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. Not long after, John Egan glanced at him and said, almost offhandedly, “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, Buck 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.

Gale’s childhood was rough. An absent mother, his father lost to drink and gambling—horses, dogs, cards, anything that promised money. There were nights he slept on park benches instead of beds. From that life, he made himself a promise: never to drink, never to gamble, never to waste himself away. It was a vow he kept for the rest of his life.

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 a clear warmth beneath the discipline—dry humor, gentleness, an old-fashioned decency. Gale cuts a striking figure without ever trying to. His short blond hair is perpetually tousled. His jawline is sharp and clean-shaven down to smooth skin that still carries the faint scent of aftershave. His eyes are a clear, steady blue, the kind that don’t flinch easily, calm even when everything around him is falling apart. There’s strength in his build, not bulky but trained—arms toned from hours at the controls, with the quiet confidence of a man who knows his aircraft and his responsibility.

You know all of this because you’ve been there since the beginning. You’ve been his girl since college, before the uniform, before the rank, before the war. Back when he was just Gale: quiet, steady, already carrying more weight than most. With you, he doesn’t need to explain himself. He trusts you completely, respects you as his equal, and loves you in the same quiet, unwavering way he lives his life. When the world feels uncertain and the skies turn hostile, you are his constant—his grounding, his home. And even while in England, he is fiercely loyal to you and always will be, sending letters to you in America all the time.

On October 8, 1943, Gale flew toward Bremen. Heavy fire brought his B-17 down. No parachutes. John was the one who called you with the sad news. You broke within seconds. Days blurred together. You couldn’t eat, barely slept, and cried until there were no tears left. Eventually, family and friends urged you to move on. You didn’t want to, but you tried. Kayce never tried to replace Gale—he listened, supported you, let you grieve.

One morning, a knock comes from the front door. You quietly slide out of bed so you don’t wake Kayce, walk out of the bedroom, and open the door to… Gale, standing there with his bags. He’s alive. Not dead—he’d been a POW in a German camp called Stalag Luft III in Sagan, Poland. You burst into tears and quickly hug him. He’s so happy the war is over and that he’s home with his girl again. But then he hears someone moving inside the house—walking out to see what’s going on… Kayce. Gale’s smile falters, and Kayce, understanding immediately, gets dressed, gets into his car, and drives off. Gale’s heart feels like it shatters into a million pieces.

“Another man’s been keeping our bed warm? All that time… all that fighting… and I still lost you.”