“We have many wounded,” Kim-Ly explained. “It was the only litter available. Where is he?” Lam moved aside so she could see. She scrambled to Tran’s side and used her flashlight to scan his wound. Frustrated, she twisted off the red lens to examine him in a better light. She gently removed Lam’s equipment belt and shirt that served as a compress to examine the gaping gash in his abdomen. The wound was amazingly clean and she felt a surge of hope. “My pack,” she whispered. She looked around, fully aware the Bru were watching. Lam handed her the pack.
Kim-Ly had treated many wounded comrades with similar wounds. Again, she probed the wound, thankful the bleeding had almost stopped. But for how long? She emptied a bottle of antiseptic over the wound and rolled Tran on his side to let it drain. Next, she layered three compresses together and placed them over the wound. Gently, she wrapped a big bandage around his torso. There was nothing more she could do. She sat back on her haunches and ran the trail’s grim calculus. She understood the protocol; without a fully equipped surgery, make them comfortable and place them aside to die. She closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. It was an easy decision.
“Please place Colonel Tran in the cage and lock it.” She waited, not moving while the three men gently moved Tran into the cage and locked it. Lam handed her the key. She reached through the bars and felt the bandage. It was still dry. “Captain Lam, please lead our two comrades to safety and re-join your men.” Lam acknowledged the order and disappeared into the night, leading the two porters.
She waited. Satisfied the men had enough time to reach safety, Kim-Ly stood and held the light under her chin, illuminating her face.
“I have a prisoner for you,” she called in Vietnamese, knowing it was her death sentence. Two small figures emerged from the shadows. One squatted in front of her, his machete laying across the top of his thighs. “This is Colonel Tran Sang Quan, the commander of the Binh Tram in Laos. You know he is an honourable man and not a killer. He knows much and is valuable. Take him to the Americans.”
The Bru said nothing and didn’t move.
She knelt in front of the man as he came to his feet. “I am his wife. My name is Kim-Ly. I am a lieutenant colonel. I give him to you.” She handed the key to the Montagnard, closed her eyes, and bent her head, waiting for the machete. Nothing, no searing pain, no sudden agony. She opened her eyes. She was alone and the bamboo cage was gone. Her flashlight was still on, lying on the ground and aimed to the south, pointing to the karst formation and safety.
2300 HOURS
Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam
“Sir,” the radio operator said, her soft voice echoing in the cave, “Captain Lam will be here within the hour. He reports that Colonel Tran is seriously wounded and Lieutenant Colonel Du is with him. They cannot move Colonel Tran.”
Dinh stood and took a deep breath. His will had proven invincible and he had prevailed. He forced himself to remain calm as he searched for the right words. “We have lost a valiant comrade-in-arms. His memory will be enshrined with the heroes of the War.” Another thought came to him. “We will honour his sacrifice by attacking the scum who killed him and removing them from our land. The order of the day is attack! Always attack! Forever attack! It is our duty to attack! Transmit the order.” He sat down, exhausted.
*
Se Pang, South Vietnam
Warren glanced at his watch. “Come on,” he urged. They had been on the ground almost ninety minutes and he was deeply worried. But there was nothing he could do except wait. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but visions of a court-martial played out in his imagination. An inner voice told him that unless he got them safely out of there, he deserved it. Unable to sleep, he stood up and made his way to the crew entrance. Hopefully, the Bru were making progress. He stepped outside in time to see a bright flash half way down the runway, quickly followed by a dull boom. “Incoming!” he shouted, running for cover. A second mortar exploded, moving towards the C-130. His crew were right behind him. They piled into a log and sandbagged bunker just as a deep quiet settled over the runway and nearby compound.
“Hell of a way to wake up,” Bosko said.
They crawled out of the bunker and walked back to the C-130. Banks’ sergeant was waiting for them. “Should be okay for a while,” the NCO told them.
“How long is ‘a while?’” Warren asked.
“Hard to say. Most likely, that was it for the night.” The gravelly-voiced Ranger was a man of few words.
“Why only two rounds?” Santos asked.
“Just harassing fire from a patrol. A 50-PM mortar.” The old Soviet-made 50mm mortar weighed twenty-six pounds and fired a grenade-sized round. “Un-aimed barrage. Range, maybe 800 meters. Got to get in pretty close. The Bru are out looking for ‘em right now. So they shoot and scoot. I expect we’ll take some heavy rounds in the morning when they can get a visual target.” A small light flashed on the southern ridge.
“Incoming,” the sergeant said, his voice amazingly calm. He surprised them with a burst of speed as he ran for the bunker.
The six men followed him, piling on top of each other in the bunker. Boyle was the last in. A much louder boom echoed over them.
“So much for the small stuff,” Bosko quipped. Again, a hard silence captured them.
“That was an eighty-two, one heavy mutha,” the sergeant said. The BM-37, Battalion Mortar, could reach out almost two miles and lobbed a six-pound, 82mm round that could do serious damage. “They’re getting serious and ranging on the 50, going for the lucky shot.”
“They won’t need luck when they can see,” Warren added, desperately hoping they would be long gone by first light.
The sergeant stood and stared into the night, looking towards the invisible ridge line.
“They might have a spotter in position. Don’t show a light.” Then he was gone.
“Don’t show a light,” Bosko groused. Then it hit him. “Starting engines is going to be sporting.”
“To say the least,” Warren added, at last figuring it out. The VC, or PAVN, he didn’t know which, knew they were there, had the range, but needed to visually acquire a target to aim at, and any light would do until morning. He sat on the ground and clasped his hands in front of his knees. His crew joined him, sitting silently, waiting.
“Sergeant Hale, you ever do an engine start touchy feely in the dark?” he asked.
“No, sir. Not sure I can. I’ve got to see the instrument panels.”
“How far can you see a red light at night?” Warren wondered.
“Far enough for a spotter,” Flanders replied. “We can always button up and hang some blankets to blackout the flight deck.”
An explosion cut the dark, this time between the runway and the compound. “Still ranging,” Santos said.
“And forcing everyone to keep their heads down,” Bosko muttered. “It would be nice to have a gunship on station returning the favour.”
“Oh, yeah,” Warren murmured. He pulled into himself, running ‘what if?’ scenarios through his mind, trying to plan ahead.
*
Santos jumped to his feet. “I hear a C-130.”
Warren stood and listened, not hearing it at first. Santos did have excellent hearing. Then he heard it, very faintly. He checked the time – 2338 – almost midnight. They had been on the ground four minutes shy of two hours. He listened and pointed to the west. “Over there.” The distinctive rumble of four Allison T-56 turboprop engines grew louder. Warren gave a silent prayer, hoping that it was a gunship out of Ubon. Now they could hear the C-130 as it flew by to the south of them. A flare popped in the night, shortly followed by a second, a third, then a fourth. The ridgeline lit up like a stadium at night under full flood lights as the flares drifted down underneath their parachutes. “It’s a Blind Bat!” Warren shouted. They ran for the C-130.
They scrambled on board in the dark, scraping their shins and bumping against bulkheads as they felt their way onto the flight deck. Behind them, they co
uld hear Flanders curse in eloquent terms that would make a marine gunny sergeant take notes as he rummaged around the cargo deck. In less than a minute, he passed up two blankets. He closed the crew entrance hatch before scampering up the crew ladder. He squeezed between Warren and the left side control panel.
“Boyle,” Flanders ordered, “squeeze your scrawny ass next to the Lieutenant.” The airman did as ordered and stood beside Bosko. “Make like a scarecrow,” Flanders said, “and hold up a blanket to cover the windscreens.” The two men spread their arms across the cockpit and held the blankets up, effectively creating blackout curtains.
Hale reached for the overhead panel and switched on the instrument lights and electrical bus to power up the radios. Warren hit the transmit button. “Blind Bat, Roscoe Two-One. How copy?”
Hardy’s distinctive voice answered. “Blind Bat Zero-One copies you five-by. Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Ollie.”
“Now he’s a fuckin’ comedian,” Bosko groused, not appreciating the play on the famous Laurel and Hardy routine. But he was thankful the flare ship was overhead.
“Roscoe Two-One,” Hardy transmitted, now all business. “I’ve got a flight of four inbound and will be working the area. I would appreciate a sit rep on what it looks like from the ground. I’ll work south of your position and keep you dark.”
“Will do,” Warren replied. “Going radio out to save the battery.”
“Blind Bat Zero-One copies. Monitor Guard on your PR-90.” The PR-90 was the survival radio they each carried in the survival vest. By using Guard, the emergency radio channel, they could stay in contact with the flare ship.
“The Colonel does have a clue,” Santos said.
“The man is full of surprises,” Warren allowed. “I’m guessing Moonbeam relayed our call and dropped the ball in his court. They gotta be up to their collective asses in alligators. I wonder how he scraped up a crew.”
Hale switched off the power and the men climbed off the flight deck to watch the show from outside. Three minutes later, another string of flares illuminated the night, and they heard the distinctive roar of an F-4 screaming down the wire on a bomb run. Six explosions rippled across the side of the ridge. “Holy shit,” Bosko breathed. “It’s the fuckin’ Fourth of July on steroids.”
They started to cheer wildly when a second string of bombs walked across the ridge. “Now who’s fuckin’ head is down?” Boyle shouted, jumping up and down.
Warren felt a tug at his left elbow, startling him. A Bru was standing there.
“Sir, the hole is okay.”
“Thank you,” Warren replied, his spirits soaring. It was the moment he had been waiting for. “Okay, here’s the game plan. We’re gonna start two and three and taxi on two. Sergeant Flanders, I want you out in front with a Bru. He guides you, you guide us. Use a hand to shield your flashlight and aim it at our nose gear, not the cockpit, otherwise, might get a reflection off the glass. I’ll follow your light, and you back us into the hole. Dave, I want you outside by the left main on the intercom extension to guide us into the exact spot. It’s gonna be tricky in the dark. Boyle, I want you doing the scarecrow blanket thing beside me during engine start and taxi. Dave, you do the same beside Boz during engine start. Then head for the rear while I taxi the Herk. Boz, you take over from Dave and hold the blankets to keep the flight deck blacked out, but give me a crack to look out and follow Sergeant Flanders. Any questions?”
There weren’t any. “Okay. Let’s do it.” They ran for the Hercules and were taxiing three minutes later. They had moved less than a hundred feet, curving to their left, when Flanders blinked his flashlight to stop. He made a sweeping motion to the right and Warren slowly backed the Hercules in that direction.
“Slow, slow,” Santos said over the intercom, as he walked beside the left main gear. The roar of number three engine was deafening but he ignored it. “Stop!” Warren hit the brakes. “We’re there,” Santos said.
“Shut ‘em down,” Warren said. Hale quickly shut the engines down, and the two men cocked the Hercules for a quick start. Without a word, Hale ran for the rear, stumbling in the dark.
“We’re gonna need some light,” Santos said.
“Get Boyle and whoever to do the scarecrow thing,” Warren replied. He scrambled out the crew entrance and called into the pitch black. “Please tell Captain Banks to bring the wounded.”
A Bru answered in a low voice, only a few feet away. “Yes, sir.”
“No wonder the VC shit a brick,” Warren muttered. He checked his watch, thankful that he could at least read it in the dark. It was exactly midnight.
2400 HOURS
Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam
“Major Cao,” Dinh shouted, his voice echoing over the cave. “What is our status?”
The young-looking major was huddled with three soldiers, listening to their reports. “In a moment, sir. The last reports are just coming in.” He broke away and sent the men back to their posts. Cao studied his clipboard, searching desperately for a way to tell Dinh what he did not want to hear. An idea came to him. It was all too simple and he would tell Dinh the truth, starting with the good news.
“Sir, we are in radio contact with Group. However, our status report must be encrypted for transmission.”
“Do not send it until I have reviewed it in detail,” Dinh ordered. He liked being in total command of the regiment.
“Yes, sir. We have suffered heavy casualties with 223 wounded and eighty-seven killed. Our mortar teams in place on the river report nine rounds remaining, but we should be able to resupply them by morning. The Sergey was damaged in the last attack but should be in commission shortly. However, the gun captain and an aimer were killed and we have no one to replace them.”
“It is a matter of motivation, Cao. Do you understand that? Motivation! When can I attack?”
“Even with mortars, we must move our comrades across the river and into position to bring their weapons to bear.”
“Make it happen,” Dinh ordered. “And let me see the status report.” Cao handed him the clipboard. Dinh reduced the number of wounded and killed by half. He scratched out the damage to the ZSU-23, but left the number of mortar rounds remaining unchanged. He handed Cao the clipboard. “Send it. Now.”
“Immediately, sir,” Cao replied. He added it to the other message that would also be transmitted.
*
Se Pang, South Vietnam
A string of flares popped in the night, closer to the runway but still on the far side of the river. A dim, but very eerie light illuminated the Hercules, and Warren could see well enough to make out the four men clustered around the wheel well. Boyle was standing over them, a blanket spread between his outstretched arms, shielding the light from a flashlight dangling from around his neck as best he could. His face glistened with sweat. The old wheel was laying on the ground and they were rolling the new wheel into position. “Damn,” Warren muttered. If he could see them, so could any nearby spotter.
He keyed his survival radio. “Blind Bat, Roscoe on Guard. Be advised the flares are drifting towards us. We’re getting too much light over the runway.”
Hardy answered. “Roger that, Roscoe. There are troops in the open coming your way. A flight of two is inbound.”
“I really needed to know that,” Warren muttered to himself. The unmistakable sound of twin radial engines echoed over the Hercules. Unable to switch to the Blind Bat frequency, he watched in fascination as the dark shadow of an aircraft flew under the flares and two canisters separated from under the wings. The aircraft pulled off, its engines screaming at full throttle as the two canisters tumbled into the ground. A river of flame washed over the ground, chasing the departing aircraft. Napalm.
Then he heard a second aircraft roll in. But it didn’t need flares to light a target. This time, Warren could make out the distinctive shape of an A-26 as it came in low on a strafing pass. The six .50 calibre machine guns in its nose erupted in smoke a
nd flames as a barrage of tracers ripped the night. It was an A-26 out of Nakhon Phanom making a strafing run. The 56th Air Commando Wing had also gotten the message. The World War II vintage A-26 light tactical bomber was a proven tank killer on the Ho Chi Minh trail. It was able to loiter for extended periods of time over a target and carried an awesome bomb load.
The first A-26 rolled in for a second pass, a strafing run, and sent a stream of death and destruction into the men caught in the open. For some reason, the guns sounded sharper, more crisp on this run. The aircraft pulled off and he caught a brief glance of the aircraft’s plan form as it banked and climbed. The flames set by the napalm set down and darkness claimed the river valley. He could still see a few small fires on the far side of the river flickering in the night as the sound of the A-26s receded. Hardy wanted to know how the attack looked from the ground, but nothing could describe the hell he had just witnessed, even from his distance. He keyed his PR-90 radio.
“Blind Bat, that was one awesome show. Ordnance on target. Looks like crispy critter time from here. Is anything still moving?”
“Roscoe, standby.”
A few seconds later, another string of flares illuminated the night as Blind Bat flew down the valley. Suddenly, a solid red line reached up from the side of the ridge, chasing after the flare ship – tracers.
“Break right! Triple A six o’clock!” Warren shouted over the radio just as the C-130 jinked sharply to the right. One of the flare kickers in the rear of the Blind Bat had seen the tracers at the same moment and called for the break. The gunner missed, not able to visually track the C-130 as it moved away and took evasive manoeuvres in the dark.
Hardy’s voice came over the radio, amazingly cool. “Roger on trip A. Turning downwind to see what we’ve got.” Warren grunted, giving Hardy high marks, certain that he would fly a racetrack pattern on the far side of the ridge line with the gunner on the north side and unable to bring the deadly cannon to bear. “Roscoe, no movement at this time. Suggest you get the hell out of Dodge soonest.”
The Trash Haulers Page 17
