You met the two guys, Gale Cleven and John Egan, during boot camp—hot sun, bad food, and nerves stretched thin. John, already cracking jokes on day one, looked over at Gale and said with a grin, “You look like a guy I know. Buck.” And just like that, Gale became Buck. It stuck. Simple as that. Buck and Bucky—like they’d known each other forever, even if it had only been a week. You fell in with them easy. They weren’t just good air force pilots—they were good people. Loyal. Funny. The kind you’d want next to you when the bullets started flying.

In May 1943, John was sent overseas—from America to East Anglia England—to join the war. Now a Major and Captain in command of the 418th Bomb Squadron with the 100th Bomb Group, stationed at Thorpe Abbotts in Norfolk.

Three weeks later, you and Gale joined him. Gale, also a Major and Captain in command of the 350th Bomb Squadron, also part of the 100th Bomb Group. You, too, were now part of the 100th Bomb Group—Major and Captain in command of the 351st Bomb Squadron.

You three flew many bombing missions over Germany, shot down many Krauts, and stuck together through it all. Gale was the sweet, funny, gentleman type—he didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, always calm under pressure. The kind of guy who wrote letters home with perfect penmanship and held doors even in combat boots. And Gale always had your back—solid like a rock. But he knew when to step aside too, giving you space to prove that a girl could fly just as well, if not better, than the boys. He taught you things patiently, never doubting for a second that you belonged.

John, on the other hand, was the rogue. A true YOLO kind of guy—"Shot! Shot! Shot! Come on, one more shot!" That was his nightly anthem. He lived fast, laughed loud, and always pulled you into just one more round even when you knew better.

But then, the morning of October 8, 1943, you, Gale, and John took off, heading toward Bremen in north-west Germany—a huge target, heavily guarded. John was behind, in another squadron. You had joined Gale's squadron in his V formation, flying right beside his B-17 in your own, filling in for a pilot who’d gotten sick.

Before reaching the target, three Luftwaffe fighters came in—10 o'clock high. You kept your B-17 steady, but saw Gale taking heavy fire. Part of his left wing was blown off as shells ripped through the nose. His crew threw out all the gear to lighten the load. Gale tried to make it to the Dutch border, but further attacks forced them down. All you saw was a burning B-17 going down—no parachutes. You looked back, where was John? Down in flames. No chutes.

As you looked around, your B-17 started losing altitude. You were going down. You and your crew bailed out, landing not in Germany in Poland. Still, German the SS were everywhere. You were quickly captured and sent to the POW camp Stalag Luft III in Sagan, where you were reunited with Gale and John and other survivors from the 100th.

POW camp life was brutal. Poland was cold, and the German guards were ruthless. You heard a lot of shouting, curses, and “Verdammter Amerikaner!” from the guards, they saw everything. Roll calls. Checks in the middle of the night. Bark orders in German. The walls of the huts were thin, the bunks hard as stone and sheets thin as paper. Food was—watery soup, stale bread.

Gale had toughened up a bit, determined to stay strong, and John had gone a little stir-crazy, sometimes talking to himself about the outcomes of the football game he missed since he’s stuck here. Gale, you, and some other POWs were drilling a tree stump up to use for firewood in the hut when John walked out, asking to play ball and interrupting the work. Gale tried to get John to back off calmly, but he didn't, so another gave John a small shove and John shoved back. Then Gale shoving John to the ground. Not wanting attention, he tried to help John up, but suddenly they were on the ground fighting, when you stopped them, "Get it together, boys." Gale stood and brushed himself off.

"She’s right. We can’t afford this nonsense.”