The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  There was no answer.

  *

  Over Se Pang, South Vietnam

  Another voice came over the Hercules’ radio they had not heard. “Condole Two’s in. Triple A in sight.” This time there was no flashing beacon as the second A-4 came down the wire, locked on to the still firing ZSU battery. “Ripple two,” the second marine radioed. “Two’s off.” Two explosions flashed in the night and neatly bracketing the ZSU. It stopped firing.

  “Shack,” the first marine pilot radioed. The Condoles had suckered in the AAA gunners.

  A fireball erupted on the side of the ridge, sending a bright mushroom cloud into the night sky. “Jesus H. Christ,” Bosko whispered. “They got a secondary. What in hell would go up like that?”

  “I’m guessing an ammo or fuel dump,” Warren replied.

  The radio squawked. “Roscoe Two-One, Condole. I’ve got two remaining. Any more trade?”

  “Roger, Condole. “I’ll lay another string of flares over the south side of the river. You’re cleared in hot.”

  Warren banked the Hercules sharply for another run in. “Okay, folks,” he said over the intercom, “one more time. Dave, you’ve got it.”

  Santos had it wired. “Come left five. Ready – ready – kick one.” He paused. “Ready – ready – kick two.”

  “Secure in the rear,” Flanders said, telling the flight deck the two kickers were strapped in. Warren jinked hard, just in case the AAA was still alive. But it wasn’t.

  “Condole One is in,” the marine radioed. “I have movement on the ground, south side of the river, moving away from the river.” A short break. “One’s off, bingo fuel, RTB.” Two bright flashes walked along the side of the river.

  “Roger, Condole,” Warren replied. “ready to copy BDA?” BDA was bomb damage assessment.

  “Roger that.”

  “One ZSU battery destroyed. One secondary, suspected ammo or fuel dump. Sorry, no joy on the last run.”

  “No problem,” the marine replied. “I bracketed the fuckers and bodies don’t do secondaries.”

  “Condole,” Warren radioed, “great show all around. I’m buying the bar.”

  “We’ll hold you to it,” the marine replied. Both men knew it would never happen, but they were a band of brothers. “Good luck on the med evac.”

  “We’ll get ‘em out,” Warren promised. He glanced over at Bosko who was looking directly at him. The co-pilot gave a little nod. “Okay, folks. Strap in and let’s get this puppy on the ground. Boz, see if you can raise Se Pang.” He flew a descending spiral as Bosko made radio contact with the Special Forces compound. The field was secure and they were cleared to land.

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  The young Vietnamese captain rolled over and came to his knees, his head still pounding from the shock of the bomb blast.

  “Colonel Tran,” he called, surprised that he could hear his own voice. There was no answer. He looked around. Flickering tongues of flames set off by the two bombs cast a weird half-light around him. He could barely make out the lump on the ground that was twisting and turning, moaning in pain. It was Tran.

  Lam crawled over to his commander and gently rolled him onto his back. Shrapnel from the second bomb had ripped a gaping wound in his abdomen and part of his intestines were hanging out. Lam silently cursed the bad luck that had caught them in the open as he uncapped his canteen and washed the exposed intestines. He gently pushed them back into to place. Fortunately, there wasn’t too much blood, but every instinct, all of his experience, warned him it was bad. He rolled up his shirt to use as compress to close the wound before wrapping his equipment belt around Tran’s torso, holding the makeshift compress in place. He placed his left hand over the compress, relieved that the bleeding had slowed to a soft ooze. But for how long? He felt around on the ground, finally scooping up Tran’s walkie-talkie. He hit the transmit button.

  “Calling Lieutenant Colonel Du, calling Lieutenant Colonel Du.” There was no answer. He hit the button and transmitted in the blind. “This is Lam. Colonel Tran is down and seriously wounded. I need immediate help.”

  A man’s voice answered. “Where are you?”

  Lam looked up, thinking, He glanced at the button compass on his wrist watch. The luminescent numbers glowed faintly in the dark. He was due north of the karst where the command post was located. “Shine a light,” he radioed. On cue, a light blinked at him from the hillside. He held his compass up to read the numbers and sighted across it. “I am on a bearing of zero-four-five degrees from your location, at approximately twelve hundred meters.”

  A woman’s voice answered. “We can find you.” It was Kim-Ly.

  “We need a litter and a medical kit,” Lam transmitted.

  There was no answer.

  *

  Over Se Pang, South Vietnam

  Roscoe 21 was passing through 4000 feet when a red road flare ignited on the ground. Six more flares popped in succession, etching a straight line on the ground. “Field in sight,” Warren and Bosko chorused.

  Warren called for the before landing checklist as they continued to spiral down. He rolled out on a close-in base leg and called for gear down. A loud, and all too familiar, rumbling sound echoed up from the cargo compartment. “Sergeant Flanders, check the gear.” He levelled off and pushed the throttles up, stabilizing their airspeed at 120 knots.

  “It’s the left rear main again,” Flanders said. “Flat as a pancake but the forward main looks okay. Right gear checks good. Down and locked.”

  Warren made the correct decision. “Time to head for the barn.” He reached for the throttles.

  “Sir,” Hale said, “we got a wheel and I can change it. All we gotta do is dig a hole. I’m guessing an hour, tops.”

  “We’ll be in and out before any Dust Off can get here,” Bosko said. It was his way of saying “Go for it.”

  “Turn final and I can breakout the runway,” Santos said.

  Flanders was with them. “Rigging for litters complete. All secure back here.” Then, “And no one gives a shit what Billy Bob thinks.”

  “Turning final,” Warren said. He rolled out on final approach and called for full flaps.

  “One mile out,” Santos said, concentrating on the radar scope. “Half a mile.”

  Warren flew with right wing low to touch down on the right landing gear.

  “Landing lights,” Warren said. Hale flicked the switch on the overhead panel and the high-powered lights cut the night in front of them. Santos had them lined up perfectly.

  *

  Se Pang, South Vietnam

  The Hercules touched down, first on the right main, then more gently on the left. Warren reversed the props, careful not to brake too hard.

  “Crater on the nose” Bosko called at the same moment Warren saw the shallow hole in the runway. He lifted the throttles out of reverse and pulled back on the yoke, lifting the nose gear up to clear the hole. The main gear on the Hercules straddled the crater as it rumbled down the dirt strip. They stopped with fifty feet to spare.

  “Let me be the first to welcome you to the land of no Base Exchange and warm beer,” Flanders said. “Door coming open, clear in the rear.” He lowered the loading ramp to level and stood at the edge, directing them as they backed up.

  “There’s a crater dead center,” Warren warned.

  The loadmaster was in his element, doing what he did best. “Crater in sight. Come to your right, go straight, we’re clear.”

  Warren braked to a halt two-hundred feet short of the approach end of the runway and turned into the open area that served as a parking ramp. Captain Wes Banks was waiting for them. “Let’s go check for damage,” Warren said, quickly climbing out of his seat. Hale and Flanders joined him outside as they did a quick walk around, their flashlights scanning the fuselage and wings for battle damage. They finished their inspection at the left main gear door. Other than being flat, the tire looked good. “Look at that,” Warren said, stic
king his finger in a small bullet hole in the main gear door. “The golden B-B.” A lucky shot from a small calibre rifle had punctured the tire.

  Banks examined the hole in the gear door. “Probably an AK-47,” he said. “What now?”

  “We change the wheel,” Hale explained. “Luckily, we’ve got one on board but no jack. We have to dig a hole around the wheel to pull it off. Then we mount the good wheel and taxi out of the hole.”

  “Have you ever done it?” Banks asked. “Like personally?” Hale shook his head. The Ranger captain thought for a moment. “The Bru are world-class hole diggers,” he said. “And they want to say thanks. Just don’t get in their way. I’ll get them to fill in the crater on the runway. They’ve done it before.” He disappeared into the night to make it happen.

  Warren followed Santos to the edge of the parking area where they unzipped their flight suits and relieved themselves on the hard packed dirt.

  “Hell of a day, Captain,” Santos allowed. “The Condoles did good and nailed that ZSU.”

  Warren didn’t reply but stared at the darkened ridge to the south, hoping it was true. But an inner voice warned there was a ZSU gunner out there, still waiting for his chance. The war had become very personal.

  2200 HOURS

  Se Pang, Vietnam

  A soft red light bathed the flight deck as Santos and Hale filled out the flight log and maintenance forms. It was a never-ending process and both men were tired. Hale rubbed his eyes and double-checked the gauges on the overhead fuel control panel. The numbers didn’t quite add up.

  Normally, the gauges were accurate enough, but Hale was old school and never fully trusted any readout, always double-checking and worrying over what might be wrong. The fuel remaining didn’t quite match what he calculated they should have. It was only two-hundred pounds low and they were parked on a slope, which might make a difference. He rationalized it away. They had more than enough fuel to fly to any base in Vietnam and land with six or seven thousand pounds to spare. He humphed. Once they changed out the wheel, they were good to go. He closed the log and dropped it into its holder.

  “Time to help Flash,” he said, climbing down from the flight deck.

  Warren was sitting on the entrance steps as Flanders, Boyle, and Bosko chipped away at the hard-packed laterite soil with the three folding entrenching shovels Banks had found. The small shovels had a sharp edge, but were intended for digging a foxhole.

  “It’s going more slowly than I expected,” Warren admitted.

  “It is dark out here,” Hale murmured. He could barely see the men working in the dim glow of a flashlight. He thought for a moment. “We better douse the lights on the flight deck to save the battery.”

  “Good idea,” Warren replied. “Hey, Dave, strangle the lights,” he called, saving Hale the trouble of climbing back on board. On cue, the red lights went out and Santos climbed down, feeling his way.

  “Sum’bitch, it’s dark out here,” the navigator said.

  “Much cooler though,” Warren said. Then, “We could sure use some help.” They had been waiting for almost an hour.

  “I’ll go spell ‘em,” Hale said.

  “I’m with you,” Santos said.

  Warren listened as the two men relieved Bosko and Flanders. “They are the best,” Warren murmured to himself.

  A soft “Sir” caught his attention. His head jerked to the left, towards the sound. A small dark shadow was standing less than six feet away. A Bru.

  “You scared me,” the pilot admitted. He could barely make out the shadows standing behind the Montagnard.

  “We help,” the man said. He walked silently past. The shadows followed, and twelve of the small-framed mountain men filed past. Each was carrying a single tool; a shovel, pick, digging stick, basket, or a water jug. The last in line was Captain Wes Banks.

  “That got my attention,” Warren said. “I never heard or saw them.”

  “The Bru own the night,” Banks explained. “The VC and North Vietnamese shit a brick having nightmares about them. Have your men stand back. They know what to do.”

  “Hey, guys,” Warren called, “take a break. Let ‘em at it.” The five Americans stepped back and let the Bru go to work.

  The Montagnards started by building a small campfire to see by.

  “The VC are attracted to lights at night,” Banks explained, “but won’t go anywhere near a campfire for fear of the Bru. It’s a sure-fire way to get booby trapped.”

  “What the hell are they doing now?” Bosko wondered. The Bru were lining up to urinate on the hard dirt around the wheel. Finished, they emptied the jugs of water, further softening the laterite. Silently, five men disappeared into the dark to refill the jugs while the others went to work digging.

  “Wish we had done that,” Flanders said.

  Warren thought for a moment. “Captain Banks, how many wounded are we looking at?”

  “Fourteen litters and at least thirty walking wounded. Another dozen or so are wounded but can still fight, so they’ll come out later.”

  “How bad are the litter patients?” Warren asked.

  “Two or three probably won’t make it.”

  “Sounds like you took a pounding.”

  “Could have been worse.” The Ranger looked into the night. “Close air support made the difference. But they’ll be back, probably at first light. Damn, we need a gunship on station.”

  “Time to make some radio calls,” Warren said. He needed to tell Moonbeam that they were NOR, not operationally ready, when they would be OR, operationally ready, and that they were bringing out wounded. “Sergeant Hale, does the battery have enough juice for the radios, or do we need to start the GTC?”

  “We got a full charge,” Hale answered.

  Banks frowned. “Your GTC makes a lot of noise. It might attract some unwanted attention.”

  “So they are out there,” Warren said.

  “Oh, yeah,” the Ranger admitted. “Best to use battery power.”

  “I’d prefer to save it for starting the GTC.” They needed the Gas Turbine Compressor to start engines.

  “Keep it short,” Hale said, making the decision.

  “Will do,” Warren replied. He stood and stretched his right arm, working his aching shoulder. The sniper round was taking a toll. Hale followed him onto the flight deck to power up the radios. Within a minute the UHF radio was on line. Warren went to the common frequency used to contact Moonbeam. Nothing. He cycled through the frequencies they used most often, again without making contact. They were in a fairly deep river valley, and, as the radios were line-of-sight, the mountains were blocking their transmissions. Then he tried an ALCE frequency. Almost immediately a voice answered. “Roscoe Two-One, MAC Fourteen-Twenty copies you five-by.” MAC 1420, was a Military Airlift Command transport aircraft.

  “Roger MAC Fourteen-Twenty,” Warren answered. “Request you relay our status to Moonbeam.”

  “Go ahead, Roscoe.”

  “Roscoe Two-One is on the ground at Se Pang, NOR for left aft main gear. Repair in progress, expect to be airborne in one plus thirty with fourteen litter patients and thirty walking wounded. Will transport to Da Nang or Chu Lai unless advised otherwise. Se Pang is hot.”

  “Copy all,” the MAC transport replied. “Standby.”

  “I wonder where he’s from,” Warren muttered.

  “That droning noise you heard in the background was a recip,” Hale said. A recip, or reciprocal, was a conventional piston engine. “I’m guessing a C-124.”

  Warren laughed. “Old Shakey! Probably left over from the Korean War.”

  The C-124 Globemaster II built by Douglas was the primary heavy-lifter for the Air Force until the C-141 Starlifter replaced it. Old Shakey was powered by the biggest radial piston engines ever built and flew low and slow. But it could still haul cargo. The radio came alive. “Roscoe Two-One, MAC Fourteen-Twenty. Moonbeam copied all. Second Surgical Hospital at Chu Lai is expecting you.”

  Warren hit th
e transmit button. “MAC Fourteen-Twenty, thanks for the help.” He turned the radio off.

  “I hope they repaired the runway,” Hale muttered. “We don’t need another wheel change.”

  Warren climbed out of the pilot’s seat. “Time to see how the Bru are doing.”

  “Roger on the Bru,” Hale said, following him off the flight deck.

  Banks was waiting under the wing with bad news. “They hit rock and can’t dig through it.”

  “Shit-oh-dear,” Warren mumbled. He thought for a moment. “We can move the Herk and try another spot.”

  “Yeah, but where?” Hale asked.

  “Why don’t we dig the hole first and move the Herk to the hole?” Santos asked.

  “You’ll have to taxi over the hole to get the rear wheel into it,” Banks said. “Doesn’t sound good.”

  “We don’t have to taxi over the hole,” Warren said. “We can back into it.”

  Banks nodded. “I’ll get the Bru on it. They can dig test holes before going for the whole shebang.” He turned to the Bru and spoke in a low voice. Within seconds, they disappeared into the night.

  “I don’t think we’re going to be OR in one plus thirty,” Hale said.

  “So we wait,” Santos added.

  “It’s not like we have a choice,” Warren said. “I’m gonna crash.” He made his way into the darkened cargo compartment and stretched out on a jump seat.

  *

  Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

  Kim-Ly moved fast, her flashlight’s red beam sweeping the way as she led the two men through the underbrush. She held a U.S. Army field compass in her other hand at eye level, her eyes fixed on the sight wire as she held true to 045 degrees. Lam saw the light when they were fifty meters away. He blinked his flashlight, giving her a red beacon to home on. She skidded to a stop beside him, falling to her knees. She shrugged off her backpack as she caught her breath. The two men following her lowered the bamboo cage suspended from the two poles between their shoulders to the ground. The North Vietnamese used the cage to transport livestock southward on the trail and hold POWs for the northward journey into captivity.

  Lam ran his hand over the bamboo framework, asking an unspoken “Why?”