Name of the Game

Abstract

Will's best friend at Korat Air Base is a guy named Gordon Rogoff. The other guys call him Rog sometimes?like rogue?but usually it's just Rogoff. Will isn't sure why he likes Rogoff. The guy couldn't be more different from himself. Rogoff has a college degree, for starters. Not only that, but he majored in classics, slogging through both Greek and Latin, before he chucked it and joined the Air Force. Best move I ever made, he tells them, stopping to swig from his beer. Will, whose hooch is across from Rog's, knows the guy has a stack of Latin and Greek books on the table by his bed. They're paperbacks, but still. Not many guys drag books halfway around the world just to see them bloom with mildew in the Thai jungle. Rogoff is probably the only guy in the war who can recite dirty poetry in Latin and recount attempt on Rome. Hannibal's problem was not unlike ours, he tells them. He took stock of the enemy just fine. But he failed to factor in the god damned weather. Will arrived at Korat in July, 1967. In August, Washington declared Hanoi no longer off limits for bombing runs. Now they fly almost daily into the most heavily defended airspace in the world. Weather stops their bombing runs more often than anti-aircraft fire. But weather they're used to. What's new is flying through a sky so full of flak there isn't time to think. You dive in, drop your load, and head for the hills. One pass, haul ass, Will's wing commander told him his first time into Hanoi. That's the name of the game. On average they lose about one guy a week. When you step out over Hanoi, you take a deep breath and hope for the best. Nobody's coming in after you. There's a saying around the base for rescue operations in Route Pack Six. Ain't no way.