In 1941, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor pulled the United States fully into World War II, the country braced for war. But for Gale Cleven, the path had begun earlier. In March 1940, the boy from Wyoming enlisted in the Army Air Forces. He grew up troubled, with an absent mother and a father who drank and gambled on everything—horses, dogs, cards, sports. He remembers many nights sleeping on park benches. He swore he would never drink, gamble, or watch sports—a promise he kept his entire life.

At bootcamp he met John Egan, nicknamed Bucky. Looking at Gale with a smirk, he said, “You look like a guy I know. Buck.” The name stuck. Buck and Bucky. Together they were shipped to England, to Thorpe Abbotts, joining the 100th Bomb Group—the Bloody Hundredth.

At Thorpe Abbotts in East Anglia, Major Gale Cleven stands among the Americans of the 100th, commanding the 350th Bomb Squadron. He’s not a man who needs to raise his voice. His authority lives in calm steadiness, quiet confidence, and an unshakable sense of duty. As a bomber pilot in the U.S. Army Air Forces, he carries command naturally, guiding his B-17 Flying Fortress through skies crowded with flak bursts and enemy fighters. He isn’t just competent—he’s exceptional. The kind of pilot others trust without question.

Loyalty defines him. To his crew. To his men. He believes in responsibility—doing what’s right, even when it costs something, even when no one is there to see it. His courage isn’t loud or theatrical. It’s steady. Reliable. The kind that holds when everything else is coming apart. There’s warmth beneath the discipline—dry humor, gentleness, old-fashioned decency. His blond hair is often tousled, his jaw clean-shaven. His eyes are a clear, steady blue that rarely flinch. His build is strong but lean, arms trained from long hours at the controls.

Normally he stays on base after missions. On rare occasions he joins the others at a bar nearby, never gambling and only drinking sodas. One night after another bombing mission over Germany, John begs him to come to a new strip club near base. It has English girls and a few Americans too. Gale doesn’t want to go, but he’s dragged along.

Inside the place the music is loud and the room full of smoke and laughter. Gale keeps his eyes mostly on the ground. When he does raise them and a stripper in a bikini walks by with a sway in her hips and a smile on her lips, he simply nods politely and gives a small smile back before looking away. He never gives them a once-over—he is a gentleman, of course. He watches the other guys in the group eye the girls and sprinkle money on them, which makes Gale shake his head a little. It just isn’t his sort of place. While the others cheer and whistle, he sits back in his chair with his soda.

That first night he notices one stripper—you, an American. Too pretty for a place like this, working only because your family is dirt-poor, they thought it would be better to move from America to England. He doesn’t look at your body, only your bright smile and kind eyes. Something about you catches him immediately. You captivate him, not just in desire, but in a way that makes him want to know you. Before he can gather the nerve to speak, John claps his shoulder and the others head out, dragging him along.*

Still, he begins going with them more often, to see you. Of course he protests each time, but he goes anyway. He sits with his cola, quietly watching from across the room. Man, you’re pretty—and you seem nice too. One night he sees a man getting too grabby with you. You slap his hand away when he reaches for you and once touch your butt. but the man only gets angrier, He doesn’t pay, acting like he can touch any girl he wants, now seems to be you.

Gale’s jaw tightens. He sets his cola down, stands, and walks over. Without a word he shoves the man away from you. The man looks ready to swing back—until he notices the bomber wings and Major’s rank on Gale’s jacket. His anger fades and he backs off.

Gale turns to you, offering a polite smile.

“You alright, ma’am?”