Avenger

He had just celebrated his nineteenth birthday; he carried the rank of private first class. The commanding officer looked grim, as one about to impart bereavement. Cal thought something might have happened to his father.

"It's Vietnam," said the major.

"Great," said the PFC. The major, who would happily spend the rest of his career in his anonymous marital home on the base in Kentucky, blinked several times.

"Well, that's all right then," he said.

Two weeks later Cal Dexter packed his knapsack, said goodbye to the buddies he had made on the post, and boarded the bus sent to pick up a dozen transferees. A week later he walked down the ramp of a C-5 Galaxy and into the sweltering, sticky heat of Saigon Airport, military side.

Coming out of the airport, he was riding up front with the bus driver. "What do you do?" asked the corporal, as he swung the troop bus between the hangars.

"Drive bulldozers," said Dexter.

"Well, I guess you'll be an REMF like the rest of us around here."

"REMF?" queried Dexter. He had never heard the word before.

"Rear-echelon mother-f****r,' supplied the corporal.

Dexter was getting his first taste of the Vietnam status ladder. Nine-tenths of the GIs who went to Vietnam never saw a Vietcong, never fired a shot in anger, and rarely even heard one fired. The fifty thousand names of the dead on the memorial wall by the Reflecting Pool in Washington, D.C., with few exceptions, come from the other 10 percent. Even with a second army of Vietnamese cooks, launderers, and bottle washers, it still took nine GIs in the rear to keep one out in the jungle trying to win the war.

"Where's your posting?" asked the corporal.

"First Engineer Battalion, Big Red One."

The driver gave a squeak like a disturbed fruit bat. "Sorreee," he said. "Spoke too soon. That's Lai Khe, edge of the Iron Triangle. Rather you than me, buddy."

"It's bad?"

"Dante's vision of hell, pal."

Dexter had never heard of Dante and assumed he was in a different unit. He shrugged.

There was indeed a road from Saigon to Lai Khe; it was Highway 13 via Phu Cuong, up the eastern edge of the Triangle to Ben Cat, and then on another fifteen miles. But it was unwise to take it unless there was an armoured escort, and even then never at night. This was all heavily forested country and was teeming with Vietcong ambushes. When Cal Dexter arrived inside the huge defended perimeter that housed the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, it was by helicopter. Throwing his knapsack once again over his shoulder, he asked directions for the headquarters of the First Engineer Battalion.

On the way he passed the vehicle park and saw something that took his breath away. Accosting a passing GI, he asked, "What the hell is that?"

"Hogjaw," said the soldier laconically. "For ground clearing."

Along with the Twenty-fifth "Tropic Lightning" Infantry Division out of Hawaii, the Big Red One tried to cope with what purported to be the most dangerous area of the whole peninsula, the Iron Triangle. So thick was the vegetation, so impenetrable for the invader, and such a protective labyrinth for the guerrilla, that the only way to try to level the playing field was to clear the jungle.

To do this, two awesome machines had been developed. One was the tankdozer, an M-48 medium tank with a bulldozer blade fitted up front. With the blade down, the tank did the pushing while the armoured turret protected the crew inside. But much bigger was the Rome Plough or hogjaw.

This was a terrible brute if you happened to be a shrub or a tree or a rock. A sixty-ton tracked vehicle, the D7E was fitted with a specially forged, curving blade, whose protruding, hardened-steel lower edge could splinter a tree with a three-foot trunk.

The solitary driver/operator sat in his cabin way up top, protected by a "headache bar" above him to stop falling debris from crushing him, and with an armoured cab to fend off sniper bullets or guerrilla attack.

The " Rome " in the name had nothing to do with the capital of Italy, but came from Rome, Georgia, where the brute was made. And the point of the Rome Plough was to make any piece of territory that had received its undivided attention unusable as a sanctuary for Vietcong ever again.

Dexter walked to the battalion office, threw up a salute, and introduced himself. "Morning, sir. PFC Calvin Dexter reporting for duty, sir. I'm your new hogjaw operator. Sir."

The lieutenant behind the desk sighed wearily. He was nearing the end of his one-year tour. He had flatly refused to extend. He loathed the country, the invisible but lethal Vietcong, the heat, the damp, the mosquitoes, and the fact that once again he had a prickly heat rash enveloping his private parts and rear end. The last thing he needed with the temperature nudging ninety was a joker.

But Cal Dexter was a tenacious young man. He badgered and pestered. Two weeks after arriving on post, he had his Rome Plough. The first time he took it out, a more experienced driver tried to offer him some advice. He listened, climbed high into the cab, and drove it on a combined operation with infantry support all day. He handled the towering machine his way, differently and better.

He was watched with increasing frequency by a lieutenant, also an engineer, but who seemed to have no duties to detain him, a quiet young man who said little but observed much.

"He's tough," said the officer to himself a week later. "He's cocky, he's a loner, and he's talented. Let's see if he chickens out easily."

There was no reason for the big machine gu

They met by the light of headlamps, with a hundred fellow soldiers in a circle, taking bets mostly against the smaller man. The general presumption was that they would witness a repeat of the slugging match between George Ke

No one mentioned Queensberry Rules so the smaller man walked straight up to the gu

"You don't fight fair," said the stakeholder, when Dexter held out his hand for his wi

"No, and I don't lose either," he said. Out beyond the ring of lights the officer nodded at the two MPs with him, and they moved in to make their arrest. Later the limping gu

Since Dexter declined to name his opponent, thirty days in the cooler was the penalty. He slept perfectly well on the unpadded slab in the cell and was still asleep when someone started ru

"On your feet, soldier," said a voice. Dexter came awake, slid off the slab, and stood to attention. The man had a lieutenant's single silver bar on his collar. "Thirty days in here is really boring," said the officer.

"I'll survive, sir," said the ex-PFC, now busted back to private.

"Or you could walk now."

"I think there has to be a catch to that, sir."

"Oh, there is. You leave behind the big, jerkoff toys and come and join my outfit. Then we find out if you're as tough as you think you are."

"And your outfit, sir?"