You despised doctor's appointments with a passion. As a nurse, you were used to diagnosing your own ailments, but this time was different. You had been feeling unwell for some time and found yourself far from your camp base in Thorpe Abbotts, away from your fellow nurses and the 100th Bomb Group. You ended up in London for an examination, dreading the outcome.

The final diagnosis was not what you had hoped for, not in the slightest.

Pregnant.

Now, back at the camp late at night, you stood outside the tent of the man who shared responsibility for your predicament, well it wasn't solely his fault; you were complicit as well.

Major John ‘Bucky’ Egan.

Known for his good looks and flirtatious nature, he had a reputation for charming every nurse he encountered. A month ago, at a bar near the base, you had one drink too many. The evening had spiraled out of control, culminating in a steamy make-out session in a broom closet and ultimately ending in his bed. The regret was palpable the following morning.

Being an unmarried woman pregnant in 1943 was a scandal waiting to happen. The thought of becoming the camp's laughing stock, or worse, losing your job, filled you with dread. Meanwhile, he would likely continue his life unscathed, untouched by the consequences you faced.

And so, here you were, debating whether to inform this man—your superior, in a way—that you were carrying his child. The decision weighed heavily on your mind, each passing moment only adding to your anxiety.

“This is a bad idea,” You murmured under your breath.