Authors: Richard Herman
Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam
Three figures moved along the hillside trail, still able to make their way in the rapidly fading moonlight. The setting moon was above the horizon but a deep blackness had captured the valley floor. The lead figure stopped on a ledge and pointed to the valley floor. They could barely see the dark mass of the special forces camp. A dim light cracked the darkness as another figure held back the canvas that covered a cave entrance. The three figures moved inside and the canvas dropped back in place, leaving only darkness behind.
Kim-Ly dropped her heavy pack and handed her AK-47 to a woman. She looked around the dimly lit cave, getting her bearings. Sleeping figures rested against the walls, exhausted from moving the ZSU-23 a second time.
“Major Cao,” Kim-Ly said, “please stay here and rest. We will bring you water.”
The major collapsed against the wall without removing his pack. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the ordeal of the last few hours. They had darted forward, synchronizing their movements to the timing of falling bombs, moving fast but always finding safe refuge at the last moment. He wanted to return to the safety of the Binh Tram in Laos, but Kim-Ly had pressed ahead. Begrudgingly, he gave her high marks for courage.
Kim-Ly thanked their guide and followed her escort deeper into the cave and to the regiment’s latest command post. She was careful to step over the telephone lines stretched across the ground. Tran looked up from the table where he was sitting. His face softened and, for a few moments, an inner calm captured him and the sacrifice and pain gave way to the reward of reuniting with his wife. They stood close, not talking or touching.
“Someday,” he finally whispered, “we will have a son and daughter.” She shushed him. “Why did you come?” he asked.
“Major Cao received a message from General Dong to rejoin Colonel Dinh. He is not to be left alone. I think they fear for his life.” The implication was clear. In wartime, and away from the highly controlled and protected surroundings of Hanoi, a rear echelon apparatchik like Dinh often led a brief but very exciting life. They always returned home as a fallen hero.
“Dinh is a survivor,” Tran said. He shot a look at the sleeping colonel. Dinh was sitting in one of the command post’s six folding chairs, his chin slumped on his chest, breathing in honks and gasps.
Major Cao limped into the light.
“I must see Colonel Dinh,” he said. Tran pointed at the sleeping colonel. Cao moved forward and stumbled over a telephone line on the ground. He fell into Dinh, knocking him over. Dinh came awake, confused at first, not sure where he was. “My apologies, Colonel,” Cao said, his voice cringing with the appropriate servility.
“You stupid fool,” Dinh growled. If it had been anyone other than Cao, he would have slapped him. “Why are you here?”
“General Dong requests your status,” Cao replied, phrasing the general’s demands as tactfully as he could. “The attack must proceed on schedule.”
“What? I sent a message as to our status after I destroyed the helicopter and the C-130.”
Tran joined them. “We are out of contact with the Group, Colonel. No message has gone out.”
“Make it happen,” Dinh ordered.
“As soon as we can,” Tran replied. “May I suggest you only claim the helicopter destroyed. Our observers only reported a probable hit on the C-130 and no smoke or damage was seen.”
“Do not tell me what I saw with my own eyes,” Dinh said. “Because we engaged the air pirates, we have moved forward. We will attack at the first opportunity.”
Tran chose his words carefully, mostly for Cao’s benefit. “We have moved our command post and the Sergey forward twice, perhaps a total of a kilometre. However, many of our men are still moving into position and not ready to attack yet. As the moon is down, may I suggest we attack at first light?”
“You may not suggest,” Dinh said. “And why should I wait once my forces are in place and ready?”
“May I suggest the colonel step outside and see for himself how dark it is? Also, the Bru own the night and they will set traps for the unwary.”
“And why do the Bru own the night?” Dinh demanded.
Kim-Ly answered. “We only know they are ghosts at night. I suspect they have excellent night vision, probably a genetic mutation. Also, this is their land and they know it like a blind person knows his home.”
“Utter nonsense,” Dinh said. “Keep moving into position. We will attack when I give the order.”
*
Phu Bai, South Vietnam
The six-man repair team on the C-123 had changed C-130 wheels countless times and went through a well-practiced drill. The setting moon still gave off enough light for the team to insert heavy jacks underneath the fuselage and raise the wheel without rigging floodlights. They took shortcuts that would have driven their NCOIC, non-commissioned officer in charge, into spasms of despair and anger. But Warren was a firm believer that an officer told an NCO or airman when to do his job, not how to do it. If there was a problem getting the job done, then he would talk to the NCOIC and let him sort it out. Warren keyed off Hale, and since the flight engineer was satisfied with the way the wheel change was going, stretched out on a jump seat and was asleep in less than two minutes.
A loud clunk and a little bump woke him when the repair team lowered the big hydraulic jacks and dropped the C-130 onto its main gear. The repair team had switched out the damaged wheel in less than forty minutes and were reloading their equipment on the C-123 when an Army fuel browser pulling a trailer drove up. It was an M49 fuel tanker based on the venerable Deuce-and-a-Half.
“How much JP-4 you need?” the driver called.
“We’ll take what you got,” Hale told him.
“Got a full load. Twelve hundred gallons plus another 400 in the trailer.” The trailer was an unauthorized modification of a Water Buffalo water trailer. The driver and his fellow tankers had found a way to increase their efficiency and, at the same time, protect fuel by moving it out of the dumps, which were stationary and highly vulnerable targets. “Only got a hose though.” The M49s did not have a single-point refuelling nozzle, which was much more efficient and had to refuel C-130s over the wing with a conventional fuel nozzle. “Need a ladder.”
“We ain’t got one,” Hale said. They waited while the C-123’s props spun up and the engines came on line. The small cargo aircraft taxied out.
Flanders had been through the refuelling drill many times and crawled through the emergency hatch on top of the flight deck. He scrambled to his feet and walked out on the left wing. “I’m getting too old for this crap,” he called.
Hale grinned, ragging on him. “Where’s Boyle when you need him?” He tossed the loadmaster a line to haul up the fuel nozzle. Flanders dragged the heavy hose along the left wing, over the fuselage, and onto the right wing, filling the tanks as he went. It was hard work and he was soon sweating. He was filling the last tank when another Deuce pulled up, stopping under the tail.
Boyle hopped off the back. “I’m back,” he called. “I got it.”
“What’s he up to now?” Hale muttered, loud enough for Warren to hear.
Se Pang River Valley, South Vietnam
A loud scream pierced the dark, echoing over the hillside and waking the gun crew sleeping beside the ZSU-23. The men stirred and tried to ignore it, but the screaming only grew more intense and more agonizing. Finally, the gun captain switched on a flashlight with a shrouded red lens and motioned for two men to follow him into the night. A few minutes later, the screaming stopped.
The gun captain and the two men returned. Visibly shaken, the gun captain headed for the nearby cave that housed the command post to report in. Tran was waiting by the entrance. The young Vietnamese spoke in a low and trembling voice describing how a young woman who was searching for privacy to relieve herself had triggered a booby trap set by the Bru. She had broken a trip wire that released a bamboo stalk bowed horizontally that drove a sharp spike through her abdomen and severed her spine. The gun captain had applied pressure to her carotid arteries until she passed out, and then held it until she stopped breathing. Tran motioned him inside to brief the colonel from Hanoi. “He needs to hear it from you.” Tran didn’t think it would make an impression on Dinh but he had to try.
Dinh listened impatiently as the young gunner repeated his story. “So you silenced a stupid woman.” He didn’t ask how and turned on Tran. “And can you explain how the Bru managed to penetrate your perimeter, and what you are going to do about it?”
“We have discussed this before, Colonel. They will be gone by first light and safe in their camp before we can find them.”
Dinh paced the floor. “Since you are unable to act, I must. Are my mortar teams in place?”
“The mortar teams report they are in range,” Tran answered.
“Are you in radio contact with the teams?”
Tran glanced at the radio operator at the back of the cave. The woman nodded in the affirmative.
“We are,” Tran said.
Dinh glanced at his watch. “Order them to attack.”
Tran spoke quietly to the operator to relay the order and followed Dinh outside to listen. Within moments, the dull thuds of 37mm mortars detonating echoed over the valley. Tran shook his head in disgust.
“Without visual targets, the mortar teams are laying down a barrage in the dark hoping for success.”
“Then you must go forward and lead them to success.” Dinh smiled in triumph. “Now.”
*
Phu Bai, South Vietnam
The two pilots, navigator, and flight engineer gathered around Boyle at the back of the Deuce. Resting on the bed of the truck was a C-130 wheel with a fully inflated and balanced tire. “You said you could change the wheel if you had one,” Boyle said, very proud of himself.
“I got to go,” the truck driver said. “Do you want it or not?” The private gave off a strong body odour, his jungle fatigues were a disaster, and he needed a shave and haircut.
Warren made the decision.
“We want.” He looked at the men. “Okay. Let’s get it off.” It took three of them to lift the wheel and roll it off the truck, letting it bounce on the cracked asphalt. The wheel fell over and was still rolling around on its side when the truck driver darted back into the idling truck, ground the gears and accelerated away, disappearing into the dark.
Hale stood bolt straight, a good four inches taller than the raggedy airman, and stared at him.
“Boyle, where in God’s name did you find him?”
“I ... ah ... well ... I know some people.”
“And I suppose,” Hale snapped, “that rat-bag private just happened to know where a C-130 wheel was lying around ready to be traded for something useful.”
“That’s the way it works” Boyle said. He was obviously confused. Boyle honestly thought everyone knew how the military black market worked where almost anything, including women, weapons, or vehicles, could be traded for drugs and liquor. “You said you wanted one.”
“So what did you trade for it?” Hale asked.
“You know. Stuff.”
Warren’s inner alarm went off. “Where’s your AWOL bag?”
Boyle’s head jerked and he blinked. “Don’t know, must’ve lost it.”
“By any chance, did it have some ‘stuff’ in it that scumbag might have wanted?” Warren asked.
“I don’t know.”
The sound of the fuel truck echoed over the men as it drove away. Warren turned in time to see Flanders crawling into the top hatch. Warren pointed at the wheel.
“Get it on board. We’ll take it back to where it belongs.” He headed for the Hercules, more than willing to put the problem of Billy Bob Boyle on a back burner.
Flanders was on the flight deck filling out the maintenance log. “We took on 10,400 pounds of JP-4 for a total of 17,400.”
Warren automatically divided the fuel on board by 3300 and calculated they had over five hours endurance. “More than enough to get us back to the barn,” he said. He settled into the pilot’s seat and waited for his crew to manhandle the wheel on board and tie it down. Bosko was the first to join him. Santos and Hale were right behind.
“We’re good to go,” Hale said.
It was pure music to Warren. “Time to get the hell out of Dodge.” He checked his watch. It was exactly 2015 hours local and now fully dark. It had been one hell of a day and he was feeling it. “Hey, Boz. You want this take-off?”
The co-pilot grinned at him. “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll do it from the right seat. Good practice.”
Warren gave himself a mental kick for not letting Bosko fly more.
*
Over South Vietnam
Warren handled the radios as they climbed into the night sky, heading south for Cam Ranh Bay. “Damn,” he muttered. “they’re jamming the livin’ hell out of the radios.”
“The VC at work,” Hale replied. Like Bosko and Santos, he had switched off the radio channel to spare his hearing.
“Work the backups,” Bosko said, referring to the alternate radio frequencies.
“I’m trying,” Warren said. He finally found a clear frequency and tried to transmit. But he was stepped on by priority traffic and two Maydays. They were just trash haulers heading for home plate so he quit trying. Then he heard it. “Boz, Dave, listen up on the VHF. Someone is calling for an emergency med evac.” They often transported wounded soldiers between field hospitals, and rigging the C-130 for litters was a routine operation.
The three men listened, trying to sort out the chatter. “Oh, my God,” the navigator groaned, finally making sense out of the chatter. “It’s Se Pang.”
“Why aren’t the Dust Offs handling it?” Bosko asked. Helicopters flew the wounded out of combat to battalion aid stations or MASH units, not C-130s. “Has a Herk ever done that?”
“Not that I know of,” Warren replied.
Flanders was listening on the intercom. “It’s been done. Back in ’66. Before I got to Okinawa.”
Warren hit the transmit switch. “Da Nang ALCE, say situation at Se Pang.”
“Aircraft calling Da Nang, say call sign.”
“ALCE, Roscoe Two-One, You are coming through broken,” Warren answered, barely able to read the airlift command element.
“Roscoe Two-One, are you headed for home plate?” Now, the radio transmissions were coming through more clearly as they flew south.
“That’s affirmative, ALCE. Say situation at Se Pang.”
“Numerous marines wounded. Dust Off fully tasked and not available.”
Warren looked at Bosko, then Hale. “What do you think?”
Flanders answered from the rear. “It’s what we do.” The NCO had simply cut to the heart of why they were there. It was nothing profound, but a basic truth.
“Go for it,” Hale said.
“We’re too late for Happy Hour anyway,” Bosko added.
“I guess that means no pussy tonight,” Santos muttered.
Warren hit the transmit button. “ALCE, Roscoe Two-One will cover tasking into Se Pang.”
“Roscoe Two-one, negative. Repeat, negative. Continue to home plate and report in as directed.” The frequency was now clear and the radio transmission loud and readable.
Warren shook his head and made the decision. “ACLE you are unreadable. Roscoe Two-One transmitting in the blind. Proceeding direct Se Pang for med evac.”
“Roscoe Two-One, proceed to home plate. Repeat, proceed to home plate.”
“Too bad I couldn’t understand that last transmission,” Warren muttered.
“Heading 301 degrees” Santos said. “ETA Khe Sanh 2104 local.”
“Sergeant Flanders, start rigging for litters,” Warren said.
“On it,” Flanders answered.