Chapter 2: A Black Sheep welcome

"Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists primarily in dealing with men." Joseph Conrad, author

XXX

Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ

The girl's handshake was warm and firm but Greg's smile froze. He let go of her hand.

Associated Press? This was the correspondent? Was this some kind of joke?

"As assigned by Colonel Thomas Lard," she added. "I'm K.C. Cameron. You can call me Kate."

There was a collective intake of breath by the men, then silence. A bird hooted nearby, its cry echoing on the evening air. On the flight line, Micklin yelled at one of the mechanics.

"This is Vella La Cava, isn't it? Or did I get off on the wrong island?" Her voice was edged with humor. She'd lost none of her composure, he noticed, for being knocked on her butt by Meatball and she seemed unconcerned by the muddy state of her clothes.

"Katherine Christine Cameron," Greg repeated slowly. Again, his eyes traveled over her, then to the battered camera bag at her feet. For the first time, he noticed the armband with the bold black letter C emblazoned on it. Damned if she wasn't a correspondent. Damned if she wasn't the exact opposite of what he'd expected. Reporters tended to be paunchy and nervous and armed with an inflated sense of self-importance.

"I was told you were expecting me." Her tone was all business now, professional. Not bad for someone who'd been sitting in the mud with his dog on her lap two minutes ago.

I sure as hell wasn't expecting you, sweetheart, Greg thought.

"We were expecting a Christopher, not a Christine," he said. This raised a whole new set of problems. He originally planned to have the correspondent bunk with Jim and TJ, which might have been enough to drive him off in short order without any extra effort.

That plan had been scrapped two days ago when a pair of low-flying Zeroes blasted across the base, sending personnel swearing and diving for foxholes. The air raid had stitched a line of jagged holes across TJ's half of the tent. The only thing that kept him and Jim from being filled with holes as well was the fact they were at the hospital, having largely non-existent injuries from that morning's mission checked out by skeptical nurses. Replacement canvas for the tent roof had been requisitioned. When or if it would ever get here was anyone's guess. In the interim, TJ moved in with Bobby Boyle and Don, while Jim stayed in the side of the tent that didn't have daylight – or rain - coming through the roof.

It was a moot point now. He couldn't have put her in with them even if their tent was still in one piece. He couldn't toss her in with any of the other boys, either. The 214 didn't stand on ceremony but Greg liked to think the unit had some sense of chivalry. While any of them would enjoy sharing quarters with a girl who looked like that, he just couldn't do it. If he did, and Lard got wind of it, there'd be hell to pay, even though Lard had made it clear the correspondent was supposed to bunk with the unit. He suspected Lard's orders to cooperate and give Cameron whatever he – she – needed did not include making her share living space with male personnel. Not to mention, whoever she was sleeping with – figuratively – wouldn't be worth a crap upstairs as a result. He shook his head. She'd barely gotten off the plane and she was already causing trouble.

What was Lard thinking, sending a woman into his squadron? Maybe Lard hadn't known either. Greg himself hadn't even known who Cameron was until Boyle told him. He didn't spend a lot of time reading the papers. And none of them knew he was a she. Oh hell, Lard must have known. Greg was not in the mood to be charitable when it came to Colonel Lard.

Jim stepped forward. His eyes took a leisurely stroll up and down the girl's figure. She folded her arms across her chest and tipped her head, clearly wise to his unsubtle evaluation. Jim extended his hand and Kate took it.

"Captain James Gutterman," he said. "I'm one of the execs of this here outfit." He paused, turning to Greg. "She can still bunk with me, Pappy, I reckon we'll work it out." Turning back to Kate, he added, "I've only got the one cot in my tent but I'll let you choose, top or bottom. The pleasure will be all mine."

Jim was out of line and Greg knew he was doing it on purpose. Jim tended to be out of line more often than not. Greg considered reprimanding his executive officer, then decided to let it go. Hazing was inevitable and if she couldn't take it, she wouldn't be here long. It didn't really matter. If he had anything to say about it, she wasn't going to be here long anyway.

Kate tipped her head back to look up at Jim. She was still gripping his hand. Her face was a study in innocence and for a second, Greg regretted not telling Gutterman to tone it down. He wanted her gone but there was no point in having her embarrassed to tears in front of everyone. She smiled broadly and said, "If you're half as good between the sheets as you think you are, Captain, I'm sure the pleasure will be all mine."

The men howled with laughter. Jim looked surprised and scrambled to recover.

"I could make your time here real enjoyable, darlin'," he drawled.

"Why? Are you leaving?"

Greg smothered a chuckle. She had looks and a backbone. He didn't know if that made things better or worse. It was going to take a while to sort this out.

"French, Boyle, take her gear to the VIP tent," he ordered, doing a fast mental inventory of what was stored there. He wasn't even sure the tent had a bunk. Non-essential gear tended to get traded and in his recollection, no one had ever actually slept in the VIP tent since they'd moved onto the base. The boys used it for storage and occasional nocturnal trysts with the nurses.

He picked Kate's hat up off the ground and handed it to her. Like everything else she was wearing, it was splattered with mud. She didn't seem concerned and he grudgingly thought that was a point in her favor. Most women he knew would have been fretting about their clothes and giving him hell about Meatball.

"Let me buy you a drink to make up for my rude dog," he said. And my rude exec, he thought, but didn't say it.

"I like your rude dog," she replied. "That was the most enthusiastic welcome to a new unit I've ever had."

Meatball was rolling around in the dirt at her feet, unabashedly flopping on his back. She bent and rubbed the dog's belly. Straightening, she looked at her skirt and the paw prints on her blouse. "I'd like to change first, then I'll take you up on that drink."

"These two will show you to your tent. When you're ready, the Sheep Pen is that way, on the left." He jerked his thumb in the general direction. He'd buy her a drink but damned if he was going to escort her there like she was some kind of celebrity. The base wasn't that big. She could find it on her own.

Kate nodded. She stepped onto the running board of the jeep and smoothed her skirt under her hips as she slid into the passenger seat. The gesture wasn't intentional but it had the effect of displaying her slender backside as well as those spectacular legs to their best advantage. French and Anderson lifted her trunks into the back and French climbed in after them. She smiled at Boyle, who looked dumbstruck behind the steering wheel, and the jeep pulled away.

XXX

She was easy on the eyes, no complaints there. Young but I didn't have a problem with that. Everyone on this damn rock was younger than me anyway. I was still chuckling about the way she handled Jim. Under the right circumstances she was the kind of girl I'd spend some time getting to know a little better. But she was civilian press, sent by Colonel Lard, and that trumped everything else. Not to mention the havoc she was going to cause just by existing in the middle of the Black Sheep. This unit wasn't known for exercising restraint when it came to women. - GB

XXX

Greg yanked the T-shirt off and threw it on his bunk. It landed on Meatball's head. He'd noticed the boys had been overcome with a sudden need to improve their appearance before heading to the party and most had rushed off to change into clean uniforms. He didn't believe in doing things for appearance's sake but he thought maybe in this case it was appropriate.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with a female reporter?" he snarled.

Standing in the doorway, Larry Casey, Greg's second executive officer, supposed that was a rhetorical question. He'd stopped by to pick up some paperwork bound for Espritos and wasn't about to start handing out advice on women. Especially that one.

Greg scowled. From the looks on the boys' faces at the airstrip, he knew exactly what they were thinking. The Black Sheep were nothing if not consistent. Yeah. Lard had pulled one over on him this time.

"Damn Lard." Greg kicked off his boots. "Not only does he saddle us with a reporter, he sends a girl who looks like that." He yanked his fatigues off and stomped around the tent, found a clean pair of trousers and pulled them on. "As if it wasn't already hard enough to keep you yahoos thinking about what you're supposed to be doing upstairs, now we're going to have that living in the middle of us."

He jerked on a shirt, flipped the collar to straighten it and shoved the tail into his trousers.

"Jim's not going to leave her alone, I can tell that already. We've got to get her out of here before she brings half the squadron up on harassment charges. And this time it won't be Delmonte's imagination."

He referenced an earlier incident in which the battle axe of a lieutenant commander at the hospital filed a complaint against Casey for what had been some very consensual canoodling with his girl, Lieutenant Dee Ryan, a nurse under Delmonte's command.

"Um, Pappy?"

"What?"

"She's one of Dee's best friends from back home. I recognized her from a picture."

Greg froze in the middle of buttoning his cuffs. He snorted.

"You gotta be kidding me."

"No. Sorry. They've been best friends since they were little."

Greg rubbed his forehead in exasperation. He was going to need more than one drink before this evening was over.

"For your sake, I hope Dee won't be offended when we run her off." He liked Casey's girl. She'd helped the squadron out at some critical times in the past. She was a little reckless and didn't hesitate to speak her mind. He thought she was good for Casey, who was the closest thing to a straight arrow the squadron still had. He wondered if Kate Cameron was anything like her.

Casey opened his mouth to say something but Greg had already left. Meatball shook the discarded T-shirt off his head and trotted after his master.

Casey gathered the paperwork off Greg's desk. He remembered the day he first met Dee. Greg's meeting with Kate had been slightly less eventful. There hadn't been any blood involved. But, he thought, the night was still young.

XXX

Dappled sunlight shafted through the VIP tent's doorway. Kate let her camera bag slump to the floor and dropped her hat on top of it. The hat, like everything else she was wearing, was probably a lost cause. South Pacific airstrips seemed to be comprised of equal parts clay and engine oil.

Great first impression, she thought, shaking her head. On her butt. In the mud. Couldn't have made a bigger bollocks of that if she'd tried. The dog was cute, though. And Major Boyington? She wasn't even going there. Those eyes had gone glacial two seconds after the words "Associated Press" left her mouth.

The two boys who carried her things in – Don and Bobby – had been friendly enough but it was clear they thought she was out of her element. That hadn't kept them from making sure she knew about the welcome party and they'd left amidst assurances to see her later.

Kate stood, letting the canvas scented air wrap around her. Outside, she could hear men shouting back and forth. They were a high spirited bunch. She'd been off the plane less than five minutes before the first proposition. If Jim Gutterman thought she'd share a tent with him, let alone anything else, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

She looked around curiously. This was different from England, all right. There, she'd been billeted in a series of tiny flats above pubs or in rooming houses near the bases she covered. The accommodations hadn't been much to write home about but they'd always had solid walls, hot and cold running water and a private loo. She examined the canvas overhead. Can't wait until it rains, she thought, bet I've got running water here, too.

This looked more like a supply tent than guest quarters. It was so packed with tarp-covered crates there was barely room for a canvas bunk shoved against one wall. She sat on it and gave an experimental bounce. It wasn't exactly a feather bed but no doubt it was softer than the floor. A single light bulb hung from a metal fixture attached to the tent's central pole. She'd been in bomb craters in London that had more ambiance.

Well then, beggars couldn't be choosers. She began making a mental list. She'd need a desk for her typewriter and some shelving to store supplies. Writing in here would be fine but converting any part of this space into a darkroom was out of the question. She'd have to take that up with Major Boyington. When Ian had arranged this posting, he assured her the CO here would cooperate to supply anything she needed. Kate had a feeling he might have been a little overly optimistic. The look on the major's face when she introduced herself left no doubt in her mind regarding the degree of cooperation she was likely to get.

Her foot nudged the corner of a wooden crate and she heard a musical tinkle as glass bottles rattled. Curious, she lifted the corner of the tarp. Cases of Scotch whisky from a high-end distillery were stacked three high and four wide. Intrigued, she lifted another tarp. More cases of Spam, tinned cookies, motor oil and hand grenades. Shaking her head, she dropped the tarp. She had no idea what was going on here but she was pretty sure there hadn't been a VIP in this tent for a good long time. She was glad the grenades were on the opposite side from her bed.

Kate unlatched her trunk and pulled out her new working uniform. Dressing stylishly would be overkill in a front area and if you were trying to blend in and be one of the boys, the less you gave them to look at, the better. She was just as comfortable working in trousers as she was in tailored suits and silk stockings, although she thought with a wry smile, if everything she'd heard about these boys was true, it probably wouldn't matter what she wore.

She jerked the front flap of the tent closed. Given that a jeep had just gone careening past two feet beyond her door, discretion seemed to be the better part of valor. Privacy was one of those things that didn't seem like a big deal until you didn't have it.

Stepping out of her pumps, she unzipped the skirt and tossed it onto the bunk. The mud spattered blouse followed. As predicted, the stockings were a lost cause. She pulled on a clean white shirt and tucked it into utilitarian khaki trousers. She started to pull her correspondent's badge onto her sleeve, then decided against it. If her presence offended the major, there was no sense waving a red flag in his face. She had to work with the man, after all.

She rummaged through her trunk until she found a pair of socks and after tying the laces on worn, ankle-high leather boots, she headed for the door, rolling up the shirt's sleeves as she went.

In the tent's sole concession to vanity, someone had hung a small shaving mirror on the center pole and she caught her reflection in passing. Her hair was a complete wreck, spilling out of its attempted confinement in a tumble of curls. She took a few minutes to finger comb it loose and braid it into a plait over one shoulder. She tied the end with a leather lace she'd recycled from a pair of boots in Scotland. There. That would do.

Kate paused, hand over her camera bag, but decided against it. Tonight was social. Tonight she would start getting to know the Black Sheep and find out what stories they had to tell. There would be plenty of time for war in the morning.

XXX

I can't say my initial welcome to Vella La Cava was what I expected, mostly because I hadn't had any idea what to expect. The reality of living in a tent with a bunch of rogue pilots on a front area island in the South Pacific was starting to sink in and it was clear some of them were happier to have me here than others. The major had a smile that could make a girl's heart skip a beat but you could have felt the temperature drop when I introduced myself. On the other hand, his dog liked me. - KCC

XXX

"Kate, welcome!"

"Hey, Katie, glad you found us!"

A cheer went up as Kate let the Sheep Pen's screen door bang behind her and she smiled at the boys' greeting. At least they sounded happy she was there, although their leader's tone had certainly cooled once he found out who she was. She got the distinct feeling someone higher up the chain of command had ordered him to play nice and he was just biding his time until he decided how he wanted to handle her.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd run into a less than receptive attitude from male commanders and she was willing to cut Boyington some slack. She knew the squadron hadn't been on the receiving end of good press in the past and it looked like she was going to pay for it.

Plus, she'd never been embedded with a unit before and was pretty sure the 214 had never had a journalist permanently assigned to them. It was one thing to cover the news. It was another thing entirely to live under the same roof with it. She wondered if the boys felt as awkward about it as she did. On second thought, she doubted that had ever crossed their minds. They were fighter pilots, a species who never felt awkward when it came to women.

She hoped this evening would be a start in getting the boys to open up and talk to her. They were on the same side, after all. Once the commanding officers found out she had a no-nonsense approach to her job, they generally loosened up and welcomed her into their unit, sharing resources so she could do her work. Boyington seemed predisposed to disliking her on sight but time would tell.

She glanced around the building's comfortably shabby interior. A jukebox was thumping, accented by occasional squawks of "Banzai!" and "Sayonara!" from a crow tethered to a perch. A variety of pin-ups were tacked haphazardly to the walls, their scantily clad curves fueling the testosterone-laced atmosphere. A sign near the door warned "No gambling." A poker game with a pile of cash in the center of the table was underway beneath it.

The major was leaning against the bar, watching her with a calculating half-smile on his face. She noticed he'd changed from faded fatigues into khakis. The color seemed to make his eyes an even more impossible shade of blue and she wondered how long, on average, it took that smile to get female personnel out of their clothes.

He was good to his word about buying her a drink, though. He raised a glass in her direction as she wove through the tables.

"What'll it be, Cameron, Scotch or beer?" His voice carried over the general din. She could tell every eye in the room was on her. Probably not the time to ask if they had a nice merlot, she thought.

"Scotch will be fine," she said, wondering what watered-down jungle juice passed for whisky in this tail end of the world. Was the stash of high-end stuff in her tent an extension of the bar stock or, more likely, being used as black market currency?

Boyington poured a liberal splash from a bottle into a tumbler.

"Welcome to the 214." He handed it to her. "Around here, we brush our teeth with Scotch."

"Thank you, Major," she said, accepting the glass.

"Greg." His tone was about two degrees short of open flirting. Damn. When he turned on that smile, it changed everything. Had the pendulum swung back in her favor? She took the glass and returned the smile in kind, slanting her gaze up through her lashes. Two could play this game.

"To the 214. Slainte." She raised her glass and took a sip. During her time in the UK, she'd learned, among other things, to appreciate good whisky. The liquid burned with smooth fire all the way to the pit of her stomach, releasing smoky tendrils that lingered on the back of her throat. She'd taken a larger swallow than she intended and the air was knocked briefly out of her lungs.

"I'd like to know," she said, wheezing slightly, "how you get better Scotch in the South Pacific than they have in Edinburgh?"

The group laughed and someone thumped her helpfully on the back.

"Just one of the many fine amenities we offer here," Bob Anderson said, producing several more bottles from under the bar. Someone tipped more alcohol into her glass. The welcome party had officially started.

Within minutes, a jeep pulled up in front of the building and offloaded a half dozen nurses from the hospital. They streamed into the Sheep Pen in a swirl of uniforms and civilian dresses, perfume and hairspray wafting on the evening air. One of the girls froze halfway across the room.

"Katie? Oh my God, Katie, it's you!"

Kate's head snapped around at the familiar voice.

"Dee? Dee Ryan!" She bolted across the room to wrap her arms around the other woman in a hug.

"What are you doing here?" Dee Ryan was petite in a Navy nurse's uniform, her dark hair waving as she held her friend at arm's length.

"Didn't you get my letter?"

"Obviously not! I thought you were assigned on Pearl!"

"I was but it ended up being temporary. You can't swing a cat in Pearl without hitting a photographer these days. Next thing I know, I'm on a transport, headed out here to the back side of nowhere." Kate glanced around the room, then back to Dee. "The flight out here about killed me. God, I hate flying. Where's this Lieutenant Casey of yours? I can't wait to meet him."

"I'm sure he'll be here in a minute. Sit down! We have got so much catching up to do!" Dee grabbed Kate's hand and pulled her to a table. She looked her friend up and down and said, "I can't believe you're the correspondent."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Kate said drily. Dee's tone indicated there might be more in play than the simple appearance of a reporter.

"Oh sweetie, there are some things you need to – oh!" Before Dee could sit, a tall, tow-headed pilot caught her around the waist. His eyes traveled from one girl to the other. Dee threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. When they broke apart, Kate was watching with a bemused smile.

"Lieutenant Casey, I presume?" she held out her hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

He shook her hand. "I've heard a lot about you, too. It's nice to meet you in person. Dee never mentioned you were the K.C. Cameron."

"An oversight." Dee brushed it off. "Did you know about this?" she asked him, pointing at Kate.

"Not until she got off the plane," Casey said.

"How did you know who she was?" Dee was puzzled.

"Meatball knocked her on her butt and I remembered the night he did the same thing to you, then I made the connection and recognized her from the picture on your desk." He flashed an apologetic smile at Kate. "Sorry about your muddy welcome. That dog doesn't listen to anyone."

"Ah, Meatball," Kate said. "Beware of dog."

"The dog is basically harmless," Dee corrected, "but I think you better beware of the owner."

"What do you mean?" Her friend's tone was a clear warning regarding Greg but Kate didn't know if it was in reference to her status as a reporter or as a female. Or both. Well, hell. She couldn't do anything about either one so he was just going to have to deal with it.

"Sit." Dee pulled out a chair. "I need to fill you in on a few things."

That turned out to be harder than expected. Alcohol flowed. Music played. Singly and in groups, the squadron members introduced themselves, bought her drinks and asked her to dance. The latter resulted in some glowering looks from the nurses in attendance. Kate was acutely aware that not only was she the new girl, she was the new girl who was going to be living with the Black Sheep. She decided there probably wasn't much that could top that degree of scandal. The girls would figure out soon enough that she was here to do a job and the only involvement she'd have with the boys would be on a professional level.

The boys did not seem at all scandalized at the prospect. They swung her across the dance floor, asking a hundred questions and promising to show her around the base in the morning, take her to the beach in the afternoon and re-hang the moon, should she desire it. She hadn't needed to worry about them opening up to her.

She put names with faces: Don French, whose father was a newspaper publisher of some renown in the States; two Bobbys – Anderson, a lot taller than her and an excellent dancer who quoted Shakespeare, and Boyle, barely taller than her who said he'd followed her work in the London Times; Jerry Bragg, friendly in an affable high school jock sort of way; TJ Wiley, quick with a charming smile and a smooth line, and Larry Casey, Dee's beau and the unit's other executive officer. She'd wasn't likely to forget Jim Gutterman any time soon.

After his initial greeting, she noticed Greg was conspicuously absent from the stream of boys surrounding her. He spent the evening at the bar, deep in conversation with Jim. And watching her. She could feel those eyes on her no matter where she was in the room.

"They're a social bunch, aren't they?" Kate said, dropping back into her chair after being whirled around the dance floor by Don.

"Don't look now but it's about to get even more social," Dee said, nodding her head imperceptibly as Jim approached.

"He looks like tall, dark and trouble," Kate said under her breath. "We met earlier."

"Don't underestimate any of them, they're all trouble," Dee advised. "But yeah, he's one of the worst."

Jim sauntered over, a tumbler of whisky in each hand. He handed one to Kate, which she accepted with a reserved smile. Acknowledging Dee with a tip of his battered cowboy hat, Jim spun a chair around and straddled it. His dark eyes met hers, his good old boy's grin holding unspoken promises.

"So darlin', whattaya say we get out of here and take a ride down to the beach?"

Kate picked up the glass, studied the amber contents.

"If I drink this, am I obligated to go with you?"

"No. Just think of it as encouragement." Jim's smile was inviting.

Damn, Kate thought. What was it with men out here? All they had to do was look at her and her thoughts went tumbling in directions they had no business going.

"Do you always bribe girls with alcohol so they'll go with you?"

Jim chuckled, unoffended.

"Naw. It just takes the edge off a little. After the first time, they're happy to come back for more."

"You sound awfully sure of yourself."

"Ain't had any complaints yet."

Kate returned his smile with one of her own and sipped the whisky. Jim wasn't unattractive but he wasn't her type and he was too damn sure of himself for his own good. Plus, she knew exactly how it would look if she left with him her first night here. She needed to set some ground rules. Work was her first priority. It was her only priority. She was aware of a group of boys at a nearby table listening with open interest.

"Listen, Tex." She leaned forward and bumped up the brim of his hat with a forefinger. "This isn't my first rodeo. You tell me why I should jump on the first bull to come down the chute when I don't even know if he's good for eight seconds."

The table next to them burst into laughter. Jim looked vexed but covered it by lifting his glass in a mock salute, then swallowing the contents in one gulp.

"Shot down in flames. Who knew the lady was an ace?" He resettled his hat and extended his hand. "Will you at least dance with me?"

Kate took his hand and let him lead her into the music.

XXX

I watched Jim hitting on her and some unexpected part of me was relieved when she shot him down again. She hadn't slapped him and they headed onto the dance floor afterward so I figured he hadn't offended her too much or maybe she was just playing hard to get. I suppose I could have been a little more social but it was amusing, just watching her interact with the boys. Lard was right. She knew her way around fighter pilots. - GB

XXX

The boys of the 214 were a friendly bunch, which didn't surprise me. Their bar was stocked with excellent Scotch, which did. The nurses didn't seem excited about me living this close to their guys and I got the general impression Greg wasn't excited about me living here at all. I was so glad to be out of the European Theatre, I didn't really care. To be honest, I was just looking forward to starting over someplace where I could focus on my work without any complications. - KCC