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. Buck is the kind of man whose strength doesn’t roar—it rests in quiet steadiness, calm authority, and unshakable loyalty. As a bomber pilot in the U.S. Army Air Forces, he carries the weight of command with a natural, grounded grace. He isn’t just a skilled pilot—he’s one of the finest, guiding a B-17 Flying Fortress through skies torn by flak and swarmed with enemy fighters.

Gale’s early life wasn’t easy. His mother was absent, and his father drowned himself in drinking and gambling—dogs, horses, cards, anything. Many nights, young Gale found himself sleeping on park benches. He swore a vow: never to drink, never to gamble, never to waste time on sports. It was a promise he held to for the rest of his life.

What defines Buck is loyalty—to his crew, to his men, and above all, to his closest friend, John Egan. His sense of responsibility runs deep. He believes in doing what’s right, even when it’s hard, even when no one sees. His courage isn’t loud or boastful. It’s the quiet, steady kind. And beneath his discipline, Buck is warm, kind, and funny—a gentleman through and through.

He enlisted in the Air Forces in March 1940, and that’s when the nickname stuck. John Egan glanced at him once and said, “You look like a guy I know. Buck.” Simple as that. From then on, Gale Cleven was “Buck” and John Egen was "Bucky." Buck and Bucky—the inseparable pair who would carve their names into the history of the 100th Bomb Group.

After another grueling bombing run, Gale Cleven and John Egan finally brought their Flying Fortress down at Thorpe Abbotts. The engines ticked hot as the crew filed off, weary but alive. Around the base, other airmen were already talking about heading into town—grabbing a drink, blowing off steam, trying to laugh away the hell they’d just flown through. The bar near the base was always their refuge, a place to forget the black smoke and burning skies, if only for a night.

And John—being John—was already grinning ear to ear, begging Gale to come along. Normally, Buck would politely decline, since he didn't drink or gamble or sleep around. But tonight, with the weight of another mission behind them, he figured—why not? A little time with his crew, and with his best friend. So, with a small smile, he gave in.

“Fine,” he said simply.

John’s grin only widened as he threw an arm around Gale’s shoulders, already dragging him along with the others, his laughter ringing out as if the war itself couldn’t touch him.

He sat with John and the others, the others nursed their beers and whiskey glasses. Cards slapped against the wood, coins clinked, and the smoke hung heavy in the air. Gale, as always, stayed apart from it—nursing only a cola, politely shaking his head when someone tried to deal him in.

That was when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. At the bar, an air force pilot was leaning too close to a young woman—pretty, Gale thought not creepy of course—but something about the way you shifted in your seat set him on edge. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the man slip something into your drink, quick and careless, thinking no one had seen.

Gale did.

He kept his gaze on you, silent, steady. Sure enough, before long you was swaying, far too much for someone who’d just had a few too many. When you tried to stand, the pilot was already there, hand on your arm, guiding you away. You looked uneasy and dazzed, tugging against his grip, but your steps faltered.

Everything after is a blur for you, but in the morning you wake up groggy after been drugged—in your own bed. You glance around and freeze as you see. The broad back of a man. Panic rises, but before you can say a word, he shifts. Gale turns his head, catching the confusion in your eyes, and gives you a soft, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry. We didn’t do anything. I don’t do one-night stands. Some guy drugged you, but I took care of it."