The Trash Haulers Read Online Free PDF Page B

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