The Trash Haulers (14 page)

“Well done,” Tran told the men. “Because of your effort, we will fight another day.” They had moved the anti-aircraft cannon a half-kilometre and reassembled it in less than an hour, record time. The terrain had helped. A clear and easy path had led around a sharp bend in the hillside, and a spinney ridge jutting out from the karst provided the protection and concealment they needed. Smoke from the bombs still drifted over them, but they were safe.

Dinh stood beside the rock outcropping and scanned the airfield, now a little closer. “The American air pirates are taking off!” he shouted, gesturing wildly at the C-130 rolling down the runway.

“Our observers report it is carrying women and a few old men,” Tran said. He pointed to the top of the karst and the observation team.

“Destroy it!”

Tran hesitated, not wanting to reveal their position and move again. “We will have better targets.”

“And must I repeat myself? Do as you are ordered.”

Again, Tran nodded slightly at the gun captain, giving the order to engage. The twin barrels traversed towards the aircraft that was turning in front of them. “Wait, wait,” he cautioned.

*

Over Se Pang, South Vietnam

The gear was still coming up as Warren banked to the left, the wingtip barely clearing the ground. The C-130 climbed like a homesick angel. A solid line of red tracers reached out from the hillside, passing below Roscoe 21.

“Triple A!” Flanders shouted from the rear. Warren jinked – rolled out, turned sharply to the left, rolled out, then down, quickly up, and then back to the left as he nosed over. As expected, the tracers drifted off to their right and above them as the gunner tried to anticipate Warren’s next move. Warren levelled off and then up as the tracers wavered, passing far behind. Well clear of the threat, Warren turned out to the east.

*

Over South Vietnam

“Jesus H. Christ,” Bosko breathed. “That was a ZSU.” The antiaircraft cannon was rightly feared by aircrews. “Thank God there was only one.”

“Probably a two-barrel,” Warren said. The four-barrel version, a ZSU-23-4, was radar aimed and much more lethal. “Check for battle damage.” The crew went through the checks.

“Captain Warren,” Flanders said. “I did a visual on the main gear. The left aft wheel is flat and looks shredded. Probably took a round.” The Hercules had a tandem landing gear on each side, with one wheel behind the other. They were lucky and had only been hit by a fragment of a single high-explosive round from the ZSU-23.

“Roger,” Warren replied. Landing with a flat tire, especially the aft one, on a paved runway when they were relatively light was worrisome but easily handled. They had done it twice before.

“Boz, contact Da Nang ALCE and tell them we’re landing at Phu Bai to offload our passengers, and to send a repair team with a new tire. We’re pushing crew duty and will go into crew rest. Also, relay that Captain Pender is at Se Pang treating the wounded.”

“They’re going to love that one,” Bosko predicted. He dialled in the radio frequency and relayed the message.

As expected, they were told to “Standby.” Another voice came over the radio.

“Roscoe Two-One, proceed to Phu Bai to off load and await a repair team. Once you are OR, you are cleared for a one-time flight direct Cam Ranh.” OR meant operationally ready. “Crew rest is waived for a one-time flight to home plate.”

“Roscoe Two-One copies all,” Bosko replied.

“The faeces must have really hit the fan to clear us for a one-time flight out of crew duty,” Santos said.

“They need the airframe,” Warren allowed.

ALCE was back on the radio. “Roscoe Two-One, confirm you left a manifested passenger on the ground at Se Pang.”

Warren answered. “ALCE, that’s affirmative. Captain Pender was on crew orders and not a passenger.”

The reply was a short “ALCE copies all.”

“What was that all about?” Bosko wondered.

“You don’t leave anyone behind without a damn good reason,” Santos replied. “Some 0-6 is shitting a brick.”

“And we know which way that flows,” Bosko added.

Exactly six minutes later, the radio squawked and the same voice was back.

“Roscoe, Two-One, ALCE. On landing at home plate, you will be met by Security Police and the OSI. Until then, do not discuss the incident at Se Pang among yourselves.” The OSI was the office of Special Investigations that handled criminal investigations.

“Copy all,” Warren replied.

“The shit has definitely hit the fan,” Santos said. “Like big time.”

“Oh, yeah,” Warren said. He called for the before landing checklist.

1800 HOURS

Se Pang, South Vietnam

“Mr. Tanner, I’m Doctor Lynne Pender.” She cut his flight suit away, not liking what she saw.

He looked at the voice. A very pretty woman wearing a flight suit was bent over his legs.

“Where am I?”

She talked as she worked. “You’re in a bunker at Se Pang.”

“My crew?”

Pender lied. “Sorry, I don’t know. They just brought you in.” She finished cutting his flight suit away. “Well, first things first.”

“Lay it out, Doc. What are you looking at?”

An inner voice told her that the truth was the best approach with this man. Besides, she had lied enough about his crew.

“You were caught in a fire and have first and second degree burns on the right side of your face. You were lucky.”

Tanner closed his eyes and breathed heavily. “My peter pilot protected me. What else?”

“Well, your flight suit was fire retardant and protected your body, but you will have an interesting burn scare down the center of your chest and stomach that looks just like a zipper.” She made a mental note to send that up channel and recommend they design an inner protective flap to shield the skin from the front zipper.

“What about my leg? I can’t feel it.”

Pender examined the lower part of his leg. His right foot was twisted at an odd angle, still attached by a splintered bone, tendon and skin. Part of the lower tibia jutted out of his boot. She released the tourniquet around his thigh. Blood gushed from a severed artery that she quickly sutured, sealing it off. “Can you feel this?” she asked.

“Negative.” He raise his head and saw his boot dangling over the edge of the table. His foot was still in it. “That’s not good, Doc.”

“I’m afraid the lower part of your right leg will have to be removed.”

“Did they miss my pecker?”

“You’re intact.”

“Are you sure? We’ll need to do an ops check.”

“Mr. Tanner, are you trying to make a date?”

He grinned wickedly. “You bet.”

“I will hold you to it,” she promised. She reached up and touched his cheek. “Mr. Tanner, I have to operate. I gave you our last shot of morphine and I’m not sure if it is enough. This will hurt. But you will survive.” She placed a tightly rolled bandage in his mouth. “Bite on this.” She motioned for the four Bru and the sergeant who had pulled him from the burning wreckage to hold him down. She bent over and whispered in his ear. “By the way, I’m very good in the sack.”

“Go for it, Doc.”

*

Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam

“Quickly, quickly,” Tran said, urging everyone into the nearby caves. The sound of jet engines echoed over the valley, still faint but growing louder by the second. Luckily, they were able to pull the ZSU into a cave without disassembling it and handling the still hot barrels. He double-checked to be sure the mouth of the cave sheltering the command post was barricaded and sealed. Barring a direct hit, they could quickly clear the entrance.
How
much
longer
do
we
have
? He gave a silent thanks the sun was down and it would soon be dark. But the setting moon was still casting enough light for the jet fighters to attack, and they knew where the gun emplacement was located.

Again, he looked around. Everyone was safely in the caves and he was alone. He studied the empty gun emplacement, sorry they had to abandon it. It wasn’t often a site was so well situated. But movement was life.
What
do
the
Americans
call
it
?
Shoot
and
scoot
? Another thought came to him.
Give
them
what
they
want
.

“Bring the big canvas tarpaulin,” he called, “and four cans of petrol.” In less than a minute, the big tarp was spread out over the empty gun emplacement. Two men rushed out of the far cave carrying four twenty-litre cans of the precious gasoline used to power the communications generators. Tran rolled a small boulder into the center of the tarp, depressing it into the shape of a giant saucer. Overhead, the sound of jet fighters grew louder.

“Pour the petrol on the tarpaulin,” he ordered. Rapidly running out of time, he told the men to open the jerry cans and let them drain into the makeshift canvas bowl. He rushed them all to safety inside a cave as the first jet screamed down on a bomb run. It was an F-4 Phantom.

It missed by over a kilometre.

Tran uttered a curse in Vietnamese about pilots being born from dogs. The second F-4 rolled in but pickled off its load early and pulled off high. Tran’s luck held and four explosions walked down the valley, the last one detonating 400 meters from the empty gun emplacement. Shrapnel from the five-hundred pound Mark-82 rattled against the karst cliff face above the cave. Desperate, Tran called for a hand grenade. One was quickly passed forward and he ran from the cave, pulling the pin. He threw the grenade into the gun emplacement, hoping the petrol had not leaked out of the canvas. He darted back into the cave as the grenade detonated. A flaming cloud erupted from the emplacement and rose into the dark sky.

Tran breathed in relief. He had created the illusion of a secondary explosion, the sign that a bomb had destroyed a target of value. Now it was time to move again while the moon was still up and they had enough light to see. For a brief moment, he considered leaving Dinh sealed inside the cave. But he needed the communications gear and the six comrades still inside. He sighed mentally and gave the order to clear the cave entrance.

*

Phu Bai, South Vietnam

“It sure gets dark quick after the sun goes down,” Bosko said. The worry in the co-pilot’s voice was palpable as an eerie silence settled over the Army base. Fortunately, the setting moon was still casting enough light for them to see on the darkened flight deck. “The VC do their best work at night.”

Warren looked out the pilot’s side window. The burnt out wreckage of three helicopters and six trucks were grim reminders of recent attacks, and he shared his co-pilot’s concern.

“I wonder when the repair team will get here?” he wondered. “We need to get the hell out of here.” It was the age-old military tradition of hurry up and wait. Now they were waiting.

“I’m not so sure they’ll rig lights to work at night,” Hale said. The tech sergeant had changed many wheels and knew what was involved.

The rumble of an outgoing artillery barrage echoed over them. “Damn, that’s close,” Santos said. Warren agreed with him.

The loadmaster’s head appeared at the edge of the flight deck’s entrance. “Chow anyone? I heated up some C-Rats.” The C-Rats, or C-Rations, were the latest version of the infamous K-Rations of World War II vintage. The individual packets held a complete meal that ranged from ham and eggs to chicken and vegetables. The beans and franks were the favourite, but all provided an edible meal, especially when heated. While they were still airborne, Flanders had opened six packs and heated the cans with the main entrees on the radio rack underneath the flight deck.

“Sounds great,” Warren called, remembering how Colonel Sloan had made sure they were all fed while at Nakhon Phanom.
What
had
Hardy
said
about
the
colonel
?
The
best
commander
we’ve
got
. Always pay attention to the basics, he thought. He was still learning. Flanders passed the heated C-Rations up and the men tore into them, indulging in the traditional military pastime of ‘bitching and moaning’ as they chowed down.

“Where is that damn repair team” Bosko moaned.

“At Happy Hour with the Donut Dollies,” Santos quipped.

“Where else,” Warren said.

“Give me a wheel,” Hale said, “and I can change it.”

Warren looked at him. “You can do that?”

“Sure can,” the flight engineer replied. “Just dig a hole around the wheel.”

“No shit?” Bosko said.

“Piece of cake,” Hale explained, “as long as it’s the aft wheel. Won’t work on the forward main. Helps to have a shovel or two.”

“Too bad we don’t have a wheel,” Warren said. They fell silent as they finished eating. Soon, only Warren was still awake as the others dozed off. Bosko had run the co-pilot’s seat full aft and was gently snoring. Santos and Hale had stretched out in back along with Flanders on the canvas jump seats in the cargo compartment.

“Now look at that,” Warren said over the intercom, waking Bosko and Flanders. A C-123 was taxing in and headed straight for them. “I think we got our wheel. Not bad. We’ve only been on the ground an hour.” It always amazed him when the system worked with any efficiency.
Maybe
there’s
a
Sloan
kicking
ass
and
taking
names
in
the
world
of
tactical
airlift
. Then it came to him; Sloan never had to kick any one’s ass. It was all about leadership. “Okay, let’s make it happen and get the hell out of Dodge ASAP.”

“Captain Warren,” Flanders said. “Boyle’s disappeared.”

Warren muttered an obscenity under his breath. “Maybe he’s gone to the latrine.”

“His AWOL bag is gone too,” Flanders said.

“If he’s not back when we’re good to go,” Warren growled, “we’ll be gone too.”