Authors: Richard Herman
“What we gonna do?” Perkins asked. He was on the edge of panic.
“What we always do,” Tanner replied. “We’re Dust Off.” They skidded around the edge of the bunker. Dust Off was the call sign for medevac helicopters named in honour of Major Charles Kelly, a pilot killed early in the war while extracting wounded.
The crew chief and medic assigned to the helicopter were already there and untying the rotor blades. The crew chief looked at them in relief. “Mr. Tanner!” Tanner had a reputation for being a bit weird, but he was acknowledged as the best aircraft commander in the 571st.
“Let’s go!” Tanner shouted.
Now routine kicked in as the four men who had never flown together melded into a crew. Tanner climbed into the left seat, the aircraft commander’s position on a Dust Off, while Perkins jumped into the right seat. Tanner grabbed his shoulder harness and quickly strapped in, tightening his seat belt. Then he reached for the helmet hanging from a hook above his head. He hoped it would fit. It did. While he was strapping in, Perkins hit the start trigger on the right collective, bringing the single turboshaft engine to life. The crew chief slid the ‘chicken plate’, the armoured plating that protected Tanner’s left side from enemy fire, forward and into place. Once Tanner was strapped in and the intercom hot, he calmly said, “I’ve got the controls.” He could have been on a routine training mission and Perkins visibly calmed.
Perkins fell into the routine, now all business. He looked over, confirming that Tanner’s hands were on the controls. “You’ve got the controls.” He quickly strapped in as Tanner rolled up the throttle, carefully bringing the engine’s 1100 shaft horsepower on line. He had to be careful, making sure the long blades did not build RPM too fast and overpower the tail rotor’s effectiveness that kept the airframe from spinning with the blades like a top.
“Incoming mortars from the south,” the crew chief called from behind Tanner.
“RPM 324,” Tanner replied as the swirling blades reached one hundred percent. “Let’s go.”
“Clear right,” the medic who was strapped in behind Perkins called.
“Clear left,” the crew chief said.
For the first time, it was breaking their way. The long wall of the revetment was between them and the incoming mortars, shielding them from the attack coming from the south. The helicopter was pointed to the west, and Tanner backed out of the revetment to the east. Once clear, he eased in right pedal as he increased the collective, lifting the Huey a few feet higher as he turned to the north. Tanner was hunched slightly forward, his concentration absolute as he flew the machine. Although he had never flown with the three men he had to rely on them to do their job. For now, it was a question of Tanner’s situational awareness – did his perception of what was going on match reality? If it didn’t, they would just be another statistic, casualties of the Vietnam War. “Small arms fired coming from the right,” the medic sitting behind Perkins called. Tanner played the controls and jinked left, then up, before jinking left again and then back to the deck, darting between burning revetments, their airspeed touching ninety-five knots.
Clear of the field and the attack, the crew visibly relaxed. Perkins studied Tanner for a moment, taking in his running shorts and combat boots. “Nice fatigues you got there, Mr. Tanner.”
Tanner never missed a beat. “Hell of a way to go to war.”
I Corps, South Vietnam
“What now, Mr. Tanner?” Tony Perkins, the co-pilot, asked as Tanner circled to the north of the burning base, now well clear of the attack.
“We do our job,” Tanner replied. “Contact Company on the VHF.” He hoped the Ops Shack was back in business.
Perkins dialled in the frequency. His voice was calm. “Dust Off Ops, Dust Off Two-Seven, holding two miles north of you. Any trade?”
The Company’s CO answered. “Roger, Dust Off Two-Seven. We’ve got a pickup for you.” He rattled off an eight-digit code. Without writing it down, Perkins spun the decode wheel and read off the coordinates for the pickup point.
“That’s Firebase Lonzo,” Tanner said. He turned to the southwest and climbed to two thousand feet. “Ever been there before?” Perkins said he had never been that far into the highlands. “It can get real sporting,” Tanner told him. He glanced at the fuel gauge and mentally calculated the flying time to the firebase: just over an hour. “We need to refuel first.”
They headed for the nearest fuel dump as Perkins keyed the FM radio, calling for clearance to refuel. “Dust Off Two-Seven, five minutes out.”
The voice that answered was hurried, on the edge of panic. “Dust Off Two-Seven, we are taking mortar rounds and are hot.”
“Not the best of news,” Tanner grumbled. He hit the transmit button. “Say nearest dump.” The voice replied with an eight digit code.
This time, Perkins wrote it down. He spun the decode wheel and plotted the coordinates on his chart. He groaned. “It’s fifty miles away.” He glanced at the fuel gauge. “It’s gonna be tight. Isn’t there anything closer?”
“There were yesterday,” Tanner replied. “But they’re smoking holes today.”
*
Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam
“The sun’s been up forty-five minutes and it’s already too damn hot,” Steve Bosko moaned, climbing down from the shuttle bus. It was a short ride from wing headquarters to the C-130 operations shack, but the co-pilot’s flight suit was damp and his face flushed.
“And this from a southern boy,” Warren said, ragging on him. “It’s air conditioned inside.” He held the door for Bosko.
Dave Santos, their navigator, was standing at the waist-high scheduling counter collecting the paperwork. The captain standing behind the counter looked up and grinned. “So you get to take the golden spirochete to Naked Fanny.” Naked Fanny was the nickname for the airbase at Nakhon Phanom in Thailand. “Haemorrhoid Hardy said to make it happen today. You got a passenger. No cargo.”
“Lovely,” Warren replied. “Any cargo out of Naked Fanny?”
“Situation normal; unknown. Check with ALCE. Be flexible.” ALCE, short for Air Lift Command Element, was the small detachment located at each airbase that managed the movement of logistics and personnel. After landing, pilots checked in for their next assignment while their aircraft was offloaded. Over all, it was a fairly efficient system, but when things went wrong aircraft were scattered haphazardly to hell and back.
“What’s our call sign for today?” Warren asked.
The captain opened the small safe behind the desk and pulled out a two-inch thick paperbound book stamped SECRET that listed the call signs for each aircraft. The names changed daily, supposedly to deny the enemy vital intelligence. However, many claimed it only confused the aircrews, especially in the heat of combat. The captain found the right page for their unit, the 374th. “Today, you are Roscoe Two-One.”
Santos slapped his forehead. “We get to fly and die as a Roscoe? What comedian came up with that one? This war is so fucked up. Hell, if I had a draft card, I’d burn it.”
“You’ll have to get in line,” the captain muttered. He gave them the tail number of their aircraft. “You’ve got 56-469 today.”
“Shit-oh-dear,” Santos moaned. “First, we get the Golden Spirochete, then Roscoed, now sixty-nined. We are totally screwed.” The Hercules they were assigned to fly had a bad reputation thanks to a series of minor incidents, none serious.
“Pun intended?” Warren asked. He changed the subject. “We heard the VC are kicking butt and taking names. Any word?”
“Intel is clueless, as usual,” the captain replied. “Hardy said not to worry, they’ve shot their wad and it’s business as usual. I don’t know why, but he ordered everyone to wear a survival vest today. Covering his ass, I guess.” He checked their paperwork. “Okay, you’re good to go. It’s now 0712 local, call it 0715. See you in twelve.” The last was a reminder that they had a strict twelve-hour crew duty day and had to be on the ground when it expired, hopefully at Cam Ranh Bay, so Maintenance could turn the aircraft and launch it on another mission while they went into crew rest. The Air Force had learned through hard experience that fatigue was a killer and flying beyond twelve hours, especially under the stress of multiple take-offs and landings in a combat zone, was a sure-fire recipe for an accident.
“Would we disappoint you?” the good-natured Bosko joked.
“Right,” the captain replied, “and you’ll respect me in the morning.”
“Make that in twelve hours,” Bosko added.
“Have a good one,” the captain said, sending them on their way.
Their last stop was at PE, Personal Equipment, where they checked out survival vests. Each green vest carried a small first aid kit, a survival pack, an AN/PR-90 survival radio, and a Smith & Wesson Combat Masterpiece revolver with twelve rounds of ammunition. Although the aircrews were required to wear the bulky vests, most would shed them after a few hours but keep them close at hand.
Outside, a crew van was waiting to take the three officers to the flight line where six C-130s were parked in revetments. They rode in silence as Santos went through the paperwork, sorting it out. As the navigator, he had to play bookkeeper and fill out the many forms required by the paper-pushers who lurked in the various headquarters around the Air Force. Warren pulled out the letter from the divorce lawyer and reread it. He actually felt relieved. He shoved it back into the calf pocket on his flight suit as the van clanked to a stop beside a waiting C-130A. The three men clambered down the steps. Each carried their flight gear and an AWOL bag with a change of clothes and shaving kit in case they got caught out for a few days, which often happened.
By modern standards the C-130 is a medium-size cargo plane, but up close and personal, it is big. The A model they were flying was ninety-eight feet long with a 132-foot wingspan. Its oversized vertical stabilizer rose fifty-three feet into the air and gave the aircraft outstanding stability and rudder authority. This particular A model had rolled off the Lockheed assembly line in 1956 and grossed out at 124,200 pounds, a lightweight when compared to the newer E models operating at 155,000 pounds.
The loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Glen “Flash” Flanders, was waiting for them. Flanders stood exactly five feet ten inches tall and was built like an oak tree. There was not an ounce of fat on his sturdy frame, and his dark skin glowed with health. The African American could load cargo so quickly and efficiently that he was recognized as the best loadmaster in the 374th. “She’s good to go, gentlemen,” Flanders told them. “No cargo, one passenger on the way as we speak. And we got a loadmaster trainee taggin’ along, Airman First Class Billy Bob Boyle. It’s his last flight before his checkout ride.” The training for wannabe loadmasters, normally young airmen from Maintenance, was challenging and difficult. The final step was a checkout flight where a senior loadmaster from the Wing’s Standardization and Evaluation section went along on an actual mission and graded their every move and bombarded them with questions. It was a test that few passed the first time.
“And you’re gonna fine tune him,” Warren said.
Flanders pulled a face. “I’ll try. The kid’s got an attitude problem.”
“What the hell, Flash,” Santos said, “we all got an attitude problem.”
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Warren said, throwing his gear and AWOL bag on board. The crew was a fine-tuned team and went to work. Bosko and Santos climbed up the three steps of the crew entrance door on the left side of the aircraft forward of the long, three-bladed props, while Warren pulled out a checklist. He opened the book to the correct page but didn’t refer once to it as he walked around the aircraft, giving it one last visual check. His practiced eye looked for leaks, loose panels, cut tires, safety pins not removed. Even though the crew chief and his flight engineer, Technical Sergeant Mike Hale, had gone over the aircraft, he still found a loose screw on an access panel aft of the left wheel well. He buttoned it up and made a mental note to mention it to Hale.
A bus from Passenger Services stopped in front of the revetment and a lone officer climbed off followed by a sergeant with a clipboard. He gave Flanders the passenger list and quickly climbed back aboard to deliver other passengers to waiting C-130s. Warren studied his passenger, a young and attractive woman wearing a new set of jungle fatigues. The black-coloured rank on her collars announced she was a captain, and the small caduceus over her left breast pocket identified her as doctor. She was carrying a six-foot pole covered by a blue sheath; a guidon. He suppressed a smile. “The lady with the Golden Spirochete,” he murmured. He walked over to introduce himself. He read her nametag – Pender.
Flanders glanced at the manifest and introduced them. “Captain Warren, our passenger, Captain ...”
“Doctor Livingstone, I presume,” Warren said, interrupting the loadmaster. He liked the way she looked at him with bright, inquisitive hazel eyes, talking his measure. She stood five-foot nine-inches tall in her jungle boots, definitely too broad in the hips to be considered stylish, but extremely feminine. Her dark-blonde hair was pulled back in a bun and framed high cheekbones and a perky nose that was just a little too small for her face.
She laughed. “Mr. Stanley, I presume.” She extended her right hand.
He was captivated. “Sorry, wrong continent, wrong man, wrong century. I’m Mark Warren, your pilot for this fun-filled flight to Nakhon Phanom.”
“Lynne Pender.” They shook hands. Her grip was unusually strong for a woman.
“Ever been to Thailand?” Reluctantly, he released her hand.
She shook her head. “I just arrived on base last week. Fresh out of Sheppard.” Doctors, dentists, and nurses did their basic training at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas. For most, it was a short prelude to a two-year tour before returning to civilian life.
“I see you get to deliver the Golden Spirochete.”
“Do I detect a trace of humour, Captain?”
“I’m trying to hide it,” Warren replied.
She forgave him with a smile. “It is funny. But I’m a surgeon and like to think I’ve better things to do.” That explained her firm grip. She didn’t mention that she had been assigned the duty after being introduced to Colonel Mace and firmly rejecting an offer to share his bed. Fortunately, that situation had been covered at Sheppard in an informal training session with a veteran nurse. Her “no” was followed with a reference to the chaplain. The trip to Nakhon Phanom was Mace’s revenge, a pathetic attempt to stroke his damaged ego. For the most part, Captain Lynne Pender considered it an adventure but felt better venting her frustration.
The Passenger Service bus was back and slammed to a halt. A different sergeant jumped down, closely followed by the two captains from Intel, Judith Slovack and Ronald Huckabee. The sergeant helped them off load four suitcases and two stuffed B-4 parachute bags with all their personal belongings. Flanders, the loadmaster, quickly signed the manifest and helped the sergeant and two officers lug their bags to the loading ramp at the rear of the aircraft.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Flanders said in a loud voice. “I am Staff Sergeant Glen Flanders, your loadmaster for this first-class flight to Nakhon Phanom. By regulations, I am required to brief you on emergency procedures. In the event of a fire, you will hear me shout ‘Follow me!’ Please do so in order to avoid becoming a crispy critter. Once we have your bags loaded, follow me aboard and we can finish your passenger brief and we can get this delightful experience on the road.”
Warren shook his head at Flanders’s very non-standard passenger brief and climbed through the crew entrance. A tall and gangly teenager was waiting just inside. “Airman Boyle?” Warren asked.
“Yessir,” the airman answered.
“Welcome ...”
Boyle cut him off in mid sentence. “Am I the loadmaster here or not?”
Warren took the airman in, not liking what he saw. His flight suit was dirty, his hair too long for a tropical climate, his boots needed cleaning, and his survival vest hung loosely over his shoulders. Warren didn’t care about spit and polish, not in a war zone, but he did care about basic hygiene. “Staff Sergeant Glen Flanders is the loadmaster on this aircraft. You can learn a lot from him.” He shouldered Boyle aside and climbed the short ladder onto the flight deck.
“But Flanders is a ...”
Warren turned and stared down at him. “Sergeant Flanders is a what?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Warren had caught Boyle’s hard twangy southern drawl and chalked his attitude up to racism. He decided to give the teenager a break. “This is the Air Force, Boyle. Get used to it. Now, go give Sergeant Flanders a hand.” Fortunately, Boyle read Warren correctly and disappeared down the crew entrance steps without a word.