Thank you to those who read and reviewed the first chapter! I really do appreciate it.

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Winging It

Chapter 2/3

The crowd of pilots had long since disappeared, drawn by the promise of a good time and the lure of a flirtatious liaison. Only Boyington and Gutterman remained, working on the remnants of a fifth of scotch and a litany of problems that threatened to overwhelm the renegade outfit. General Moore may have authorized the unit, but they had to function under the command of the sour, straight-laced Colonal Lard, who was doing everything in his power to foil the Black Sheep's success. The squadron was short on personnel, supplies, and options and Lard's campaign was straining even Boyington's shrewd manipulative abilities. For now, the Black Sheep were one step ahead, but Greg couldn't count on that advantage to hold.

Greg saw something catch Gutterman's eye and turned to see Casey returning in the fading light of dusk. Sweat soaked his shirt but an easy, swinging stride replaced the rigid, tense gait with which he'd left camp.

"What do you think of Casey, Jim?" Greg asked, veering away, momentarily, from their unresolved spare parts issue. He appreciated his XO's honest insight, even when its delivery, more often than not, was stained with a bit of cynicism. "You guys work more closely together than anyone, at least out of the sky."

Greg noticed a slight hesitation as Gutterman fiddled with his empty shot glass. He raised the bottle but Jim shook his head, refusing another measure, before responding. "I don't rightly know. He's not a half bad pilot, but he's green, Greg. Real green."

Boyington chuckled, "So are half the guys in the squadron." Many of his pilots lacked any significant combat experience and most of those who had flown against the enemy still didn't have a victory to their name.

"Yeah, but Casey's naive, and not just in the sky. I don't know if he's going to be able to make it here. Not with this bunch. I don't have anything against him, but when push comes to shove, is he gonna fold on us when Lard comes barreling in? Maybe Boyle's right and he'd be better off with a different unit."

"He'll stand up to Lard when it counts," Greg said confidently, even though similar concerns gnawed on him. Boyington had dodged a fair bit of trouble in his years and his success, when it came, was largely dependent on his keen ability to observe people. He'd seen the hesitation and doubt that lurked in Casey's eyes. Such misgivings were a liability in an outfit like this one, whose very existence depended on its capability to influence and manipulate the people and situations around them.

Casey was trusting and honest and, somewhat selfishly, Greg had used that to his advantage on Espritos Marcos, at least in the beginning. It wasn't until Casey had joined him in his covert plan that Greg realized what a valuable asset the lieutenant actually was to the unit. Still, in the back of his own mind, a bit of guilt hung and he, too, wondered if Casey really belonged with VMF-214. He had no idea if Lard was eventually going to win and court martial them all, including Casey, whose only significant transgression was his association with Boyington. But still, the fact that Casey had joined up with him in this crazy scheme gave him some hope. "Don't forget, he's been in on this with me from the beginning, longer than anybody else."

"Why?" Gutterman asked intently, suddenly very serious. "Why would anyone who wasn't awaiting court martial…or as crazy as you…join this chicken outfit? I talked with one of the guys in Casey's flight class. He said he was a nice enough guy, but that Casey toed the line. His jaw about his the floor when he found out he was flying with us. It doesn't make any sense."

Greg took a drink. And then another. "I dunno," he finally answered. "I've wondered about that, too. Maybe he is as crazy as me. Maybe we just need to corrupt him a little bit. He has shown promise. " Greg offered up the nearly empty scotch bottle as proof of Casey's growing competence for black market dealing.

Gutterman looked less than convinced. "Maybe. But I will tell you, Greg, you need to quit riding him so hard. He's trying. I don't know anything about all that paperwork. I couldn't do it in a hundred years and I doubt any of the rest of these yahoos knows it any better than I do. But Casey, he's getting it figured out. Chewing on him like today, in front of all the guys, all that's gonna do is cause problems."

Greg sat in silence for a several moments mulling over Jim's comment. Both Jim and Casey were already invaluable Black Sheep officers but they were a study in contradictions.

He'd appointed Gutterman as his executive officer based far more on the man's defiant attitude and tenacity than on anything to do with his rank. Jim outright didn't give a damn when Greg gave him a dressing down. He might respect Greg but he wasn't one to kowtow to anyone.

How the man had managed to earn and keep his captains bars, even with upwards of six years in the military, was beyond Greg's understanding. Gutterman's latest offense, though hardly close to only transgression, thrashing a colonel, had landed him on the court martial list and had all but guaranteed his immediate and dishonorable discharge from the military, along with a one-way ticket to the brig stateside. Only Boyington's arrival in the South Pacific Theater had changed the course of his future.

Though one of his younger officers, Casey was the most dependable and reliable of the lot. He had assumed much of the responsibility traditionally handled by clerical staff, positions for which Lard was unlikely to provide the necessary support personnel. It was also an aspect of forming a squadron that Greg admitted he had deficiencies. Lard frequently reminded him of that by quoting out of the Marine Corps manual, a book which Boyington had about as much use for as colonels.

As had been so evident during his own clerical stint on Espritos Marcos, the paperwork associated with the military was not one of Greg's strengths and was a task he had underestimated in its magnitude. The amount of paperwork to keep the squadron running was overwhelming, and all of it in triplicate. Casey was starting to get it figured out. He spit out military form numbers like they meant something, came into the Marines knowing how to keep pretty fair books, and was also turning out to be a quick study on the art of military acquisitions, on and off paper.

However, Casey sometimes reminded Greg of a young puppy, eager and biddable, but sensitive and requiring a light hand. While most of the guys needed a good right hook to keep them in line, Casey hardly needed more than a hard stare or a sharp word. In fact, today was the first time Greg could recall Casey even arguing with him.

Greg downed the last few swallows of scotch directly from the bottle before looking at it, almost sadly. The pair's discussion had failed to circle back to the spare parts they needed or any of the other unresolved issues, but forcing solutions had never worked for him. Right now, there was too much thinking and an insufficient amount of drinking.

"Enough of this. Let's head down to that party," Greg concluded. Gutterman just laughed and followed him out the door, seeming as eager as Greg to forget their current issues for one evening. They'd be back tomorrow...they always were.

The roar of the party reached them well before they crested the dune. Below them, a large bonfire lit the darkened beech, shadows dancing along with the crowd of pilot and nurses. The party was loud and raucous, just like his men.

Greg commandeered a comfortable spot by the beers, not too far from the fire. He dropped down into the sand, can in hand, observing the activity around him. His pilots and the nurses were clearly enjoying the socialization. Occasionally, the group around the fire would sing along, off key and without any sense of beat, to one of the songs from the radio. The rest of the time, their laughter and yells easily drowned out the loud music blaring with all its might from a small radio.

As was his style, it didn't take Jim long to cozy up with one of the nurses and disappear. Greg himself didn't feel all that much into that sort of companionship tonight. He mainly wanted a livelier atmosphere, a break from the pressures and stresses of the last few days. It was nice to have something less depressing on his mind than thinking about how Lard was trying to bury them.

The media and the American public had eaten up their stunt. Papers ranging from Stars and Stripes to The New York Times had written about how they'd tricked the Japanese fighters into engaging them by pretending to be bombers. However, no matter how well others received news of his actions, it only seemed to stoke the aggrieved fire in Lard. Sacking the Black Sheep now appeared to be Lard's career obsession and primary hobby.

Boyington pushed the depressing thoughts aside with alcohol and quickly lost track of the beers and time. Sometime early the next morning, when the fire had died to grey, smoldering embers, he stumbled towards camp. A fair number of his pilots were scattered along the beach, sleeping off their libations.

Back in his tent, he discovered his bull terrier asleep, and snoring, in the center of his cot.

"Meatball," he slurred, "get off." The dog didn't bother to open an eye or even twitch an ear.

"Why did I go through all the bother to sneak you here if all you're good for is snoring in my bunk?" he complained to the dog, who apparently still didn't care to wake up and respond. "Ungrateful flea bag," Greg muttered as he pushed the hefty and uncooperative white mound to the edge of the cot. He dropped onto his cot, fully clothed, too tired and drunk to care about the discomfort of sleeping with the large bull terrier.

XXXXX

The next morning came far too early for Greg, the effects of the alcohol still evident. He awkwardly tried to untangle his legs from around Meatball, the dog groaning in irritation at the disturbance. Eventually Meatball jumped off and Greg was fairly certain the dog growled a curse at him as he trotted out of the tent. Greg slowly rose and dressed, a stiff back adding to his alcohol-induced discomfort.

Breakfast was a painful affair and Greg decided after a few bites of the burnt biscuits and gamey, stringy meat that it just wasn't worth the effort. The guys were rotating through mess duty and the results had often been less than palatable. The wild hog meat they'd been forced to use to supplement their limited provisions wasn't helping the quality of the meals. Men straggled in, looking worse for wear and choked down their lukewarm morning meal, complaints thick.

Casey, clean shaven and tidy, walked in and dropped onto the seat opposite Greg. Greg gave him a sour look and Casey threw him an easy grin in return before pulling a small wax paper bundle from the breast pocket of his flight suit and tossing it lightly in front of Greg.

"Breakfast today left a bit to be desired," Casey said, looking at the food with a grimace, "even when it was hot. I figured, after last night, you might want something a bit more…edible."

Greg opened the package to find a couple of crumbled molasses cookies. "You got a nurse I don't know about?"

Casey rolled his eyes as he stood up to leave. "They're from my sister."

"Be on the fight line at a quarter past ten," Greg called after him.

"Wouldn't miss it," Casey chirped on his way out the door. That boy was too damned cheerful this morning...every morning really, but especially this morning.

The hard bits of the molasses cookies, along with a cup of the bitter coffee, helped to settle his stomach, which improved his attitude, albeit slightly. He'd never admit to his men that the alcohol might, occasionally, be to blame. He barely admitted it to himself, most days. Somehow, Casey had figured it out, but, thankfully, seemed disinclined to spread the detail around.

A little after ten, they dragged their butts to the flight line and went out looking for the Japanese. It was a slow morning. The hungover men paired with the lack of enemy planes resulted in a great deal of silence. Slowly, the men's dispositions improved and the banter began to heat up.

"So, Gutterman, you got home awful early last night. Strike out?" TJ Wiley, Gutterman's wingman taunted.

"Well, since you got back before me it must mean you didn't do any better. Right now you better work on keepin' that bird of yours flying straight and level. Maybe if you learnt how to handle a plane, you could manage a nurse," Gutterman growled back. The lightness in Jim's tone indicated he'd been more successful than he was letting on.

"Casey, seems like you didn't even need to come to the party. You didn't make it back to your bunk last night at all," Jerry Bragg jumped in. Bragg was Casey's bunkmate and on-again, off-again wingman. Greg was still feeling his men out, trying to figure out who meshed and who clashed. Today he'd paired Bragg with Boyle and Casey was flying wingman for him. Bragg was young and easy going, but sometimes a bit oblivious.

"Ha!" Boyle jumped in. "Casey couldn't find a girl if we dropped one outside his door. And if he did, he wouldn't know what to do with her!"

"Well at least I wouldn't miss the Zeros flying up my ass. Zeroes five o'clock high!" Casey shot back.

"What the hell!" Boyle responded. "How'd they get there?"

"I dunno, Boyle," Gutterman snapped. "How about we get on up there and you can ask 'em!"

"Alright everybody, let's keep our heads on straight," Greg interrupted as he dropped his goggles. "A Flight with me. B Flight form up on Jim."

They were still rough, these men, and it would be a lie to say they functioned well together; but they were improving and their promise was evident as they moved to engage with the enemy. The Zeros might have gotten the jump on them, but they didn't seem much more experienced than his pilots and the Japanese advantage didn't last long.

The Japanese Zeros scattered as the Corsairs aggressively attacked. Boyington quickly pulled in behind one of the enemy planes, easily outpacing the other aircraft. He fired several volleys in quick succession and heavy smoke began to pour from the plane before its pilot had the opportunity to even try and outmaneuver the faster Corsair.

Greg quickly turned his attention from the smoking aircraft towards another target. This one proved to be more of a challenge as its pilot maneuvered his Zero out of position before Greg could get off more than a burst. Greg was still intently focused on the Zero when Casey came over the mic. "Greg, break left! You've got a zero coming up behind you."

Frustrated, but without hesitation, Boyington followed the directions of his wingman. He saw the Zero fly by on his starboard side, Casey in pursuit. Greg heard the repeated bursts of Casey's 50 caliber machine guns and then saw the Zero roll uncontrolled to the right as it plunged down towards the ocean.

"Nice work, Casey," Greg called out as Casey returned and formed back up with him. A week ago Greg would have questioned his wingman's ability to identify the danger quickly enough to act on it before the Zero had a chance to put some of its own rounds in his airplane. Yes, they were in fact getting better as a squadron.

"Looks like the rest of them are running and we don't have the fuel to follow. Let's go home," Greg ordered his pilots.

Overall, the morning mission had been positive. They'd gotten three kills, with Gutterman also adding to the count. Additionally, their own planes had suffered little damage. It wasn't until they returned to Vella La Cava that everything went to hell.

Greg had barely climbed out of his bird when a corporal, whose name he couldn't remember, hesitantly came up, throwing him an unreturned salute, and stammering nervously, "U-ummm, s-sir, major, sir."

Greg stopped walking and looked at the squirrelly corporal, expectantly raising his eyebrows when the man didn't continue.

"Umm, u-umm, the oil sir…"

"Well, spit it out," Greg prodded, dread rising.

"It wasn't on the shipment, sir. And…and the crew said there's no oil deliveries scheduled for us on the roster." Of all their problems, he thought they'd worked out the oil issue.

"Casey! Gutterman!" Boyington shouted to the two pilots, striding quickly over to them. Casey threw a guilty glance at Gutterman who, in turn, gave Casey a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

"Casey, that captain what's-his-name, who we traded for oil…" Greg signaled his hand emphatically until Casey offered up the name.

"Captain Uptmoor?"

Greg snapped his fingers, "Yes, him. Seems like he's reneged on our oil deal. You two, first thing in the morning, beat it over to Espritos Marcos and get this straightened out. Lard has already promised to throw me in the brig if I show up there. And with General Moore off Espritos, you know he'll do it. Lard is just waiting to trip us up. Go talk to this Captain Uptmoor and get it straightened out. And, fellas," Greg said, looking seriously at his pilots, "stay out of Lard's way."