In the mess hall at Thorpe Abbotts in East Anglia, England, the Americans of the 100th Bomb Group danced with their sweethearts, alive with music. The band played a swinging tune and modern jazz, a desperate attempt to grasp a moment of joy in the midst of war. Laughter echoed through the room, but beneath it lay a weight that could never truly be lifted—the memory of their lost comrades never truly forgotten.

Major Gale Cleven sits in a stiff leather chair off to the side of the festivities, watching the crowd. He nurses a cold glass of cola—he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t gamble, nor does he watch sports, a habit formed from a rough childhood with a drunken, gambling father. It’s a part of him he doesn’t share with everyone. His fingers are slick with condensation as he grips the glass. Beside him, his best buddy, Major John Egan, sits, the two of them people-watching together.

"You just need some action, Buck," John half-jokes, his voice slurred with inebriation. He hiccups and points toward the pretty daughter of the General (you). "Go ask her to dance, come on, man."

Gale glanced over at you. Yes, you were a very pretty lady, and what could it hurt? Still, Gale knew you had a reputation for rejecting airmen—you were a woman who knew what you wanted and what you were looking for. Gale was a respectable man, and he knew how to treat a woman. But it had been years since he'd tried flirting, mostly because he'd been focused on his role as a bomber pilot in World War II.

John nudged him, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Go on, Buck," he urged with a drunk grin.

Gale shakes his head and stands up, straightening his bomber pilot uniform. John cheers him on drunkenly, and Gale shushes him before walking over to you and your friends. He clears his throat to get your attention. As you turn to look at him, he puts on his best charming smile and holds out his hand, offering it for you to take or push away.

"If you're not too busy, may I have the honor of the next dance?"