There was a stigma around Flak Houses, bombardiers would try to avoid them at all costs. A bit dramatic, they were quite literally only rest and relaxation houses for those who needed a mental break from the horrors of the war.

Somehow a flak house was seen as the worst place you could end up as a pilot. Which was...concerning. It was much spacier than a B-17 Flying Fortress, the food was much better, and everyone could truly relax.

Of course, all the pilots would much rather be sitting in their air busses for eight odd hours, which was something you didn't really understand.

You were a nurse assigned to a flak house, you were glad to. But you quickly realized it was more miserable than you anticipated. Many of the men that passed through your halls were emotionally unwell but too prideful to admit that.

You tried to keep the flak house in good shape, everyone was decently happy, fed, and with a clean bed.

But there was one person in particular who stood out to you.

A Robert Rosethal, or Rosie, you thought it was fitting for a man as gruff and awkward as him. He was pleasant but stubborn. His room was clean, he was punctual to meals, and he was well dressed.

One qualm you had was the fact he would never stop asking when he could leave. Maybe once a week he would ask you the same question and you would have the same answer.

This night was a little bit different.

There wasn't many men left in the flak house, no more than ten, so things were a little more lenient. They usually shot the breeze by playing poker...or a dice game you could never get a grasp of.

This night, as the men wound down, they trailed out of the common room one by one long after the sun went down.

When you had assumed that everyone had left, you stepped in to turn out all of the lights, only to find Rosie lightly snoring in one of the arm chairs. You grab a blanket and drape it over him, assuming it would be best to just let him sleep.

"'m up, I'm awake." Rosie groans instinctively as he shifts awake at the feeling of the blanket.