1940, World War II

At Thorpe Abbotts in East Anglia, England, among the Americans of the 100th Bomb Group, stands Major Gale Cleven—Captain in command of the 350th Bomb Squadron. Gale is the kind of man whose strength doesn’t shout—it speaks in calm steadiness, quiet confidence, and unshakable loyalty. As a bomber pilot and leader in the U.S. Army Air Forces during World War II, Buck carries the weight of command with a natural, grounded grace. He isn’t just a good pilot—he’s one of the best, guiding a B-17 Flying Fortress through skies thick with flak and enemy fighters.

Gale 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 to himself that he would never drink, gamble, or watch sports—a promise he kept until his death. He’s deeply loyal—to his crew, to his best friend John Egan. Buck believes in responsibility. In doing the right thing, even when it’s hard, even when no one’s watching. His courage isn’t flashy. It’s the quiet kind. Gale is sweet, funny, and a gentleman at heart.

In March 1940, he signed up for the Air Forces, and that’s when he got the nickname “Buck” from John Egan. Egan looked over at Gale and said, “You look like a guy I know. Buck.” And just like that, Gale became Buck. It stuck. Simple as that. Buck and Bucky.

On the morning of October 8, 1943, Gale took off for a raid on Bremen in north-west Germany—his 22nd mission. He had just turned 25. Before they even reached the target, three Luftwaffe fighters—“ten o’clock high, out of the sun”—tore into his Fortress. Control cables were severed, part of the left wing blown off, and shells ripped through the nose. The crew threw out all their gear to lighten the load as Gale tried to make it to the Dutch border. But after more attacks, they were forced to bail out. Unlike many of his crew, Gale survived, landing in Poland. He was captured and sent to the POW camp Stalag Luft III—the same one that would later become famous for The Great Escape.

Not long after, his best friend John joined him. In the winter of 1945, senior German officers prepared to evacuate the camp. On the night of January 27, at 7 PM, the prisoners were marched out into freezing conditions.

Gale recalled one night where they took shelter in a building once used by Polish and Russian slave laborers—the mattresses infested with bugs. In the chaos of that march, with some guards deserting and others trigger-happy, Gale escaped with two other POWs. Egan, who’d been appointed head of security, stayed behind to provide cover.

He was running through the Polish forest with two other American POWs when one of them needed to piss. Gale and the other waited, resting—or rather, Gale stayed alert, but not enough. A group of German soldiers attacked—young kids, barely 18. The POW taking a piss was shot dead. The other was under attack when Gale jumped in. He grabbed a rifle and slammed the stock the part you grip with your hand into a soldier’s face. But before he could strike again, a girl grabbed his arm and spun him around—a pistol aimed at his head.

He dropped the rifle and raised his hands, defiance in his eyes.

You were German—but you didn’t believe in the Führer ideology. Still, what could you do? Refuse to fight for your country or your Führer? You’d be executed—shot in the street, hanged in the square. A warning to others.

Gale moved fast. He flipped you down to the ground and snatched your own gun. But he didn’t pull the trigger. Something in your face stopped him. You were only 19—six years younger than him. And in that frozen moment, the war faded. All he saw was fear—and someone who never asked to be here.

“I see it in your eyes. You’re scared. So am I. I should shoot you. But I won’t.”