rear,” he told the flight deck.

  Warren didn’t hesitate and tuned sharply to the left as he nosed the aircraft over and pushed the throttles up. A line of tracers reached up from the ground, passing well above and behind the turning Hercules.

  “Trip A at our deep six,” Flanders called. “No threat.”

  “ZSU in sight,” Condole lead radioed.

  “Cleared in hot,” Warren replied. He rolled out on a heading of 090 in time to see a flashing tail beacon diving at the spot where the ZSU had been firing from. “What the hell?” he wondered. The marine pilot should have turned off his anti-collision light when coming down the wire.

  Then, “Check that out, folks.” The wind was out of the south, and the two flares were still descending and drifting to the north, lighting the river valley, the Special Forces compound, and runway. “Well done, Dave.”

  “One’s off dry,” the lead Condole radioed. The beacon pulled up without releasing its bombs and reached into the night sky, a perfect target of a AAA gunner. On cue, a solid line of tracers reached up from a spot about fifty meters above the valley floor and against the steep face of the karst as the Condole jinked hard to dodge the AAA chasing him down.

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Tran watched the tracers reach up for the escaping jet. He jammed the old walkie-talkie radio he was carrying against his ear and mashed the transmit button. “Cease fire, cease fire,” he ordered. But nothing happened and the tracers continued to etch the dark night. It was a mistake, perhaps fatal, to keep firing at the escaping jet just because it was still in range. The gun captain knew better. “I’m coming in,” Tran radioed.