Chapter 1

Major Mary Margaret Collins deplaned the cargo plane on Vella La Cava. She walked down the steps into a waiting crowd of young pilots in various states of dishevelment and partial military attire. When she left the last step, three or four rushed the entrance as cargo was being unloaded and the rest formed a bucket brigade-like chain unloading crates and boxes and barrels. One young man, tall, blond, neatly in uniform, even in the South Pacific heat, stood at attention and saluted. She waved off the salute, saying "At ease, Lieutenant, ah, Casey is it?" "Yes m'am!" "Welcome to Vella la Cava on behalf of the 214." "Thank you, Lieutenant," she returned, amused by his earnestness, wondering if it were a put on.

Chaos, was erupting all around them, when another pilot, this one older, rakishly good looking, stepped forward, giving Casey a shove. "Major," he started, acknowledging her rank. "Collins," she supplied. "Major Greg Boyington. I'm in charge of these screwballs. What brings you to la Cava?" She shook his proffered hand. "I'm the new administrator of the hospital. I've come to give Dr. Jennings a hand with things. I think someone's meeting me here to take me to the hospital." She looked around, but didn't see anyone waiting in an idling Jeep. They stood taking each other's measure. He was not tall, but powerfully built. He wore a kaki t'shirt and pants. He looked relaxed and amused by her presence. She was in her travelling uniform, blouse and skirt and regulation heels. Auburn hair pulled up under her cap. Serious.

"Well, if someone from the hospital doesn't get here soon, I'll get one of these knuckleheads to drive you over." "I appreciate that, Major," she said." "Greg," he reminded her. "And you, Major Collins, what should I call you?" She waited a beat, considering her response. "You can call one of your knuckleheads over to take me to the hospital." She played it straight faced. Her green eyes taking in the airstrip, the planes, the man-boys pillaging the supply shipment. He looked at her, unable to read her expression. "Boyle!" he shouted, almost making her jump. "Take the Major here over to the hospital, and try not to get her killed on the way there. Ok Boyle?" "Right, Pappy," Boyle replied jogging up to them, taking her duffle bag and escorting her to a nearby Jeep. Greg watched them speed off, hands on his hips. He spun on the squadron. "Casey! Get this stuff loaded up and moved to storage!"

After she stowed her duffle in her quarters, she met with Dr. Jennings. She knew from her briefing that he was a skilled physician but a poor manager. His head nurse had been reassigned under murky circumstances, and no one had stepped up to fill the void. He was flying by the seat of his pants. There was no duty roster for the nurses and orderlies, no schedule of daily and weekly tasks to keep everything clean and organized. It was a miracle the place looked as good as it did. Supplies, if they were available, were completely disorganized and scattered willy nilly all over the hospital. She'd have to get an inventory of everything they had and rearrange storage areas with some kind of system.

Next she met the nurses. She knew from their records that they were all more than qualified, but could tell some of them were little more than silly girls with nursing degrees, and not much real world experience. There were one or two whom she determined she could put in charge, and the others might amount to something eventually. She gave the two she thought she could trust a list of things she wanted done by end of day, and sketched out other duties to be assigned and done weekly.

Next, Dr. Jennings showed her to her office. It had been one of those random supply dumps. All manner of items and boxes and refuse was strewn about, and dust covered every surface. She took a deep breath and set to work to make this her center of operation. After several hours, she and few of the nurses had carted several loads of supplies out of her office and to another room where a few other nurses were cataloguing everything before they could figure out where it all would go. She was wiping a layer of dust off her desk when Boyington stuck his head in the door. "How's it going, Major. Settling in alright?" he asked looking around at her handiwork. "Major Boyington, what brings you here?" she asked, barely looking up from her task. "I had to bring one of the boys back to have his stitches removed," he offered. "Combat injury?" she asked. "Of a sort," he replied. "I see," she said, now wiping her desk with some polish. She noted that the Black Sheep would be using the hospital to fix them up not only after their combat missions, but after their own brawls with each other.

I'm curious, Major Boyington,"You look a little old for a fighter pilot," she observed, taking in his handsome, weathered face, blue green eyes with smile lines at the corners, and recognizing the self-possession of a man clearly a decade older than his charges. "I'm a late bloomer," he replied, not missing a beat. She gave him a sideways look and said, "I doubt that." Boyington was enjoying himself. He leaned back against the credenza, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth, his eyes almost twinkling. "Was there something else, Major?" she inquired, slightly uncomfortable under his gaze, but refusing to show it. "I still have a lot of work to do," she said, hoping he'd take the hint and leave her to it. He pushed himself up from where he'd been leaning and said, "Of course, Major," and executed a perfect about face pivot and strutted out of the office. She watched him go, thinking, "he even looks good from behind," and let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "He's gonna be trouble," she mused, shaking her head.

The next morning, as the Major got to her office, she heard a commotion on the ward. She had an idea who the perpetrators were. When she got down to the ward, it was in complete chaos. Two or three patients remained in beds after last week's air raids on one of the other bases in the Solomons, but the rest of the ward was filled with Black Sheep, blowing up gloves and bouncing them around the room, a couple of the nurses were playing along, others were making projectiles and toys out of anything at hand. Major Boyington was in the corner talking to Dr. Jennings who was examining TJ Wiley, checking his heartbeat, his reflexes, drawing blood, etc. They seemed oblivious of the melee.

The Major walked into the room, and after several verbal attempts to restore order (she'd be damned if she would ask Boyington for his help), she looked around the room at the pilots and homed in on her target. She calmly walked up to Jim Gutterman, and before he realized what was happening, she'd grabbed his right hand in hers and bent his little finger back until she felt resistance, and then some more, but not enough to break it. Gutterman sank to his knees, trying not to cry out in pain, his face beading with sweat and turning red in the struggle. It had happened so fast. He hadn't had time to react or pull away. The room grew quiet as the men and the nurses saw what was happening. Greg and Dr. Jennings, alerted by the sudden quiet looked up. Greg crossed his arms across his chest and watched with interest what was unfolding. "Now," she said holding the pressure steady on Gutterman's finger, applying more, when he tried to struggle. "I want all of you out of here and in the waiting area where you belong." The Black Sheep looked at each other, at Jim on the floor, then at Greg. Greg thought he'd just let this play out and see what happened. "Aw, we were just having a little fun, Major, " Jerry Bragg offered. "Tell them to get out, Capt. Gutterman," she said, applying more pressure. "Out. Now," Jim croaked, hoping his voice wouldn't crack. His eyes were tearing from the pain and embarrassment. The Black Sheep filed out of the room, and she released Gutterman, who got up, his right hand cradled in is left, and skulked behind them. The look on his face was scalding, anger and humiliation at once. Greg watched them go, then watched the Major follow the men into the waiting area. He and Dr. Jennings exchanged looks, and Greg left the doctor to see what was happening in the waiting area. "Now if any of you raise your voices out here, overturn any furniture, or wreak any kind of destruction, or even litter, I'm going to have to use another technique in my bag off tricks to subdue you boys. Do we understand each other?" The Black Sheep looked around at each other. Some of them barely containing laughter, others looking a little shocked, then in unison: "Yes, M'am!" "Right," the Major continued, "Now Melinda will call you back one by one for your physicals. And someone will bring Captain Gutterman some ice for his finger. I assure you it's not broken." She turned to leave just as Boyington was entering the waiting area. She kept her head up, eyes straight ahead and strode back to her office, glad they'd relented so easily. She didn't have anything else in her bag of tricks . . . . yet.