The names had come down by Teletype from the Gods-That-Be at the Pentagon, or the Seventh Air Force, or wherever the decision had been made and the authority was sufficient to make it. By Teletype, sixty-eight names had arrived in England in the middle of November, 1966, at Wing Headquarters at RAF Bentwaters/Woodbridge. Sixty-eight pilots' names had been drawn from a hat, or who knows what roulette wheel of random selection. They were to report to SEA. SouthEast Asia. ASAP. As Soon As Possible.

It had wiped out the equivalent of a squadron, although it was spread fairly evenly over all three squadrons in Steve's wing. Sixty-eight lucky pilots (many considered themselves so, considered themselves fortunate to fight in the only available war) would get their affairs in order immediately and await further instructions within ten days.

Steve's name was not on the list. He was greatly relieved. But a few days later came word that there was an unreadable name. The Teletype, clattering ill-formed gray letters onto pulp yellow paper fed from a roll, had stumbled and badly mangled name number twenty-three, as sometimes Teletypes were wont to do.

     ..........

     17. 1LT DEEVERSON, SF     18. CPT TANNER, HC

     19. CPT STEVENS, KL       20. 1LT BONARELLI, GH

     21. 1LT MEYERS, JJ        22. MAJ STALVERT, AP

     23. 1##++O++@+I++^, )/R  *%   24. 2LT ALBERTS, RA

     25. CPT MALOVSKY, PB      26. 1LT STYLES, WI

     ..........

A First Lieutenant, probably. Had "O" and "I" and ended in "R." Maybe. A query was sent. Two days later, no answer. Another query. Garbled in transmission; Seventh Air Force requested a repeat. The query was sent a third time. Six days after the initial message, a name returned intact.

Meanwhile, First Lieutenant Hoskins, James R., had irresponsibly gotten married! And now he expected to go on a honeymoon! Had already made the plans.

"Would anyone like to volunteer to take Hoskins's place?"

No one immediately stepped forward.

Steve was his friend. He'd gone to the wedding. After a few days of agitated cerebration, he was astounded to hear himself say "Yes," when what he really thought was "NO, NO, NO!" He was not a volunteer type of guy. He wasn't a warlike type of guy, either, even though he was a Fighter Pilot and proud of it. It just never had occurred to him quite as viscerally as now that the central occupation of Fighter Pilots was Fighting. Until now, the central activity had been tooling a hot machine through wide open spaces.

Why am I doing this? he wondered.

• Well, Hoskins was his friend. Sure, but they weren't that close, and ...
• They'd get him anyway. In a few months or a year or so, another list would come down. But maybe it wouldn't ...
• After beginning poorly in England (his Squadron Commander was unimpressed, Steve was behind the eight ball), this could be a fresh start. But jumping into a war is a fresh start? ...
• He owed it to his country ....
• It was the right thing to do ...
• It would further his career ...
• Everybody else was doing it ...

Or maybe there was something else. Something gut level. Maybe there was still just a little bit of a naked boy on a motorcycle in Steve. Maybe there was just a little bit of a wilder side in Lieutenant Mylder.

A few days later, he got his orders. After four years of tax-paid education at the Air Force Academy, another expensive year at pilot training, a month of survival school in Nevada, a leisurely winter and spring at F-4 upgrade school (the pilots fondly referred to it as six weeks of training jam-packed into six months), and countless hours of in-house schooling and training missions in England, it was time to do something real.

Payback time.

Six months after Steve had received his orders and packed off to fight his war, James Hoskins belatedly received orders to SouthEast Asia. Hoskins would never return home.