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Authors: Frederick Forsyth
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summer of 1970 the decision was made to destroy the tunnels in the 'free strike zones' with bombs. The Iron Triangle was a free strike zone.
Because the entire 25th Infantry Division was based there, the bombers had instructions that no bomb should fall less than three kilometers from the nearest US unit. But that day High Command forgot about the Badger and the Mole, who were in a different division.
They were in a complex outside Ben Sue, in the second level down, when they felt rather than heard the first 'crump' of bombs above them. Forgetting the VC, they crawled frantically towards the shaft going up to level one.
The Mole made it and was ten yards towards the final shaft up to daylight when the roof fall came. It was behind him. He yelled, "Badger." There was no reply. He knew there was a small alcove twenty yards ahead because they had passed it coming down. Drenched in sweat he dragged himself into it and used the extra width to turn around and head back.
He met the dirt pile with his fingertips. Then he felt a hand, then a second, but nothing beyond that except fallen earth. He began to dig, hurling the slag behind him but blocking his exit as he did so.
It took him five minutes to liberate his partner's head, five more to free the torso. The bombs had ceased, but up top the falling debris had blocked the air flues. They began to run out of oxygen.
"Get out of here, Cal," hissed the Badger in the darkness. "Come back with help later. I'll be OK."
Dexter continued scrabbling at the dirt with his fingertips. He had lost two nails entirely. It would take over an hour to get help. His partner would not survive half that time with the air flues blocked. He put on his flashlight and shoved the lamp in his partner's hand.
"Hold that. Direct the beam back over your shoulder."
By the yellow light he could see the mass covering the Badger's legs. It took another half hour. Then the crawl back to daylight, squeezing past the rubble he had cast behind him as he dug. His lungs were heaving, his head spinning; his partner was semi-conscious. He crawled round the last corner and felt the air.
In January 1971 the Badger reached the end of his second tour. Extension for a third year was forbidden, but he had had enough anyway. The night before he flew back to the States, the Mole secured permission to accompany his partner into Saigon to say farewell. They went into the capital with an armoured convoy. Dexter was confident he could hitch a lift back in a helicopter the next day.
The two young men had a slap-up meal then toured the bars. They avoided the hordes of prostitutes but concentrated on some serious drinking. At two in the morning they found themselves, feeling no pain, somewhere in Cholon, the Chinese quarter of Saigon across the river.
There was a tattoo parlour, still open and still available for business, especially in dollars. The Chinaman was wisely contemplating a future outside Vietnam.
Before they left him and took the ferry back across the river the young Americans had a tattoo created, one for each. On the left forearm. It showed a rat, not the aggressive rat on the door of the hootch at Lai Khe, but a saucy rat. Facing away from the viewer but looking back over his shoulder. A broad wink, trousers down, a mooning rat. They were still giggling until they sobered up. Then it was too late.
The Badger flew back to the States the next morning. The Mole followed ten weeks later, in mid-March. On 7 April 1971 the Tunnel Rats formally ceased to exist.
That was the day Cal Dexter, despite the urging of several senior officers, mustered out of the army and returned to civilian life.
Chapter SIX
The Tracker
THERE ARE VERY FEW MILITARY OUTFITS MORE SECRETIVE THAN the British Special Air Service regiment, but if there is one that makes the tight-lipped SAS look like the Jerry Springer show, it is the Det.
The 14th Independent Intelligence Company, also called the 14th Int, or the Detachment, or the Det, is
Because the entire 25th Infantry Division was based there, the bombers had instructions that no bomb should fall less than three kilometers from the nearest US unit. But that day High Command forgot about the Badger and the Mole, who were in a different division.
They were in a complex outside Ben Sue, in the second level down, when they felt rather than heard the first 'crump' of bombs above them. Forgetting the VC, they crawled frantically towards the shaft going up to level one.
The Mole made it and was ten yards towards the final shaft up to daylight when the roof fall came. It was behind him. He yelled, "Badger." There was no reply. He knew there was a small alcove twenty yards ahead because they had passed it coming down. Drenched in sweat he dragged himself into it and used the extra width to turn around and head back.
He met the dirt pile with his fingertips. Then he felt a hand, then a second, but nothing beyond that except fallen earth. He began to dig, hurling the slag behind him but blocking his exit as he did so.
It took him five minutes to liberate his partner's head, five more to free the torso. The bombs had ceased, but up top the falling debris had blocked the air flues. They began to run out of oxygen.
"Get out of here, Cal," hissed the Badger in the darkness. "Come back with help later. I'll be OK."
Dexter continued scrabbling at the dirt with his fingertips. He had lost two nails entirely. It would take over an hour to get help. His partner would not survive half that time with the air flues blocked. He put on his flashlight and shoved the lamp in his partner's hand.
"Hold that. Direct the beam back over your shoulder."
By the yellow light he could see the mass covering the Badger's legs. It took another half hour. Then the crawl back to daylight, squeezing past the rubble he had cast behind him as he dug. His lungs were heaving, his head spinning; his partner was semi-conscious. He crawled round the last corner and felt the air.
In January 1971 the Badger reached the end of his second tour. Extension for a third year was forbidden, but he had had enough anyway. The night before he flew back to the States, the Mole secured permission to accompany his partner into Saigon to say farewell. They went into the capital with an armoured convoy. Dexter was confident he could hitch a lift back in a helicopter the next day.
The two young men had a slap-up meal then toured the bars. They avoided the hordes of prostitutes but concentrated on some serious drinking. At two in the morning they found themselves, feeling no pain, somewhere in Cholon, the Chinese quarter of Saigon across the river.
There was a tattoo parlour, still open and still available for business, especially in dollars. The Chinaman was wisely contemplating a future outside Vietnam.
Before they left him and took the ferry back across the river the young Americans had a tattoo created, one for each. On the left forearm. It showed a rat, not the aggressive rat on the door of the hootch at Lai Khe, but a saucy rat. Facing away from the viewer but looking back over his shoulder. A broad wink, trousers down, a mooning rat. They were still giggling until they sobered up. Then it was too late.
The Badger flew back to the States the next morning. The Mole followed ten weeks later, in mid-March. On 7 April 1971 the Tunnel Rats formally ceased to exist.
That was the day Cal Dexter, despite the urging of several senior officers, mustered out of the army and returned to civilian life.
Chapter SIX
The Tracker
THERE ARE VERY FEW MILITARY OUTFITS MORE SECRETIVE THAN the British Special Air Service regiment, but if there is one that makes the tight-lipped SAS look like the Jerry Springer show, it is the Det.
The 14th Independent Intelligence Company, also called the 14th Int, or the Detachment, or the Det, is
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