The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  “Why did I know that?” Warren muttered. “Copy all,” he replied. He ran back to the C-130, almost bumping into the number three prop. Up close, he could barely make out two men standing over the discarded wheel. “Say status,” he asked.

  Hale answered. “She’s good to go, Captain.” Fatigue edged every word, but there was triumph. They had changed out the wheel in less than thirty minutes.

  “Bring on the marines,” Flanders said, a disembodied voice in the dark. His voice carried a hard resolve mixed with jubilation.

  Warren gave a silent thanks for being teamed with his crew. He couldn’t ask for better. He keyed his radio.

  “Blind Bat, Roscoe is OR. Waiting for evacs.”

  “Copy you are OR at this time,” Hardy answered. The sound of the C-130 grew louder.

  “What’s he doing now?” Bosko asked.

  “I think he’s coming in for another flare run,” Warren replied. They all moved slowly forward, standing by the nose of their Herk.

  “I can’t believe he’s going to challenge that ZSU,” Santos said.

  A hard silence held them as they waited. A flare popped, shortly followed by three more. Warren mentally ran the geometry and figured it out.

  “Shit hot!” The four men stared at him, not understanding. “He’s using terrain masking. Blind Bat is south of the ridgeline. The wind is out of the south and the flares are drifting across the ridgeline and towards us. The ZSU is on the northern side of the ridge, facing us. It’s on a pretty steep face and the ZSU can’t traverse around to the south. The best they can do is shoot straight up. If they want to hose Hardy down, they’ll have to drag it up to the crest of the ridge. That will take some doing.”

  The flares drifted across the ridgeline and towards the river, slowly casting a growing light over the river valley. It was enough to see by. A line of Bru emerged out of the dark carrying canvas stretchers. They filed silently by the Americans, heading for the tail of the Hercules. Flanders was the first to react.

  “We’re gotta turn on the overheads to load ‘em,” he said, referring to the cargo compartment lights.

  “Do it,” was all Warren could say. Flanders ran to the back of the aircraft. Warren stood silently, not moving, as the litters moved past. The marines were bloodied and bandaged, their uniforms cut away. At least three of them were missing limbs and two were badly burned. “Go help Flanders,” he said. Bosko, Santos, and Hale bolted up the crew entrance to help secure the litters onto the stanchions Flanders had rigged. Boyle didn’t move. “Go!” Warren ordered. Boyle hesitated for a moment, weaving slightly back and forth, before following them.

  The walking wounded were next, almost ghostly, vague and indistinct in the flickering half-light. Ghosts or not, they were his responsibility.

  And there was a ZSU gunner out there waiting for him.

  Warren climbed through the crew entrance and closed the hatch behind him, hoping to help seal the light in. He walked back into the dimly lit cargo compartment. The smell of disinfectant in close quarters hung heavy in the air. Bosko was helping a marine fasten the jump seat’s belt without moving the bloody stump of his left arm. It amazed him that the marine had walked to the aircraft on his own power. Then he saw Pender. She was at the aft end of the litters that were stacked along the center line of the Hercules, talking to the man lying on the last stretcher. Warren made his way aft. He stepped on a discarded compress bandage and slipped, leaving a streak of blood across the deck. Hale was right behind him, throwing paper mats on the wet flooring.

  Warren stood behind the doctor for a moment as she spoke to the heavily bandaged man. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, the sleeves of her flight suit rolled up and she smelled of sweat and disinfectant. There was another scent that he couldn’t place, earthy and strong.

  “How’s it going, Captain,” he said. She turned and looked at him. Her face was etched with fatigue and hurt. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m okay,” she replied.

  But he knew. Her pain was the anguish of a person who cared, perhaps too much, for those in her care.

  She managed a little smile. “Captain Warren, let me introduce Warrant Officer Wilson Tanner. That was his helicopter you saw at the end of the runway.”

  “Dust Off?” Warren asked. Tanner nodded. “I hope the Doc is taking good care of you.” It was all he could think of to say.

  “She is,” Tanner said. “Wouldn’t even let me walk here on my own steam.”

  Pender shook her head. “Walk here? Mr. Tanner, I just amputated your right foot and you are in shock.”

  “Okay, so you wouldn’t even let me hobble here.”

  She reached out and touched his cheek. “I’ve got to check on the others. I’ll be back.” She was gone.

  “Sorry about the leg,” Warren said, knowing he would never fly again. Maybe, he thought, that’s a good thing. He tried not to look at the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around Tanner’s torso.

  “I’ll be okay. She’s a good doc. Saved a lot of people.”

  “I know,” Warren said.

  Tanner reached out and grabbed Warren’s arm. His face was streaked with sweat and his grip clammy.

  “The bastards got my crew,” he said, his voice filled with anguish.

  Warren understood all too well, but there was nothing he could say. Then, “Time to get the hell out of Dodge.” He looked around for Flanders to find out how much longer he needed to finish loading. The loadmaster was standing at the bottom of the ramp talking to Pender. “How we doing?” he asked.

  “We’re good to go,” Flanders answered.

  “Tanner is hurting pretty bad,” Warren told Pender.

  She looked at him, her eyes full of worry. “I gave him my last shot of morphine before I amputated his foot. It’s wearing off.”

  “Will he make it?”

  “If we can get him to a field hospital. It’s not so much his leg but the wound to his abdomen. The shock alone would kill most men.”

  “What the hell is that?” Flanders growled, interrupting them. He pointed behind the two officers. They looked in the same direction. Four Bru were standing there, in pairs, with two long poles between them resting on their shoulders. Hanging from the poles was a bamboo cage. A heavily bandaged man dripping blood was lying in the bottom of the cage.

  Warren tried to focus, sensing something was different. Pender saw it first. “Those aren’t our type of bandages,” she said. “Too yellow.”

  “They’re North Vietnamese,” Banks said, stepping out of the dark. “The Bru brought him in. As best I can make out, a woman gave him to the Bru. Based on what the Bru said, I think she was a lieutenant colonel in the PAVN.”

  “Why would she do that?” Warren wondered.

  Pender was reaching inside the cage, examining the man’s wounds. “To save his life. Get him on board so I can work on him.”

  Banks motioned for the Bru to carry the cage up the ramp. But Flanders wasn’t having any of it.

  “Not the cage. Not on my aircraft.”

  “He’s a fuckin’ Commie,” Boyle said. Warren whirled around, surprised to see the airman standing so close. “He’s the goddamn enemy,” Boyle snarled. His words were high-pitched and cracking, almost incoherent. “We oughta leave him behind.”

  “He’s a POW,” Warren said, “protected by the Geneva Conventions.”

  “Fuck the Geneva Convention,” Boyle said. “Let him bleed to death.”

  “No way he’s a threat,” Warren said. “Open the cage. Get him out.” No one moved. “Now,” he said, his voice full of command. He spun around and headed for the flight deck. “Flanders, button us up. Engine start ASAP.”

  A startled Flanders looked at his back.

  “The Captain wants to kick some ass,” he said, not in the least bit upset. “Okay, get the lead out, Boyle.” They quickly cut the bamboo cage apart and gently laid the Vietnamese on the deck. Pender bent over him, carefully unwrapping the bandage. Flanders never h
esitated and dragged the cage off the ramp, giving it a final kick. “No fuckin’ slave cages on my aircraft.”

  Flanders grabbed the long intercom extension cord and ran down the ramp.

  “Boyle, button us up and turn out the lights. Raise the ramp to the horizontal.” He didn’t wait for an answer and ran around to the front of the Hercules, ready to start engines and marshal the aircraft onto the runway in the dark. He plugged the cord in and stepped clear of the props as GTC spun up. “Three’s clear,” he said, giving the flight deck clearance to start engines. Within moments, the engine was on line and he ran to the left wheel well to button up the GTC panel. It was a well-rehearsed drill and the other engines rapidly spun up in sequence.

  “Ready to taxi,” Warren said. Now he had to trust the loadmaster to guide them to the runway. Flanders was close enough to see the soft red lights illuminating the flight deck, but everywhere else was pitch black.

  “Sir,” a soft voice said behind Flanders. “I show you.” Flanders turned and saw a Bru standing a few feet away. The Montagnard turned and walked slowly towards the runway.

  “Come left slowly,” Flanders said, following the mountain man. “Go straight. Turn right. Go straight. You’re almost to the runway. Hard right, keep it coming, you are on the runway. Go straight. Stop. You’re slightly left of the centreline.” He turned to thank the Montagnard, but he was gone.

  “We need to back up,” Warren said. The entrance to the parking ramp was about two-hundred feet from the end of the runway. “We’re gonna need all the runway we can get.”

  Flanders whipped the long intercom cord unplugging it and ran for the aft of the Hercules, careful to swing wide around the propellers. He skidded to a stop just before bumping into the fuselage. He scrambled onto the ramp, now able to see enough to plug into the intercom.

  “Clear in the rear,” he said.

  As if by magic, the Bru was back, standing by the ramp.

  “Sir, I show.” He walked slowly backwards, angling to the centreline of the runway. Flanders spoke into the intercom and the Hercules slowly backed down the runway. The Bru held up his hands, and Flanders relayed the command to stop. They were positioned perfectly, the main gear at the very end of the runway with their tail over the rough dirt and low vegetation. The Bru stood at attention and gave the loadmaster the best salute he could manage. Flanders returned the salute, but the man was gone.

  Flanders raised the ramp to the closed position. But left the cargo door up, against the underside of the fuselage. He felt his way forward and strapped into a jump seat next to Boyle.

  “Good to go in the rear,” he said.

  Warren squinted into the night, but his world was confined to the soft red sphere of light illuminating the flight deck. He keyed the radio.

  “Blind Bat Zero-One. Roscoe Two-One ready to roll.”

  Hardy answered. “Roscoe, hold. I’ve got a flight of two, three minutes out. Roll on my command.”

  “What the hell,” Bosko said. “We‘re a sitting duck here. Let’s go.”

  “We hold,” Warren said. “They’re gonna laydown some cover for us.” They listened as a flight of two F-4s checked in on Blind Bat’s frequency. On cue, a string of flares popped over the south side of the ridgeline and started drifting towards them. It seemed an eternity before the north slope of the ridge was illuminated. Hardy cleared the first F-4 in for the attack. Twenty-five seconds later a string of three Mk-82 bombs walked across the north slope.

  “Roscoe, GO!” Hardy said. “Turn out to the right.”

  Warren stepped on the brakes and firewalled the throttles. “Landing lights on,” he said, his voice loud and strained. Hale reached up and flicked the lights on just as Warren released the brakes. The runway stretched out on front of them.

  The C-130 moved forward, accelerating faster than before in the cooler night air. Bosko called the airspeed. Then, “Rotate!”

  But Warren held the nose down, using every inch of runway. At the last possible moment he hauled back on the yoke, lifting them sharply into the night.

  “Landing lights off, gear up.” He jinked to the right and then back to the left as they climbed and the gear came up. No sooner had the gear clunked into the locks than he started to inch the flaps up, gaining all the airspeed he could coax out of engines. He was flying blind, relying on his instruments. “Dave, keep us out of the rocks.” They had always turned out to the left, flying over the south side of the river valley and the lower ridgeline. By turning out to the north, and into higher terrain, Hardy hoped to surprise any AAA gunner who might have survived the bombing.

  “Clear in the rear,” Flanders called. The loadmaster had stood up immediately after take-off and was looking out the open cargo door and over the raised ramp, clearing their six o’clock.

  Santos buried his head in the radar scope. “High terrain ahead, come left. Roll out. Clear on this heading.”

  “Break left!” Flanders called from the rear. “Triple A!” Warren jinked left, then left again as they climbed, now able to see a line of tracers reaching out for them from the far side of the river. The solid line of tracers waved back in forth in the night as the gunner tried to chase the C-130 down. Flanders’ call had saved them.

  “Hot damn!” Flanders shouted, still looking out the back. “They just laid a string of six Mark-82s over the fucker!” Hardy had coordinated the covering attack for their take-off and called in the second F-4 before the ZSU started to fire, allowing the pilot to place the pipper in his bombsight over the muzzle flash. The Phantom nailed it. “Nothing but hot hair and smokin’ eyeballs down there now.” He calmed and added a more restrained, “Clear in the rear.”

  “We’re clear all terrain,” Santos said. “Heading 125 degrees.” He checked his watch. It was 0045 hours, local time. “Chu Lai at 0112.” He double-checked his work. “Correction on the ETA. Make it twenty-two past the hour.”

  “Rear door closed,” Warren said. “Give the folks some light back there so they can take care of things.” The lights came on as they climbed into the night.

  Warren keyed the radio. “Blind Bat Zero-One. Roscoe Two-One is clear and proceeding to Chu Lai.”

  “Copy all,” Hardy replied. Then, “Roscoe, well done.”

  0100 HOURS

  Over South Vietnam

  Bosko dialled in the airborne command post’s radio frequency and tried to check in. But it was chaos and he couldn’t break into the stream of transmissions. He cycled through three backup frequencies before finally capturing the controller’s attention and telling Moonbeam they were airborne. The answer was chilling. “Roscoe Two-One, Moonbeam. Be advised Chu Lai is down due to rockets, mortars, and intruders. Expect a diversion.”

  “I would think so,” Santos said over the intercom. He noted the time on his flight log. It was exactly 0100 hours, and they had been airborne fifteen minutes.

  “Roscoe Two-One copies,” Bosko answered. “Standing by this freq.” He shook his head. “Jesus H. Christ, we can’t catch a break.”

  Santos ran possible alternates through his mental calculus. “Expect a divert into Qui Nhon. The Army’s got a field hospital there.” He was already working on a new heading and estimated en route time.

  “The 85th Evac is at Qui Nhon,” Warren added. “They could also send us into Da Nang. The Air Force hospital there could take us.” He thought for a moment. “Dave, let’s go feet wet and hold over the South China Sea.”

  “Roger that,” Santos said. “Fly 060 degrees and we’ll coast out in two minutes. Once feet wet, we can head south and hold near Da Nang.”

  Bosko turned the autopilot to the new heading. “How far off the coast do you want to hold?”

  “Ten nautical miles will keep us clear,” Warren answered.

  “Altitude?” Bosko asked.

  “Sixteen thou should do it,” Warren replied. “We need to check for pressurization.” It was time to find out if they had patched all the holes in the fuselage or if they still had unseen batt
le damage. “Try to hold three thousand feet cabin altitude.” Hale reached for the overhead air conditioning control panel and set the cabin pressure controller as they levelled off at 16,000 feet. “Sergeant Flanders,” Warren asked, “How’s the heat back there.”

  “We could stand a little more,” the loadmaster replied.

  Hale turned the temperature rheostat up, his eyes rooted on the pressure controller. “Cabin pressure holding,” he finally said.

  “You can turn the heat down,” Flanders said. Getting the temperature right on the cargo deck always took some adjusting.

  “Hey,” Bosko said, “we finally got a break, for what it’s worth.”

  Silence ruled the flight deck as they headed south towards Da Nang. Warren glanced at Bosko whose chin was slumped down on his chest. He was asleep. He checked Santos and Hale, not surprised that both were asleep. He tuned in the Da Nang TACAN for the bearing and distance to the air base. He entered a racetrack holding pattern east of the air base on the 090 degree radial at ten nautical miles, well over the South China Sea. He felt a soft touch on his left shoulder and turned to see Pender standing behind him. She leaned next to his ear so as not to wake the sleeping men. He felt the warmth of her face next to his. “How long before we land?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Problems. Chu Lai is under attack and down. We’re waiting for a divert. How’s it going in the rear?”

  “We need to get them to a field hospital. Tanner is coming out from under the morphine and in pain, I’ve got four critical who also need morphine, and I don’t think the North Vietnamese is going to make it unless we get him into surgery very soon.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Warren promised. He motioned for her to put on a headset. She did and he keyed the radio.

  “Pan-pan, pan-pan, pan-pan.” The call was second only to a Mayday and used to clear the frequency and declare they needed to land for the safety of someone on board. It worked. “Moonbeam, Roscoe Two-One requests immediate clearance to nearest field hospital. We have wounded on board requiring immediate attention.”