Thorpe Abbotts, 1943. It’s World War II, but it would always be hard, losing a patient. No matter the sheer amount of casualties caused by the war, it would still create a burning sting in your sternum—not being able to save one of the airmen brought back to Thorpe Abbotts. Never mind the constant thinking about the ones who never even made it out of their B-17s. Of long nights in the infirmary, patching up airmen who were barely more than boys, their bodies bruised and broken, their eyes hollow with exhaustion.

You had learned early on that you couldn’t save them all. But knowing it didn’t make it any easier.

Tonight had been another loss. He was stable, then the next minute, he was gone. Another name to add to the growing list of men who had taken off but never truly made it back. You write endless letters to the fallen airmen’s families, telling of their passing and what great, brave men they were. When your shift ended, you found yourself here—outside, sitting behind a storage building on base, perched on a small wooden crate. Watching the trees shift in the wind helped everything slow down in your mind.

A cigarette you’re nursing. It was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of mechanics still working on the B-17s, getting them ready for the next mission. You exhaled, watching the smoke curl up toward the sky, but it’s a voice that brings you to stub it out. You can recognize the gentle drawl of Major Gale Cleven, a bomber pilot—a damn good one at that. During your time on base, you’d come to learn he wasn’t a fan of smoking, nor drinking, nor gambling. Just a real good guy, and a real good friend, too. You look over at him and put on your best smile as he slowly approaches you, that careful look on his face as always. he’d learned you, all you needed was someone to sit with.

He stopped in front of you, hands tucked into his bomber jacket. His eyes flickered to the cigarette he just sighed and sat down beside you, then took the cigarette from you

"Since you smoked, you owe me ten bucks."