Chapter 9: Crisis du jour

Vella La Cava

VMF 214 HQ

"Greg! Greg, wake up! We've got a problem!"

Casey's voice yanked aside curtains of sleep. Kate blinked, unsure if she was dreaming and reliving the scene when Casey had woken her up with the same announcement, or if this was a new chapter in the never-ending crisis that was life with the Black Sheep. She extended her left hand. Her fingers met Greg's bare chest. She extended her right hand. Floor boards and a tangle of blankets. Oh. Yeah. They'd ended up on the floor. God. And how.

Muttered swearing issued from the doorway as Casey fought his way through the tangle of canvas and mosquito netting. Sun spilled into the tent, pearly gold in the dawn mist. Not dreaming, Kate decided. She did a hasty inventory of her person. She was wearing panties and one of Greg's T-shirts. Her body still hummed from their recent loving and she had only a dim memory of pulling clothes on. This was exactly why she preferred waking up with him off the base. The beach might be lacking a few amenities but they'd never been woken by anything more than curious shore birds. Thanks to those glorious, sensual mornings, she'd achieved an unexpected level of comfort with being nude outdoors. Her modesty hadn't exactly returned in leaps and bounds just because they'd stayed on the base last night, she realized, although that decision had been worth every exquisite moment. No regrets even though it looked like she was going to pay for it.

She looked up at Casey, who stood framed in the doorway, grinning. The boys didn't hesitate to walk in and out of one another's tents like rooms in a frat house and not even their CO's was off limits. She tugged the T-shirt down. Casey surveyed her rumpled appearance and the bedding on the floor. She glared, daring him to comment. He did.

"Morning, Katie," he said. "Looks like – "

"Never mind what it looks like," she cut him off. She knew exactly what it looked like and so would anyone else.

"Um, Greg, sorry to wake you but we got a problem," Casey repeated.

Greg rolled to a sit.

"What the hell?" he grumbled, looking at his watch. "It's 0600. How can there be a problem? We don't have a mission today and after last night, no one's conscious yet."

"Lard just radioed," Casey said with the air of someone delivering an executioner's sentence. "He wants to know how we suddenly achieved combat status the same day a brand new plane disappeared from Espritos. He's coming here to talk to you."

Greg scowled.

"Why?"

Casey shot him a look that said he should know better.

"Because he's convinced you know something about it."

"Why would he think that?"

Kate was amazed at the degree of innocence the man could conjure at a second's notice. No wonder he was such a good poker player. He'd need every card he could put on the table to get out of this, she thought.

"Yeah, well, he'll be here at 1100 hours and he wants answers." Casey looked like he might start drinking antacid for breakfast. Kate didn't blame him. The last 72 hours had been nothing but one crisis du jour after another.

Greg muttered a string of profanity and stood up. Kate was relieved he'd put his skivvies back on at some point. It wasn't like what they'd been doing last night was a secret but she didn't think they needed to advertise it either. He reached down and pulled her to her feet. She smoothed the T-shirt over her thighs and looked around for her clothes. She'd just located her bra when Jim stepped into the tent behind Casey. He took one look at the scattered bedding and clothing and grinned unapologetically.

"Morning, darlin'. Thought I heard some howling last night." He didn't give Kate a chance to reply but sobered and addressed Greg. "What are we gonna do? Lard's gonna see that shiny new bird on the line and the jig is up. He'll bust us all down to private."

"We'll be lucky if he stops there." Greg reached for his fatigues. "Let's go, Cameron. We'll have breakfast in bed another time."

Jim and Casey snorted. Greg winked at her. Kate sighed. It was going to be another day in paradise.

XXX

I pulled on my shorts while Jim and Casey pretended not to watch and I wondered what it would be like to wake up with Greg in a real bed in a room with a lock on the door and know that no one was going to try killing or court martialing him that day. Or walking in on us while a girl was still glowing from her man's touch. I got to find out, eventually, but it was years down the road. - Kate

XXX

Number 403 basked in the sunshine, her glossy blue paint gleaming like a peacock's plumage among the 214's collection of war weary fighters. Greg studied the sun-faded, coral-dust blasted surface of his own plane sitting next to 403, sifting through ideas in his mind. It would be a sacrilege to mar the factory perfection of this newest addition to their flock but unless they could make 403 look like she'd been assigned to the unit since its inception, she'd be snatched away and they'd be right back where they started. Or worse. Probably worse.

He walked around his bird, taking in the oil smears, the streaks where the paint had oxidized, the beer can patches and general wear and tear from too many missions and no time for aesthetics.

Casey and Jim had accompanied him to the line and by now, the rest of the squadron was aware of the pending crisis. The men gathered around, muttering in anticipation of how they were going to evade Colonel Lard's meddling this time. In the distance, thunder rumbled, the forerunner of a fast-moving squall off shore.

"You want me to take her up for a few hours?" Jim asked. "I could do a little sightseeing, keep her off Lard's radar. He can't cuss us out for stealing something if he can't find it."

"No." Greg shook his head. "I wouldn't want you up there without a wingman and then we'd be two planes short when Lard gets here. Besides, that's exactly what he'd expect us to do and we can't afford the fuel to keep you up there. There's no telling how long he'd stay here and wait for you to set down."

The men stood in contemplative silence. Greg felt rather than heard Kate join them and turned to see her stop at his shoulder. Face washed and hair neatly combed back, she'd managed to procure a mug of coffee and was nursing it with sleepy-eyed satisfaction. She cradled the white porcelain between her hands, her mouth quirked in a quiet smile, like a cat who'd been skimming the cream. He knew the coffee was not solely responsible for that satiated look. She met his gaze and subtly raised her eyebrows.

"Good morning," she said politely. As if she hadn't spent the night in his arms, driving him nearly mad with the scent of her skin and the supple curves of her body. Damn. Watching her, so cool and composed and acting for all the world like this were nothing but another mission briefing, he saw the unarguable intensity that enabled her to sabotage the planes on Espritos and spring him and Hutch. She was one of a kind. He cleared his throat.

"I've got an idea," he announced to the assemblage. "It's not much but under the circumstances . . ." His voice trailed off. Those circumstances were only going to get worse if they didn't pull this off.

"An idea? Have you forgotten what happened the last time you said that?" Kate's tone was etched with dry humor. "Remember where that got you?"

"I remember exactly where that got me." He slanted her a look and was rewarded to see a soft blush rise in her cheeks. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told her she was amazing. She was. And not just her body, although scenes from the previous night played through his mind like a private newsreel. That was the thing about her, he thought. She put her heart into everything she did, no matter what it was, and while she wouldn't hesitate to question some of his decisions, she'd have his six the whole time she was doing it.

"So let's hear it," she continued. "I know it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission but I don't think Lard's gonna buy it when it comes to stealing aircraft."

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law," Greg said firmly. "I'm not giving it back."

Kate gave a little snort and muttered something that sounded like, "I knew it."

He turned to the men.

"The best place to hide something is in plain sight. Casey, go to the hospital and get all the talcum powder they can spare. Bring Tori and Dee back if they aren't on duty, we're gonna need all hands on deck. Jim, you go to the mess and get a couple of tins of cooking oil."

He looked at Kate. She studied him with an amused expression, clearly trying to discern where this was going.

"Cameron, grab some steel wool off Hutch's work bench and a handful of dirt and get up in the cockpit. Put a little wear and tear on that seat cushion and the headrest. Rub the shine off anything you could see from the ground. Bragg, I need you and French to rig up a portable fan, something with enough juice to keep sand in the air. There should be a motor in the mechanics' shed and see if you can find some powdered graphite while you're there. TJ, get us a bunch of rags – old skivvies will work fine." He paused. This plan was insane but that had never stopped him before. "Where the hell's Boyle? Somebody send him and Anderson down to the beach for a couple of buckets of sand. I'm going to wake up Hutch and Micklin and we're gonna put some age on this bird before Lard gets here."

The men dispersed hastily. Casey revved the engine of a nearby jeep and took off for the hospital. Jim headed to the mess. Jerry and Don bent their heads together, sketching out the schematic for a jury-rigged blower on scraps of paper in the mechanics' shed. Kate found a pair of gloves and a wad of steel wool among the tools scattered on the workbench. TJ tossed her a can to scrape up some dirt before he trotted toward the communal clothesline, yelling for both Bobbys to get their asses out of bed.

Greg took a moment to admire Kate's backside as she maneuvered onto 403's starboard wing and swung into the cockpit like it was all in a day's work. If they couldn't pull this off, he thought, he was headed right back to the brig and this time it would take more than a war correspondent and a Navy nurse to get him out. Resolutely, he headed to the mechanics' shed to help Jerry and Don.

XXX

Any poker player knows it's not always about the cards you're holding. Sometimes it's about the cards your opponent thinks you're holding. All I had to do was convince Lard we didn't have any cards he wanted. It was time for the biggest bluff of my life. - Greg

XXX

During her time with the 214, Kate thought she'd seen it all. The amount of clandestine wheeling and dealing Greg and his boys routinely engaged in would have set the Marine Corps top brass on their ear if they knew the half of it. But the under-the-table scams for engine oil, parts, Scotch, toilet paper, soap and a myriad of other supplies paled in the face of what they were about to pull.

She'd barely finished scuffing the shiny leather upholstery in the cockpit when Casey returned. Dee was riding shotgun while Tori clung to several crates of supplies chucked haphazardly into the back of the jeep. They'd picked up Jim at the mess and he rode with his feet dangling over the side, two large tins of cooking oil balanced on his lap.

TJ ran up, panting, with a ragged armload of T-shirts and men's drawers. Kate was quietly relieved she chose to hang her washing on a line inside her tent. It was subject to enough of the men's scrutiny the way it was without being used for whatever Greg had in mind.

His intentions quickly became apparent. He splashed a frayed T-shirt with cooking oil, dribbled it with a few drops of the wicked black liquid in Micklin and Hutch's soaking tank, then swiped it across an expanse of 403's pristine wing. In his hand, he mixed sand from Boyle's bucket with a dollop of talc and a pinch of powdered graphite and standing closely, blew it onto the oil-slick metal. The powder stuck, instantly dulling the glossy blue paint and giving it the appearance of being sun-faded and pitted by coral dust. Greg smiled.

"That'll work, we just can't let Lard get too close to her."

"You let me and Hutch take care of that, Major," Micklin said. "This here's the first brand new bird this unit's ever seen. I ain't about to let no rear area brass polisher snatch her away from me. Besides, you let Wiley fly something more than a tin can patched together with baling wire and the kid might turn out to be a decent pilot." He snorted and stomped away, muttering, "Can't believe I just said that."

Greg turned back to the assembled men.

"All right, you meatheads. I want this plane coated with oil from nose to tail. Don't forget the prop and the landing gear Bragg, you and French got that fan rigged up yet?"

In later years, Kate would remember the atmosphere of unquestioning cooperation during that morning's frantic activity. It reminded her of nothing so much as school boys playing a joke on their unsuspecting headmaster. Like so many things the Black Sheep did, they treated it like a lark, refusing to acknowledge the dark reality of the squadron being broken apart if the charade failed. And like so many things they did, they charged into it with high spirits and a complete refusal to consider the possibility of failure.

Once the plane's exterior had been coated with a blend of cooking oil and old motor oil, Jerry and Don flipped the switch on a makeshift fan made from an old prop wired to a small gas powered motor. Jim and TJ, both wearing flight goggles and bandanas tied over their faces like bandits from the old west, stood in the slipstream created by the spinning blades and tossed a mix of talcum powder, powdered graphite and beach sand into the air. As Jerry and Don maneuvered the slowly spinning blades around the plane, 403's gleaming finish was reduced to a faded, battle weary patina no one would look twice at.

XXX

Greg leaned against a jeep parked in the shade of a palm tree and surveyed the scene in front of him.

Like everything else at the 214, the planes weren't afraid to show their battle scars. They, and the men who flew them, had an air of rugged use that gave little heed to cosmetic appearances. From the patched canvas on the tents to the beer can patches on the planes, the base radiated a sense of make do or do without. At first glance, there wasn't a single thing here that looked shiny or new. If Greg had anything to say about it, there wouldn't be a second glance.

A quiet undercurrent of tension hummed along the line but it was masked by mechanics yelling back and forth as they went about the day's maintenance. Nearby, Kate, Dee and Tori were playing three-on-three volleyball with TJ, Jim and Casey.

Hutch and Micklin busied themselves on one plane with single-minded intent. Camouflage netting had been draped over most of the airframe, obscuring the number painted on its side, although due to the amount of coral dust damage to the wings and fuselage, it was nearly impossible to read in the first place. The engine cowling had been pulled and a scattering of tools was spread on a tarp under the plane's nose next to a growing array of greasy, tired-looking parts. The men appeared to be dismantling the power plant piece by piece. Anyone who knew what they were looking at would immediately recognize the mismatched collection of hardware as the internal workings of an engine from a jeep that had been totaled during an air raid. Greg was counting on Lard not knowing what he was looking at.

In the distance, thunder hinted at the storm growing closer. The girls' euphoric shouts indicated the volleyball game was going well for them. Just another day at the 214. Nothing to see here, move along. Greg smiled with satisfaction. Exactly what he wanted.

He looked up at the buzz of an incoming plane.

"Lard's here," he called to anyone within earshot. "Stay frosty. I'll handle it."

Colonel Lard's L5 touched down, bounced as the pilot hit a rough spot, threatened to go airborne again and finally taxied to a stop. The colonel climbed out and yanked off his mae west. With hands on his hips, he stomped the length of the line. Then he stomped back.

Greg pushed off the jeep and strode to meet him. He snapped off a crisp salute.

Lard returned the salute, scowling.

"Colonel! How the hell are ya?" Greg beamed.

Lard didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"How many planes did you put in the air yesterday?"

"Fifteen, sir. Anything less wouldn't be combat status."

"Don't quote regs to me, Boyington. I know you've been flying with less than that but yesterday my spotters miraculously counted 15. What have you got to say about that?"

"Maybe your spotters have learned how to count," Greg said with a straight face. "Sir."

Lard fumed.

"How many airworthy planes do you have on this line?"

"Fifteen, sir. I'm sure you could count that high yourself."

Greg thought he could hear Lard's teeth grinding. He forced a bland smile. On the volleyball court, Kate's voice ring out, "Eight – three!" followed by the sound of a ball being served.

"Plus that one," he said helpfully and pointed to Boyle's lopsided train wreck sitting along the tree line. "It would be airworthy if we could get a new engine. And landing gear."

"I'm not interested in your train wrecks. Four days ago, you flew a mission with 14 planes. Three days ago you flew a mission with 14 planes. Then you had two days off and yesterday you flew a mission with a full complement. By coincidence, yesterday morning VF 118 reported one of their planes missing off the strip on Espritos. Not only was one of their brand new birds gone, the entire remaining wing had been sabotaged. Seems like somebody pulled the main switches and hid them so well they still can't find two of them. You want to explain that, Major?"

"I'd love to put your mind at ease, sir, but I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Where were you Wednesday and Thursday?" Lard snarled.

Greg didn't miss a beat.

"I was in the infirmary on Espritos until late Wednesday, then back on La Cava for the mission Thursday." Or back on La Cava after the mission. Close enough.

"The infirmary?" Lard took a step back. "What's wrong with you?"

"Suspected case of Influenza H3N9. Very contagious virus, sir. I believe the paperwork is on file in the hospital. The nurses who took care of me were very thorough about the paperwork."

"Never mind the paperwork! How'd you put 15 planes in the air if you were off the flight roster?"

"It turned out to be a scare, a false positive or something. I was cleared late Wednesday. Captain Gutterman and Lieutenant Casey can verify I flew with the Black Sheep."

Lard sputtered incoherently.

"I know you flew with the Black Sheep! But – you – infirmary - 15 – how -!"

Greg smiled patiently. He could see the gears whirring in Lard's mind as the man tried to snare him in a tangle of conflicting details. Thank God for Kate and Tori covering his butt with their back-dated reports but they weren't out of this yet.

"Would you like to talk to either of my execs? They're right here." He jabbed a thumb toward the volleyball court where Jim was making an obscene gesture toward the girls. Kate, Dee and Tori were near Olympic-level talent when it came to sand volleyball. The boys didn't stand a chance and everyone involved knew it.

"What are those nurses doing here?" Lard seemed to have temporarily forgotten the issue at hand.

Kate would laugh to know her identity as a nurse was still intact, Greg thought.

"Those girls? They come down from the hospital to play volleyball with the men a couple of times a week. It's good for morale."

Kate set the ball and Tori used her height advantage to pound it over the net. TJ dived belatedly and missed. The girls danced around, high-fiving in a circle of tan legs and snug T-shirts. Colonel Lard gaped, then he remembered why he was there. Turning to Micklin he demanded, "How long have these planes been in service, Sergeant?"

"We got us a bunch of planes out here. You got a particular one in mind?" Micklin gave his cigar a vigorous chomp as he stepped protectively in front of 403, blocking Lard from getting any closer.

"This one," Lard said, narrowing his eyes.

Greg held his breath. From this vantage point, there was nothing about 403 to indicate it was anything but just another hard-used fighter.

"It's been in service long enough to have the shine knocked off it. 'Cept for those." Micklin gestured toward the tail where two brand new beer can patches gleamed through the camo netting.

"That's not what I asked."

"Does this here plane look like it just rolled off the assembly line?" Micklin countered, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

Lard contemplated the Corsair's generally dispirited air. He stepped in for a closer look.

"Fire it up!" Micklin called up to Hutch. Lard hastily stepped back.

In the cockpit, Hutch engaged the starter. Nothing happened for a long moment, then the prop gave an anemic spin and the engine emitted a series of weak bangs. The prop struggled to pick up momentum as the engine wheezed half-heartedly then ground to a halt, belching white smoke.

Micklin let out a string of epithets and hurled his wrench to the ground. As he spun to face Lard, his sleeve brushed against the joint where the port wing connected to the fuselage. A small patch of shiny blue paint appeared but he ignored it.

"See! This here is what I'm talking about! You keep sending Boyington and them college boys up there day after day and every time they come back – if they come back – something else is broke that we gotta fix with parts we ain't got!" Spit flew.

Lard took another step back.

"I'll need to review the requisition forms Major Boyington has submitted," he said tightly. "The 214 isn't entitled to anything more than any other squadron in this theater and all the others seem to be getting along just fine with their allotments."

"No other squadron in the theater is doing what these college boys do, either," Micklin snarled with pride, punctuating his words with violent jabs of his cigar. "There ain't no better bunch of flyboys this side of Pearl."

Greg rubbed a hand over his upper lip to hide a smile. Not only was Micklin carrying the day, he was enjoying the chance to give the brass a piece of his mind. Lard alternated between staring at Micklin and staring at the plane. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward.

"What's that?" He pointed at the spot where blue paint gleamed brightly against the faded color scheme. "Why is –"

He didn't get a chance to finish. From the cockpit, Hutch released the oil sump. There was an audible pop and oil gushed out in a thick, amber waterfall, splashing on the packed dirt below and splattering Lard's shoes and trousers.

"Sorry about that, Colonel." Hutch leaned around the canopy and shrugged cheerfully. "Hose musta given out. The heat and humidity are really hard on 'em. Shoulda replaced it before now."

Lard was too busy backpedaling and shaking his trouser leg, which was now liberally splashed with engine oil, to answer.

"Yeah, Colonel, you review those requisitions. I reckon maybe you've missed a few along the way." Micklin jammed his cigar back in his mouth and picked up the wrench. "I got more things to do than stand around here, jawin'."

Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Greg kept his face impassive as he scanned the approaching clouds. Hutch had taken Lard's mind off the mysterious blue patch but a tropical downpour would wash off the rest of the temporary camouflage in about five minutes.

"Sir?" The L5's pilot approached. "Espritos just radioed. That's a good-sized storm front moving in. If we're going to beat it home, we need to leave now."

Lard glared at Greg, as if this, too, was his fault. Greg smiled politely.

"You're welcome to stay and enjoy the 214's hospitality, Colonel."

"I don't know how you pulled this off, Boyington, but I'm not done with you," Lard fumed.

"I'm sure you're not, sir." Greg's grin was angelic.

The colonel jabbed a finger toward him.

"I'm going back to Espritos and check with the hospital administrator. There'd better be paperwork on file to back up your cockamamie claim about H6N12 or whatever disease you allegedly had. If I find out you or any of your men were anywhere near that air strip yesterday morning, there's gonna be hell to pay."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Greg said agreeably. Besides, it's not the men you need to worry about.

As if on cue, more whooping and hollering issued from the volleyball court. The girls were dancing around again, celebrating another point. The boys looked thoroughly beaten. Greg wasn't sure this volleyball game was doing much for the men's morale although the girls looked absolutely delighted. And it was keeping Kate out of trouble, which meant a lot these days.

"And get those nurses out of here! Female personnel don't belong on a fighter base," Lard snarled.

"That'll be a little harder, sir," Greg mused. "We try to run them off but they keep coming back. They seem to like it here."

"Sir! We really need to get going!" the pilot called.

Lard glared at Greg. He glared at the assorted Black Sheep who had seemingly come out of the woodwork. He glared at Kate, Tori and Dee. With a final scowl, he turned and stomped away. Within minutes, the L5 barreled down the strip and lifted off.

Greg let out his breath and walked to the edge of the volleyball court.

"Drinks are on TJ," he announced.

"Pappy!" TJ protested. "Why me?"

"Cuz it's your bird we just busted our hump to save. Show a little appreciation or I'll take it back!"

"Hey, Boyle, I'll let you fly it if you buy the first round," TJ joked.

They headed for the Sheep Pen as the rain began to fall.

XXX

Summer 1960

Greg and Kate Boyington's home near Lake Tahoe

The flames of the bonfire leapt and danced, sending sparks soaring toward the indigo canopy of the sky. The sun was slipping behind the Sierras, etching the men and women gathered around the fire in shadowy relief.

Kate sat with her back against the trunk of a fallen tree, just close enough to the fire to feel its warmth as coolness crept in with the evening. Greg sat next to her, an arm draped lazily over her shoulders, firelight sculpting the handsome lines of his face and making her heart swirl with memories. They'd been through so much, that horrific day in 1944 when Jim Gutterman met her on the line to tell her Greg had been shot down, the agonizing months that followed when he'd been held a POW and she didn't know if he lived or died, the birth of their daughter, Joy, the euphoria of his return and the arrival of their son Jim exactly nine months later, their marriage, the nomadic years of continued military service and now, settling into civilian life to run a charter air service.

Memories had bubbled to the surface all week as the reunion brought them all together again. She looked around the group, smiling as she remembered the youthful faces of the boys she'd served with that summer in the South Pacific. The boys who'd teased and flirted and turned a correspondent's assignment into relationships that became the cornerstone of her life.

The women, too, with whom she'd shared cofidences, Scotch, clothing and an unbreakable network of support amidst the trials of war. Men and women alike, they were the friends who'd stood by her on Jan. 3, 1944, when she'd found herself alone and pregnant. They were the men and women who came home and put the war behind them as they started new lives after serving their country. They were the greatest generation.

She hadn't seen many of them since the autumn of 1945 when they gathered for her and Greg's wedding before striking off to the far corners of the globe. Some stayed in the military, others returned to the pursuit of pre-war dreams or struck out on new ventures. There were marriages. Families. Kids.

Unsatisfied with exchanging only brief glimpses of their lives through Christmas cards and chance visits, Kate had talked Greg into hosting a Black Sheep reunion the year after they moved to Tahoe Vista. It hadn't taken much talking.

"Anything for you, Cameron," he'd said and she launched enthusiastically into a campaign of letters and phone calls that brought them together again for a week of reminiscing.

She followed the faces laughing in the glow of the firelight.

John and Tori Hutchinson married only a month after her and Greg. They had a daughter and two sons and were co-owners of a machine shop and garage in the upper peninsula of Michigan. Tori put nursing behind her when she blossomed as an artist specializing in World War II nostalgia pieces, along with helping Hutch run their family business.

Jim Gutterman, the dark-haired, hot-headed Texan, married her sister, Sarah. Jim was a partner in an ag aerial service while Sarah continued to raise dogs for the military and served as a consultant for the Army's war dog program. They lived in Oklahoma with a son, a daughter and a constantly changing number of large, slightly crazy, dogs.

Larry and Dee Casey were married on Pearl while the ink was still drying on Japan's Instrument of Surrender aboard the USS Missouri. They had three daughters, each as tow-headed as Larry and as fiery as Dee. Like her and Greg, the Caseys continued their military career briefly. Now they lived in Tulsa, not far from Jim and Sarah. Larry worked as the parts manager of a local implement dealer where Kate suspected he still put his black market trading skills to use to locate hard-to-find parts at sensible prices for area farmers. Dee served as a nursing administrator at a local hospital.

Bobby Anderson married Ellen Morgan, the buxom, auburn-haired pin-up from New York who had done Kate's hair the night of that long ago party on La Cava, the first time Greg made it clear how he felt about her. The Andersons had four children – twin boys and two daughters. Bobby was in charge of the music and drama departments in a high school in Rochester, N.Y., where they'd lived since coming home from the war. Ellen was delighted to be a stay-at-home mom.

"Someone has to keep the kids from setting the house on fire," she said firmly, "and Bob can't be trusted."

Bobby Boyle had shown up with a vivacious brunette on his arm and proudly introduced her as his wife of six months. They lived in California, where he worked in advertising sales and she did hair at an upscale salon catering to the Hollywood elite.

"They say there's someone for everyone," Jim mused. "Even you, Boyle."

Jerry Bragg returned to his native Indiana, where he was a columnist and sports writer for the Indianapolis Star.

"You inspired me to go back to college and get a degree in journalism," he told Kate, adding he was still single but hoped to change that before the next reunion.

"Should we have a reunion next year or in five years?" she'd joked.

TJ Wiley and his wife Helen had three boys, each with Helen's lovely dark coloring and TJ's endless charm. Helen was Don French's little sister. She and TJ met at Greg and Kate's wedding and been married themselves a year later. TJ taught history and coached basketball at a high school in Philadelphia while Helen stayed home with their kids, who, she added, where just as likely to set the house on fire as Bobby Anderson's brood.

Don French brought his bride, an ephemerally beautiful girl from New Zealand who he'd met in the final days of the war in the Southwest Pacific. He, too, had returned to school, studied horticulture and agronomy, and now operated a thriving landscaping business in Atlanta, Ga., where the couple lived with their son and daughter.

Andy Micklin had come to the reunion, too, chomping on a cigar with his arm around the waist of a plump, cheerful woman he introduced as Ellie, his wife of 10 years. Ellie immediately fit in with the boys' wives even though she was 20 years their senior. Her grandmotherly appearance disguised a wicked sense of humor and more than once she'd reduced the group to howls of helpless laughter as she recalled incidents from the early days of her and Andy's marriage. It was clear the gruff master sergeant had met his match. Kate thought he'd never looked happier.

"I remember everything about 403," TJ said, leaning forward in the lawn chair to nudge a log deeper into the fire with his boot. "Especially the party after Lard left that morning. It cost me about two weeks' pay." He turned to Helen. "Those guys drank like they were gonna stop making Scotch."

"It tasted better when you were buying," Jim said.

"She was the one you were flying when you made ace, right?" Kate recalled. She shifted and Greg adjusted his arm. She leaned against his warm bulk, remembering all the nights they'd spent sitting around fires on the beach with the Black Sheep, celebrating successful missions or just the joy of being alive.

"Sure was." TJ shook his head. "That was in the summer of '44 when Jim and I were with the Fighting Gryphons on Rendova. When I climbed out of that cockpit for the last time, I walked away and never thought I'd see her again. Can't believe she's still airworthy."

"That's a stretch," Hutch said. "She needs a complete engine rebuild."

"Hey, TJ, you want to take her up again, for old time's sake?" Greg asked, chuckling.

"If it's all the same to you, Pappy, no!" TJ's emphatic reply was underlain with humor.

Helen flashed a generous smile and said, "Please, Greg, don't let him near that thing. He backed our Buick into a tree just last week."

"Wiley, you're still a menace." Jim shook his head. "Helen, I don't know how you put up with him."

"The same way I put up with you." Sarah gave her husband a friendly shove. "One day at a time." Jim leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Micklin asked. "Kinda big for a lawn ornament. Ain't nobody gonna know how to fly an antique like that no more unless it's one of these overgrown college boys."

"Andrew Micklin!" Ellie chided. "You be nice." She looked at Greg and Kate. "He was so excited to get the invitation to this reunion, it's all he talked about for months." She squeezed her husband's arm affectionately. "I think he missed his college boys."

Micklin snorted and grumbled while everyone laughed. Bobby Anderson opened a nearby cooler and distributed another round of beer.

"Whatever you do with it, it needs some kick-ass nose art," Don said. "I bet Tori could whip up a design. Maybe Kate as a pin-up girl. That would be classy."

"Shut up!" Kate said. "My days of being a pin-up are long gone."

"Katie, you haven't changed a bit. Besides, I bet Greg still remembers how you looked back then, with those long legs and – "

"Seriously! Shut up!" Kate laughed. "I'm a respectable married woman now."

"Let's get it airworthy first," Greg said, "then we'll think about making it pretty." He dismissed it with a wave of his hand but Kate caught the thoughtful look in his eye. Oh for heaven's sake.

"What are you going to do with it, Greg?" Casey asked. "Maybe teach Kate to fly?"

"Not happening," Kate said firmly. "There might be another Boyington in the cockpit someday but it's not going to be me."

"You wouldn't have to fly it, darlin'," Jim said. "I'm guessing you and Greg could put those broad wings to good use without ever leaving the ground." He grinned wickedly. "It would surprise me if you haven't already."

This drew a round of laughter and Kate threw a pinecone at him. It hit him square in the chest and bounced harmlessly away.

"You're still a pain in the ass, Gutterman. You must be damn good in bed because I don't know what else my sister sees in you."

"We got us a couple of kids, don't we? They didn't happen by immaculate conception, right, Sair?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, laughing, and gave Jim a sideways look.

"Speaking of kids," Tori craned her neck to look through the dusk toward the lawn in front of the rambling white Victorian house. The flicker of a second fire could be seen with a number of figures moving around it. "Are you sure they're all right up there by themselves?"

"It's been six days and we haven't lost any of 'em yet," Hutch assured her. "It's the last night everyone's gonna be here. They deserve to have their own party and the older ones are good at taking care of the younger ones. Besides, they don't want to sit around and listen to Wiley's war stories any more than we do."

"They're a bunch of teenagers," Tori said archly. "And don't forget for a minute we know what their fathers were like when they weren't much older."

"You've got a point." Hutch grinned.

"Don't worry about them." Greg tossed another log on the fire and sparks shot upward like fireflies. "If they haven't killed each other yet, they're not going to start now."

"Think I should check on them?" Kate asked. She started to stand up. Greg pulled her back down.

"They're fine, Katie. I'm sure Joy and little Jim have everything under control." He named their two kids, Joyce "Joy," almost 17, and Jim, 15.

Kate caught the look in his eye and raised her eyebrows. He winked. Leaning in toward his ear, she said quietly, "I doubt Joy is anywhere near that bonfire and neither is Andy Hutchinson and we both know it."

"She's not a little girl anymore." Greg's tone was resigned, as if he'd turned around to suddenly find his daughter had become a young woman without asking permission. "She pushes the envelope occasionally but she's got good sense. She'll be all right."

"Her father stole an airplane right out from under the Navy's nose – don't talk to me about good sense," Kate snorted but sank back onto the blanket and settled herself against his shoulder.

"Her father couldn't have stolen it without her mother's help," he pointed out. "When you walked into the brig that morning, I swore to God if we got out of that war alive, I was going to marry you."

"Come on, Kate, we want to hear how you and Tori did that again," Anderson called from the other side of the dancing flames.

Someone passed Kate another beer and she launched into a re-telling, finding none of the escapade's details had dimmed over the years.

XXX

If I'd known what else was going on that evening, I might have bothered to go check on the kids. Or maybe not. It wasn't like they were doing anything wrong and Greg was right, you have to let them grow up some time. Joy had good sense and we both trusted her. As much as you can trust an almost 17-year-old girl but then, her parents didn't really have any room to talk. - Kate

To be continued . . . one more chapter to wrap everything up with a big fat bow on it!