All events in this story are made up, mostly badly.  The historical
accuracy of this story is thus precisely nil, based as it is on one
showing of 'Pearl Harbor', during which I mostly covered my ears
and hummed and hoped it would eventually end, and reruns of 'Black
Sheep Squadron' or whatever the show was called.  I'm ashamed of
myself for the lack of research, but I did it anyway.  So there. 
Nanny nanny boo boo.

Summary: Some battles may seem pointless, but they have to be
fought anyway.


Something To Fight For, by Mercutio (mercutio@europa.com)

Pairing: AJ and Lance
Words: imaginary; leer; ornamental; Motown


"Goddamnit," Bone said, jumping out of his airplane, which had a
bullet trail along the side.  Richardson, his crew chief, was
already advancing on him, a murderous look on his face.  "I'm gonna
kill the little bastard."

Up until a week ago, Lieutenant Alex McLean, call-sign 'Bone', had
been flying wing to Captain Howard Dorough.  Dorough, 'Sweet D',
was a dark-haired man with a kind word for everyone and an aunt who
sent him packages of candy, cookies and chocolate on a regular
basis.  He was steady, reliable, and had a gift for calming people
down.  Their partnership was an easy one; Sweet D gave the
directions and let Bone have his head.

Then Sweet D broken his leg climbing out of the cockpit.  It'd been
a long night, and they'd all been weary.  In the half-darkness of
twilight, the captain had misjudged the distance and fallen.  It
was a stupid accident and could have happened to anyone.

Bone could think of a lot better people for accidents to happen to.

His crew chief for one.

"What the hell did you do to my plane?" Richardson demanded.

Bone tried to push past him, but Richardson was a lot taller and a
lot meaner and held his ground.  There wasn't much Bone could do
about the height issue.  None of the pilots could be very tall. 
Captain Bass was the tallest and, at that, every one of their crew
chiefs towered over him.  Bone had heard Carter -- Sweet D's
man-in-charge -- talking to Fatone, who took care of Scoop.  Carter
envied the hell out of them for getting to go up and fight Jerry
directly, but Fatone said he pitied the nervy bastards.  Bone had
bristled and walked away.  There was nothing to be pitied about
him.  He had the best job going.  Well, when he didn't have to fly
with the bastard he was currently stuck with, he did.

"It wasn't me, it was him," Bone said, pointing at his current
wingman, who was just now emerging from his plane.

The other man pulled his helmet off, revealing close-cropped blonde
hair.  He was laughing maniacally.

There was, McLean observed sourly, not a scratch on *his* plane.

"*His* fault?" Richardson asked.  Sarcastically, he added, "What'd
he do?  Shoot you himself?"

Bone gesticulated at the blonde, who was grinning.  "He did it!"

"I didn't do anything."  Lieutenant Marshall Mathers, call-sign
Slim, strolled up, cocky smile fixed firmly on his face.  "Not my
fault you can't keep up with me."

"You're the wingman!  *You're* supposed to keep up with *me*!"

"Oh, right," Slim said, leering scornfully at him.  "You want me to
fly like you do, fat, dumb and happy, just waiting for somebody to
pick you off.  Not likely."

"You..." Bone grabbed at Slim, but Richardson held him back.  "I'm
gonna kill you."

Slim yawned.  "Anytime, anywhere, McLean.  Maybe you'll learn a few
things.  My balls, unlike yours, aren't ornamental."  He walked off
with a self-assured stride.

Bone fought his crew chief's hold.  "Let me go!"

"Why, so you can go start something and he can finish it, and we
can end up losing two pilots?  We need both of you up in the air,
not in the infirmary or on charges for fighting."

"Fine," Bone said sulkily.  "Let me go already.  I won't kill him."

Two planes touched down in perfect formation, separated by the bare
minimum distance required for safety.  One, two.

There were only two American pilots who flew like that, and Bone
wheeled and made for the spot where Timberlake was standing, arms
on his hips, waiting for his plane to roll up.  The RAF drew
hotshot pilots from the States who came over to fly for jolly old
England because there was nothing worse than being young and
wanting to fly and fight than being stuck back home doing endless
training exercises and getting about as much flight time as the
ground crew.  The American wing of the RAF stuck closely together. 
All volunteer, the pilots as well as many of the ground crews were
men who wanted to join the fight even though the United States was
not yet at a state of war with Germany.  The United States was
going to have to get involved eventually; everyone knew that.  It
was just a question of when.

He ran up to Kirkpatrick as soon as the major was out of his plane. 
"You gotta do something about Slim."

"I do, do I?" Kirkpatrick gave him a measured look.  "I don't think
I have to do anything.  But let's talk about it inside."

****

"Look, sir," Bone said when he got Kirkpatrick alone, "truth is,
I'm used to someone backing me up, not the other way around.  Give
me a solid direction and I can improvise around it better than any
man jack.  But I can't hold steady for no one, least of all this
yahoo."

The major gave him a level look.  "That what you think you're
supposed to be doing?"

"Don't know what else I *can* do.  Slim refuses to take direction
from me, and me--"  He didn't want to say it, but although he'd
been daring enough when flying with Sweet D, he'd lost his nerve
while trying to shepherd a kid even wilder than himself.  Slim was
pugnacious, paranoid and schizoid in the air.  "I can't do my best
and keep an eye on him at the same time.  It's just not working."

"It's only been three nights."

"How long does it need to be to know something's not gonna work? 
I've come back two nights out of three shot up, and if I make it a
fourth night, you're gonna see Richardson strangle me for letting
his baby get hurt."  Bone spent a lot of time flipping his crew
chief the bird when Richardson got over-protective of the
mechanical pile of junk he kept riding into the sky every night,
but there was a difference between Richardson chewing his ear off
about proper care for the airplane and bullet holes.  Bone didn't
like the latter any more than his crew chief did.

"Planes are easier to replace than pilots," Trickster observed.

"If this keeps up, you'll have to replace us both, sir."  The major
didn't insist on being sirred unless members of the RAF were
around.  Bone approved -- no reason to look bad in front of the
British.  But in this case, he thought the formality might help
push home his point and how earnestly he meant what he was saying.

"There is that.  Guess there's merit in what Scoop was saying. 
Usually is."

"Um, what did Captain Bass say?"

Kirkpatrick gave him a measuring look.  It was hard not to squirm
under that dark gaze.  "Just that the situation between you wasn't
gonna work and I should start looking for alternatives before I
didn't have a choice about it."

"That's about the size of it, sir."

"All right.  I'll go with his solution then, too, since he was
right about the first part.  As of tonight, you're demoted back to
junior.  You'll be flying wing to Scoop, and I'll take care of
Lieutenant Mathers."

"Good," McLean said, restraining a cheer.  He *was* glad though,
because if something hadn't done, he would probably have killed his
wingman -- if Slim hadn't gotten him killed first.

****

Kirkpatrick had been perfectly fair, Bone had to admit, walking
away from their impromptu discussion.  The major, more commonly
known as Trickster, had decided in his infinite wisdom, to do the
unthinkable and switch wingmen.  He would fly with Slim, and Bone
drew Scoop.

There was an unwritten rule.  You didn't break up wingmen.  If you
flew with someone, you kept on flying with that someone until one
of you was dead.  Or -- and people swore it was possible, but no
one really believed it -- the war was over.  A longterm partnership
made sense.  It gave them a better ability to read each other's
minds, to know what they were thinking in the air, when there was
much more to communicate than could be said in a quickly barked
word before they were maneuvering in the blackness.

Bone had been fine with that.  He'd gotten along great with Captain
Dorough.  Sweet D had taken him under his wing and as his wingman
the second McLean had shown up, confused, homesick but ready to
fight.

Except Sweet D was now stateside and Bone had gotten stuck with
Slim.

The Motown native was unbearable.  He refused to listen to anything
Bone had to say, refused to admit Bone might have more experience
-- and moreover seemed to feel that McLean was a prize idiot who'd
somehow managed to fool the Air Force into thinking he knew up from
down.

But all that was over now, because he didn't have to put up with
Slim any longer.

Bone blew into the officers' mess, for once actively searching for
Slim.

"You, my friend," he announced, "are no longer my problem."

Slim leaned back lazily and gave him an insolent grin.  "Only
people who have a problem with me are people who got problems of
their own.  And you, McLean, have more problems than most."  Slim
never called him by his call-sign.  It was like he thought a
call-sign was a gesture of respect that McLean didn't deserve. 
Like he didn't think 'McLean' was a pilot at all.

Nothing could dent Bone's elation.  "Try that out on the major and
see how far you get."

"Wouldn't.  Trickster knows what he's doing.  That thing he does in
the air?  That's called flying.  You should look into it."

"You..." Bone started, then stopped as two new arrivals swept in,
the major clearly in the lead with Captain Bass a half-step behind,
his hands in his pockets.  The Trickster was saying something and
Scoop was nodding.  Perfectly in sync.  Unlike him and Slim --
unlike even him and Sweet D back in the day.

His heart sank.  He'd been so happy at the prospect of getting rid
of Slim and of Slim getting stuck with the major, who wouldn't put
up with his antics, that it hadn't even occurred to Bone that this
would mean that he would then be partnered with Scoop.  The
hallmark of perfection in flying, who did everything as well as it
could possibly be done.  Who flew with absolute precision and who
knew everything before it happened, even seemingly down to where
enemy planes would be in the air.

Oh, yes.  This had been a *wonderful* idea.

Scoop wouldn't let anyone kill him by shooting his plane up -- or
down -- but the captain also wouldn't have any problems doing him
in for not living up to the Bass standards of perfection.  So on
one hand, he had Slim trying to get him killed for not flying like
a maniac, and on the other, he had Scoop trying to kill him for not
flying by the book.  And the third hand, which was the other side,
trying to kill him.  At least them, though, he could shoot at.

"Hell," Bone said as the two headed right for where he was
standing.

Slim sneered at him.  "What you so afraid of?  Dying?  Or living?"

Scoop bore down on him, and Bone didn't bother trying to answer.

****

That night, the wind died down just after sunset.  Bone had already
geared up and was coming out to the field when he spotted Scoop and
Trickster standing in the lee of a building, watching their planes
being readied.

Major Kirkpatrick had been flying with the American section of the
RAF for a long time.  His history was legendary to the new
arrivals, passed down -- and probably improved upon -- by those
already there.  Trickster'd been there long enough to change from
an eager lieutenant who'd earned his name with pranks and jokes
into a hardened veteran who didn't socialize much, didn't get
involved, didn't focus on anything but his flying.  Intense was the
word for him, and the word was that he'd scared away everyone who'd
flown with him until he'd got saddled with James Bass, who had only
just recently promoted to captain, to watch his back.  The
then-lieutenant hadn't flinched, hadn't seemed off-put by his
leader's attitude, had just been there and, if there was anyone
that the Trickster would talk to, it was Scoop, who knew everything
already anyway and was rock-steady reliable.  Solid and
imperturbable, that was Bass.

"They're getting younger all the time," Bone heard Kirkpatrick say. 
The major was holding a steaming cup between his hands, watching
the ground crews.  He nodded toward his new crew chief, a lanky
youth.  "Looks like he lied about his age to get here at all."

"You didn't?" Scoop asked.

"No," came the short reply, sharp, not laconic like the captain's
tone.

"Huh."  Scoop sipped on his own cup.  "Glad we get coffee instead
of tea."

"He's always wanted to be a pilot," Kirkpatrick said abruptly. 
"Timberlake.  Said he got his start working on his uncle's planes
-- his uncle runs a little airfield -- and that's why he knows
everything about them.  Cocky bastard."  Timberlake grinned and
gave Kirkpatrick a thumbs up, and the major nodded in reply. 
"Looks like the kid's done.  Took him long enough."

"You gonna be all right?" Scoop asked his former wingmate.  He was
looking in the distance like he could see an air raid coming.

"Can't be any worse.  See you in the sky."

"Yep."

Bone cleared his throat after the major walked off.

Scoop didn't turn his head.  "You're late."

He groaned inwardly.  "Yes, sir."

****

After the captain buttonholed him, his crew chief swooped down on
him like the wrath of God in human form.

Richardson gave him the same speech he'd given every time Bone'd
gone up.  He didn't listen to this one either.  Not until he got to
the end anyway.  "I hear Captain Bass has to carry your deadweight
now, McLean.  Maybe you'll learn something from him."

"You just take care of the plane.  Let me do the flying," Bone said
with every ounce of cockiness he could muster.  He wasn't the
Trickster.  Bone wasn't.  He wasn't nearly that good in the air,
that full of tricks and surprises.  Not that he admitted this to
anyone but himself.  Fighter pilots were gods.  Lords of the skies. 
Able to do anything.  Even -- as Richardson had pointed out before
-- come home with a tail full of bulletholes.

"That what you're calling it now?"

There wasn't anything Bone could say to that, not when Richardson
was already walking off in disgust at another lecture ignored.

"He always talk at you like that?" Scoop asked.

Bone jumped.  He hadn't realized Scoop was there, listening.  His
crew chief probably hadn't either.  "When doesn't he?  He thinks
I'm a green kid who's gotten lucky way too often and who's bound to
buy it sooner or later.  Hell.  He's probably has a pool going."

"He does."  Scoop gave him a small smile.  "I've got money on it. 
And the position to ensure I win."

"What...?" Bone started, but the captain, like Richardson, didn't
give him a chance to respond.

Someone shoved him hard between the shoulders.  "Get going, boy. 
Some of us got places to be, people to kill."  Slim gave him a
mocking smile and pushed past him.

Bone turned on him like a dog on someone who'd just bitten its
tail, but Richardson called, "Get a move on, McLean!" and, yeah, he
had places to be, too.

****

He thought about it some in the air.  About Richardson and Mathers. 
About all of it.

It was a losing battle, him and Mathers.  One he might as well not
fight at all, except that he couldn't *not* fight, and that was
something Richardson didn't understand.  The crew chief didn't
understand that a man *had* to stand up for himself, or he wasn't
a man at all.

Well, maybe not a losing battle so much as one that wasn't going to
be won any time soon, no matter how hard he fought or how many
battle scars he acquired.  Any 'victory' in such a fight was no
better than imaginary.  Richardson apparently thought that made the
fight pointless.  Bone knew better.  Not just about Slim, but about
the war as well.  Their mission wasn't pointless.  Even if it meant
going up in the air night after night, freezing, rubbing his hands
together to keep warm -- yeah, maybe it seemed pointless, or even
was pointless when both sides just came back, flying home in the
morning and returning at night, except for the fight, except there
was meaning in the fighting itself.

Because he had to *try* to win even if nothing got resolved,
because Slim wouldn't back down anymore than the Germans would. 
Because the consequences of not trying would be worse than the
current stalemate.

****

It was a weary dawn that saw the planes land again, the sun pulsing
low and sullen in the east.

No bulletholes in his plane *this* morning, and Bone felt better
already after riding shotgun to Scoop.  Bass had his act together
and he was nearly as calming as Sweet D in his own way, telling his
wingman what needed to be done without ever seeming rushed or
agitated.  A lot different than Slim, who'd mostly just done
whatever he felt like doing and damn anyone who couldn't keep up.

He climbed out, for once not afraid of running into Richardson,
which was a nice change.

Slim sauntered over.  "At this rate, I'll make ace by Friday. 
Fastest in the squadron.  How long did it take you, McLean?  Or
have you even made it there yet?"

Mathers was obviously spoiling for a fight.

This time, Bone was ready to give it to him.  They were on the
ground, not about to go up, and Slim was no longer even
theoretically under his command.  "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."  Slim looked cool.  "Or are you trying to say a mama's boy
like you managed to even shoot down *one* plane on his itty-bitty
lonesome?"

"That's it," Bone said menacingly.

"C'mon, then.  I'm ready."

Richardson stepped forward, all ready to be The Voice of Reason and
break things up.  Bone gave him a warning glance, but Richardson
ignored it, coming on.

Screw it.  He was gonna land the first punch anyway before the
taller man could stop him.  He'd give Slim something to remember
him by.  Maybe breaking a few teeth would remind Slim to keep his
mouth shut in the future.

Probably not, but it'd improve the look of his face and it'd make
Bone feel better, too.

He stepped forward and, as he did, saw Scoop come around the nose
of Bone's plane, inserting himself into the face-off.

Slim checked himself at the sight of the captain.  "Your mommy's
here to get you, McLean."

Scoop didn't spare a glance for Mathers, just looked at his
wingman.  "Bone," the Southerner said, just that and nothing more.

McLean looked between them.  Between his options.  A fight he
couldn't win with Slim, that would go on no matter what he did. 
Even if he won this battle -- even if he were allowed to *fight* it
-- there would be another one after it, and another one after that. 
And, his other choice, the rock-solid captain who never made a
mistake.  Who knew what was going to happen before it did happen.

He nodded at the captain and, ignoring Slim, turned to follow him.

"His master's voice," Slim called after him contemptuously, but AJ
didn't care, because Scoop's hand was resting warmly on his
shoulder.

Scoop had used his call-sign, too.  The captain hadn't yet
indicated by word or intonation that he found his new wingman
lacking.  He was treating him, in fact, like an equal.  That was a
new thing.  Sweet D had been the best partner a man could wish for,
but there'd been no doubt that he thought of Bone as a younger
brother.  Someone to be looked after and carefully minded.

When they were well away from the planes, Scoop spoke.  "Changed
Richardson for Carter, starting beginning of next week."

"Yeah?"

Scoop nodded.  "Seems Carter and Mathers weren't getting along all
that well.  Thought maybe Richardson'd be better able to stand up
to him."

Bone snickered.  "That's one way to put it.  The sergeant doesn't
back down for anyone."

"Nope.  Doesn't seem like he does."

The captain hadn't let go, and Bone was beginning to believe that
there might be things other than winning.  That there might be a
difference between fighting because you had to -- and having
something to fight for.