The Trash Haulers (13 page)

“Da Nang ALCE,” Warren answered. “We have 147 souls on board.” They waited for the reply.

Another voice came over the UHF. “Roscoe Two-One, be advised we will need to see your passenger manifest and authorization for a pickup for over ninety-two passengers.”

“Some REMF playing cover-your-ass,” Bosko said.

Warren thought for a moment. He knew how to play the “be advised” game. He keyed the radio. “ALCE, Roscoe Two-One copies all. Be advised we have priority through cargo for Cam Ranh and are running short on crew duty time. Tell passenger service to meet us with transportation for 147 Bru. For the record, Bru are Montagnards and a translator is required.”

“Roscoe Two-One, standby.”

Bosko snorted. “Handling that many Bru will ruin their day.”

“Roscoe Two-One, ALCE. Say Special Forces detachment the Bru are from.”

“The great shuffle begins,” Warren muttered to himself. “Anyone know what Special Forces Det we’re dealing with here?”

Flanders had the answer. “Special Forces Detachment A-101.”

Warren relayed the information to ALCE over the UHF. Within moments, the ALCE controller was back. “Roscoe Two-One, you are cleared to Phu Bai to off load passengers. From Phu Bai, proceed directly to home plate with priority cargo. Do not exceed crew duty time.”

“Roscoe Two-One copies all,” Warren replied. Then, over the intercom, “Boz, Dave, make a log entry that we were directed to Phu Bai just in case some REMF gets a hard-on.” Warren gave a silent thanks there was no ALCE detachment at Phu Bai, and they were, more or less, on their own.

“Hell of a way to fight a war,” Santos grumbled. “Heading zero-nine-zero.” He checked his watch. “Phu Bai on the hour.” He reached for the journal in his navigation bag to record the incident in detail.

“Still going to write the great American novel about the war?” Warren asked.

“That’s the plan,” Santos replied, putting the journal safely away.
I
will
write
it
, the navigator promised himself.
Someday
.

*

Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

Tran squatted on his haunches beside the freshly dug bunker and surveyed the river valley below him. Like a good commander, he studied the topography of the battlefield below. The valley was oriented east to west, and framed by ridgelines on the north and south sides. The northern ridgeline was the highest and the terrain on that side of the river all but impenetrable. He was on the southern side of the river looking north, across the river. He was approximately a hundred meters above the valley floor, and at the top of a slope that led up to the sharp face of a karst formation towering another hundred meters above his head. Hopefully, spotters would be on top and string a land line for communications by sunset. Below him, the river flowed west to east down the valley and appeared to be at a low stage. But could his men ford it?

He had an excellent view of the airstrip and Special Forces camp on the other side of the river, approximately two kilometres to the east. He could still see a few flames and smoke from an earlier mortar attack. The Type 53, 82mm, mortars had given a good accounting of themselves. Now the mortar crews had to move to safety before nightfall.

The open area on his side of the river worried him, for his men would have to cross it to reach the river. The more he studied the lay of the land, the less he liked it. Loud breathing captured his attention, and he looked down the trail leading up from the valley. He waited, his face impassive.

Much to his surprise, Dinh huffed his way up the last few meters, leading two of his staff officers. The corpulent colonel collapsed to the ground beside Tran.

“I couldn’t catch you,” he admitted. They had travelled five kilometres in five hours, which, on the trail, was good time.

Tran handed him a flask of water.

“Drink slowly,” he cautioned. Dinh ignored him and emptied the flask. “What happened to Major Cao?” Tran asked. He suspected that Dinh’s chief-of-staff was there to keep an eye on Dinh and report back to Hanoi.

“I sent him back to coordinate with General Dong at the 559th Group. The General must be apprised of our situation.” It was a lie. Dinh’s inner alarms had finally overwhelmed him, and he had ordered Major Cao to keep an eye on Kim-Ly. For some reason he could not bring into sharp focus, he distrusted her. Long experience had taught him not to ignore his misgivings. He changed the subject. “And did I see a plane take-off earlier?”

“You did, sir. It was a C-130. It took off at 16:49 hours.”

Dinh looked up at the two camouflaged cannon barrels sticking out of the bunker.

“Is that the ‘Sergey’ you spoke of?” He had never seen a ZSU-23 up close before and was surprised at the length of its twin barrels. “And is it fully operational?” Tran nodded in answer, letting the colonel from Hanoi absorb the reality of the weapon. It had taken an herculean effort for the gun crew to carry it forward and quickly reassemble it. Dinh checked his watch. “And was it fully operational ten minutes ago when the C-130 took off?”

“Yes,” Tran answered simply.

“And why didn’t you shoot it down?”

“We watched the C-130 load women and children,” Tran explained. From the expression in Dinh’s eyes, it was obvious that he didn’t care about violating the Geneva Conventions. “And it would have revealed our position.”

Dinh studied the camouflage spread over the gun emplacement, not convinced. He pointed at the runway.

“You will destroy any aircraft landing there.”

Tran sensed there was nothing he could say to change Dinh’s mind until he had experienced actual combat.

“Be careful of what you order, sir. You may bring down the wrath of God on our heads.”

Binh humphed. “There is no God.”

1700 HOURS

Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

Reluctantly, Dinh joined Tran and three officers under the hastily rigged canvas canopy that served as a make-shift command post for their second meal of the day. They sat in a circle as the cook passed out bowls of rice. Because Dinh was sharing their meal, the cook had added vegetables and served him first. Dinh looked at the bowl and started to say something but thought better of it. The regiment only ate twice a day and the lack of variety and small quantity was a problem. Tran gave the colonel good marks for his silence and sharing the meal with the cadre.

The telephone operator sitting at the nearby portable switchboard handed Tran a note. The observers at the top of the karst formation a hundred metres above their heads had spotted an inbound helicopter to the east. At the same time, the ZSU, which was twenty-five metres away from the command post but still in sight, traversed in that direction as the twin barrels elevated to forty-five degrees.

“What’s happening?” Dinh demanded.

“Our observers report an inbound helicopter,” Tran replied. He stood and a woman handed him a pair of high-powered binoculars. He joined the gun captain who was scanning he eastern horizon with a matching set of binoculars. They pivoted as one, trying to visually acquire the helicopter.

“There,” Tran said, pointing to a spot on the horizon.

“I see it,” the gun captain said. He spoke into the intercom dangling from his neck and the barrels of the ZSU traversed ten degrees to the left and lowered.

The telephone operator spoke quietly, her soft voice barely audible. “A red cross is reported on the helicopter.”

“Stand down,” Tran ordered. “It is a Dust Off.”

“What is a Dust Off?” Dinh demanded.

“An unarmed medical air ambulance,” Tran explained.

“Destroy it,” Dinh said.

“Is the colonel aware a medical air ambulance transports wounded and is protected by the Geneva Conventions?”

“And is it carrying wounded now?” Dinh asked, his voice low and hard.

“It is most likely coming in to pick up wounded from our mortar attack.”

“Then it is not protected by the Geneva Conventions until the wounded are on board. You will engage and destroy it.” He pointed at the gun captain. “Do as you are ordered.”

The gun captain shot Tran a worried look, not knowing what to do. Tran nodded, in effect giving the order. The gun captain spoke into his mike as everyone but Dinh turned their backs on the cannon and covered their ears. Dinh did the same, confused by the silence. They waited.

The ZSU’s twin barrels roared with thunder, splitting the air with the sound of death as each barrel emptied a twenty round clip in less than two seconds. Dinh fell to his knees, stunned by the violence of the fusillade.

*

Se Pang, South Vietnam

Tanner had the landing wired. There was no wind and he came in from the east, paralleling the river. They were decelerating, passing through twenty knots and less than fifty above the ground when the explosion tore the controls out of his hands. The Huey corkscrewed to the left before hitting the ground and rolling across the runway.

Tanner was vaguely aware of coming to a stop. The Huey was on its left side and his shoulder was against the ground. Something heavy was laying across his face and he couldn’t see. He tried to push it away but it was too heavy. Frustrated, he reached for the engine control panel on the center pedestal to shut off the fuel. He couldn’t reach it. He pushed again at the weight laying on him. It was Perkins. He twisted his head, trying to see, as he pushed at the dead weight.

He caught a glimpse of two men reaching for him as a sheet of flame washed over him. His right leg exploded in pain. His last conscious thought was of darkness and searing agony.

*

Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

Dinh staggered to his feet and looked to the east in time to see the helicopter spinning into the ground, leaving a corkscrew of dark smoke in its wake. He watched in fascination as it bounced and rolled across the eastern end of the runway. He shouted in jubilation and turned, waving his arms like a conductor.

“Victory is ours!”

He stared, not understanding what was happening. Everyone was rapidly packing up, taking the command post apart. The gun crew was disassembling the ZSU and loading four men with parts of the heavy mount. Four other porters were already moving out, carrying the barrels. “What are you doing? Where are we going?’

Tran stopped long enough to get him moving and motioned to the east, closer to the airfield but up a higher slope. “To our next prepared position. We must hide before the Americans return.”

“And why should we hide?” Dinh demanded.

Tran swung his heavy pack into Dinh’s chest. “Carry this.” He pushed the colonel, moving him after the porters. “When we shot at the helicopter, we revealed our position to the Americans.”

“So what? And if they return, I will also destroy them, just like the helicopter.”

Tran tried to explain as they moved into the underbrush. “It is one thing to destroy a slow moving, unarmed helicopter, but an entirely different thing to engage one of their jet fighter bombers.”

“And why must I repeat myself? I will order the Sergey to destroy them just like I destroyed the helicopter.”

Exasperated with Dinh’s outsized ego, Tran worked to control his anger.

“You see our cannon as a threat to the Americans. They see it as a target and are aggressive to a fault when they attack. Now we must hurry. Movement is life.”

Dinh recalled hearing that “movement is life” before but couldn’t remember when, where, or who had said it.

*

Phu Bai, South Vietnam

Smoke drifted across the runway, partially obscuring their approach as the C-130 came down final, landing to the west on Runway 27. Warren touched down long and threw the props into reverse, sending a wall of smoke out in front. He dragged the big bird to a stop near midfield and turned right onto the main Army parking ramp, opposite the forlorn civilian terminal on the other side of the runway. An Army private guided them into a parking spot and Warren kept the engines running.

“Dear Lord,” Hale breathed, taking in the damage around them. “They really took a shellacking.”

“Looks quiet now,” Bosko said.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Santos asked.

Warren checked his watch. “Okay, troops, listen up. We’ve got two hours crew duty time left. I figure we’ve got enough fuel and time to go back and get the rest of the Bru before sunset, drop them off here, and hotfoot it for Cam Ranh.” He was asking for a double check.

Santos was already there. “Figure twenty minutes each way to Se Pang, an hour and ten to Cam Ranh. Add another fifteen minutes for approach and landing, plus ten percent reserve fuel, and we need 8,500 pounds of go-faster juice.” The standing warning among trash haulers held that not even Christ could get out of an accident from fuel starvation, which Warren agreed with. They fell silent as the ramp came down and Flanders off loaded the passengers, handing them over to a very confused Army private. “We’re pushing crew duty,” Santos warned.

“Hey, isn‘t there a war on?” Bosko asked. “It sure looks like it to me.”

“Say fuel,” Warren said.

“We got 10,000 pounds,” Hale answered. They had 1540 gallons of JP-4, on board.

Again, Warren ran the numbers. They had 1500 pounds, or 230 gallons, of extra fuel. It was enough, and if they did run into a problem, they could always divert into a field along the way.

“Loadmaster, say when ready to taxi.”

“Standby,” Flanders replied. “Okay, cargo compartment swept and negative on mementos. Ramp coming up.” The mementos he was concerned with were grenades, unexploded ordnance, body parts, or even babies left behind. It had happened before. They taxied onto the runway for a rolling take-off at midfield.

“Seven minutes on the ground,” Santos said. “That’s a record.”

“We’re definitely safer airborne,” Bosko said.

“I hope so,” Warren replied.

“ETA Se Pang, 1730 local,” Santos said. “Fifteen minutes of daylight remaining.”

“Let’s make it a quick one,” Warren said.

Lynne Pender climbed onto the flight deck, her face etched with fatigue. “I lost a baby, barely a week old.”

Warren turned in his seat and reached out to touch her hand. The unknown infant was not the first death he had experienced while in command of a C-130, but he prayed it would be the last.

“We lost a baby.”

*

Over South Vietnam

Santos was standing behind the co-pilot when they crested the last ridge and descended into the Se Pang river valley. Warren called for the before landing checks as he flew a curvilinear approach to a short final. He dropped the gear and called for full flaps as he inched up the power, holding a steady eighty-three knots, five knots above a power-on stall. Two explosions flashed on the hillside approximately a mile in front of them.

“What the hell!” Bosko shouted.

A marine A-4 fighter pulled off a bombing run and circled above them.

“I got two A-4s working.” Santos said. Two more explosions lit the hillside as a puff of green smoke drifted across the approach end of the runway. They were cleared to land. “I have green smoke,” Santos called, confirming the smoke. The navigator quickly strapped into his seat.

*

Se Pang, South Vietnam

Smoke from the burning wreckage of the helicopter drifted across the approach end of the runway, partially obscuring Warren’s view. He slammed the Hercules down and reversed the props, landing in a shorter distance than before.

“You’re getting the hang of it, sir,” Hale said, his voice full of admiration, breaking the mounting tension.

“Scanner in the rear,” Warren called as they backed up.

“Not much left of that Huey,” Bosko said as they passed the burnt-out helicopter. They caught the smell of burning flesh. “Poor bastards,” Santos muttered. Tech Sergeant Mike Hale’s lips moved in a silent prayer.

“Come slightly to your left,” Flanders said, guiding them into the deepening shadows. “Stop!” The ramp was already coming down. The plane shook as the remaining Bru rushed on board.

Captain Wes Banks climbed onto the flight deck, this time wearing a helmet and not a green beret. Lynne Pender was right behind him.

“Perfect timing,” Banks told them. “We took some deep serious mortar rounds, but close air is suppressing it for now. It’s going to get interesting after sunset unless we can get a flare ship to light things up. Our aid station took a direct hit, a marine and two navy corpsmen KIA. All told, we have a dozen or so wounded marines and a Dust Off pilot with a mangled leg and burns.”

“We can take ‘em,” Warren said.

Banks shook his head. “You need to launch soonest, while it’s still light. Besides, a Dust Off is inbound, five minutes out.”

“A Dust Off can’t take that many,” Pender said. “So who’s taking care of your wounded?”

“My sergeant and the Bru.”

“Your aid station?”

Banks’ jaw hardened. “Destroyed in the mortar attack.”

Pender’s eyes narrowed. “So you don’t have any medical personnel or supplies, and no idea when you’ll get more air evac.” Banks nodded. She hesitated for a moment, making a decision. “I’m staying. I’ll come out on the last Dust Off.”

“I can’t let you do that,” Warren told her.

“Really? Oh, I’ll need your first aid kit.” She was gone.

“Are you going to stop her?” Bosko asked.

Warren was coming to terms with the new role of women and wasn’t sure if he liked it.

“Short of handcuffing her, I don’t think I can.”
Like
we
really
got
a
choice
when
there’s
wounded
. Then, over the intercom, “Sergeant Flanders, off load our first aid kit for Captain Pender and button up. We need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

“The Triple A that got the Dust Off is a mile away, off the west end of the runway, ” Banks told them. He pointed in the direction where the A-4s had been working. “It’s about one-third the way up the slope. Close air probably got ‘em, but can’t be sure.”

“Got it,” Warren said. “We’ll keep it tight in and circle out to the south.” He reached out and shook Banks’ hand.

“God bless,” Banks said. Then he was gone.

“Good to go in the rear,” Flanders said. “That Captain Pender is one tough lady.” There was admiration in his voice.

Warren ran the engines up and released the brakes. With fewer passengers and less fuel, the Herk leaped forward.

*

Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

The gun crew collapsed around the ZSU-23, exhausted from their ordeal. Two women quickly covered it with a canvas tarp and spread freshly cut brush on top. “We are ready,” the gun captain told Tran, pride in his voice.