Notes: Here goes – first story. Thanks to Highland Gypsy for the kick in the…er…motivation to get a story posted.

Feedback, good and bad, is very much appreciated!

XXXXXXXXX

Winging It

Chapter 1/3

"I'm working on it, Greg," the lieutenant snapped, finally pushed beyond the point of frustration by his new CO's demands. Twenty-one year old fighter pilot Lieutenant Larry Casey ran his fingers through his blond hair in an attempt to regain his composure. Yes, he'd freely joined Major Greg Boyington in covertly forming a new squadron. Yes he desperately wanted to get out from behind that desk on Espritos Marcos where he'd first landed when being shipped to the South Pacific. Yes, he'd willingly gone from a Marine with a squeaky clean record to one who'd violated who knows how many rules, direct orders, and regulations just for the opportunity to fly. But Greg's expectations of him were far outstripping his capabilities.

Somehow thirty-five year old Major Greg Boyington, affectionately now called Pappy by his men, had managed to steal a squadron, bypass the wrath of Colonel Lard, and use a massive ploy to pull out a huge moral victory over the Japanese, all without seeming to breaking a sweat. On top of it all, he seemed to expect everyone else reporting to him to be just as skilled and effortless in their own assignments. For Casey, his own assignments appeared to include not only piloting a half chewed up, oil leaking Corsair, but almost anything on the island that might require a pencil or paper. Requisitions, payroll, daily and weekly reports…the list of paperwork rattled around in his mind from dawn to dusk and even managed to invade his dreams on more than one occasion.

Now, the two of them sat on opposite sides of a table in a ramshackle shack on the Marine base located on the island of Vella La Cava. It was the only structure of size standing on their part of the island, so, naturally, the pilots of VMF-214 had turned it into their officers' club. Appropriate for a screwball gang of misfits whose only real reason for escaping court martial was Greg Boyington's brash disregard of military conduct, along with some previously underappreciated skill as pilots. Unsurprisingly, most Marine units didn't care how well you could fly if you were constantly failing to obey orders, illegally distributing of alcohol, or striking superior officers. The Black Sheep, as VMF-214 christened themselves, much to the further dismay of Colonel Lard, obviously did not set the same stock in appropriate military conduct as any other Marine unit.

"Before we formed this squadron you said you knew a few things about protocol," Greg countered sharply from the other side of the table.

"Yeah," Casey replied emphatically, "a few things. Not the whole book."

"Well, you don't need to know the whole book," Greg shot back. "Just the important parts." Greg smiled and took a drink of his scotch. Casey glared.

"Well I hate to break up this little love fest," drawled Captain James Gutterman, VMF-214's new executive officer, dropping down in a chair, "but do we have any idea when we might be getting our new mechanics? Our birds are getting beat up pretty good and that skeleton crew we got ain't gonna be able to turn 'em around very fast without some help." Gutterman leaned back in the chair, yawning and rubbing his blood shot eyes sleepily.

Casey didn't even have time to wonder at the captain's appearance this late in the day as Greg looked expectantly at Casey.

"When did personnel requests become my job, too?!" Casey asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Any progress he'd made on regaining his composure disappeared.

"Well, I'm assuming it's in 'the book'," Greg said, once again smiling, before heading to the bar to refill his scotch glass. Casey tossed his pencil on the table and leaned forward in his chair, resting his forehead on the edge of the table and closing his eyes at the pounding pain that that was beginning to take up residence in his head. He really didn't mind hard work, but he had no idea what he was doing at this job, other than to know he wasn't getting it done.

"Hey, Casey, we're gonna meet up with the nurses tonight on the beech for a bonfire. Wanna come?" Lieutenant Bobby Boyle asked. Vella La Cava had been a relatively remote and undesirable option for the location of their base. That was until Gutterman had pointed out to Greg the presence of a hospital, complete with nurses, stationed just a short jaunt on the other side of the small island. Now Boyle, like most of the Black Sheep pilots, seemed to spend a great deal of their free time partaking in various social activities with their attractive neighbors.

"Nope," replied Casey, not bothering to look up. "Too much to do here."

"Aw, come on. You can do this later," Boyle said, shoving Casey's carefully organized piles together. Casey's shot up at the sound of rustling papers, knocking his chair over backwards with a thump.

"Touch one more of those forms and I will personally make sure YOU don't go to the beach tonight. Got it!" Casey's had his finger in Boyle's face and his expression left no room for argument, but Boyle, a good head shorter than Casey, didn't back down.

Gutterman, looking a bit less sleepy at the prospect of violence occurring above his head, stood up in between the two pilots. He grabbed Boyle by the collar and pushed Casey away with a hard shove to the chest. The captain glared at each of them and both backed off, neither wanting to end up on the painful side of Gutterman's well-practiced fist. Casey turned and set his chair back up, face flushed, but without another word.

"Well, aren't we a little uptight?" Boyle spat at him snidely as he yanked away from Gutterman's grip and walked to the bar to grab a beer. "A girl would do you good, Casey." Chuckles rose from more than a few of the other pilots. Casey clenched his jaw, carefully collected his papers, and left without a word, pushing past Jim on his way out.

Boyle's words followed him out the door, clearly said loudly enough for him to hear, "How'd we end up with an up-tight like Casey in this outfit anyhow? Seems to me like he ought to be in the 'real' Marines, not with us."

Casey dropped his paperwork off in the Ops Shack and stalked off. He needed space and time to walk off his feelings of frustration and misgivings. Boyle's words had hit him hard. He'd already been asking himself the same question, and not for the first time in the few weeks since VMF-214 came into existence.

He'd never been a trouble maker. He'd followed the rules, worked hard, and made a relatively positive impression up through flight training. It wasn't until he landed a desk next to Major Boyington on Espritos Marcos that somehow his world had started tilting.

He wasn't pretending he was innocent in all of this; he and he alone had made the decision to go along with the major's crazy scheme. But now he was seriously questioning how really insane he must have been to agree to be part of any of it.

Truth be told, he knew he didn't fit in here. Everyone else was so capable, so confident, so… everything he wasn't. Hell, even when he was relegated to the paperwork, something any moron in the outfit could do, he couldn't manage to get it right.

French, Bragg, Anderson…all of them seemed to be what Boyington expected in a pilot and a 214 officer. Even Wiley, who could barely keep his plane in the air without shooting down his own wingman, had found his place and been accepted in this unit. And Gutterman. Casey was somewhat in awe at how quickly everyone, himself included, had turned to Gutterman as the XO in this band of misfits. Yeah, Gutterman had rank, but rank didn't mean diddly in this unit. The guys all listened to him because he had an attitude and an air about him that instilled confidence...and a hard fist to back up that attitude.

In comparison, Casey deeply questioned how little he had to offer this outfit. He hated being the one to continually disappoint Greg. And he'd sure as he'll been doing that a lot lately, with failed Black Market deals, muddling the paperwork, and not getting things done as Greg wanted them.

It was a good hour and a half of walking through the island's heat, humidity, and mosquitos before Casey returned to camp. He was hot and sweaty, but at least his frustration had been driven for now from his mind by his physical exertion. Done feeling sorry for himself, he added 'personnel request - mechanics' to his mental to-do list and dove back into the paperwork. At least with the Black Sheep he got to fly an airplane, instead of just a desk.