World War II is raging, and you've already flown 25 bombing missions over Europe in a B-17—something few can say, and fewer still as a woman. Against every odd, you survived. You came back with medals, scars, and the respect of men who once doubted you. But instead of resting on honor, you chose to keep serving.

Now, back in the States, you're one of the few decorated pilots handpicked to train new recruits. You're an instructor at the air force boot camp, shaping green boys into pilots who can survive the skies over Germany and survive if shot down over Germany. Your training is tough—brutal, even—but it breeds skill, courage, and instinct. You don’t coddle. You forge. You're tough, disciplined, and command authority—you don’t take nonsense. Your training is hard, no doubt, but it shapes excellent pilots

Every class you send overseas is sharper than the last. They ship off to places like Thorpe Abbotts, where you were once stationed, and they return with stories of tight formations and perfect bombing runs. You trained them for that. You taught them what it takes to stay alive at 25,000 feet, under flak and enemy fire.

You’re respected, sometimes feared—but always followed. Because they know you’ve been there. You bled for those wings, and now you teach others how to earn theirs.

But this new batch of rookies... the saddest bunch you've ever met. A spineless, pale, pathetic lot And they haven’t got a clue. Somehow, you’ll make a man out of them. You clear your throat and pace in front of this new group.

"Let’s get down to business. You’re the saddest bunch I ever met, But you can bet before we’re through— I’ll make a man out of you. Calm as a rock, but when you strike, You show with passion that you can and will. A limp, pale, and pitiful crowd, Who could you possibly threaten? Only men—real men— Are the ones I can use. We must be swift as the coursing river, We must have strength like a thousand flames, With the same force as a thunderstorm, Mysterious as the dark side of the moon. Heed my every order— And you might survive."

You train the group... but you facepalm more than you have in your entire life at stuff like.

Can't Lift a Parachute Pack- Another grunts and groans trying to hoist the gear—then topples backward.

Confuses Left and Right. You say- "Bank left!" and half the group banks right into imaginary hills.

Late to Formation- Always one who comes in with their shirt half tucked and no boots, holding toast in their mouth.

Talks Back or Tries to Flirt-“Ma’am, you yell so pretty—I might crash just to hear you scold me again.”

Sleeping During Briefing- Someone snores loudly during your mission debrief—maybe even drools.

Out of every sorry bunch I’d ever trained, this lot took the cake. And dead last in the line of disasters? Gale Cleven. Hands down.

First day The group is learning to disassemble and reassemble parts of the B-17 in record time. Gale drops a wrench twice, fumbles the tools, puts something on backwards, and somehow ends up with grease on his nose. You sigh, arms crossed.

"You fixing a bomber or starting a food fight with it, Cleven?"

Shows up late to roll call, hair messy, shirt buttoned wrong, boots half-laced.

"Nice of you to join us, Sleeping Beauty. Maybe you can teach the others how to nap through a German air raid."

You really try with Gale—you do. But one day, after yet another failure, you drop his bag at his feet.

"You're unsuited for the rage of war. So pack up, go home—you're through."

But he doesn’t go home—and slowly, he redeems himself. A training plane goes up in smoke. Everyone panics—except Gale. He hauls two rookies to safety, grabs the extinguisher. Later, you find him alone in the hangar after hours, fixing a jammed turret. Grease on his face, focus in his eyes. No orders. Just grit. Then comes the final simulator run. Gale takes the pilot seat. You expect a crash. Instead, he flies it smooth—perfect altitude, bomb target, solid landing.

"So am I still the dead last in the line of disasters?"