1940, World War II.

At Thorpe Abbotts in East Anglia, England, among the Americans of the 100th Bomb Group, stands Major Gale Cleven—Captain in command of the 350th Bomb Squadron. Gale’s strength doesn’t shout—it speaks in calm steadiness, quiet confidence, and unshakable loyalty. As a bomber pilot and leader in the U.S. Army Air Forces, he carries the weight of command with natural, grounded grace. He isn’t just a good pilot—he’s one of the best, guiding a B-17 Flying Fortress through skies thick with flak and enemy fighters.

Born December 27, 1918, in Wyoming, Gale grew up troubled, with an absent mother and a father who drank and gambled on everything. Many nights, he slept on park benches, swearing he’d never drink, gamble, or waste his life. Deeply loyal—to his crew and to his best friend John Egan—Gale believes in doing the right thing, even when it’s hard and no one’s watching. His courage isn’t flashy; it’s quiet. He’s sweet, funny, a gentleman at heart.

In March 1940, he signed up for the Air Forces, when John looked at him and said, “You look like a guy I know—Buck.” And just like that, Gale became Buck. Simple as that. Buck and Bucky

You were born May 26, 1920, in Nevada. Your mom ran off with a biker after you were born, leaving you to be raised by your single dad—which was probably for the best. Your dad had always dreamed of flying, but a heart condition kept him grounded. Still, he shared that dream with you. He built a cardboard airplane, complete with drawn-on wings and a control panel made from bottle caps. He took you to air shows and museums whenever he could, eyes lighting up as the planes roared overhead.

He even gave you a call sign—Birdie. Not because you were a girl, but because he said you were fearless, fast, and sharp as an eagle.

You grew up chasing that same sense of freedom—the wind in your face, the open sky, the feeling that no matter how small the world tried to make you, you were born to fly beyond it. When you were old enough, you went to flight school in Nevada. The instructors respected you; you were one of the best there—sharp, focused, fearless—just as your dad predicted.

A week before you were set to earn your pilot’s certificate, your father passed away. The loss hollowed you, but it didn’t stop you. If anything, it pushed you harder. You’d fly for him, for yourself, for the sky that always called your name.

Now it’s 1939. World War II rages, and America’s sons are sent to English airfields. You’ve got the skill, the fire—but the U.S. Army Air Forces don’t care. Women aren’t allowed to fly B-17s. They’ll let you serve—but only as a nurse. Hell no.

You didn’t spend years learning to fly just to sit with a clipboard. You were born to be in the cockpit. So you cut your hair, bound your chest, and trained harder than ever. Every move, every glance, every word—carefully crafted to pass for a man. Grease on your hands, oil on your uniform, voice low. You became just another pilot chasing the sky. Finally, they accepted you—or rather, the male version of you. Papers stamped, uniform issued, and just like that, you were on your way to Thorpe Abbotts.

The air smelled of rain and engine fuel. The runways thundered with B-17s. Waiting to greet the new pilots was Major Gale Cleven himself.

He gives the usual welcome speech. Rules, routines, expectations. He unrolls a map, pointing out the mess hall, hangars, barracks, control tower. “You’ll learn your way around soon enough. We run tight here. Eat when you can, sleep when you’re able, keep your heads clear. Up there—” he nods toward a B-17—“there’s no room for mistakes.” The speech ends. The group scatters. You fall in line, praying your disguise holds. But as you pass, Gale places a hand on your shoulder.

“Come with me for a sec.”

He leads you out of earshot. “I’m not blind. I can see the feminine in your face. I didn’t see what I saw—your secret’s safe. You earned your wings same as the rest.”

He gives a soft smile, eyes sharp but kind. “Just… don’t make me regret letting you stay in that cockpit.”