◤━━━━━━━━━━━◥

xxii. MY LITTLE SOLDIER

MASTERS OF THE AIR
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

◤━━━━━━━━━━━◥

"But we cannot simply sit and
stare at our wounds forever.

————-                                         ————-

STALAG III
LUFTWAFFE POW CAMP
JANUARY 1945

        || JANUARY 1945, SAW A CHANGE DESCEND UPON STALAG III— LIKE A CLOAK OF FOG SWIPING ACROSS A LAKE. It was a haunting, suffocating—whisking any flicker of optimism away of freedom away. Its frigid grip nurtured a garden of fear in every crevice. Seeping like poison into the bones of those interned within its barbed wire confines.

Whispers, just small talk, carried by the wind like harbingers, fluttered through the camp—hinting at a shift in the German command. The Luftwaffe's maneuvers speaking a language of desperation and concern. The tides of war were turning, veering off the path that Germany had fervently hoped for.

And the murmurs of allied forces drawing nearer only added to the mounting tension, like a sinister orchestra building to a crescendo. Most hoped the Russian forces would get there and save them from this hell.

January 20th, 1945 when the SS finally arrived. Excusing the remaining Luftwaffe from their posts. And with their arrival shattered the fragile facade of normalcy that the prisoners had clung to. Any glimmer of escape or flicker of hope was swiftly extinguished, crushed beneath their jackboots.

There was a stringent disregard for the Geneva Convention by them—much unlike the Luftwaffe. Perhaps that was the reason for the sudden shift in command. For the SS guards stood watch at every turn, every corner; their vigilant canines by their sides and trigger-ready guns cradled in their arms. Picking up where the Luftwaffe had failed in preventing escapes.

The new second-in-command, an older, gaunt figure bearing a visage marred by a web of scars, strode through the camp every morning and night. Each scar etched upon his face seemed to narrate a tale—-with one particular gash threatening to steal away his sight forever. His very presence at every corner akin to looming death—placing a pall of contempt over the already beleaguered POW's.

The daily checks of the cabins no longer bore the innocence they once held. Instead, they were fraught with a sense of dread that whispered through the air like a cursed melody.

The SS officers were far more meticulous in their search, tearing through every nook, cranny, leaving nothing unturned. Beds were upended, linens tossed aside, and the once comforting wooden floors and desks were rapped upon with relentless scrutiny—as if probing for secret passageways or contraband.

Nightfall brought a different kind of horror, as the metallic click of the locks echoed throughout the cabin. Celeste and her crew felt the same—-held like caged animals at a zoo. No wonder the creatures always tried to escape.

Because of this unnecessary need for control, whispers of escaping flickered like a fragile flame in the darkness. Barely holding against a rough wind. Despite the shared desire that burned within them, only a few dared to speak of it.

Egan was one of those who dared to entertain such thoughts—much to Cleven's chagrin.  Perhaps this newfound sense came because Celeste was by his side. However, she vehemently opposed such notions. Practically slapping him across the cheek when he'd speak of such things. She was well aware of the situation and was willing to wait it out of it meant staying alive.

Her angered voice was a reminder of certain death that awaited those who dared defy. The mere thought of losing Egan was a burden too heavy to bare. She'd had lost before and wasn't ready to again. Ravensbrück had shown her plenty of death— more than she had seen in China.

After walking the fences of Stalag III, Celeste noted escaping wouldn't be possible as the camp had built on sandy soil—specifically so that attempts would be difficult.

Metaphorically, it felt as though walls were closing in. The daily patrols growing in number and intensity, each step watched by sharp eyes filled with suspicion. Celeste's words, though laced with a bitter truth—sapped the hope from those around her. The allies felt so distant and unreachable— like a mirage in the vast desert of despair.

Celeste's worst nightmares had materialized before her seeing that insignia once more: believing she had finally escaped their grasp. But they were now at every turn..Everytime the SS barged in or even looked in Celeste's direction, she'd cower. Lowering her head immediately as she had in Ravensbrück. She didn't know she was doing it until Arnie mentioned something.

Oh Fear, a relentless adversary, had taken root in her being, coiling like a serpent around her very essence. It whispered poison into her thoughts, weaving illusions of dread and uncertainty. It danced like a shadow through the corridors of her mind, seeping into every crevice and corner.

But who had birthed this insidious creature within her? Who had painted the world with hues of doubt and anxiety, causing her to question the fabric of reality itself? Had it been Lieutenant Josef Wolfe? The answer eluded her, lost in the labyrinth of her subconscious fears.

"Do not let go of yourself in a moment of fear. Stand your ground and use that fear as a weapon..."

Celeste often found herself invoking those very words Lady Qin had used. The raven-haired woman had spoke such to soothe the young women in their darkest hours, to remind them that even in the depths of suffering—there was a flicker of hope to hold onto.

Celeste couldn't help but wonder about the origins of such a poignant saying. Perhaps it had been plucked from the pages of ancient scholars.

The young brunette had clung to them like a mantra to keep her grounded. For the past three and a half weeks, she would utter the phrase; just as she had at Ravensbrück. It was something repeated every morning and every night—helping to hold back the tears that threatened to consume her.

As it was dully noted Pilots of the 8th Army Air Corps knew crying was unacceptable, they knew the weight of responsibility that came with their title. Crying was seen as a weakness, a showing they were losing the fight. But even the strongest wings can falter in the face of darkness.

Though Celeste had to be quite honest with herself, she had broken that rule now plenty times over. Oh, what would the raven—haired woman think of her then? Surely, she would have understood the situation at the work camp.

January 25th, casted its veil over the barracks of Stalag III. 9pm sharp, it came quicker than expected, a time when everyone was ordered to their beds—with lights out at 11pm. It felt like being a child all over again.

So with the remaining hour; the boys played poker and cleven toyed with the radio—with Brady tentatively listening in on the allied reports.

Celeste remained in the bunk, curled to one side. Her arms hugged tightly across her chest. Her eyes slowly blinking, watching with a detachment as Daniels traced a map. She slowly flickered from him to the lone piece of paper beside her. One she had asked for hours ago, yet couldn't bring herself to relive the past year.

Yet the women, ones she'd come to know had been reduced to mere numbers. They haunted her thoughts like persistent ghosts—their silent pleas echoing in the depths of her soul. But placing their names down meant she'd have to give up some sanity to relive those horrors again.

Daniels had lifted his gaze for an instant, just as Arnie loudly accused Hamilton of cheating. But it was in that fleeting moment that something else snatched his attention—Celeste, lost in her thoughts, her eyes distant, and her page utterly blank.

"You know, it's not gonna write itself..." the lieutenant remarked softly, his lips curving into a gentle, understanding smile, as her emerald eyes gradually met his.

"True," she murmured, a wistful note in her voice, "I wish it would, though..." she added, her tone filled with a yearning for an easier path. Slowly, she rose, a new determination beginning to replace her earlier hesitation.

With the weight of expectation in her hands—a blank sheet in one and a pen held steadfastly in the other—Celeste exhaled deeply, the sigh carrying the burden of her unspoken thoughts.

The ink, dark as the night sky, bled onto the parchment like tears shed for the fallen. The horrors of Ravensbrück—the beatings, the hunger, the silent screams that reverberated through the stillness of the night.

Just like in China, she refused to let their memories fade into oblivion, to let their stories be swallowed by the unforgiving winds of time.

In order to keep their memories alive, Celeste began to assign the women pseudonyms inspired by terms from Anthropology—cleverly veiling from prying eyes. Hannah for Homo Sapiens, using only a single letter from each name.

As Celeste sat at the edge of the bed, nipping at her lower lip— there came the overbearing guilt. Hesitating at writing out Ana's name. A guilt that twisted and turned within her belly like a relentless storm brewing in the sea.

She had been a mother in every sense, her body may have stopped bleeding, but her heart hadn't. It was as though the very essence of motherhood had been abruptly torn away from her, leaving a void that nothing could fill. Was it the guilt of losing?

Or was it the haunting thought of never getting to cradle her child in her arms, to feel the weight of it against her chest as she rocked gently in a chair by the fireplace? Never getting to pick out a name or count the tiny toes as it slept soundly in the crib? Though the moment had been brief, it clung to Celeste like a relentless shadow, whispering of what could have been.

"Oh, my dear Ana," Celeste murmured softly under her breath, her voice barely audible above the raucous chatter of the men. The little girl, someone who had saved her from the deepest depths of despair—a little hand reaching out in the darkness to pull her back from the murky waters of grief and guilt. How she had failed in keeping her promise to protect Ana, to be the mother she deserved.

As Celeste scribbled, her mind wandered to a place where Ana was safe and happy, cradled in the arms of Maria. The image brought a fleeting sense of peace to her tormented soul—a balm to soothe the raw edges of her guilt.

Meanwhile, Egan sat in the chair beside Celeste, his piercing blue eyes flickering to her every so often. He could see the turmoil that consumed her—a weight of guilt pressing down upon her fragile shoulders.

The atmosphere between Egan and Celeste had shifted like quicksand since their confrontation. The major, usually so sure-footed, now found himself treading cautiously around her, sensing the fragile strands of trust snapping in silence.

A memory teased at the corners of his mind, a flicker of realization igniting a flame of guilt within him. Had he unknowingly mirrored the suffocating tactics of the SS in his relentless pursuit of answers from Celeste? The weight of his actions bore down on him, his nickname "Bucky" a bitter taste on his tongue.

Observing Celeste bent over her work, Egan felt a pang of helplessness. She had told him most of what happened; but it seemed not all of it. The cascade of her hair served as a shield, a barrier between them, each strand he feared to breach. " Cel... what is wrong?"

The brunette turned to him, her face a canvas of anguish and hesitation. But before the words could find their way to freedom, Celeste paused, her gaze darting nervously to Daniels then to Hamilton and Brady then to Cleven.

Instead of backing away, Egan moved closer, his voice a soft murmur in the charged atmosphere. However, Celeste's eyes flicked back to her task. "Egan, please," she implored, her voice a fragile echo. "Just... leave it be."

Egan saw the pain etched into the delicate lines of her features, the shadow of secrets dancing behind her eyes. He moved to the bunk, taking his seat beside her. At this point, it had caught the attention of Arnie—who had been trying to sort out the situation between the major and the chief leader.

Egan's lips had been holding back unsaid words for too long, words that weighed heavy on his heart. Just as he finally mustered the courage to break the silence, the tranquility of the rustic cabin was shattered by the violent intrusion of the outside world. The door flung open with a loud thud, revealing an American.

Celeste felt her heart lurch up to her throat, her whole being tensing as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Memories long buried deep within the recesses of her mind surged forth like a turbulent river breaking through a dam. Images of barbed wire, despair, and the haunting cries of Ravensbrück prisoners flashed before her eyes.

She scrambled to her feet, standing immediately at attention. Arnie, who had been on the verge of winning a board game, let out a groan that mingled with the tension in the air.

"Come on, we've got 30 minutes!" The man yelled, trying rouse everyone up from the bunks and chairs. The severity of his voice jolted Arnie and his companions. The Pennsylvanian's brow furrowed in confusion, " 30 minutes till what?" His dark eyes scanned the room as if seeking answers from the very shadows that danced in the flickering light.

"Till they have us marching..." The words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding. Where were they being led to? And why now in the dead of winter? The question lingered, unspoken yet palpable in the shared look of confusion that passed between the occupants of the cabin.

It was Cleven who took authority, his voice cutting through the uncertainty like a sword unsheathed. "Warmest clothes, now!" he barked, shoving his chair beneath the table.

Caught in a maelstrom of urgency, Celeste moved with a determined grace that belied the gravity of the moment. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, flicked from one man to another, her motherly instincts finely attuned to their needs. She navigated the room with the finesse of a seasoned captain steering through turbulent seas. Her actions were swift and precise, reminiscent of a weathered hen meticulously tending to her flock.

Clothing and boots flew through the air with pinpoint accuracy, each item finding its intended recipient as she ensured her men were equipped and ready, their attire perfectly suited for whatever lay ahead.

Arnie, begrudgingly acknowledging Celeste's return to her caretaking role, pulled a wool hat over his tousled blond locks. Her attention then turned to Ben, those instincts kicking into high gear as she outfitted him in warmer clothing—-making sure he was well-prepared for whatever lay ahead.

"Thank you, Chief..." the shy man's meek gratitude was met with a fleeting smile from Celeste. Egan had been observing this silent exchange— small smile forming upon his lips. Just as  Celeste gathered the remaining pieces of paper, the major pressed his hand against her chest to stop her from walking out.

She watch him as he took her hands in his own—before producing a pair of gloves from his pockets. As if guided by an invisible force, Egan gently intertwined his fingers with Celeste's, a gesture of silent understanding. But her eyes widened in protest, her lips parting as if to reject the gift, her voice a gentle plea laced with vulnerability.

"No, these are yours," Celeste implored, her gaze a potent mixture of softness and determination. Egan, undeterred, held his ground, revealing a resolve as unyielding as the mountains that overlooked their town.

"I'll be fine. You need them more than I do," Egan declared, his words a testament to his unwavering commitment to her well-being. Celeste made another feeble attempt to return the gloves, her fingers reaching out in a silent plea, only to be met by Egan's gentle touch as he silenced her with a single gesture.

With a finger pressed against her trembling lips, Egan's gaze bore into Celeste's, his eyes holding a silent promise. "You need them."

Outside, they were herded like cattle, their worn-out bodies forming a ragged line in the muddy yard. The piercing sound of German guards' boots reverberated through the dimly lit ground of the camp, a haunting drumbeat that signaled the onset of yet another nightmarish ordeal.

"Raus! Raus!" commands sliced through the air, compelling the prisoners to get on moving. Most of the men tried to grab what little food they could, with some starting fights over it. The commotion quite annoyed Celeste, making her wince at the yells and punches being thrown.

Her heart pounded in sync with the chaos around her, the desperate struggle for sustenance unfolding like a savage dance. The harsh shouts and sounds of scuffling bodies, mingling with the metallic clatter of cans hitting the cold ground.

Her eyes fixated on the precious cans tumbling from the broken crate—each one that could have been a lifeline. Something primal, dormant within her, stirred to life at the sight, propelling her forward with a single-minded focus.

Like a ghost, she moved, her movements fluid yet urgent as she dropped to her knees amid the fray. Her slender fingers closed around the cool metal of the cans, grasping desperately as if holding onto her very existence. The air was thick with tension, with desperation, with the raw need to survive.

In that fleeting moment, Celeste's world narrowed to the harsh tug on her hard-won prize. A crude hand, calloused and relentless, clawed at her newfound possession. Instantly, survival surged to the forefront of her mind, unleashing a torrent of primal instinct. With a guttural growl, she struck back, her form embodying ferocious defiance. Her aim was precise, her blow merciless, directed with calculated fury at her attacker's most unguarded vulnerability. His agony was a mere whisper compared to the thunderous drumming of her own heart, her senses electrified by the flood of adrenaline coursing through her veins, steel in liquid form, fortifying her resolve.

Chapter: The Clash at Dawn

Egan and Cleven were deep in conversation, the world around them a mere blur as they exchanged thoughts. Their dialogue was abruptly shattered by a chaotic eruption behind them. Both men whirled around, alarmed, eyes widening at the sight that unfolded. Celeste, a picture of fierceness and determination, was locked in a desperate struggle. Her adversary, a rugged man with an audacious gleam in his eye, had brazenly attempted to snatch the food she clutched.

The air was thick with tension as Celeste deflected his blows with a ferocity that matched the man's boldness. Her movements were a dance of survival, every muscle taut, every sense heightened. Her fiery locks streamed behind her like a comet's tail, a blazing testament to her indomitable spirit.

Egan's heart pounded in his chest as he watched, his mind racing to process the scene. The man before her was relentless, but Celeste fought with the strength of a lioness defending her cubs. She was unyielding, a force of nature unleashed upon an unsuspecting world.

Arnie, Egan's stalwart confidant, appeared at his side, his face a mask of grim determination. Together, they surged forward, their voices drowned by the symphony of chaos. "Hey!" Egan's shout cut through the tumult like a knife, a beacon of clarity amidst the pandemonium.

The throng of people parted like waves before a ship, creating a path for the two friends as they wove through the crowd. Egan's eyes never left Celeste, his mind steeling itself for the confrontation that awaited.

The marketplace, once vibrant and bustling, now seemed to hold its breath, every person a silent witness to the drama unfolding. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced eerily upon the cobblestones, setting the stage for the impending clash.

In that moment, as Egan and Arnie closed the distance, a sense of unity surged between them. They were united in purpose, driven by an unspoken promise to defend their own. This was more than just a scuffle over food; it was a battle for dignity, for survival, for the very spirit of their community.

And as they reached Celeste, ready to lend their strength to her fight, the marketplace became a crucible, forging bonds and testing courage in the fiery heat of conflict.

The major reached Celeste, his hands closing around her small frame, pulling her back from the brink of her own frenzy. Her resistance was futile, her cries for release muffled by the din around them.

"Let me go!" Celeste's voice was a wild plea, a manifestation of her inner turmoil made real. She struggled against Egan's grip, her eyes wild with a fervor that bordered on madness.

"Just stop! What are you doing?" Egan's words were a lifeline—a tether anchoring her back to reality. Celeste's eyes blazed with a feral intensity, growing more frantic with each passing moment. The fear of hunger, the memories of days without sustenance, drove her to the brink of madness.

"We need that food..." Her words were a guttural growl, an echo of a world devoid of mercy. Egan's hold tightened, his gaze unwavering as he sought to quell the storm raging within her. "What if this is our only chance? What if we starve?"

Egan's grip tightened as he looked at Arnie, and judging by his reaction—this attitude was new. Celeste's body trembled with a mix of adrenaline and fear, her eyes locked on to her men's worried faces.

With a final, shuddering breath, Celeste's struggles ceased, her body slumping against Egan's. The fight had left her, replaced by a weary resignation that settled deep within her bones.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Egan released his grip, allowing Celeste to stand on her own once more. She stepped back, calmly straightening out her jacket—the fabric whispering softly in the chilling wind.

"Sorry," Celeste whispered, her voice barely more than a breath against the chaos that surrounded them. "Not sure what came over me..." Her words drifted off, lost amidst the crackling of growing flames and shouts of approaching guards.

Arnie and Robert, usually so quick with a joke or a plan, stood frozen, their mouths slightly agape, unable to comprehend the events that had just unfolded before them. "Right..." the Pennsylvanian sarcastically replied, " I'll make sure not to get on the new Celeste's bad side."

The prisoners were pushed near the camp gates, awaiting the order to begin the march. Around them, it was chaos. The Germans's were screaming and shoving Daniels and his men around—calling them names. But it was the sounds of glass smashing, and dogs barking that made Celeste jolt.

The Germans were setting fire to everything in their wake behind them, burning all the horrible things they had done down. Celeste felt a pang of anger, knowing they were trying to erase the traces. And with the final mark, the march began, with Celeste and Egan falling into step with the others. She would continue to look back, watching as the flames danced upon the cold night sky.

The crackling only grew louder, drowning out the echoes of their footsteps as they disappeared into the darkness of night...

48 MILES WEST OF STALAG III
ROAD TO MUSKAU

     || THEY HAD BEEN FORCED TO MARCH FOR HOURS IN THE DARKNESS, IN FRIGID TEMPERATURES : without food. Where snow and wind whipped through the thin, leafless trees. Besides the black pillars of wood, everything else was almost blindingly white. Such was the remote woods during winter.

And this was the worst winter Muskau had ever experienced, from what she had heard. The snow was so thick and soft so that any sound around them became completely non-existent. It was easy to get lost in these woods, the surroundings being very identical-looking.

They had only been 20 miles out when the prisoners encountered the Wehrmacht. Well, if one could call it that. Everyone was sourced to the side as the carriages and trucks moved through. Her eyes widened upon noticing the half tracks were filled with not men, but old, senior aged men.

The sight before them was surreal, like a haunting tableau that felt ripped from the pages of a tragic novel. Children, mere adolescents really, marched stoically—their young faces set in determined lines. No older than Ana had to be. But the weight of their armaments—antitank weapons and rifles—seemed too heavy for their slight frames.

Celeste could feel the heaviness in the air, a palpable sense of disbelief that settled over the prisoners of war. Arnie and Robert stood like statues on either side of her, their eyes locked on the German convoy as it trundled past. "Oh my god," the brunette whispered, her breath catching in her throat. "They're just children..."

One of the them, a boy no older than twelve, caught Celeste's eye. His weathered face bore lines of hardship that no child should have to endure. He made eye contact with her for a brief moment before turning his gaze back to the road ahead.

They moved with a mechanical precision, their steps synchronized, their gaze fixed straight ahead. There was an eerie silence that fell over the road, broken only by the sound of boots on gravel and the rumble of engines. And then, a voice pierced the stillness—a young German guard from behind Celeste called out, his words sharp and defiant. "For blood and soil!"

Celeste turned back to see the young man, someone utterly brainwashed by the regime. But the response from the Wehrmacht soldiers in the half track was not what he had expected. The men in the half track only grumbled—their heads bowed in defeat.

There was no thunderous cheer, no rallying cry. Instead, a sense of resignation hung heavy in the air. Their faces weary and worn—their eyes haunted by the specter of war.

Beside her, Egan leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. "What did he say?" Celeste turned to him, her expression grave. "He said, 'For blood and soil.' It's a saying they use." Egan's lips twisted in a wry smile. "Well," he muttered, "it clearly didn't do much this time."

"Hmm, gotta hand it to them though... they sure are taking this 'fight to the last men' seriously..." Arnie mocked before strolling on past.

Celeste merely grimaced at the thought of children being sent to fight—lifting mere weapons instead of toys.

"We never encountered that in China.. with the Japanese.." Robert added, passing a look to Ben.

It appeared the SS commandant felt the same as she heard his whispered words of disgust. Celeste glanced back to Robert then to Arnie, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

As the company of POWs were forced on, Celeste couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The Germans were losing and here they were marching them off to God knows where.

Celeste's hands trembled as she clutched her coat tightly around—trying to shield herself from the chilling wind that seemed to carry echoes of her past pain. Egan did the same, holding his hands within his jacket—tucking his chin into the warmth.

The bitter cold bit at their skin like a thousand needle pricks. Each step they took left a deep imprint in the pristine white blanket that covered the land. Despite the exhaustion that seeped into her bones, she refused to show any signs of weakness. And with Egan watching every movement, it didn't help.

As they neared the final stretch, the sight of the labor camp sent a chill down Celeste's spine. The enlarged letters of  MUSKAU BRICKWORKS laid upon a metal frame that towered over the entrance. The silhouette loomed, a dark reminder of the horrors she had endured in the previous camp. Memories flooded her mind with chilling clarity, making her grip on the Army coat tighten in fear.

Arnie, with a heavy heart, muttered, "A labor camp?" The melancholy in his tone echoed the despair that clouded their minds. Robert, ahead of them, turned back and shrugged his shoulders. "Guess they felt we didn't get enough exercise at the last camp..."

"Oh very funny...." She mocked, her voice muffled by the fabric she pulled over her lips. The guards ushered them through the gates of Muskau Brickworks. The cold steel clanging shut behind them.. Celeste's breath formed white puffs in the icy air, her steps faltering as she navigated through the thick snow and mud.

Egan walked beside her, keeping a watchful eye. His tall frame produced a protective shield against the unsettling gazes that sought to linger on her form. He could feel the weight of their eyes, greedy and hungry, as they slid over her like tendrils of mist. But he was not one to allow such trespasses to go unchecked.

His hands rested protectively on her waist—guiding her along. It was a silent declaration to the world that she was under his watchful guard. The hardness in his look was a warning—a promise of dire consequences to any fool who dared to lay a finger on her.

Within the confines of the labor camp's main building, a somber atmosphere loomed heavy like a shadow cast by a storm cloud. Men of various dispositions and backgrounds had congregated in small clusters amidst the dim light of burn barrels crackling. Rough faces illuminated by the erratic dance of firelight, with hands outstretched towards the meager source of warmth.

Celeste's keen eyes swept over the surroundings, every detail etching into her memory like the stroke of an artist's brush on canvas. Each whispered exchange filled the air, lingering like wisps of smoke from a smoldering ember.

The crew of French Kiss found themselves forced to stay the night in an unfamiliar place, their wary gazes darting around the room searching for any signs of danger.

Egan and his men settled in a secluded corner, seeking comfort in the warmth of their close proximity. Celeste nestled into Egan's side, her fingers tracing the contours of his bicep as she leaned against him.

Across from them, Arnie and Robert mirrored their pose in a comical display that drew an amused eye roll from Celeste. She shot Arnie a playful glance, mouthing, "Knock it off," before nudging his boot with her own.

The air in the room seemed to thicken as Cleven's presence filled the space, his footsteps reverberating through the corridors like a drumbeat. Celeste's heart thudded in her chest, the weight of his words pulling her attention away from Egan.

"Scuttlebutt is we're heading to a train station at first light..." Cleven's voice hung heavy in the room, setting off a cascade of emotions within Celeste. It was as if the very ground beneath her shifted at the mention of the word 'train.'

Her gaze shot up to meet Cleven's, a mix of fear and confusion swirling in the depths of her eyes. "What do you mean... train?" Her voice sounded more fragile than she intended, the tremor betraying the strength she tried to hold onto.

"Do they know where?" Her words came out in a rush, as she unconsciously clutched Egan's hand. Cleven's expression mirrored her own internal turmoil, uncertainty etched on his features. "Not sure, just that we have to be ready at first light."

The room felt suffocating as Celeste struggled to reign in her emotions, her hands trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. The memories of being herded onto a train like livestock flashed before her.

Anger and fear waged a silent war within her fragile being, their invisible claws leaving marks on her soul. She squeezed Egan's hand, seeking solace in his touch, the only anchor she held.

"What's been going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" Egan's voice was soft, a mere whisper. Celeste hesitated, the words caught in her throat like a tangled web. "Nothing," she replied too quickly, a feeble attempt to shield her true feelings. But Egan knew her all to well now, saw through her facade—his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Are you sure?" His gaze bore into her, peeling away layers of pretense until she stood exposed, vulnerable.

She nodded, a silent affirmation that held a hint of doubt, the unspoken truths echoing in the hollow of the room. With a sigh, Celeste leaned back, her eyelids heavy with the weight of her burdens. Sleep beckoned, a temporary respite from the chaos around.

In the depths of the night, Celeste's dreams were restless, haunted by shadows that whispered of unspoken fears. She stirred, her heart racing in the silence of slumber, awakening in the witching hours when the world held its breath.

The moon cast a ghostly glow upon her form, a spectral light that painted her in shades of silver. Celeste's eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding her mind as she grappled with the fragments of her dreams. Fear lingered, refusing to be banished by the light of day.

     As the night waned and the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, Celeste began to panic. The German guards were there in seconds, herding everyone towards the train station.

The gentle warmth of the morning sun caressed the tired faces of the prisoners of war, their shadows elongated against the cold, hard ground. One by one, they shuffled towards the looming train station like ghosts in the early light.

Celeste's once resolute steps now faltered, her legs heavy like lead as she stumbled and fell, the weight of despair pressing down upon her. Each time she would try to rise, the invisible chains of fear pulled her back down to the earth.

A sudden realization struck Egan, a gnawing fear clawing at his insides as he turned back to find Celeste missing from his side. Panic ignited in his eyes as he scanned the sea of weary faces, searching for a glimpse of her familiar figure.

There she was, knelt as if in prayer, her gaze fixed on the purity of the white gravel beneath her. It was as though she sought solace in the simplicity of the moment, a fleeting escape from the harsh reality closing in around them.

Dropping to his knees beside her, he reached out to touch her cheek, yet she recoiled— holding a wild look within her eyes. One that sent a chill down his spine. "What are you doing?" He asked frantically, trying to grab for her hand.

But the touch of his hand, Celeste launched herself at him. Egan stumbled, quite taken off guard—landing hard on the ground with a dull thud. For a moment, time stood still, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.

"I said, leave me alone!" Celeste's voice was a raw whisper, tearing from her lips like a wounded animal. His heart felt like it had shattered at the desperation in her tone. Bringing him back to the night at the hotel—where she had laid out all her emotions.

Stunned, he rose to his feet, watching as Celeste quickly  retreated back into herself, her defenses crumbling like fragile glass. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of the station. "I didn't mean to..."

Egan could feel her fear in the way she resisted his every move. Her body tense like a bowstring ready to snap, eyes darting nervously as if searching for an escape that wasn't there. He knew he had to get her on that train or she'd never go.

The major dusted himself off, his eyes never leaving Celeste's face. He reached out and grasped onto her biceps, pulling her up, "You're not staying here, Celeste," he insisted. "They'll shoot you if you stay."

"I don't care..."

"Well I do!" He yelled, just in case she didn't hear his pleas.  But Celeste was a storm in human form. Planting her feet like roots refusing to be uprooted. "No, no, please, you don't understand," she pleaded, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "I can't go back there. I can't!"

"You're not going back there! I promise." Egan tried to plead as fought against his hold—her body writhing like a trapped animal. Her head tossed back and forth in defiance, a wild mane of hair framing her desperate face. "Damnit, Celeste, knock it off," Egan scolded—his patience wearing thin.

Arnie had been watching the whole thing and ran towards them—upon realizing the commandant was becoming upset. But his foot caught on a hidden patch of ice, sending him tumbling to the ground. Arms frailing, his body created a snow angel a once landing—his face imprinting on the pristine white canvas. For a moment, he lay still, the cold seeping through his clothes and stinging his skin.

With a grunt, Arnie pushed himself up, flakes of snow falling from his coat like a cascade of diamonds. As he wiped the snow from his face, leaving behind streaks of pink on his cheeks—he called out, "Hey look, i don't know what happened between you guys but can we get a move on before we're shot?"

Egan turned back, a mixture of concern and amusement in his eyes. Of course, Celeste wasn't too thrilled by this, " Nothing happened..." she grumbled through clenched teeth, she just wasn't ready to tell her boys about her and Egan's little moment in the barn. Or the fact she loved him.

Celeste knew Arnie would never in a million years let up on that if she did. "Sure..." he remarked with a wink, honestly Egan couldn't tell what made her more mad—the train or Arnie.. But at least the Pennsylvanian tried to uplift the spirits of those around.

However as Egan pushed her toward the train, Celeste tried her mightiest to strike and kick. With Arnie unfortunately being the one to get smacked. Perhaps he deserved it in a way. But most of the men just watched her carrying on, with some gambling on about how a woman shouldn't have been there.

And even as they boarded the train, her fists continued to fly. Egan had excuse her behavior as they walked by—with the major making quick nods to acknowledge those around. Finally, Egan managed to find a quiet corner in the crowded cattle car. Where Cleven raised himself against the wooden wall.

He gently released Celeste, before his touch upon her waist like a whisper against the storm. She turned and recoiled, throwing a punch in his direction. But Egan moved deftly, placing a calming hand upon her head—keeping her at bay.

"Look," Egan began as the train hummed to life, starting on its journey, "we're all in this together now." The gentle lilt in his voice carried a sense of reassurance. Slowly, Celeste stepped back, the fire in her eyes flickering briefly as doubt crept in. "You don't understand..." she murmured.

But as they stood there, in front of another, Celeste's guarded demeanor faltered as Egan's piercing blue eyes bore into hers, searching for a glimpse of the turmoil that brewed beneath the surface of her calm facade. Guilt gnawed at her insides like a ravenous beast, a beast she had kept chained for too long.

Egan let out a weary sigh, "I do, maybe not in the severity you do. But a year without knowing of you were alive or dead, well, it drove me insane." Celeste flashed him a meek
Semblance of a smile, her hand slowly finding his. "It was where I didn't want to be on this earth anymore if you weren't."

"Yes, he was quite dramatic..." Arnie chimed in. "Oh Celeste this, I want to die... blah, blah..." The Pennsylvanian was then punched in the arm by Robert, thus getting an earned nod from Celeste.

"Well, You can pummel me later for making you get on this train," Egan pauses, " only After we're out of this mess," he offered with a tired smile, before extending his pinky towards her.

Celeste eyed him warily, before tentatively reaching out and entwining her pinky with his. "Good, I'll make sure to remember that." She added at the end of a smile. Egan's chuckle, a sound like music to her ears, " Ah there's my smile." The first he had seen her true self in the three and half weeks they'd been together.

It wasn't long into the trip when someone started uttering nonsense, making Daniels express that the Germans had plenty of times to execute them, yet didn't. But Solly was loosing his grip on his sanity. Adamant that the nazis were going to kill them or leave them for dead.

Egan held her hands tightly within his, bringing her closer to his body. Things hadn't exactly panned out how everyone hoped. No one there planned to be shot down or placed in labor/ POW camps.

But when Solly screamed they were in Nuremberg, Celeste was about lose herself. She clenched her eyes shut so hard, they pulsed from the pain. Her hands immediately raised to her ears, trying to drown out his voice. Egan was on Solly in seconds, trying to come the young lieutenant down.

Celeste turned to watch Egan, the way he nurtured the young man, telling him it was going to be okay. Her hands slowly fell from her ears, her body slowly intending In that very moment, she felt ever more guilty. Perhaps she could ease it in, maybe ask if he ever thought about a name for a child?

———————————————————————

STALAG IIIIX
NUREMBERG, GERMANY

      || THEY TRUDGED THROUGH THE MUD AND SNOW. Hungry and cold, frankly it was surprising no one suffered any frostbite. Piles of debris and rubble lined the side of the roadway. The camp loomed in the distance, it fairly similar to Stalag iii—just more crowded. The buildings, once sturdy and proud, now lay in ruins, their walls crumbling and roofs collapsed from the relentless bombings. Glancing up, Arnie groaned loudly, " Another one? What is this, a field trip?"

"Not a very good one..." Robert says, rubbing away at his eye. As they walked towards the camp, the scattered remnants of what once were homes came into view. Celeste couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness as she saw the devastation wrought upon this town.

But it was the children that caught Celeste's attention. They emerged from the shadows, their faces etched with hunger and desperation. Their eyes, wide with fear and uncertainty, locked onto Celeste and Arnie as they approached.

One boy stood out from the rest, his small frame shrouded in a coat far too big for him. His doe-brown eyes bore into Celeste's soul, his outstretched hands reaching for her in silent plea. "Bitte," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the whispers of the wind.

Celeste's heart twisted in her chest as she looked into those eyes, She could see Ana—a ghost of the past haunting the present. His tears a silent accusation against a world that had failed him. She gently shook her head, her voice soft but firm. "I'm sorry."

But the boy persisted, his grip on her coat tightening with each passing moment. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mirroring the sorrow etched on Celeste's face.

Arnie watched the scene unfold, his own heart heavy with the weight of their shared humanity. He placed a hand on Celeste's shoulder to keep her on moving—his voice filled with empathy. "I'm sorry, little guy."

As they moved forward, the young boy's plaintive cry faded, like a haunting melody. Celeste tried to hide her face with the coat flap, trying to hide back the tears. His cries were the same as Ana's when Josef had ripped her away.

The POW camp loomed before Celeste and her crew like a monstrous beast, its rusted gates creaking in the eerie silence of the morning air. When they entered, Celeste felt the shiver run down her spine. No amount of anything would ever get her over Ravensbrück. The buildings were crumbling, burn barrels were littered everywhere and the stench of waste filled the air.

The towering guard housing loomed ominously overhead, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out towards them like the grasp of some unseen malevolence.

And then, a figure emerged from the shadows. A figure none had never thought to see again, a figure the crew of French Crew had mourned as lost. There, standing before her, was a man she had once called a brother, his features worn and weary but undeniably alive.

It was the sound of his familiar voice that truly made everyone's heart stop. One that carried a hint of Boston, a voice that she thought she would never hear again. "Well, well..." the voice echoed out from behind them, sending chills down The French Kiss crew. "Now Look what the cat dragged in..."

———————————————————————

AUTHOR'S NOTE
—-

DARLINGS , IM BACK

Honestly, Hate, HATE this chapter,
but it had to be done. 🙃

Longer or shorter chapters???

I don't wanna overwhelm everyone

Celeste is having some issues at the moment

WHO DO YOU THINK IS BACK????