The Trash Haulers (12 page)

Perkins stood in the shade of the Huey and took a long drink from a canteen. His stomach was still churning from the recent attack that had sent them scrambling for cover. He watched as a C-130 taxied out and took the active runway to take-off to the north. Tanner joined him, also drinking from a canteen.

“Talk about rocket city,” Perkins grumbled.

“Mortars, not rockets, “ Tanner corrected. He gestured at the C-130 as it lifted off. “I think that was the target. Poor bastards.”

“I wonder where it’s headed?” the co-pilot asked.

Tanner’s face twisted into a little grimace, half serious. “Who knows? Some place with a bar, air conditioned quarters, hot and cold running hooch, girls.”

“Mr. Tanner,” Myers called. “We should do an ops check.” The crew needed to start the engine and check out the repairs to the transmission.

“Can do,” Tanner replied, crawling into the left seat.

1600 HOURS

Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Tanner shut the engine down, listening for any unusual sounds. All was normal.

“Refuel and we’re good to go,” he told Myers.

The crew chief waved a fuel browser down and motioned it over for fuel. Tanner and Perkins stood back while they went through the routine. Perkins lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag.

“Filthy habit,” he said. “These damn things will probably kill me.”

“Only if you get lucky,” Tanner joked. “Prefer cigars myself.”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“When I can get Havanas.” The line chief drove up in his MUTT.

“Gunny,” Tanner said, “your troops did good. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. We’ve salvaged a few Hueys and had the parts. Besides, you fix one helicopter, you’ve fixed ‘em all.” While not exactly true, there was enough commonality that a good mechanic could figure out how to repair another air frame.

“We got wounded at Se Pang, Mr. Tanner. They’re calling for air evac.”

“Never heard of the place,” Tanner replied. “Any idea where it is?”

“About twenty miles northwest of Khe Sanh,” the gunny replied.

“Been to Khe Sanh a couple of times. We’ll need to refuel coming out but we can cover it.”

He turned and headed for the waiting Huey. “Okay, troops, time to get back to business and earn our pay.”

*

Over South Vietnam

Santos played with the receiver gain on his radar and raised the antenna tilt a degree, finally breaking out the Y in the river where a tributary, with an unpronounceable name for an American, split off from the Se Pang river and flowed south.

“Se Pang on the nose, seven nautical miles,” he announced. He took a mental snapshot of the radar display and quickly shaded in the ridge on his chart, capturing the return. He could find it again using radar, if they approached from the southeast.

Warren leaned forward in his seat, finding the Y in the river. Although he couldn’t see it, he suspected the landing strip was on the far side, aligned along the river valley, and the Special Forces compound was on the eastern end, the side closest to the Y in the river.

“Tallyho the fox,” Warren said, finally acquiring the short landing strip. “Got the camp.” He had guessed right about its location. “Well done, Dave.”

“Got lucky this time,” Santos replied, downplaying the compliment. Still, he did appreciate it. It was one of Warren’s traits he admired and had written home about his new pilot, telling his father that Warren was a natural leader. Santos had lamented that it was a rare quality in the Air Force that was becoming rarer with each passing month, and mentioned that Warren was thinking of separating from the Air Force. His father had written back asking that Warren contact him when he was out.

“Air patch in sight,” Bosko said from the right seat, confirming they had found the landing strip. Aircrews had mistakenly landed on roads or even open fields, often with disastrous results.

“I’m painting the runway on the radar,” Santos said. “You got about 2000 feet, more or less.” He played with the radar gain and tilt, refining the image.

“This is gonna get sporting,” Warren said. “Sergeant Flanders, get everyone strapped in. I’m gonna plant this one.”

“Roger on the Navy landing,” Flanders replied.

“Before descent checklist,” Warren said, starting the landing routine. They were nine hours into their crew duty day, fatigue was taking a toll, and long experience had proven that checklists were critical to safe operations. It wasn’t glamorous or macho, but it worked. Although his shoulder still ached from the gunshot wound, Warren flew a perfect approach into the special forces compound, landing to the west.

*

Se Pang, South Vietnam

If a high-speed camera had recorded the landing from the edge of the runway, it would have documented how the main gear actually sank six to eight inches into the hard laterite surface on touchdown, only to pop back to the surface, leaving a slight depression in the landing wake. Warren reversed the props as he stomped on the brakes, stopping with 500 feet to spare.

“Remind me to never do this at night,” he told Bosko.

“How about never again,” Bosko replied. “Jesus H. Christ, Boss, it doesn’t get much narrower – and it’s downhill!”

“Scanner in the rear,” Warren said, before backing up. He released the brakes and the big aircraft taxied slowly in reverse. An Army captain wearing the distinctive Special Forces green beret was waiting for them when they stopped. He ran up the ramp and hurried forward to the flight deck as the marines rapidly deplaned.

“I’m Wes Banks, the social director of this fun-filled resort,” he told Warren. “The Bru, the local Montagnards, say we’re about to take a pounding, that’s with a capital ‘P’ in the next few hours. It won’t be pretty if we get overrun, and the NVA will slaughter the Bru. We need to get their families out.”

Warren never hesitated. “How many you got?

“One hundred and eighty-two. Mostly women and kids, a few old folks. Eighty-five adults and ninety-seven kids.”

“Not good,” Bosko moaned, reaching for the flight manual to determine their take-off distance based on weight, field elevation, and air temperature. The C-130 was a great tactical airlifter, able to operate out of short strips like Se Pang but weight was critical. “How much runway you got?”

“Just over 1600 feet,” Banks told him.

Warren flipped over his flight data card and jotted down some numbers, working the problem with his co-pilot.

“How we doing on fuel?” he asked Hale.

“11,500 pounds,” the flight engineer answered. That translated into 1770 gallons, or three and a half hours flying time.

Bosko rapidly calculated their total allowable take-off weight for 1600 feet of runway.

“82,000 pounds max,” he announced. We can on-load 9,500 pounds. The manual says 180 pounds per passenger, so we can take fifty-three adults, or two kids for every adult and be legal.”

Warren worked the problem. “Captain Banks, the Bru aren’t very big, are they?”

Banks knew where Warren was going. “Not big at all, maybe 130 pounds for the adults, and forty pounds for the kids.

Warren scratched more numbers, rounding off. “Figure 4000 pounds for all the kids, which means we can take forty-five adults.” But he was tired and needed a double check. “Sergeant Flanders, what do you come up with?”

The loadmaster had been expecting the question. “I figure all the kids and forty adults. Captain, I’m looking at ‘em right now, and they look skinny as hell. I think we can take fifty, maybe fifty-five adults.”

Warren stared straight ahead, looking down the runway.

“It is downhill,” he said. “What’s the gradient?”

“No idea,” Banks replied. “It’s pretty steep. C-123s get off pretty fast.” The C-123 was a high wing, twin-engine Air Force cargo plane vaguely similar to the C-130 but much smaller.

Warren pulled into himself, bringing four years of experience and over 2000 hours of flying the Hercules to bear on the problem. How much could he safely load? He knew what the manual called for, and the Monday-morning quarterbacks at headquarters would crucify him for taking off over-gross on a short dirt runway – if they found out. But there was another intangible; how well was the Herk performing? For reasons he could not quantify, he had a great deal of confidence in this particular aircraft. He turned and looked at the flight engineer.

“Sergeant Hale, how’s she performing?”

“469 is a good bird,” Hale answered. “Nice acceleration.”

Warren made the decision. “Load all the kids and fifty adults. No baggage. We’ll come back for the others.”

“Will do,” Flanders replied. The loadmaster was infamous for his causal, laid-back attitude, but he was a hard-nosed professional when it came to loading the Hercules and making sure the weight and balance was correct. “According to the book, we’ll be a thousand pounds overweight,” he announced.

“The tables have a built-in fudge factor,” Bosko said. “I’m guessing ten percent. I think we’re good to go.”

“Anyone have a problem with that?” Warren asked. He was greeted with silence.

Banks stared at the aircraft commander, fully knowing it could be a death sentence for those left behind. But he was military to the core and accepted it.

“See you when you get back.” He spun around and swung down from the flight deck.

Moments later, they felt the Bru piling on board. Warren leaned back in his seat, trying to relax and gain a few moments rest. A strong whiff of unwashed humanity drifted up from the cargo deck, capturing his attention. It was sour, heavy with sweat, dirt, and urine. And it was life. He almost ordered Flanders to load another ten passengers. But he was responsible for all their lives, and Lynne Pender certainly qualified as a high-value passenger. Was he risking too much? Was he making a bad decision because of fatigue and the wound?

“Damn,” he moaned to himself.

“Good to go,” Flanders called from the rear, sounding very confident.

Warren looked at Bosko. “Hey,” the co-pilot answered, “this is what we get paid for.”

“Let’s do it,” Warren said. “I’m gonna back up as far as we can, main gear on the hard pack. Sergeant Flanders, keep the tail clear and tell me when to stop.” He nudged the throttles and backed up another sixty feet before the loadmaster told him to stop. “Before take-off checklist,” he said. The crew rapidly went through the routine. “Here we go.” Warren firewalled the throttles as he and Bosko held the brakes. The props dug in as the Hercules strained to be free, shaking violently. Then, “Go!” The two pilots released the brakes simultaneously and the Hercules started to roll, slowly at first, but then with increasing momentum.

At what he judged the halfway mark on the runway, Bosko called the airspeed.

“Forty knots. It’s gonna be close.” They still had enough runway left to abort the take-off, but Warren held the yoke forward with his right hand, keeping the nose gear on the ground, and his left hand on the nose gear steering wheel. “Boss ...” Bosko warned. Warren felt the big vertical stabilizer exert its authority and steered with the rudder pedals. He grabbed the yoke with both hands, still holding the yoke forward as Bosko called the airspeed. “Eighty, eighty-five, ninety ...”

At exactly ninety-three knots, Warren pulled back on the yoke, lifting them smartly into the air, well before the main gear crossed the end of the runway.

“Gear up.” Bosko’s left hand shot forward and he snapped the gear handle to the retract position. The two pilots inched the flaps up as they gained airspeed and climbed, clearing the ridge in front of them.

“Nice one,” Bosko said. There was admiration in his voice. “Room to spare.”

“We could’ve taken ten more bodies,” Warren said, his voice edged with frustration.

“We were pushing it,” Santos said. “After taking battle damage at Chu Lai, the freakin’ REMFs are gonna go over everything with a fine tooth comb. Why give them more ammo?”

There was no doubt in Warren’s mind that he would hear from the colonels.
So
what
are
they
going
to
do
? He thought,
Send
me
to
Vietnam
? One of the realities of the war was that many field grade officers worked hard to minimize their exposure to actual combat by keeping junior officers in country. Warren grinned at the sergeant.

“Gotta give the heavies something to keep them busy,” he said. Then, seriously, “I think we could’ve loaded more.”

Bosko nodded in agreement. “Taking off downhill made the difference.”

“So where do we take them?” Santos asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Warren answered. “Boz, see if you can raise an ALCE.” Bosko worked the radios while Warren checked on their passengers.

“Sergeant Flanders, how are you folks doing back there?”

A deep chuckle on the intercom answered. “Got ‘em packed in like sardines. Stinks like hell and most of the kids are screaming like hyenas. Captain Pender is examining a few of the babies. She’s asking for water.”

“Give ‘em what we got,” Warren said.

“I raised the ALCE at Da Nang,” Bosko said. He snorted in contempt. “I got the standard answer – standby.”

“Lovely,” Warren muttered.

The TACAN, or the tactical air navigation system, finally locked on, giving them the bearing and distance in nautical miles to Da Nang.

“About time,” Warren said. Inertial navigation systems were just coming on line in the more advanced fighters and bombers, the Global Positioning System was decades away, and trash haulers had to rely on dead reckoning, map reading, limited radar, VOR, and TACAN for navigation in-country.

Santos spun his circular slide rule, the so-called Air Navigation Computer.

“ETA Dan Nang 1711 hours local. Man, I could use a good meal.” It was his way of urging Warren to call it quits for the day.

A frustrated voice came over the UHF radio. “Roscoe Two-One, Da Nang ALCE. Say number of passengers.”