I have to admit, I was rather amused while watching "Presumed Dead" that on the map the Gutterman is measuring, Espritos is about two islands over from Vella. Espiritu Santu (which is what Espritos is based off of) is actually 800 miles away from Vella Lavella. However, it's much more convenient to annoy Lard from the next island over, I suppose!
The two weeks passed far too quickly for Bettie's liking, and soon, she found herself getting ready to fly to Espritos Marcos for her hearing—albeit with a total of three kills under her belt. The Black Sheep had been good to her, and allowed her to finish off Japanese fighters that they had worn down. Of course, they wanted her to look good for the hearing, so they could keep their Little Sister flying with them. Hutch preferred that his little sister stay safely on the ground, but he couldn't deny that she didn't deserve her commission.
Bettie straightened her beret and checked one more time that all her insignias were in the right places. Her hair felt foreign in a neat bun instead of her typical braid. She picked up the purse that went with her uniform and took a deep breath. This was it. Outside the tent, all her friends were gathered, waiting for her to walk her to the plane. She wasn't going alone, of course. Greg and Jim were coming, as her superiors, and also her wingman. Boyington was bringing Casey along for safety, since he would be able to bail them out of the brig… just in case. She felt awkward in the WASP uniform. The Santiago blue would stand out against marine khaki. She was supposed to take pride in wearing her uniform, but she only ever did when she absolutely had to make the best impression possible. That hadn't happened often recently.
She stepped out of the tent and surveyed the crowd gathered. It wasn't unusual to see Casey in his formal uniform. He possibly was the only man in the outfit that was actually proud to be a marine. However, Bettie stifled a giggle at the sight of Gutterman all shined up and pressed.
"Jim? I almost didn't recognize you!" She exclaimed in mock surprise, pressing her hands against her cheeks.
"Bettie? Is that you? Darlin', you look like a girl!" He shot back, not missing a beat.
They exchanged grins. The pair had become fast friends, once they'd sorted out living together. After missions, they'd talked a lot in the darkness of their tent once the lights went out across camp. When they'd started, it'd been a way to pass the time before they fell asleep, but eventually they ran out of superficial small talk and had started on things like families and home. And since they spent much of their time together, they had a lot of time to talk. He'd told her about his little sisters and how he hoped he'd make it home to scare off their boyfriends when they were old enough, and she'd told him what it was like being raised by her brother and she hoped he'd be able to find a nice girl that wasn't scared off by her.
Boyington cleared his throat, "All right, you two. We got a plane to catch, and it's already oh-six-hundred. Wiley, you've got the con. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone, okay?"
T.J. threw up a sloppy salute with a lazy grin. "Yes, sir."
He'd quietly asked Boyington if he could accompany them, but Greg had decided that the least amount of troublesome pilots that he could get away with bringing was what he'd take. And since Casey and Gutterman had been summoned to testify at Bettie's hearing, they were the only ones going.
As the rest of the Black Sheep watched the DC-10 take off, Wiley looked around at the crew. "We'll take off at oh-seven-hundred hours."
When Bettie entered her hearing, she was overjoyed to find the entire 214 sitting in the audience of the hearing, along with a highly stressed looking Boyington. T.J. gave her a wink as she took her seat, and she found herself feeling considerably better. Gutterman sat to her left and gave her a reassuring half smile. They all knew she deserved to be commissioned. Now they just had to prove it.
The hearing dragged on with all the formalities and Bettie was feeling rather bored by the time it was her turn to speak. When it was, she moved to a seat at the center of the room in front of the panel of brass. Moore was on the panel, and she was thankful for that. He gave her a nod before the questioning began. He was pulling for her. She was asked to explain how she'd even ended up flying with the 214 in the first place.
"Well, sir… I joined up with the Women's Airforce Service Pilots about as soon as I turned eighteen, since my brother—Sergeant John Hutchinson, that is—was serving in the South Pacific and I was left alone…" She was eyeing the young officer typing frantically to make a transcript of what she was saying. She looked back to the panel and continued, "I finished flight school and earned my wings. I was give a chain of assignments that brought me further and further into the South Pacific a few months after I received my wings."
She swallowed the lump in her throat, "I was on an assignment to Espritos Marcos when I met a pilot in the Officer's club who was assigned to take a new Corsair out to the 214, where I knew my brother was stationed. He was rather intoxicated, however, so I volunteered to take the mission."
She decided to leave out the part about her drinking him under the table that night to get his orders and taking off the next morning with a splitting hangover. Judging from Moore's expression, however, she figured he knew what had happened.
"How noble of you." One of the generals on the board, a General Wilson, noted dryly.
She faltered a bit, but she could hear her guys shifting behind her and forged on. "I was shipped back to Espritos, and served another few months around the South Pacific before I was attached to VMF-214." All eyes cut to Boyington, knowing just who was responsible for that. "I served as the mechanic's pilot, flying test runs during maintenance and repairs. I flew my first combat mission on a mission out of Seona. I was picked up with the rest of the 214, including the dog and the mechanic. I was the photographer for the mission. When we flew our next mission, I filled in for Lieutenant Boyle, who was ill. The next several missions, I filled in for various pilots. And that's been the past few weeks."
There was some hushed discussion, before Colonel Lard asked, "And what makes you qualified for combat?"
"With all due respect, sirs, I'm trained on a wider variety of aircraft than Marine pilots are. And furthermore, I currently have three kills."
The questions continued along this vein until finally, Moore asked, "Miss Hutchinson, why are you so eager to serve as a combat pilot?"
She wasn't expecting anything like that, and was silent for a minute as she gathered her thoughts.
"Well, sir," She said at last, "Why shouldn't I? If men are allowed to fight and die for their country, then what says I shouldn't be able to, also?"
An awkward silence filled the room as the board shifted uncomfortably at her bluntness, before Moore ordered a recess.
Bettie was behind the building with a cigarette, trying to calm her nerves, when the rest of the Black Sheep found her. They crowded around her, congratulating her on answering the questions so well. She was feeling a bit crowded, but she accepted their praise with a blush.
"Thanks, guys, but we aren't anywhere near done. I just upset them a bit." She tried to explain over them, but they drowned her out. She could see Boyington coming towards them. He definitely didn't look happy to find that all of his squadron was on Espritos, when they should have been on Vella.
"Wiley!" He hollered when he got closer to the group. "What in the blue blazes is going on?"
The other pilots parted like the Red Sea to leave T.J. standing alone. The grin faded from his face and he looked down, avoiding Boyington's glare.
"Why are all of my pilots and all my damn planes on this island? We were just supposed to go, do the hearing, and come home. Now I've got a dozen of you to keep an eye on so I'm not fishing you all of the brig!"
His fists were clenched as he barked at his hapless crew. As if it wasn't stressful enough to try to get Bettie commissioned, what with the reputation of the 214, now he had the whole squadron invade the island against his orders. He just knew that he'd be dragging them out of bars and fights and the WACs' quarters all the next morning. Bettie stepped forward and rested a calming hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sure that they just wanted to show support. And I'm sure that they'll be on their best behavior. Right, gentlemen?" She looked around at them, sternly. She was met with sheepish grins and nods of agreement. "So let's just get through this hearing so we can get back to Vella tonight."
After the hearing was finished, the board retired to discuss their decision.
"'Discuss.'" Snorted Gutterman in derision, "They're just going to drink their brandy and laugh at the girl who thinks she can fly, and they'll say later, 'After careful consideration, it has been decided that we will not allow Miss Hutchinson to be given a commission in this goddamn Marine Corps.'"
The other pilots nodded glumly as they made their way out into the tropical afternoon. The hearing had devolved into a pecking fest after the recess, spurred on by Bettie's comment that she should be allowed to fight, simply because the men were. Their case looked hopeless. The older men were not at all impressed by the gangly, eighteen year old girl that they were presented with. They were looking for an attractive, feminine mascot to parade around and increase morale. Not some yearling colt of a girl, with grease-stained fingernails and a blunt attitude.
"How about a well-behaved drink?" Boyington suggested, "I'm buying."
He may not have been the most orthodox commander, but he knew that a happy crew was key to any squadron. And to be honest, he needed one himself.
A few hours, and quite a few subdued drinks later, an ensign entered the club, and made his way straight to Boyington. The young officer bent down and quietly said something to the major, who listened intently.
"You don't say?" Boyington murmured, still listening. The officer straightened and left the club before the Black Sheep could start anything. He was under strict orders to not get involved with them.
"Hey, Lieutenant!" Greg called, a grin splitting his face. Most of the Black Sheep turned around, as well as quite a few others bearing lieutenant bars. "Not you! Lieutenant Hutchinson! Your commission just came through."
Bettie's head snapped up, and she looked over her shoulder at Boyington in surprise. He waved her over, and she swung off of her stool at the bar, where she'd been sandwiched between the two Bobs, Boyle and Anderson.
"My what?" She gasped, padding over. He handed her the sheet of paper that the ensign had brought with—her commission. She scanned the page, her lips moving slightly as she read.
"Second Lieutenant. I'm a second lieutenant." She whispered in awe. She still couldn't believe that they had approved her. The rest of the 214 crowded around her, crowing congratulations and slapping her on the back. She was still staring at the piece of paper in shock.
That night, the Black Sheep celebrated their newest member in their typical, boisterous fashion: picking fights, trying to drink the bar dry, and gambling away any pay that might have come their way. Even the normally-reserved Bettie joined in on the fun. Boyington seemed resigned to getting his squadron off the island without a stop in the brig, and decided to enjoy a few drinks, and then leave orders with Casey to handle the rest of them. He was getting too old to keep up with them.
Gutterman, T.J., and Anderson challenged each other to see who could outdrink whom while playing cards. Bettie was playing with them, too. Well, they were trying to explain what the rules were to her and how to play, but she wasn't betting, since she had to keep asking questions about her hand. And despite the fact that she'd protested about being dragged into their drinking game, she found herself with a bottle of rum and a glass at her elbow.
"Here, Casey. Help me with this." She pulled the stammering lieutenant down into the seat next to him and nudged the bottle towards him.
"I-I really can't. Pappy said I have to make sure no one gets in trouble." He protested. It wasn't really fair of Boyington to leave sweet Larry Casey in charge of his band of pirates. They never listened to him since he was the youngest. She poured him a glass, and set it firmly in front of him.
"Drink. I'll help you keep them in line." She gave him a firm look. He balked under her glare and picked up the drink.
Casey was the first to go, after only a few drinks, nodding off over his glass. Bettie moved it out of the way so when his head finally came to a rest on the table, he wouldn't break it. She'd been drinking from the bottle the whole night, anyways. Anderson was the next to go, struggling valiantly to keep his eyes open and not slur his words. Jim and T.J. were both flushed and laughing more freely than usual, but they both had plenty of practice being drunk. As they'd explained at the start, it's not just who lasted the longest, it's who drank the most for the longest before passing out. Bettie was feeling fantastic. It had gotten a little harder to light her cigarette with each one that she smoked, since everything looked a little further away than it really was, but she was laughing and animated as they played. T.J. excused himself to the restroom, and never returned.
"He's sleeping it off in the head." Gutterman explained when she expressed concern when he didn't return, "It's what he does."
The two continued to play and drink, and she was keeping up fairly well at both activities. Her physical size was an advantage to her for once. By the end of the night, Bettie had won one of Jim's paychecks, after winning back the two of her own that she'd lost earlier. It probably had something to do with the inebriated state of her fellow players, over her skill, but she couldn't help but be happy. A few more drinks and a cigarette later, and she realized that Jim was about done for the night. A few minutes later, and he was out.
Jim was asleep on her shoulder, leaving a slowly spreading wet patch of drool on her light blue uniform shirt. Not that she cared. She wouldn't have much use for it by tomorrow, when she would get her marine uniforms and insignia. She finished the last bit in her bottle, bringing her to the lead. She was in no shape to go anywhere but to sleep anyways, so what was a little more? She shifted a bit more and leaned her head back, closing her eyes. She'd hate herself tomorrow, but tonight, she'd wanted to enjoy herself, and cut loose a little bit. And boy, she had.
The next morning, Greg found all his Sheep just where he'd left them. Scattered around the Officer's club. He'd recruited a few enlisted men to help him rouse them and pile them all into the truck he'd commandeered. They were in no shape to fly home, but he'd dump them in some bunks for a few hours and let them sleep it off. Especially since nearly all of his planes were now parked on the landing strip on Espritos, and he needed them to fly them back.
Bettie was awoken by a stranger in fatigues shaking her. "C'mon, Miss. Wake up. You shouldn't be seen like this." He coaxed. He obviously was concerned that others finding her passed out in a pile of marines would harm her reputation.
"It's lieutenant…" She yawned and squinted, trying to make out his rank through bleary eyes, "… Corporal."
He snatched his hands off of her shoulder. It was one thing to touch a male officer, but a female one? No thank you. He liked not being court martialed. He moved on to wake up others, as far away from the lady lieutenant as he could. He hated it when the female officers left off their insignia. How was a guy supposed to keep track of them all?
Bettie stretched a bit, but still had Gutterman fast asleep against her. She nudged him a bit, trying to rouse him.
"Jim. Wake up."
He grumbled and nuzzled deeper into her shoulder.
"No… c'mon. I want my arm back." She shook him a little more, trying to get out from under him. There were another two pilots between her and the end of the booth though, so it really was futile. She started shaking all the men in reach.
"C'mon, guys. Wake up."
They were slowly beginning to stir with the activity in the room, but not fast enough for Boyington. He chuckled as the few that had been dragged to their feet stumbled around, being herded out the door by the enlisted men and into the truck. He kept shaking and smacking their backs as he waded through the room, booming morning greetings.
"Gah… Pappy…" Bettie groaned, rubbing her eyes. "Why are you shouting?"
Her head was throbbing, and she felt like her mouth was full of cotton. Around her, other Black Sheep were covering their ears and holding their heads, all in the same shape that she was in. One by one they were half pulled, half helped out of the booth and into the truck.
"Not that one. I need her." He took Bettie's arm from around the shoulder of the corporal that had woken her and draped it around his own. She didn't look so great, but he needed to get her uniform and insignia from the PX before he let her pass out again. The tall girl leaned against him, groaning softly.
"Take the rest of them and toss them into whatever bunks you have free." He instructed the men helping. They answered with a "Yes, sir!" and continued to work.
"And you, we're going to go pour some coffee in you." He chuckled as he supported her out the door.
He deposited her in a chair at the mess hall and quickly returned with the pot of coffee and two cups. She was looking a little more awake, at least, but still cradling her head in her hands.
"Why did you let me drink that much?" She whined as he poured her coffee and shoved it under her nose. Some of the dark liquid sloshed over the rim and onto the table.
"Believe me, I tried. You would have none of it." He sipped his own coffee, letting out a satisfied sigh. "You were in true Black Sheep form last night, picking fights and all."
"Oh god…" She groaned. "I don't want to hear this." Her head drooped lower until her nose was practically in her coffee.
"Oh yes. After you After you drank poor Casey under the table you were quite upset about a quiet comment from one of the WAACs in the room about women pilot. Almost came to blows with her date, until you stood up and scared the snot out of him. I've never seen anyone leave a bar that fast. Then you proceeded to sit back down, and out drink Anderson, Wiley, and Gutterman. Quite a feat, I might add. I've never seen anyone drink Jim under the table. And you won his paycheck next month." He relished in telling her about her night.
"Nooooo…" Her voice was soft, muffled by her hands.
"Drink your coffee." He scolded, before continuing, "Yep. You drank until everyone else was passed out. And then you fell asleep on Jim. Quite a night for you."
She was drinking her coffee now, but her headache still persisted. As soon as she finished one cup, he poured her another until she had most of a pot. By the end of it, she was shifting somewhat uncomfortably, but feeling much more awake, even if her headache persisted.
"Meet me at the PX in ten minutes. I imagine you need a little time after last night." He said, excusing himself from the table. "And you did just drink a whole pot of coffee."
As ordered, she was at the PX ten minutes later, feeling no better than before. Hangovers were only cured by sleep, in her opinion. She'd been able to wash her face, but she didn't have the patience or the hairbrush to deal with her hair, so she stuffed it down her collar and clapped her beret on, which miraculously hadn't been lost the night before.
"Well don't you look like a ray of sunshine, Lieutenant?" Boyington chirped upon seeing her. He held the door for her, and she shot him a death glare and stalked into the PX past him. She'd let him handle the details of getting her uniforms issued. She was hung over, she was in a skirt and heels, she didn't care. She stood and let her measurements be taken and kept her mouth shut when the officer in charge mentioned that it was lucky she was so straightly shaped, as she'd fit a male uniform just fine. A half an hour later, her temper was about boiled over from the officer's comments and Boyington bundled her out of the PX, a stack of various pieces of uniforms and another flight suit neatly folded in her arms.
"Now can I go back to sleep?" She muttered as he hustled her away from the PX.
"Two more hours." He said tightly. While she was being fitted at the PX, he'd heard the MPs discussing Colonel Lard and how he was going to get those lousy Black Sheep this time. He was going to get the rest of his pilots poured into their birds and beat it home before they could be grounded.
"Two hours?!" She whined, but the look on his face stopped her. "Oh. Let's go get the guys."
She realized that he knew something was up, and wanted to get off the island, now. She helped him get the rest of the squadron out of bed and to the strip. She wasn't too worried about their flying, since it wouldn't be the first hungover flight that they'd ever taken. In the scramble, Boyington directed her to a Corsair to fly home. She climbed up on the wing, fighting her pencil skirt and pumps to do so. One of the passing pilots planted a hand on her behind and boosted her the rest of the way up with a yelp from her. In the cockpit was a helmet and Mae West, and she donned them, before flipping through a quick preflight check and starting up.
In a few moments, the little blue Corsairs trailed after the DC-10 like ducklings, and Bettie had a chance to count the planes. "Uh, Pappy?" She called uncertainly over the radio, "We have one bird too many."
"Oops." Greg responded, deadpan. "I guess we'll have to give it a good home."
"Am I flying a stolen bird?" She gasped. Her first flight as an officer, and it looked like it would be her last.
"Borrowed… permanently. We needed an extra. Got a new pilot." Gutterman's voice crackled through the air. "They weren't using it anyhow. I checked last night. Pilot landed it and walked off. Hasn't been seen since."
"Oh…" Bettie played with the controls a little bit, checking the plane's response. It felt quite agile under her touch. "Can I have it? Pretty please?" She giggled, keying her mic so the rest of the squad could hear.
"Why do you think we took it, you meathead?" Boyington snickered. "Little Sister needs her toy."
Meatball and Hutch were waiting patiently as each Corsair touched down and rolled into the line up. He'd wanted to see his sister and ask her how it went. As much as he didn't like the whole ordeal, he hoped she'd won. For her sake, at least. He counted more planes than had left his care though, and he hoped that it was a good sign. They always could use a spare plane, anyways. He scanned the line up, trying to figure out which one she had flown. Pappy, Casey, and Gutterman climbed out of the DC-10, so she wasn't there. She must have had one of the Corsairs.
Even with a helmet and a Mae West, he spotted her quickly in her WASP blues. He trotted over, Meatball chugging along behind him. He came alongside her plane just in time to dodge a pair of black leather pumps that came hurtling out of the cockpit, followed by her stocking clad feet as she wormed her way out, cursing her skirt the whole time. Hutch helped her down, trying to avoid her flailing feet.
"Whoa, there." He laughed as he set her down. "How did it go, Stretch?"
She set her hands on his shoulders and looked solemnly into his eyes. "That's Lieutenant Stretch, to you, Sergeant. And I've been in this damned skirt for over twenty-four hours, I am hung over, and I am in desperate need of a shower. And so help me God, if you get in between me and that shower."
He watched her pad away in her stocking feet, pumps in one hand, and helmet in the other, and he adjusted his hat on his head in confusion. Just what had happened? He thought that they would come right back after the trial. He heard Boyington calling for him, though, and turned to meet the major.
"Yo." He answered, catching up to the older man.
"Listen, I got something I need you to do…" Boyington began, lowering his voice to discuss his plans.
Hutch nodded as he listened to the covert plans that Boyington had in mind. "Yeah, Pappy. I can do it now."
"Good boy." Boyington patted the mechanic's shoulder. "If you need help, ask whoever you think best for it."
Bettie was in the wooden stall that passed for a shower on the island when she heard heavy footsteps approaching through the bushes. It had become habit now for everyone to stomp down the path to the shower to alert anyone in it of their approach. It only took one time of Bettie nearly walking in on poor Casey before that rule was announced to the camp. Casey still made sure to announce when he'd be showering, just in case.
"I'm in here!" She called to let the approaching party know to turn around. She was too tall for the short walls of the shower, and if they came around the corner, they'd catch an eyeful. The footsteps stopped, and she heard Anderson's cheerful voice.
"Whoops! Sorry, Bettie. Looking for Meatball. Got a bone for him."
"Well, he's not here, sorry!" She had sunk down a bit to hide, as she heard footsteps again. "Bob! He's not here!"
"That's not me, it's Bobby."
"What's the hold up? Is there someone in the shower?" She heard Boyle ask.
"Yeah, Bettie is." Anderson answered him.
"Oh. Sorry, Bettie!" Boyle called from behind the bushes.
"Is Bettie in the shower?" T.J.'s voice joined the conversation.
"Yeah, she is." The two Bob's chorused.
Yet another voice, Casey's, cut in. "Aw man, are you all waiting for the shower?"
"Not me, I'm just looking for Meatball." Anderson replied.
"We are." Wiley and Boyle muttered.
"Aw, dang it!" Bragg grumbled, coming up on the crowd of guys.
"You all are, and if you don't scram, I'm never getting out! It's hard to feel like you have privacy when I can hear you all chattering away like birds in the bushes!" She finally shouted, feeling frustrated.
"Well, sorry!" T.J. called back exasperatedly.
"Don't you start with me, Wiley!" She snapped, rinsing out her hair. So much for a relaxing, tepid shower.
"I still outrank you, Hutchinson."
"And I'm still taller than you. And if you wanna compare anything else, you're welcome to it, after I finish my shower. Now get outta here!"
Grumbling, they all retreated, except Anderson, who'd already wandered away in search of the squad's pet. Bettie wrung out her hair in relative peace, and toweled herself off before dressing in her favorite flight suit and tee shirt. Just perfect for going straight back to bed.
Back in her tent, she toed off her boots and socks, and curled up on her cot to relax. She wasn't feeling quite so sleepy anymore, now that her hangover had worn off. She glanced over at her roommate, who was reading. He was always reading. He traded books around the South Pacific like they were black market silk stockings. With lots of downtime, books were a popular diversion.
"What are you reading?" She asked, plumping her pillow a bit.
He didn't look up from his book as he answered, "For Whom the Bell Tolls, by Hemingway."
"What's it about?" She snuggled into her bed a little more. Sometimes he'd read aloud if she pestered him enough.
"Spanish Civil war. Look, I'm still too hungover to read to you, darlin'. Why don't you get a book for yourself if you're so bored?"
She made a face. "I'm not a great reader. I don't pay attention very well."
Jim tented his book on the floor next to his cot to hold his place, and reached underneath the bed to rummage around. He emerged with what he'd been looking for. He tossed the book across the tent at her.
"Here. Try this one. I think you'd like it."
She glanced at the cover. Farewell, My Lovely it read. This sounded more sappy than she'd enjoy, and she looked dubiously at Gutterman.
"Just read it. It's a murder mystery. You'll like it." He urged, picking up his own book.
Grudgingly, she opened the book, and flipped through the few title pages to the start. The words blurred together like they always did for her. Just little grey squiggles. She moved the book closer to her face and squinted as she struggled to make out the words. Her lips moved slightly as she made out one word at a time. Slowly, she moved the book further and further from her face as the words grew clearer and clearer. By the time she was holding it as far away as she could, she could almost make out the words clearly. After a few pages of moving the book around, trying to read, Gutterman interrupted.
"Darlin', you can't read that, can you?"
"I can read!" She protested, casting him a glare.
He sighed softly at her defensiveness, "I mean, you can't see that to read it, can you?"
"Of course I can! Don't be silly. I'm just a bit hungover, that's all." She turned back to the book and pretended to read, turning the pages occasionally.
She was only six pages in, and it already didn't make sense. She wasn't going to admit that, though. The next thing she knew, he was taking the book out of her hands and holding it open further away than she was able to.
"Can you read it now?" He asked, watching her face. She squinted and shook her head, and he moved it further back until she finally nodded.
By that point the book was several feet away. If anyone knew that she couldn't read her instruments, she'd lose her wings. To be honest, she had only the faintest idea of which blurry circle measured what on her panel.
"How do you fly?" He asked, astonished.
"I look out the window?" She scoffed. She tended to judge most of her flying by who was around her. "Please don't tell anyone. You know I can fly fine. I've been flying for almost eight months now…"
"I won't, I won't." He sat at the end of her cot. "Have you always…?" He trailed off, not sure what to call it.
She shrugged, "Pretty much."
He shook his head. It completely boggled him that anyone could get to her age and not know that they needed glasses. "I can't believe you can't read."
"I can read, okay?! Just not things that are close to me." She rubbed her eyes.
She didn't know why she was explaining this all to him. She stood up abruptly. "Just don't tell anyone, okay?" She grunted before leaving the tent. Gutterman left as soon as she was out of sight to find Casey. If anyone could get ahold of reading glasses, it would be the blonde Lieutenant.
"So, about that comparing stuff…" T.J. grinned as he slung an arm around her shoulder. She shoved it back off.
"Not in the mood, Wiley."
He raised his eyebrows at her words and frowned a bit. She sure was in quite a mood. He wondered what was wrong with her. Maybe womanly things. If that was the case, he didn't want to know. But still, his task for the day was to keep her away from the airstrip until Hutch could finish his job that Boyington had given him. He had to find a way some how.
"Listen, I gotta run some paperwork over to the hospital that got sent here by accident. Wanna come?" He asked hopefully. Maybe if he was more sweet, and less cocky she'd say yes. "I'd really appreciate the company."
Bettie shrugged. "Sure, I guess." She didn't have much better to do, but she had wanted to see her brother. Maybe she'd go see him tonight, after it cooled off. Then maybe she'd be able to spend some time with him when he wasn't working.
"Great!" T.J. grinned, tossing her the keys to the company jeep. "You drive!"
Bettie fumbled to catch the keys, blushing. Her? Drive? She'd never driven before. There wasn't any need living where she did. She walked to school or took busses if she needed to go far. She couldn't think of anyone in her neighborhood who even had a car when she was growing up.
She sheepishly handed them back. "I think it's better if you do. I've never learned."
He looked at her in confusion. "You never learned?"
She couldn't help but giggle. Since they found themselves doing the same job in the same place, sometimes the Black Sheep forgot how much each other's backgrounds varied. Some were wealthy, some not. Some in college, some were juvenile delinquents. They weren't even all men, now that she'd joined.
"No, T.J. I grew up in the inner city. I didn't need to drive." She looked back over her shoulder at him as she continued walking. He'd stopped to process the fact that she'd never driven.
"Like, never ever? You've never driven?" He shook his head, catching up. He just couldn't imagine it. In his world, every household had at least one car.
"I didn't even know anyone who owned a car 'til I left for WASP training." She waited for him to catch up, before continuing, side by side with him to the jeep.
"Well, do you wanna learn? I'll teach you." He asked, dangling the keys in front of her. She eyed the jeep.
"I dunno, do you drive better than you fly?" She teased. He rolled his eyes.
"I know, I know. T.J. can't fly, T.J. has flamed more American planes than Japanese." He grumbled as he sat in the drivers seat and turned over the engine. Everyone always teased him, but he was still in the air, wasn't he? And with three Japanese kills to boot.
"I'm sorry. I would like it very much if you'd teach me how to drive." She touched his shoulder. He looked at her with distrust, waiting for her to crack another joke. "Please?"
He scooted over to the passenger seat and patted the driver's seat. "All right. Hop in."
She sat and looked at him expectantly, waiting for directions. He explained what all the pedals were and he showed her how to shift. She followed his directions and put the shifter into each gear, before finally he announced that she was ready to go.
"Easy! Easy! Let the clutch out and slowly press the gas!" He encouraged, as she sputtered to a halt after a few feet, stalling out.
Slowly, she managed to get the jeep out of camp, jolting and bucking the whole way as she tried to figure out the clutch. T.J. took advantage of the situation to lay his hand over hers on the shifter, and guide her through the gears as they got going. He moved on his seat to sit closer to her, his shoulder bumping hers. So she could hear his directions, of course. Not so he could touch her. Of course not. He was a gentleman… usually.
They made it safely across the island and to the hospital in far less time than it had taken Bettie to walk it before. She decided she needed to learn how to drive on her own. She'd begun to get the hang of it near the end of the trip, and had mad T.J. sit back on his side and let her drive. He'd settled into his seat and watched her from the corner of his eye. Her dark hair had begun to free itself from her braid, and was whipping around her face in the wind. She glanced at him and color crept across her cheeks when she noticed him watching. She was still blushing when she stopped outside the hospital, the jeep jerking as it stalled. She'd forgotten to put in the clutch.
"Oops." She mumbled, turning the key and setting the brake. She'd let T.J. drive them back.
"I'll be right back. Just gotta drop this off." He pulled the papers out of the manila folder they were in, and got out, leaving his cap on the seat. He hoped that having Bettie waiting for him would allow him to escape a little more easily, especially since there was that one nurse that would not give up on him.
He was back out in two minutes, much to his relief, and found that Bettie had moved to the passenger seat. "Your turn to drive."
He swung into the driver's seat and headed back towards the base. He couldn't help but keep glancing over at her. She'd taken his cap from the seat when she'd moved and was now wearing it, the brim low over her eyes against the bright sun. He thought it looked much better on her.
"Lieutenant Wiley, if you keep looking over here, you're going to go off the road." She commented lightly, inspecting her nails. Grease-stained, as always.
He jumped when she spoke, veering slightly. "Sorry." He mumbled, correcting the vehicle.
"Can you do me a favor and drop me at the airstrip? I promised Hutch I'd be back later when we landed." She asked. Her hair was in her face and she swatted it away in annoyance.
T.J. scrambled for an excuse why he couldn't. He didn't know if Hutch was done. "Uh, why don't you eat lunch first? You haven't eaten anything since yesterday." He suggested, "Then you can just head back with him after lunch?"
She grunted in agreement. "You're right. I should eat before he puts me to work."
T.J. was relieved that she agreed. He'd hate to have to stop her from going.
Across the island, Hutch was putting the finishing touches on his work. It was so hot out, he was sure that it would be dry by the time he got back from mess.
"Thanks for the help, French." He said, slipping down from his perch on the wing of Bettie's new plane. French gave him a thumbs up and started towards camp. With the scramble that morning, he'd missed breakfast, and felt like he was going to starve to death on the way to camp. Hutch trailed after him, looking at the plane one more time over his shoulder.