In the spring of 1968 tens of thousands of young Americans were pouring into the army, 95 per cent of them unwilling draftees. The drill sergeants could not have cared less. Their job was to turn this mass of shorn-to-the-skull young male humanity into something resembling soldiers before passing them on, just three months later, to their next posting.
Where they came from, who their fathers were, what their level of education was, were all of glorious irrelevance. Boot camp was the greatest leveller of them all, barring death. That would come later. For some.
Dexter was a natural rebel, but he was also more street-wise than most. The chow was basic but it was better than he had had on many construction sites, so he wolfed it down.
Unlike the rich boys, he had no problem with dormitory sleeping, open-doored ablutions or the requirement to keep all his kit very, very neatly in one small locker. Most useful of all, he had never had anyone clear up after him, so he expected nothing of the sort in camp. Some others, accustomed to being waited upon, spent a lot of time jogging around the parade square or doing press-ups under the eye of a displeased sergeant.
That said, Dexter could see no point in most of the rules and rituals, but was smart enough not to say so. And he absolutely could not see why sergeants were always right and he was always wrong.
The benefit of signing on voluntarily for three years became plain very quickly. The corporals and sergeants, who were the nearest thing to God in basic training camp, learned of his status without delay and eased up on him. He was, after all, close to being ‘one of them’. Mama-spoiled rich boys had it worst.
Two weeks in, he had his first assessment panel. That involved appearing before one of those almost invisible creatures, an officer. In this case, a major. ‘Any special skills?’ asked the major for what was probably the ten thousandth time.
‘I can drive bulldozers, sir,’ said Dexter.
The major studied his forms and looked up.
‘When was this?’
‘Last year, sir. Between leaving school and signing on.’
‘Your papers say you are just eighteen. That must have been when you were seventeen.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s illegal.’
‘Lordy, sir, I’m sorry about that. I had no idea.’
Beside him he could feel the ramrod-stiff corporal trying to keep a straight face. But the major’s problem was solved.
‘I guess it’s engineering for you, soldier. Any objections?’
‘No, sir.’
Very few said goodbye at Fort Dix with tears in their eyes. Boot camp is not a vacation. But they did come out, most of them, with a straight back, square shoulders, a buzzcut head, the uniform of a private soldier, a kitbag and a travel pass to their next posting. In Dexter’s case it was Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, for Advanced Individual Training.
That was basic engineering; not just driving a bulldozer, but driving anything with wheels or tracks, engine repair and vehicle maintenance and, had there been time, fifty other courses besides. Another three months later, he achieved his Military Operational Skill certificate and was posted to Fort Knox, Kentucky.
Most of the world only knows Fort Knox as the US Federal Reserve’s gold depository, fantasy Mecca of every daydreaming bank robber and subject of numerous books and films.
But it is also a huge army base and home of the Armour school. On any base that size there is always some building going on, or tank pits to be dug, or a ditch to be filled in. Cal Dexter spent six months as one of the Post Engineers at Fort Knox before being summoned to the Command office.
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.
A fortnight later Cal Dexter packed his kitbag, said goodbye to the mates 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 C5 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 a REMF like the rest of us round here.’