Authors: Richard Herman
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.
The same narrow roads still twist through the land following the coast, rivers and valleys, linking villages, towns, and cities. Names roar out of the past – Saigon, Cam Ranh Bay, Da Nang, Chu Lai, Phu Bai – each with its burden of painful memories. Forty miles north of the ancient capital of Hue, Highway Nine works its way inland from the coast, past the city of Dong Ha and into the highlands, reaching for the border with Laos. It follows a river and the east-west valleys, finally reaching the sleepy town of Khe Sanh with its memorials to a fruitless, bitter battle fought almost fifty years ago.
But it is on the ground where the full impact of Vietnam strikes the unwary. From Khe Sanh, drive northward on the road now called the Ho Chi Minh Highway, out of the river valley and into the mountains. The road is narrow and twisted but now paved and not the rutted track of fifty years ago. The jungle is overwhelming, cut by jagged karsts, defying time and man as the road snakes upward, repeatedly cresting a ridge before falling into the next valley. Vista piles on vista and the indescribable beauty of the mountains beguiles the casual tourist, for it is a harsh terrain, cruel and unforgiving, and its inhabitants strain to carve an existence from the earth, somehow surviving.
Not far from the killing grounds of Khe Sanh, twenty miles as the crow flies but double that by road, and only a few miles south of the seventeenth parallel and the old Demilitarized Zone that separated North and South Vietnam, the highway crests a ridge and plunges into a valley where a bridge crosses the Se Pang river. The village has been rebuilt, and the old Special Forces compound is now only a level field. The outline of the red-dirt runway is still etched in the earth on the north side of the river, and at the eastern end, closest to the village, a small shrine hides in the shade. In a generation, it will be gone, swallowed by the vegetation, climate, and time, and the land will again claim its sovereignty, humbling the proud with a mute lesson – this was no place to fight a war.
While this is a work of fiction, much of it is based on fact and personal experience. The passage of time has dulled many memories and changed perceptions about the war in Vietnam, all of which shaped this story. Writing
The
Trash
Haulers
has been a long haul extending over two decades, and without the encouragement and help of Sheila Kathleen Herman, my wife, and Eric Herman, my son, along with the wisdom and guidance of William P. Wood, my former publisher, I would have never typed ‘The End’. I cannot thank them enough. Also, a heartfelt thanks to Judy Person who labours to find and correct my many attacks on the written word.
The magnificent Lockheed Martin C-130 has been in production longer than any other aircraft in aviation history and is still the workhorse of tactical airlift, the movement of personnel and material in the forward area of combat. C-130 operations as depicted in
The
Trash
Haulers
are based on my memory and experiences, along with many war stories and recollections from old friends and associates. I deliberately simplified the complexities of flying the Hercules and used generic numbers, especially for fuel consumption and airspeeds, for the sake of telling a story. Throughout the story, I emphasized the use of checklists. While a poor storytelling technique, checklist discipline is critical to safe operations, especially at the end of a long crew duty day. For my mistakes, and for those purists who I have offended, I apologize.
Without doubt, the overwhelming image of the war is of the Bell UH-1 “Huey” helicopter, which was instrumental in changing the way the United States goes to war. I have only flown in the Huey three times and owe Ken Fritz and Joel Dozhier a special thanks for introducing me to the Huey and the reality of helicopter operations. Also, I must thank the many members of the Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association who shared many of their experiences and vignettes of Vietnam.
As always, any mistakes or omissions are mine alone.