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         | xix. NO ONE WAS COMING TO SAVE ME

MASTERS OF THE AIR
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

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✪

❝ 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬, 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭
𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬.. ❞

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STALAG PROCESSING QUARTERS
POLAND, 1943

|| EGAN SPENT THOSE FOUR DAYS IN DREADFUL CONFINEMENT—STARING AT THE ENDLESS DOODLES UPON THE GRAY. Left with only himself to talk too.. The major even added his own taste to the wall—- some crude words here and there, jokes about the krauts. Lyrics of his favorite songs.. just some things for the next guys to see. But one he craved hit home the most,  "For C. & C." It was only necessary as both deserved to be remembered somehow...

The morning started out as all the other days had in that god forsaken place. Egan had already stamped the morning with his typical disgruntled demeanor. His complaints reverberated through the stone corridors, a symphony of dissatisfaction that often fell upon indifferent ears. Jefferson's absence was a particular sore spot for the Major—something that never failed to incense him.

He remained perched in bed, nursing a meager breakfast that did little to appease his refined palate. In that moment, the heavy oaken door swung open with a resounding crash—admitting two burly guards whose presence was quite unnerving.

Without a word, they closed in on the Major, their iron grips tightening around his arms like vices. Egan's protests and attempts to rationalize the situation were met with stoic silence—-words lost in the unforgiving air.

Escorted forcefully to the threshold of the office, Major Egan was presented before Lieutenant Haussmann—whose gaze was boring into into his very soul. The room, draped in shadows that seemed to dance with malice. But it was the framed photograph of Adolf Hitler that caught his attention, oh, just perfect...

"Major Egan, I must say I am very impressed at how noble you are," Haussmann's voice carried a hint of admiration, though it was clear that there was an ulterior motive behind his words. Egan,however, remained composed, though accepting in the compliment—-his eyes fixating on the young German officer before him.

As the major stood, a sense of impatience simmered beneath his composed exterior. He knew that Lieutenant Haussmann was not one to engage in idle conversation. Not after the last interrogation...There was another game afoot, and he was determined to stay one step ahead.

"Sure, Lieutenant," Egan replied calmly, his military training kicking in. "I assuming you've got me for more than just conversation."

Haussmann's lips curved into a sly smile. "Ah, Major, always so direct. Maybe I just would like to talk this time."

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, where the tension laid like a cloud. Egan could sense that there was more to this meeting than met the eye.

"You see, Major," Haussmann began, his tone turning more serious, "A little birdy has whispered something to the higher ups."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant." Was this a game to him? Egan wondered inwardly. Haussmann had made him wait four days, four agonizing days of uncertainty and solitude. Four days spent in isolation, with no word on the fate of Celeste or his crew.

"Just please, have a seat," Haussmann's voice was calm, a facade of hospitality masking the underlying tension that simmered. Egan, however, remained standing—his eyes met the probing gaze of the lieutenant without flinching.

"I've been sitting quite a lot in my cell," Egan's tone was curt, borne with bitterness of frustration. Sitting had become one of his many tasks amidst doing some pushups and working on his singing —temporary respite of uncertainty that plagued his thoughts. With an exhausted huff, he started in, " Oh, Cut the pleasantries, where is she?"

Haussmann's smile was meek, an attempt to diffuse the palpable tension that hung between them like a heavy shroud. "I see you haven't changed a bit," he remarked lightly—a thinly veiled attempt at breaking the tension. "I'm trying to help you..."

The German Lieutenant found himself at an impasse. His attempts at chipping away at this American's defenses with casual remarks and probing questions were met yet again with an impenetrable wall. Even keeping him waiting didn't work...

In that charged silence, a standoff between the two men dragged on, it became a battle not of words, but of wills. Each unwilling to back down, each determined to emerge victorious in this silent duel.

"Major do remind me, Buck Cleven, he was a good friend of yours?" This caught Egan way off , just hearing the mention of his friend's name.

The German assessed the weary figure of Major Egan before him. The pilot's steely facade had shown a hairline fracture, a moment of vulnerability that he intended to exploit. "He was a great a pilot, just as Jefferson."

With a deliberate air, he nudged a collection of weathered newspapers across the table towards Egan. The headlines spoke of the relentless battles over Bremen and the devastating toll exacted on American forces. It was a bitter reminder of sacrifices made—all for the name of glory.

Egan's gaze flickered over the newsprint, his jaw tensing imperceptibly at the memories it invoked. He preferred not to dwell on the fateful day that had changed the course of his life. Having lost Buck, his right hand wingman....But even as Haussmann attempted to draw forth a reaction, Egan remained resolute in his composure.

The German, sensing the invisible barrier erected by Egan, pressed on with a subtle nod towards the pile of papers. "i admire your loyalty to Jefferson Major. A true testament." There was an undercurrent of respect in his words, an acknowledgment of Egan's unwavering commitment to his duty and his country.

The American merely offered a wry smile, the faintest glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes as he crossed his arms defiantly. "Loyalty is a rare trait indeed, especially in these trying times," Haussmann remarked—-his tone laced with admiration for the Major's steadfast resolve.

Given the lecture that he had been put through by his commanding officer, Haussmann wasn't feeling particularly confident. He was on the verge of being replaced by another, more capable interrogator. Many feared Haussmann was too kind for the job, and required someone much crueler.

So, with his job already hanging on by a thread, Haussmann just didn't care anymore. A deliberate quiver in his voice, he revealed a vulnerable side that few had seen before. "You know," Haussmann began, tapping his pen rhythmically on the desk, "I once loved someone dearly. Someone I would have given up the world for." His words hung heavy in the air, laden with an unspoken pain and regret.

Egan, for a fleeting moment, felt a pang of empathy for the German officer—a flicker of understanding. "But as it would be, she was taken from me."

"Why are you telling me?" The American sneered. Was this a play again? A board of chess?

Haussmann sighed in defeat, before taking out a folder hidden within the desk. "They're going to replace me with someone more cruel, someone that won't help.."he stated out of his normally reserved voice. "I'm not doing this out of sympathy for your circumstances, I'm doing this because it is what my Charlotte would have wanted."

Haussmann, his demeanor shifting subtly, motioned to his waiting staff. A piece of paper and a pen soon materialized in his hands, and with deliberate care, he wrote down - Chief Leader Jefferson, Celeste.

The lieutenant's tone carried a sense of urgency as he instructed to scour every camp, leaving no stone unturned. Haussmann's sudden change of heart had caught Egan off guard. From being interrogated and given little hope of ever seeing Celeste again, to now witnessing a flurry of orders being dispatched to search for her.

As Haussmann's subordinates sprung into action, preparing to launch a search across the camps, Egan just couldn't shake the gnawing doubt that lingered in the depths of his mind. This surely was a ploy—-a clever manipulation orchestrated by the lieutenant to serve his own agenda.

The major grappled with these conflicting emotions. On one hand, there was a glimmer of hope —the possibility that Celeste might still be alive, waiting to be rescued. On the other hand, there was a nagging voice of doubt—-whispering ominous warnings about the traitors path.

Haussmann, seemingly unperturbed by Egan's internal turmoil, sat calmly behind his desk. His expression was inscrutable— betraying nothing of the thoughts that roiled beneath the surface.

"I will do what I can Major. But you have to remember, the SS work on their own terms." He exhaled heavily, " Till then, I hope for nothing but the best ."

Egan gritted his jaw to side, this just wasn't a sander that he was satisfied with. "I'm gonna ask again.,..Is she alive?" His voice rose more than normally, a desperate plea echoing forth within the room. "Tell me the truth, Haussmann. Is she alive?"

"I wish I could give you a definitive answer, Major," he began in a weary tone. "But the truth is, in this world we inhabit, certainty is a luxury we cannot always afford."

It was then when Egan felt a surge of frustration and anger he hadn't ever experienced before. A tempest of unexpected emotions that threatened to engulf him. He turned round to face Haussmann—his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored the fire in his soul.

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Egan's voice cracked, the edges of his despair bleeding through. "How do you find her? How can you ensure that she will be safe?"

Haussmann's gaze softened, a rare flicker of empathy glinting in his eyes. "I will do what i can, Major," he replied, his voice quiet but resolute. "But the SS have their own agenda and do not mind doing what they believe is necessary."

1 YEAR LATER
STALAG III
NOVEMBER 1944
POLAND

|| AND THAT WAS THE LAST HE SAW OF LIEUTENANT HAUSSMANN, as a week later—Egan was transferred out via train. Just like everyone in that dreaded facility, he was finally taken to the actual POW camp; Stalag III. One that was operated strictly by the Lufewaffee for allied airmen.

But fate had a weird twist to its cruel joke. Egan, weary and beaten, finally arrived at the rendezvous point only to be greeted by Cleven, standing there with a mixture of annoyance and relief on his face. Seeing Cleven's expression, Egan's heart skipped a beat—there a new glimmer of hope ignited in his tired eyes.

As the two friends locked eyes, a wave of bittersweet emotion washed over them. Buck and Bucky, reunited at last. It appeared nothing could get rid of them. And Egan's crew, Brady, Crank, and the rest, were alive.

Of course, Cleven couldn't resist a jab, commenting on how long it took Egan to show up, but beneath the gruff exterior, there was a hint of relief. It was quite lonely not have a buddy to watch and boss around.

But the surprises didn't end there. The crew of French Kiss, led by Arnie and Robert, sought out Egan upon hearing of his arrival. The Pennsylvanian, with his jovial banter, and Ben, as anxious as ever, stood by Arnie.

""Have you seen Jefferson?" Robert's words cut through the chatter, his eyes searching Egan's face for any sign of recognition.

Celeste. The mere mention sent a pang through the major's heart. "We did met up, crossed paths actually at a farm where she almost pulled the trigger on me..." he sheepishly remarked with a subtle chuckle.

And that night with Celeste lingered on the edges of his consciousness, but that was something he made sure to leave out. Arnie would have had something to say about that no doubt.

And the memory of the German town made his expression drop. That was the last he had seen her; alive that is....The thought of her out there, in danger, was a burden he could hardly bear.

Arnie and Robert exchanged weary glances, their expressions a mix of relief and concern. They had believed Celeste to be captured by a separate group or still wandering out there, lost and alone.

A month after being checked in, Celeste's absence left Egan grappling with a void that no amount of rationed bread or contraband cigarettes could fill. A hollow ache that even Cleven couldn't help with. The longest he was away from her was a month, but at that point, she was still in allied territory. Just within his grasp if he so desired.

It appeared Haussmann had not kept up on his end. This entire time there was a sliver of hope at seeing her again. But it was all a lie, a rouse. Not that Egan was particularly surprised by it.

November of 1943 came around, just as Celeste's 25th birthday did; and passed like the snap of a finger. Next was Christmas then the new year. So much for the hope of being rescued by allies..

Just in a short period, saw a change in Egan and not one for the better. Where before, his overly confident mood often got him in trouble... he was now more reserved—withdrawing into his own depths. A ghost of whom he used to be. Frankly, it unnerved Cleven, not hearing Egan's bursting ego from a mile away.

Before, there wasn't a second that went by when Egan wasn't talking about sports. But now, Cleven couldn't even get a peep out of him. No matter of engaging him got any sort of response. It wasn't something Gale particularly wanted to talk about as he hadn't a clue about sports. He never watched the Yankees or any baseball.

The other prisoners noticed the change - the vacant stare in his eyes, the trembling of his hands, the whispers of half-formed words that escaped his parched lips.

Not to mention, Egan often laid in his bunk for hours on end, zoning off into the corner—his mind in another world. If he wasn't there, then he was out doing rounds around the fencing. That charming smile never lifted whilst there. And if it did, it was at the end of some snarky comment.

Frankly, the major was struggling with being captured more than everyone else. And when Cleven would get excited to receive Marge's letters, Egan would be the party pooper— often mocking the way he said her name.

Oh he wanted so desperately to flee this camp. But his voice of reason buddy desperately talked him out of it. It all came down to a breaking point when Egan pushed the agenda of escaping too far.

"I don't understand why you want to escape so damn bad," Cleven grumbled, his frustration dripping from every syllable. "If we stay here, we can make it back home."

Egan, his eyes betraying sorrow could only offer a heavy sigh in response. "That's what they want you to think."

"Damn it, Bucky, we all want out of here, but I aim to return to Marge in one piece," Cleven's voice carried a note of desperation. "The British tried and failed. What makes you think we'll succeed?"

"How will we know if we don't try?"

" I plan to marry Marge. How can I do that if I'm six feet under?"

Egan was a tad apprehensive hearing his buddy utter those words; was it jealousy perhaps? Maybe... maybe it wouldn't happen to him... He slowly lowered himself onto the wooden stool.

"You're right," he whispered. "I've got no one wanting for me." There's a shared silence between the duo, before Egan speaks up again.

"I bought her ring, you know.." Cleven furrows his brows, trying to keep his jaw closed. Never did he expect that from him. "I'm sorry what? Who?"

Egan slightly chuckled, " Celeste, I was gonna propose to her in London."

"Ah. You sly dog.. and what did you think the outcome would have been?"

"Guess I'll never know."

"Hmm, so that's why you want to run, not so you can escape, so you'll be shot." Cleven sighs, " That's the most ignorant thing I've ever heard. You don't even know if she's gone."

"But what if she's up there already."

"What if? Oh please, I'm personally going to write a letter to Hollywood explaining they need to hire you."

"For what?" Egan grumbles.

" For writing those damn dramatic love stories." Cleven expresses before tossing his chair back under the desk... And that was the last time the subject was discussed.

After that conversation and confession, well, let's just say Egan finally relented on escaping. Yet, that didn't keep the thoughts of Celeste away. In the dead of night, when the only sound was the distant echo of guards patrolling, Egan would wake the others by calling out her name whilst sleeping. Perhaps it was a desperate plea for a ghost to answer.

Hamilton and Brady were rather annoyed, being woken up multiple times a night. So both encouraged the major to start writing the dreams of a future beyond the war. Even Cleven just wanted some peace and quiet. Most of the men had elected this to help pass the time.

So, Egan found solace in writing his and Celeste's future. Though writing wasn't particularly his forte. Perhaps a large, beige house with a white picket fencing and of course, a large kitchen so they could cook Lady Qin's soup. And there had to be a place for chickens and for Nugget. Egan underlined getting Nugget to America as a huge priority.

That pesky little feline was apart of their life. He even found himself writing to Crosby, asking how nugget was doing—eagerly awaiting the kitten was okay. The navigator turned big boss, never got the letters though.

And before Egan knew it, a year had slipped through his fingers since his capture; a year since he had gazed upon the familiar sights of England and alcohol.

As the days crawled towards November 29, Celeste's 26th birthday, Arnie and Robert made rounds to scrounge up enough ingredients to fashion a makeshift cake. Of course the haphazard creation sat before them, a humble offering in honor of a woman they all held dear.

Arnie still felt joy without her, still smiling and making terrible jokes, yet there is a note beneath that he was missing Celeste.

The sound of Cleven and Brady working on the makeshift radio filled the hut, a stark reminder of their precarious situation. The war had chased them from China to Germany, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

Arnie, with weary eyes that spoke of countless battles witnessed, remarked quietly, almost to himself, "I thought she'd be the one to make it out." Ben's expression remained stoic, his gaze fixed on a single point in the distance, lost in thoughts of a time when Celeste's smile had been enough to brighten the darkest days.

Meanwhile, Robert, the ever-logical one, leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. His keen intellect working overtime. "You don't know that she's gone. You can't lose hope,. Celeste is a fighter," Robert interjected, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of belief in his words. "She has a way of defying the odds."

Ben, the gentle soul, nodded in agreement. His brow furrowed, he spoke softly. "And let's not forget, she's unbeatable at games too." His attempt to lighten the mood was met with disapproving glares from Cleven and Brady, who were deeply immersed in the makeshift radio.

In the corner of the room, Egan remained still on his bed, his gaze fixed on a distant memory. His silence spoke volumes, echoing the fears and doubts that lingered in all of their minds.

"Oh yes!" Robert remarked, before pointing to the Pennsylvanian, " What's the name again? She always out-bested us." The trio passed glances to another as trying to recall their times in China.

Suddenly, Arnie's eyes lit up as if a spark of realization had struck him. "Ah-hah! It was..." He snapped his fingers in an attempt to jog his memory, only to be met with Robert's prompt response, "Mahjong!"

A subtle raise of Hamilton's brow was the only acknowledgment of the conversation. Arnie continued, "Celeste is a master at that game... it's Chinese...she has a way of seeing patterns no one else could."

His voice trailed off, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on them all. "She is," Arnie hesitated, correcting himself, "was so good at that game. Perhaps, that's where we'll find her – in a game of mahjong, outwitting the enemy once again." He chuckled half heartedly, trying to make light of the situation. Though the others expressions slowly fell flat.

The room slipped into a contemplative sile, until Egan finally got himself up from the bunk. Each men watched him carefully as he waltzed over, humming lightly under his breath.

The weary major took a seat beside Arnie just as his humming reaching its peak. Robert, Ben, Cleven and the others slowly turned their sight to Egan—recognizing his poor attempt at the happy birthday song.

Slowly Arnie followed by Robert, joined in. "Let's raise our imaginary beers!" The Pennsylvania added, holding his hand above his head.

The chorus, though off-key and out of tune, rose in unison as they sang to Celeste.

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RAVENSBRÜCK
WOMEN'S LABOR CAMP
NOVEMBER 1944

|| IT HAD BEEN A FULL YEAR SINCE CELESTE HAD STEPPED FOOT INTO THE HELLISH GATES OF RAVENSBRÜCK. And there were days she had wished to have been killed. It was work, all day long. The labor ranging from strenuous outdoor jobs to building the V-2 rocket parts for Siemens.

Not only that, but many factories were selectively built near Ravensbrück—just for the production of textiles and electrical components.

The wounds that Celeste bore, once visible on her delicate frame, had quietly healed. Only to be replaced by fresh scars inflicted by the harsh hands of her captors. Each blow, each snap of the whip—painted her skin a deep, haunting shade of purple.

Her once vibrant eyes, now hollow and haunted, reflected a soul that had weathered storms too fierce for her fragile form. Celeste, who had entered this hellish realm at 126 pounds, had now dwindled into a mere shadow of her former self, a walking skeleton stripped of flesh and vitality, weighing a mere 87 pounds.

How she had the strength to keep going, well Arnie and the boys always joked she had nine lives. Even since she recused Nugget that fateful night..

As days blurred into nights, Celeste's body, wrought by starvation and stress, sacrificed its very essence for survival. The cessation of her monthly cycles, once a dreaded visitor, became a distant memory.

Maria, whose eyes bore witness to the cruelties of their captors, prodded and pried—-hinting at the possibility of new life within Celeste's fragile frame.

The interrogations persisted, each query a subtle dagger aimed at Celeste's worn defenses. Had she been with that pilot months before? Weary yet defiant, she pushed back against Maria's relentless scrutiny—offering a frail excuse of scarce nourishment as a shield.

But in the end, the body has its ways of protecting itself. When the nutrients are limited, it makes sacrifices. That was the last time Celeste ever bled or felt deep, internal cramps. There was no time for sorrow. She had to keep carrying on about her days—pretending nothing ever happened.

As for the guards, the women were ruthless but the men were especially cruel. Abusing their power and assaulting women. It turned out Ravensbrück was the main supplier of women for the brothels set up at many major Nazi camps.

Celeste had witnessed many of the women volunteering for these positions—some even trying to get her to go along. But she knew it was trap, the Japanese had done the same thing.

The SS had lured them in, with the promise they would be spared the most difficult physical labour and receive better rations. Most in fact died quickly due to the abuse and the rampant spread of venereal disease.

Celeste was never aimed at for such violence, since she was a political prisoner. But that didn't mean she wasn't catcalled by the male guards; most spewed absolutely horrid things. Ones of sexual nature and nasty remarks regarding the allies. Some of the female guards were quite upset with the attention she received. It infuriated them to their very core...

And so, two or more of the guards would start to gang up upon her, poking and prodding Celeste endlessly with sticks. With the main leader bringing the bare wood down on her back. The American could do nothing but take the beatings. And there was nothing Celeste could nothing to help any of the other women—often made to stand by and watch the horrors inflicted.

But amidst the darkness and despair, upon the shadows that crept through the barbed wire fences and the somber echoes of anguish that permeated the air—there existed a beacon of light.

Groups of women arrived daily, and a few had become quite close to Celeste and Maria. Among those, one stood out - Ana, a girl whose youthful appearance belied the depth of her spirit. With her shorn brunette hair and brown eyes that sparkled with an innocence untouched by the horrors surrounding.

Ana, being only 12, carried herself with a quiet grace that belied her tender years. Her voice held a delicate tremor, where the gap from a tooth once resided only added to her youthful charm.

The young girl remained glued at the American's side. Believing that hugging her would give the allies the strength to invade and save them. Celeste knew it was a foolish thing to believe, yet held her tongue—refusing to take away the last glimmer of hope for this young one. The darling Ana had quite the imagination, with dreams of being a doctor when she got older.

As days melted into weeks, Celeste witnessed the toll that life in captivity was exacting upon Ana. The girl's vitality waned, her spirit dimming like a flickering candle in a gusty wind. The American, despite her own struggles, took it upon herself to tend to Ana's wounds—soothing her with lullabies she remembered from Egan's poor singing.

An unspoken bond formed between Celeste and Ana, a bond that transcended the boundaries of age and circumstance. The older brunette, with a maternal instinct she never knew she possessed, allowed Ana to seek refuge in her embrace. Where she asked if Celeste would keep her safe from the monsters.

"I'll do you one better..." The American would mutter, offering out her pinky finger, " I pinky promise to never let them touch you." She sheepishly smiled, knowing she may have to give herself for Ana and it was something she'd be willing to do. The young girl of 12 would meekly smile or at least it would be an attempt at one—-before accepting her promise.

In the quiet hours of the night, after Ana had succumbed to slumber, it was then when Celeste would gaze upon a photograph of Egan, her mind a canvas painted with memories of a time when love enveloped her in warmth. In those tender moments, her eyes filled with tears that threatened to just spill over.

She traced the contours of his face in the faded image—lingering her finger upon his arms, wishing to be in the embrace of him. Celeste would make wish, a promise to live on, to make it out alive... before succumbing to sleep with his picture clutched tightly.

After the arrival Ana months ago, it wasn't long before Hilda and Beatrice showed up; both having been in their teens. Hilda had come from Poland and Beatrice from the outskirts of Germany. Though there was a language barrier, the women found ways to communicate and formed a strong bond.

It was important to retain some dignity and sense of humanity. Therefore, Celeste would help Ana and other younger women make necklaces, bracelets, and other personal items; mainly that of small dolls and books, to be kept as keepsakes. Both would often enlisted the help of Maria, Hilda and then Beatrice.

Many of the women in the camp would give them the orders of what was wanted and the girls would happily make them. These personal effects were of great importance to them and many risked their lives to keep these possessions. Perhaps the only thing left linking them to the world. Just as the picture of Egan... there would be dare consequences if caught.

But it wasn't the labor that always made things worse, it was the stench. One that hangs low in the air, the kind that burns in the nostrils and lingers on forever.

Anything to get rid of the horrid stench of decay and earth.
Most of it wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't for the constant rains, or the slow process at burning the bodies.

It was roughly mid afternoon when Celeste trudged back from labor—the fresh mud squished beneath her worn boots. She held her head low like many of the others, not having the will to waste the energy. She merely watched as the mixture of mud and clay squirted out from under the pressure of her steps. That was about the only exciting thing the American had seen all day—well except for one of the girls almost falling in disgusting mud water.

The once green and vibrant fabric of uniform was now worn by overusing with the added coverage of mud and blood spattered upon it. Her bomber jacket had become cracked and discolored. At the edges, it had become ragged, frayed where  little holes had worked their way into the fabric.

The French Kiss emblem that was printed upon the breast  was barely visible—having all but faded away. Her brunette hair was greasy and matted in her usual bun, with the edges being curled up and pinned down. She'd let some loose strands frame around her face. Everyday was becoming a battle to even continue such mundane tasks.

Even her face, instead of looking cheery and delighted was worn from fatigue and hunger. The not-knowing what was going to happen kept everyone on edge. There had been reports of the Russians coming closer by the day and the Americans having stormed Omaha beach. The news was delightful, riveting even—-truly it was....But it wasn't any closer to rescuing them from the dreaded camp.

Under the evening sky, where the golden sun cast its final caress over the rugged landscape, Celeste trudged wearily towards her humble abode at the camp. Her exhaustion weighed heavy on her every step, each one a reminder of the challenges faced.

As she drew closer to her cabin, a soft symphony of giggles and whispers reached her ears, cutting through the serene stillness of the night. Pushing open the weathered door, Celeste was met with a scene that thawed the icy grip of despair around her heart.

"Surprise! Happy Birthday!" Ana's jubilant voice rang out, accompanied by a beaming smile that could outshine the stars above. The other girls in the cabin echoed Ana's joyful proclamation, their eyes alight with mischievous glee. Even Maria, with her weathered visage still etched with a smile, joined in the celebration.

Celeste's weariness seemed to dissipate in the warmth of their unexpected gesture. It took a moment for the realization to sink in—it was her birthday, a fact that had eluded her in the turmoil of recent weeks. Turning 26 years old in the midst of this hell was a bittersweet milestone.

Taking her place among her companions on the worn beds, Celeste watched as Hilda produced a modest stick, her German-accented voice explaining their impromptu game of "spin the bottle." Despite Ana's initial confusion, all the women eagerly agreed, their tired faces lighting up with a flicker of hope for a brief respite from their harsh reality.

With a flick of her wrist, Hilda set the stick spinning, its tip eventually coming to rest, pointing unwaveringly at Maria. The elderly woman let out a heavy sigh before unveiling the story of her life and love—a tale woven with threads of happiness and sorrow. For 24 years, Maria and her husband had shared a life brimming with joy, owning a quaint bakery in their beloved Poland. Yet, their world was shattered when the shadows of war engulfed their land, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake.

The aura of enthusiasm within the group gradually dissipated as Ana's once bright smile transformed into a somber expression. The shadows of their collective memories, tainted by the pain inflicted by the Germans, loomed over them. Yet, amidst this heavy atmosphere, Maria broke the tension with a sheepish chuckle before passing the stick to Celeste, igniting a spark of curiosity in the air.

"Now, Celeste," Maria's voice carried a playful lilt as she gestured towards her friend with the stick, "it's your turn."

Celeste hesitated momentarily, a flicker of uncertainty clouding her features, until the contagious energy of the girls swirled around her, coaxing forth laughter and playful teasing. Their voices intertwined in whispered pleas, creating a symphony of mischief that filled the room. Observing the scene with a gentle smile, the American extended her hand in a feeble attempt to quiet the commotion.

Ana's inquisitive gaze, framed by her big brown eyes brimming with innocence, fixed upon Celeste. "Tell me," her voice held a curious edge, "who's the pilot in the photo that you clutch so dearly every night?"

A flush of color blossomed on Celeste's cheeks, painting them with a delicate rosy hue as she exchanged a shy smile with Ana. The room resonated with giggles and clandestine whispers as the girls eagerly prodded Celeste to reveal the pilot behind the photograph.

"He holds a special place in my heart," her voice carried a soft warmth, "and that's all I'll say."

However, Ana's persistent gaze, accompanied by a pleading expression reminiscent of a puppy's, elicited a heavy sigh from Celeste. Reluctantly, she retrieved the photo from its hidden sanctuary, offering it to Ana who eagerly accepted it. The contagious excitement radiating from Ana drew the attention of Hilda and Beatrice, who joined in with curiosity piqued.

"He's so handsome!" Ana proclaimed proudly, causing Celeste to gasp in mild surprise. "Ana, my dear," Celeste's tone held a note of amusement, "at your tender age, what do you truly know about boys?"

Undeterred by Celeste's playful skepticism, Ana simply shrugged her shoulders, her eyes shimmering with youthful aspirations. "I want to marry someone who resembles him," she declared with unwavering conviction.

Meanwhile, Maria, mindful of the looming presence of guards and out of courtesy for the others sleeping nearby, sought to maintain a semblance of quiet.

"Alright, that's enough," Celeste declared firmly, reclaiming the photo. "No more for you."

"Oh, do tell how you both met another?" Beatrice inquired, her curiosity piqued. Where Ana playfully nudged Celeste.

"Fine," she finally relented with a smile. "We met at a bar, he clumsily spilled a drink on my lap. Later, by some twist of fate, we ended up stationed together. Initially, I couldn't stand him, hated to be in the same vicinity of him." She sighed heavily, gazing upon the photo, " But that cocky little pilot persisted, and managed to win me over."

It wasn't a typical fairytale, but the grounds for one were fairly similar. Celeste tried her best to ward off the unnecessary questions. With them asking how it was to be with a man or to have one.

Amidst the whispers and soft giggles, the sound of heavy boots crunching through the snow outside caught Celeste's attention. Those fighter pilot days had trained her best, heightening her sense of hearing. Her heart quickened, face drained of color—realizing they may have been caught. Gesturing for silence, she raised a hand, urging the girls to be quiet.

The footsteps drew nearer, each one echoing ominously in the stillness of the night. Swiftly and urgently, Celeste signalled for the girls to stand—to run back to their assigned beds. Before they could react, the cabin door violently swung open—startling the girls into screams of terror as figures crowded into the room.

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AUTHORS NOTE
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IM TRYING SO HARD HERE

So what are your thoughts for the next chapters?

Theories??

Let me know,
I love reading what you guys have to say❤️it keeps me motivated!!!

Okay, I have planned out exactly 4 more chapters! Yeah and sadness, I think I'm taking forever to update so it doesn't have to end soon😭

I feel like this was Egan and Cleven for awhile there in Stalag III, like mans was going through it