The Trash Haulers

by Richard Herman

  Warren ran for the flight deck, hoping he had enough time of useful consciousness to make it. He stumbled through the fire curtains and grabbed the ladder leading to the flight deck. But he couldn’t go any further.

  “We’re okay!” he shouted before passing out.

  *

  Warren jerked, coming awake. He was belly down, sprawled out on the cargo deck behind the crew entrance door. Flanders was bent over his back, bandaging his wound.

  “Sorry, Captain. I had to cut your flight suit away. You’re good to go.” Warren rolled over and Flanders helped him sit up.

  “We okay?” Warren asked.

  “All under control,” Flanders told him.

  “Captain Pender?”

  “She’s working on Boyle as we speak,” Flanders said. “You really did a number on him. Blew his right hip to shit. The doc is saving his worthless ass.” He let out a very contented guffaw. “She’s sewing him up, no anaesthetic. He’s squealing like a stuck pig.”

  “Denlow?”

  “Pretty bad shape. Might lose an eye.”

  “From the fire retardant?” Warren asked.

  “Nope.” Again, the deep chuckle. “Captain Pender bashed the shit out of him with the fire extinguisher and shattered his left eye socket. Popped his eyeball out. She shoved it back in and bandaged him up. He can’t see a thing, and I hogged tied him up good.” He helped Warren to his feet. “The Captain is one hell of a lady.”

  Flanders helped Warren up the ladder to the flight deck. He moved forward and sat in the pilot’s seat. He pulled on his headset and turned to Bosko. The co-pilot brought him up to date.

  “Cubi Point TACAN is locked on and we’re in contact with Manila ATC. They’re expecting us. Landing two minutes past the hour.”

  “Fuel,” Warren said.

  Santos answered. “It’s tight but okay.”

  “We definitely got a fuel leak,” Hale said. “No reserve. We don’t want to go around.”

  Warren understood. “That’s cutting it pretty close.”

  “We got company,” Santos said. Lynne Pender was climbing up the ladder. Without a word, Hale handed her a headset.

  “How’s it going back there?” Warren asked.

  “Not good,” she answered, her voice tired and strained. “Two marines are critical, Tanner is unconscious, and I haven’t totally stopped Boyle’s bleeding. Plus his fever is touching 106.”

  “So he’s delirious,” Bosko said.

  “Definitely,” she answered.

  “A good defence for when they court-martial his sorry ass,” Santos said.

  “We need to land as soon as possible,” she told them. “Make it as smooth as you can.” It wasn’t a request.

  “Are they that bad?” Warren asked.

  “I’m afraid so.” Then she was gone, back to her patients.

  Warren took a deep breath. “I really needed to hear that.” He fell silent as the radio squawked. ATC cleared them to descend at their discretion and Warren answered. “Manila, Roscoe Two-One copies cleared to descend. Request priority handling.”

  Manila never hesitated. “Roscoe Two-One is cleared direct Clark. I will clear all traffic.” Bosko retarded the throttles and they headed down.

  “Boz,” Warren said over the intercom, “I’m bushed and hurtin’.” He wanted everyone to hear. “You got the landing, if you want.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Bosko said.

  “Makes sense to me,” Santos said. “The good Captain Warren never made a soft landing in his life.” The tension was broken.

  *

  Over the Philippines

  Bosko maintained a high airspeed as they descended, and levelled off at 5000 feet as they coasted in over Subic Bay. The weather was VFR and the huge Navy base at Cubi Point was lit up like a Christmas tree welcoming them to the Philippines. Bosko turned to a more easterly heading as they flew past the southern slope of Mount Pinatubo, an inactive volcano. As soon as the Clark TACAN clicked on and he was certain they were clear of the high terrain, he turned northward and racked the throttles aft, starting the descent. “Dave, keep us out of the rocks,” he said. It never hurt to have a backup.

  “Clear of all terrain,” Santos said. “Clark on the nose at thirteen,”

  Bosko glanced at the TACAN readout. Thirteen nautical miles to go. Ahead, he saw the runway approach lights cutting a path over darkened terrain and the lights of the air base further on, off to the left. Manila ATC cleared them to Clark Approach as he reread the approach plate. “Roscoe Two-One, you are cleared for a straight-in approach. Contact Clark tower.” Warren dialled in the new frequency and made the call.

  “Roscoe Two-One,” Clark tower radioed, “you are cleared to land runway Zero-Two-Left. Wind light and variable, visibility twenty plus.” Then, “Welcome to Clark, Roscoe.”

  “Sounds like the world is watching,” Santos said.

  Bosko laughed. “Boz, don’t blow it now,” he told himself. He called for the before landing checklist and started the flaps down.

  “Gear down,” Warren said. For a moment, the tension was back as the main gear cranked down. This time, it sounded normal.

  “Three in the green,” Bosko called.

  “Gear scans clean,” Flanders said from the back.

  “Flaps one-hundred percent,” Bosko said, slowing to landing speed. Over ten thousand feet of lighted runway stretched out in front of them. He eased the Hercules down.

  And he greased it.

  *

  Clark Air Base, the Philippines

  “Are we down yet?” Flanders asked from the rear.

  “Reversing inboards,” Bosko said. He touched the brakes, slowed, and lifted the throttles out of reverse, gently slowing them to taxi speed as they reached the turnoff to the main parking ramp. They turned off to the left. Ahead, the brightly-lit ramp was packed with waiting vehicles. A follow-me truck, its yellow light flashing, joined from their left, leading them into the chocks.

  “Captain Warren,” Bosko said. “Tell ‘em we’re here.”

  Warren didn’t hesitate. He reached for the throttles and played a tune. Dah-da, dah-da-da-da-da-da. It was the Colonel Bogie March announcing Roscoe 21 had arrived.

  0400 HOURS

  Clark Air Base, the Philippines

  The follow-me truck stopped and a heavyset man jumped out holding lighted wands. He motioned them forward and then crossed the wands over his head, the signal to halt. Another airman plugged in a power cord from an auxiliary power unit as the heavyset man came to attention and threw them a perfect salute.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bosko said. “Check out the stripes on his sleeve. First time I’ve ever been marshalled into parking by a chief master sergeant.” The chief dropped his salute and climbed back into the truck as ambulances and vehicles converged on the rear of Hercules.

  “Shut ‘em down,” Bosko said. They could feel the rush of footsteps on the cargo deck as they shut down the engines. Santos closed out his flight log at 0402 hours, 1 February 1968. “Sergeant Hale, say fuel remaining.”

  “Six hundred pounds,” Hale answered. They had ninety-two gallons of fuel in the tanks. “Yep, we got a fuel leak somewhere.”

  Warren pulled himself out of his seat as the props spun down. “Let’s go see how they’re doing.” The three men followed him down to the cargo compartment. Except for Flanders standing at the base of the loading ramp, the cargo compartment was deserted. Behind Flanders, the last of the taillights and flashing beacons were pulling away, disappearing into the night. The stadium lights rimming the parking ramp started to click off, surrounding them in semi-darkness. They were alone.

  “Well, I guess we had our two minutes of fame,” Warren said. Flanders joined them in the brightly lit cargo compartment and handed Warren a clean flight suit. “Thank you, but where ... .”

  “It’s the one you were wearing at Chu Lai,” Flanders replied. “It was easy to mend, so I washed it out while we were waiting on the ground at Phu Bai.
I threw it on the radio rack to dry.” He half gestured at Warren’s shoulder. “Sorry about cutting that one up.”

  “No problem,” Warren said. “Let’s call for crew transport and head for billeting.” He looked around the cargo deck. The floor was littered with bloodied bandages, parts of uniforms that had been cut away, scattered boots, and discarded equipment belts and suspenders. He was standing on paper mats soaked in blood and urine. Fortunately, the stench was yielding to a gentle night breeze. “I’ll tell transient maintenance to clean it up.”

  Hale’s chin came up. “No, sir. She’s our bird and deserves better than that. It won’t take long to do it right.”

  “What’s another thirty minutes?” Flanders added. “Call the crash crew for a pumper and we’ll hose her out.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Bosko said. He went forward to make the radio call.

  “That was some off load,” Santos said.

  “I never saw anything like it,” Flanders said. “I think every doctor, nurse, corpsman, and ambulance within fifty miles was here. Even the wing king, a brigadier general no less, was here rootin’ and urging them on. Five minutes max.”

  “What happened to Captain Pender?” Warren asked.

  “The last I saw,” Flanders replied, “she was surrounded by six doctors and a dozen nurses from the hospital.” He laughed. “For a moment, I thought she was going to spit at Boyle and Denlow.”

  “What about Tanner and Tran?”

  Flanders shrugged. “They were alive when they carried them off.”

  Bosko was back. “A pumper is on the way. They want us to taxi over to the hazardous cargo area next to the drain culverts.” Without a word, they filed back to their duty stations to start engines. Within minutes they were taxing on the inboards. A pumper truck was waiting for them at the far end of the parking ramp. They shut the engines down and set the parking brakes.

  Flanders had raised the rear door and lowered the loading ramp to the level position. Every hatch was open and he was pulling a two-inch diameter black fire hose through the crew entrance. Warren stepped over the hose and down the steps. Bosko, Santos and Hale followed him out and around to the rear of the aircraft. A flood of water was cascading off the end of the loading ramp, a bloody waterfall carrying the wastage of war. Slowly, the water turned clean. Flanders walked to the end of the ramp and hosed the concrete down, washing the debris into the storm drains.

  “Hey,” Flanders called, “I got two brooms and could use a little help.”

  Warren extended his left hand and Flanders pulled him onto the ramp. Bosko, Santos, and Hale were right behind him. “Sorry, Captain,” Bosko said. “Not with your shoulder.” He gently pushed Warren into a jump seat. Santos and Hale swept the remaining water out the back while Flanders directed a stream at the hardest spots that would not yield.

  “I think we got it,” Flanders said, satisfied with the results. Within moments, the pumper was gone and the brooms stored. Warren changed into the clean flight suit and joined his crew who were sitting on the aft edge of the loading ramp, their feet dangling over the concrete. The cool breeze drifted over them and the Hercules smelled fresh and clean.

  “I’ll call for crew transport,” Bosko said, heading for the flight deck.

  “I suppose the CABOOM bar is closed,” Santos said. The Clark Air Base Officers Open Mess was infamous for carousing and drinking.

  “I don’t know about you,” Flanders said, “but I’ve got to hit the sack. It has been one hell of day.”

  “Indeed,” Santos said. “Hard to top it.”

  “Probably can’t,” Flanders allowed. “Time to retire.” Years later, he would joke to his friends that he peaked on January 31, 1968. They would rag him about “being a has been,” and he would mutter “better than being a never was.”

  Bosko was back. “Crew transport is on the way.”

  “What about you, Captain Santos?” Flanders asked. “Got any plans?”

  Santos though for a moment. “I think I’ll stick around for a while. Maybe go to Squadron Officers School. Sergeant Hale, you got anything planned?”

  “Ah, I’m a lifer,” the flight engineer replied. “I’ll probably go back to school after I retire.” The school was a seminary. “What the heck, I’ll only be thirty-eight.”

  Bosko joined in. “The airlines are hiring and looking good. My DOS is thirty-one August.” DOS was date of separation. He thought for a moment. “I always wanted to fly flare missions. I wonder if Blind Bat Zero-One needs a co-pilot.”

  “You could do worse than Hardy,” Warren said. “You got time. Ask and find out.”

  “I think I’ll give it a go,” Bosko said. “What about you, Captain?”

  “I’m thinking about getting out,” Warren said. “There’s a new type of electronic calculator called a microcomputer, and a friend wants to start a business.”

  “I never heard of a microcomputer,” Santos said. “Here’s crew transport.”

  The panel van rattled to a stop and Lynne Pender jumped off. She ambled across the short space separating them, a six-pack of frosty San Miguel beer in each hand. She handed one six-pack to Flanders and one to Warren. “They made it,” was all she said. She turned and pulled herself onto the edge of the ramp, sitting beside Warren, their shoulders barely touching. Without a word, Warren used his survival knife to uncap the beers and passed them out. Bosko raised his bottle in a silent toast and they all sipped, slowly at first and then with gusto.

  “I spoke to Tran,” she said. “He thanked me for saving his life.”

  “Did you?” Warren asked.

  “Probably. But he is very strong willed and that makes a big difference. He was in worse shape than the two marines who went critical. He said to tell you that he will make it right. I’m not sure what he meant.”

  Warren worked through the fatigue that was demanding its due. “What did he actually say?”

  “He speaks English with a heavy French accent, but I’m fairly sure his exact words were ‘Tell the Captain I will make it right.’”

  “That could be a threat.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And Tanner?” Warren asked, wondering about the helicopter pilot.

  “I had to amputate his foot when they brought him in at Se Pang. When I told him, all he said was ‘Go for it, Doc.’” She laughed, low and full of warmth. “I think we made a date.”

  “That’s one way to encourage a guy,” Warren said.

  “That was the idea.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I hope he doesn’t remember.”

  Warren laughed. “I know I would. What about Boyle?”

  “He’ll live.”

  Warren touched her hand. He searched for the words to tell her that she was incredibly brave, but nothing seemed appropriate. He finally managed a “You are something else.”

  She gave him a look he would remember forever. “You’re no slouch yourself.”

  The pilot gave a little shrug. “Just doing what I get paid for.”

  “And what do you just get paid for?”

  Warren managed the sardonic grin required of all trash haulers. He gestured at Flanders, the loadmaster. “To get him to where he can do his job.”

  Steven Bosko couldn’t help overhearing. “Wrong, Captain. We’re a team that hauls cargo. That’s our job. And, by the way, you are damn good at it.” They fell silent as the cool breeze washed over them and the faint chirping of an insect played a soft background refrain in the early morning dark.

  “This is one good beer,” Flanders murmured. Years later, they would all claim it was the best beer they ever had, and Mark Warren would place a bottle of San Miguel in the loadmaster’s coffin as Lynne Pender Warren held his hand, her eyes full of tears. The Reverend Michael Hale would deliver the eulogy and Major General David Santos, on bended knee, would present a folded flag to Glen Flanders’s family.

  Santos cracked open a second beer and took a long drink, his body aching with fatigue. “Sum’bitch, th
at was one long haul today.”

  “It’s what we do,” Hale said.

  “We’re trash haulers,” Bosko added.

  “Oh, yeah,” Warren said.

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  L’ENVOI

  Approach Vietnam from the east with the sun low and at your back as it breaks the horizon. Fly high enough above the South China Sea so the ships remain in miniature, but never forget that much of the world’s shipping plies these waters. As the sun rises, the sea gives up its dark greys and turns a vibrant blue, reflecting the sky above. At first, the coastline appears as a blur on the western horizon, without definition, but that is the mirage. The reality is always striking as the sea shallows and turns an emerald green, the harbinger of what lies ahead. The coastline takes definition as the craggy shoreline and white sandy beaches come into sight.

  Fly low enough to see the fishing boats that litter the coastal waters like dainty insects. The fishermen still wear the nón lá, the conical leaf hat, and work the same net traps as their ancestors did so many years ago, and, like their ancestors, they still keep faith with their culture and traditions that have endured years of pain and sacrifice. Occasionally, an ancient fisherman will look up at the faint sound of jet engines, searching the sky for the contrails that still scar his memories.

  Immediately behind the shore, a jungle-green carpet adds to the majesty of the ancient land locked in the annual rhythms of the monsoon, neither welcoming nor warning an intruder. Far to the south, the land is low and flat where the Mekong opens to the sea, but stretching over four-hundred miles to the north are the highlands of Vietnam, marked by the limestone mountain ridges called karsts, river valleys, and the ever-present jungle that reluctantly yields to open areas filled with cutting razor grass.