The Trash Haulers (11 page)

1400 HOURS

Over South Vietnam

The four big props beat at the air slightly out of phase and filled the flight deck with a pulsating echo. Warren played with the synchrophase control knob on the right-side console in a vain attempt to synchronize the props and smooth out the sound but with no success.

“It’s okay, Captain,” the flight engineer, said. “They should reset on engine start.”

“Chu Lai on the nose at 130 miles,” Santos said. He ran the distance against their groundspeed and added five minutes for approach and landing. “On the ground in thirty minutes.”

“Roger that,” Bosko said, anxious to end the endless beat. He pushed the throttles up and nosed the Hercules over, trading altitude for airspeed. “In a hurry to get on the ground?” Santos asked. Bosko gave a little nod. At best, they would land five minutes early. But based on what he had heard at Nakhon Phanom, it could be a critical five minutes.

“What do you make of Hardy?” Santos asked, changing the subject.

Warren thought for a moment. “Beats me. One thing’s for sure, he’s a good pilot and can fly the Herk.”

“And he’s got balls,” Santos added. “You should have seen him at Ban Nap.”

“The man is a study in contradictions,” Bosko said.

“My dad saw it all the time in the diplomatic corps,” Santos said. “You get promoted by playing the game. He had to butter up ambassadors, mostly political appointees, who didn’t have a clue but made large campaign contributions. We’re talking a total lack of situational awareness and incompetence that bordered on the dangerous. He had to play one game with them, and then protect the staff so they could do the real work. Hardy might be playing the same game, keeping the colonels happy and then making sure we can do our job. It’s a balancing act.”

“Sounds like a double standard to me,” Hale said.

Santos laughed. “My dad used to say that if there wasn’t a double standard, there wouldn’t be any standards.” Warren humphed, not sure if it was total nonsense or if he had just heard a basic truth about the Air Force. “Which gets us to Billy Bob Boyle,” Santos said.

Warren made a cutting motion across his throat, silencing the navigator. “Sergeant Flanders, is Boyle on headset?”

“Negative,” the loadmaster replied. “Sound asleep.”

“Hardy did mention court-martial,” Santos said. “For the record, the bastard totally freaked out.”

“He’s just a nineteen year-old kid,” Warren said, willing to cut him a break.

“Kid or not,” Flanders said, “we’re talking one big yellow streak.”

“I didn’t see it,” Warren said, not sure what to do, but anxious to drop the subject. He made a mental note to talk to his commander on Okinawa. But he sensed Hardy would have to press charges as he was the senior officer who witnessed it. “Time to get this puppy on the ground.”

“Before descent checklist,” Bosko said.

Warren read off each item as the crew configured the C-130. The descent went smoothly and Bosko levelled off over the South China Sea. Warren called the tower as Bosko turned inbound to the Marine base.

“Roscoe Two-One,” the tower radioed, “cleared for the approach to Runway Three-One Right.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bosko moaned. “That’s the old PSP runway next to the beach. All we need is a cut tire.” The pierced steel planking matting left over from World War Two was infamous for cutting tires on landing and take-off. The co-pilot flew a right hand pattern to stay over water as long as possible before turning onto the base leg. “There’s the problem,” Bosko said. “Looks like they’re working on the main runway.”

Santos stood behind Warren and scanned the concrete runway with a pair of expensive binoculars he kept in his navigation bag.

“They’re filling in craters. Small stuff. I’m guessing mortar attack.”

“Roger on the mortars,” Bosko said. “Before landing checklist.” He turned short final and lined up slightly right of centreline in an attempt to keep the landing gear off the most worn parts of the PSP where a break in the metal might cut a tire.

*

Chu Lai, Vietnam

“Nice landing, Lieutenant,” Santos said as they taxied onto the small parking ramp. Bosko stopped parallel to the runway with the beach and clear blue water on their left.

“Nice beach,” Santos said. “Do we have time for a skinny dip?”

“Not with a female on board,” Warren told the navigator.

“I don’t think you have anything I haven’t seen before,” Lynne Pender said over the intercom.

Warren blushed. “You might have warned us you were on headset.” He wondered if she had overheard them discussing Boyle. “Okay, cock this puppy for a quick engine start.” Bosko read the engine quick-start checklist, positioning switches for fast start, and keeping the Gas Turbine Compressor, the auxiliary power unit located in the left gear well, on line.

“I’m getting bad vibes,” Warren warned. “Everybody hang tight. Where the hell are the marines?” His inner Klaxon was starting to chime. He didn’t know why he was feeling antsy, but long experience had taught him to honour the warning. “If anyone needs to hit the latrine, there’s a slit trench over by the beach.” He pointed to a low structure built around a few boards over a trench. A five-foot high vee-shaped wall provided a modicum of modesty for any beach goers.

“Captain Pender needs to use it first,” the loadmaster said over the intercom.

“Keep tabs on anyone deplaning in case we need to beat feet and get the hell out of Dodge,” Warren said. His inner Klaxon kept building, pounding at him with the same pulsating rhythm of the out of phase props. “Come on.” He hated the waiting, but that was part of a trash hauler’s existence.

Bosko keyed the radio and called the tower. “Chu Lai, Roscoe Two-One. Any word on our passengers?”

“Negative, Roscoe.”

“Lovely,” Warren muttered. He leaned forward in his seat and surveyed the area in front of the aircraft, but the rear hemisphere was a huge blind spot that bothered him. Again, he didn’t know why, but he didn’t question it.

“Scanner in the top hatch,” he ordered. The forward escape hatch was located in the overhead at the back of the flight deck with a ladder bolted to the aft bulkhead.

Santos grabbed his binoculars, quickly climbed the ladder, and swept the area in time to see a puff of smoke billow up on the far side of the concrete runway, well over a mile away. The dull boom of a mortar round echoed over him. Two more puffs of smoke erupted, this time on the near side of the runway, marching towards them.

“Incoming!” he shouted. “Coming our way!”

“Starting three,” Warren shouted, ordering an engine start. A fourth explosion echoed over them, much closer. Warren knew they didn’t have enough time to bring at least one engine on line and move out of the way, much less start all four and take-off. There was no doubt in his mind that the big Hercules was the target.

“Shut ‘em down. Evacuate! Evacuate!” He ripped the number three throttle full aft as Hale’s hands flew over the overhead instrument panel, cutting all power on the aircraft. Santos swung down from the top hatch and jumped off the flight deck, bolting through the crew entrance. Bosko was right behind him. Hale was next off the flight deck, and Warren was the last off. He paused before exiting the aircraft and scanned the big cargo compartment. It was empty. He ducked out the crew entrance and sprinted for the sand dunes next to the beach, thirty yards away. Two more mortars exploded behind him.

1500 HOURS

Chu Lai, Vietnam

Warren leaped over a low dune and sprawled into a shallow depression, landing on top of Pender. He let out an oomph as he rolled off.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Much to his surprise, she rolled on top of him and pressed her hand against his right shoulder blade. “What the hell!”

“You’re wounded,” she said.

“I’m not hurt,” he protested.

“You’re bleeding. Not bad. Just a bad scratch.”

Three more mortar rounds walked across the beach, sending geysers of sand into the air and showering them with debris. The last round landed in the water and an eerie silence came down. Warren lifted his head to peer over the edge of the sand dune. Much to his surprise, the C-130 was undamaged.

“Now look at that,” he said.

“Sergeant Flanders,” Pender shouted at the top of her lungs, “I need the first aid kit!”

“Roger that!” Flanders shouted as he sprinted for the aircraft.

Warren tried to stand but the doctor pushed him back down. “Don’t move,” she ordered, gently pulling back the rip in his flight suit and probing the wound. “It’s a bit deeper than I thought.”

“How in hell?” Warren wondered. He could not remember feeling anything. Flanders was back with a first aid kit. He ripped it open and handed Pender a small bottle of antiseptic. “How did that happen?” Warren wondered.

Flanders grunted as he watched Pender clean and tape the wound.

“You were grazed by a bullet,” the sergeant said. “Probably a sniper. Luckily, the bastard couldn’t shoot.” A burst of small calibre gunfire echoed over them and Flanders dropped to the ground. He bobbed his head up and quickly pulled back down. “Looks like the marines are sweeping the dunes at the far end of the beach.” A prolonged burst of gunfire split the air followed by a long silence. Flanders stood to get a better view.

“Yep, they got someone. I’m guessing that was your sniper.”

“My very own sniper,” Warren muttered. “Lucky me.”

“You’re fine,” Pender said. “You don’t need stitches, but check with the flight surgeon at Cam Ranh.” She rolled to a sitting position, kneeling on the back of her calves.

Warren came to his feet and looked around. “Round everyone up and check the Herk for damage.” Again, he swept the area, doing a head count. “Son of bitch, where’s Boyle?”

“The last I saw,” Pender said, “he was headed for the latrine.” She pointed in the general direction of the makeshift outhouse she had used earlier. But it was gone.

“Oh, shit,” Warren groaned, coming to his feet.

Pender couldn’t help herself. “Pun intended?” But Warren didn’t hear her and was running for the latrine. She scrambled to her feet and ran after him.

They reached the latrine at the same time and skidded to a stop. A mortar blast had blown the vee-shaped structure in on itself, and they heard a low groaning coming from underneath the wreckage. Together, they pulled at the splintered boards, clearing the debris away. “Boyle,” Warren shouted, “are you okay?”

“Help me! Sweet mother of God! Help me! Help me!” Boyle’s shrieks crescendoed into a high- pitched scream. Now they could see his hands, reaching up from underneath and clasping the edges of the floorboards.

“How did he get down there?” Warren wondered, pulling more floorboards free. Now they could see Boyle’s head barely above the dark muck floating in the trench. “Oh, no,” Warren groaned.

Pender didn’t hesitate and plunged her left hand into the filth, grabbing Boyle’s collar. “We gotta get him out.” Warren didn’t move. She tried to pull Boyle free but failed. “I can’t do it alone,” she snapped. Warren quickly shed his survival vest and braced his right hand on the nearest board. He plunged his left hand down into the excrement, grabbing Boyle’s flight suit. Together, they pulled the screaming Boyle free and onto the sand. His arms and legs jerked violently as he twisted and turned, flailing in the sand.

“Drag him into the water,” Pender ordered, coming to her feet. It took both working as a team to pull the hysterical Boyle over the sand, finally reaching the surf. Pender released the airman and quickly stripped down to her bra and cotton briefs.

“You too,” she ordered. “Bath time.” Warren pulled at the quick release zippers on the tongues of his boots and stepped out of them as he unzipped the long front zipper on his flight suit. He shed it in one easy motion. Together, they dragged the screaming and twisting airman into surf. The doctor grabbed Boyle’s hair with one hand as she splashed water over his head and scrubbed his face. Warren pulled off Boyle’s boots and then jerked at the front zipper on the airman’s flight suit, finally pulling it off. “Get his underwear,” Pender said.

Totally naked, they sat him up in the surf and used sand scrapped from the bottom to scrub him clean. Slowly, Boyle calmed and started to cough. “Scrub your genitals,” she said. Boyle spread his legs and piled wet sand over his groin. He rubbed his hands back and forth in a violent sawing motion. “That’s enough,” she said. “Okay, time to stand up.” The two officers each held an arm and lifted Boyle to his feet.

Loud cheers and shouts from the parking ramp rained down on them. Four trucks, the venerable M35 cargo truck better known as the Deuce-and-a-Half, loaded with fifty marines and their gear had finally arrived. The young marines had been willing spectators to Boyle’s rescue and were showing their appreciation. “Lovely,” Warren muttered, looking for their clothes. He released his grip on Boyle’s arm.

Boyle let out another scream and twisted violently, breaking free. Pender lost her balance and fell back into the surf as Boyle ran back into the water, desperate to escape the unwanted attention. He stumbled and struggled back to his feet, still headed out to sea.

“He’s totally freaked out,” Pender said, coming to her feet. Her cotton briefs were thoroughly soaked and Warren had a vision of Venus emerging from the sea. From the loud cheers coming from the beach, he was certain the marines were thinking along similar lines.

“Totally freaked out?” the pilot said, watching Boyle flail at water. “Is that a medical term?”

“Damn right,” she replied. “He needs to be restrained.” Boyle had reached deep water and was swimming out to sea. She ran after the airman, ploughing through the shallow water.

“Crap,” Warren muttered, following her. Pender started to swim, rapidly closing on Boyle. Warren started to swim, but couldn’t catch her. He was still thirty feet away when she caught the struggling Boyle. Her left hand flashed out and grabbed his left shoulder from behind. With one easy motion, she rose up and slammed her right hand down on the top of his head, driving his head and shoulder underwater. She quickly released him and let him bob back up, coughing and spitting. Still behind him, she grabbed his chin with her left hand and threw her hip into his back, lifting him to the surface. She swam for the shore with a strong overhand stroke. “Life guard?” Warren asked. She ignored him as she dragged Boyle toward the shore. The marines were still yelling and shouting, urging her on.

Boyle started to struggle, still desperate to escape. Pender released his chin and grabbed his hair as she twisted around. Again, she held his head under water and quickly released him.

“Calm down,” she ordered, “or I will drown your sorry ass.” Boyle believed her and went limp. Again, she grabbed his chin and swam a few strokes into shallow water where she could stand. She threw her right arm around Boyle’s waist and held his left arm around her neck, her left hand firmly clamped to his wrist.

“Walk,” she commanded, bringing him safely to shore. Warren followed in amazement.

Flanders was waiting, holding their clothes and Warren’s survival vest.

“I don’t think you want to put these on,” he said. The filth from Boyle’s flight suit had rubbed off on their uniforms. “You need to wash them out.”

Warren grabbed the naked Boyle by the right arm and shoved him towards Flanders, relieving them of their burden. More shouts from the marines carried down the beach as the two officers rinsed their uniforms in the shallow water.

“Bosko has a spare flight suit that will probably fit you,” Warren said, thankful they had brought their AWOL bags. She ignored him as she knelt and rinsed her fatigues in the surf. She wrung the top out and pulled it on, quickly buttoning up. She stood and picked up her pants, wringing them out.

The marines were still in full flow, shouting and laughing. “Hey,” one yelled, “I’d sure like some of that!”

Pender turned and fixed the heckler with a hard look. She threw her pants and boots at Warren. “Take care of these,” she ordered as she strode through the surf, heading for the marines. The fatigue’s shirt reached to mid-thigh and offered a modicum of decency as her bare legs flashed in the sun. The marines fell silent as she crossed the sand with a measured stride. Only the soft crunch of her bare feet in the sand could be heard. She didn’t hesitate and marched straight for the heckler, stopping less than a foot in front of him, standing nose to chest. She read his nametag then pointed to hers as she looked up at the tall marine.

“Private Denlow, in case you can’t read, you can call me by my nickname, Captain Pender.” She tapped the captain’s bars on her lapels. “Where’s your lieutenant?”

“He’s gone ahead with the advance party,” Denlow said, a slight smirk on his face. That was a mistake.

“Denlow, I think your sergeant needs to explain the difference between a captain and a private. Can you point the Gunny out?” She suspected the sergeant was watching, deferring to her rank, and waiting to see how she handled it.

Denlow gulped. “Please, ma’am, don’t do that. The Gunny will ... will ...” The thought of what the veteran sergeant would do to him was too painful to think about. “I’m really sorry and promise to keep my big mouth shut.” He was pleading. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

A hard silence came down as the marines stared at her. She let them dangle for a moment, staring back.

“Apology accepted, Private.” She shouldered past him and padded barefoot up the ramp and into the aircraft. As one, the marines stood at attention and didn’t move until she disappeared into the aircraft.

“That’s one tough lady,” a marine whispered.

“No shit,” Denlow breathed.

“Gather ‘round ” Flanders ordered, holding the marines outside while Pender changed into Bosko’s extra flight suit. “I am Staff Sergeant Glen Flanders, your loadmaster for this first-class flight to Se Pang. By regulations, I am required to brief you on ...” The marines nodded in unison as the loadmaster went through his passenger brief.

On the flight deck, Hale was filling out the maintenance forms.

“I found six small punctures,” he told Warren, “five in the right main gear door and one in the vertical stabilizer. No other damage. I’m guessing shrapnel from the mortars. I used duct tape to patch the five in the gear door, but couldn’t reach the one on the stabilizer. It looks more like a puncture and is small. I don’t think any of ‘em will be a problem. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em, but we need to start engines and do a systems and controllability check.”

“I couldn’t find anything else,” Bosko said. “And I went over her with a fine tooth comb.” The co-pilot had gone through the interior of the Hercules checking for battle damage while the flight engineer had checked the exterior.

“So she’s good to go?” Warren asked the two men. Because of the battle damage, he could have cancelled the mission and headed for Cam Ranh Bay.

“Yes, sir,” Hale said, “she’s good to go. But Maintenance really needs to go over the bird, pull panels, and crawl under the belly.”

“Sergeant Flanders,” Warren said over the intercom, “hold the marines while we start engines and do a systems check.” He called for the start engines checklist and the crew brought all four engines on line. They were a well-rehearsed team as they checked out the Hercules, making sure all systems were a go. They finished with a controllability check, and, satisfied the C-130 was fully functional, Warren told Flanders to load the marines.

“Dave, you ever been to Se Pang?” Warren asked.

“Negative,” Santos answered. “After take-off, fly three-zero-zero degrees for 136 nautical miles to Khe Sanh.” They had been to Khe Sanh many times and could easily find it. “From Khe Sanh, fly three-three-zero for four minutes. Se Pang should be on the nose.” Santos was relying on classic dead reckoning to find the Special Forces camp.

“Got it,” Warren said. “Okay folks, keep an eye on everything, and we’ll head for the barn after dropping off the marines – if this puppy can hold together that long.”

“She’s a tough old gal,” Hale assured him. “And we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Roger on the excitement,” Santos said. “We really need to ... “ His voice trailed off as Pender climbed onto the flight deck wearing Bosko’s flight suit. She had cinched in the waist and rolled up the sleeves. Pender was not a small woman and she filled it out.

Warren sucked in his breath.

“Lieutenant Bosko,” she said, “thank you. It fits perfectly. Bosko could only nod in agreement.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of tactical airlift,” Warren said, kicking himself for not coming up with something better. “Time to get this show on the road. Before taxi checklist.”

*

Chu Lai, South Vietnam