viii. WHERE'S MY SMILE |
                              OPERATION HUSKY

                            MASTERS OF THE AIR
                            AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

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THORPE ABBOTTS
CONTINUED....

"HA! I got you!" A VOICE SUFFUSED WITH UTTER TRIUMPH RANG OUT AMONGST THE DISTANCE BOMBS. Unlike the others that claimed not to hear the distinctive sound that crept forth—Celeste had and was determined to find the source of it. Growing up on a farm, it did not take her long. The fiery brunette had pinpointed the origin to the exact location— a small hole tucked under the worn pellets. Because of this, one of the boys made a subtle joke. "Were you a tracker dog in a former life?" He chuckled, gaining few laughs from the others nearby. But Celeste merely flipped him the bird, with a forced smile—before continuing on her pursuit.

Whatever the unseen animal was, frankly did not want to be found. Engaging in a covert game of hide-and-seek that elicited subtle ow's and involuntary winces from Celeste. But she was not one to back down, dropping to all fours like a skilled tracker—honing in on her target like a hunting dog on a scent.

Meanwhile, Egan was watching the whole thing unfold like a movie. He felt his thoughts wandering into forbidden territories, his mind spiraling into a realm of emotions he had not foreseen. In a feeble attempt to distract himself, he nervously gnawed on his thumbnail—-desperately trying to wean away from the unexpected arousal coursing through him.

His eyes remained fixed on Celeste, seemingly unaware of the world around him, until Cleven's voice reached him like distant echoes at the bottom of a murky sea.

Upon noting Egan's unresponsiveness amidst his remarks, Cleven shot a concerned glance— before nudging him firmly with a kick. "I told you already, about getting too deep with her."

Egan, shaken from his daze, met Cleven's gaze with a mischievous look. "Well, you know me..."

"I'm afraid I do..." A knowing look passing between them before his attention turned back to the sky. If one overlooked the chaos of bombs and the mournful wail of air raid sirens, it was quite beautiful—a juxtaposition of destruction and beauty. Shades of black and purple lining the sky while hues of yellow found themselves interspersed, creating a haunting sight.

"So What's the move, then?" Egan inquired upon a soft whisper—mustache twitching slightly with each breath.

"Are you referring to her or the mission?" Cleven quipped, his brows slightly raising as if to point in Celeste's direction. A subtle smirk danced on his lips as his eyes, the color of a robin egg, focused upon his friend.

Egan merely scoffed, flicking his wrist dismissively. " Oh please, you know what i mean.." But The blonde major couldn't be too sure on his friend's answer. As he continued staring, Egan shifted slightly in the seat, trying fix himself and to avert Cleven's burning gaze of questions. Finally, he gave in with a gentle nod, " The mission..."

Cleven made a light hmmm under his breath, his hand instinctively raising to slick back strands of hair that had fallen upon his forehead. " well, We must lead our boys through it," he remarked, before casting a wary glance towards the lurking darkness that was the night sky. That was until he observed Egan's gaze lingering upon Celeste once more.

It was no secret that Egan had shied away from commitment, always opting for fleeting dalliances that left him yearning for something more substantial. His heart burdened by the remnants of past choices, laying heavy on his conscience.

"Oh, no you don't!" Celeste's tone suddenly commandeered the conversation, grasping attention without missing a beat.
With a graceful yet decisive movement, she readied herself once more. A gleam of determination shone in her eyes, letting out one final grunt before deftly seizing the elusive culprit.

Triumphantly declaring, "Got you, you cheeky little thing!"
A hushed silence fell over the group as Celeste slowly backed herself out of the thicket of pellets—where a victorious gleam filled her eyes. There, as moonlight filtered in through the branches, it casted a soft glow that illuminated a small ball of fur. Celeste rose the little beast up, clutching it by the nape of its neck. The fluff tried fighting back, hissing as it swung its tiny paws aimlessly in front.

Egan, his curiosity piqued, rose to his feet with a sense of urgency—leaving Cleven mid-sentence. Not that he was really listening anyway...Arnie and Rene exchanged puzzled glances, their expressions a mix of surprise and curiosity—both trying to wrap their minds around what Celeste had found.

As the brunette steadily approached, a faint meek meow emanated from the diminutive bundle nestled in her grasp. "A kitten?" Egan quipped, his dark brows furrowing slightly—-a hint of amusement lacing his words.

The moment felt suspended in time, bathed in the light of the night. Celeste, with a gentle smile playing on her lips, presented the tiny creature to her friends, who now stood in awe of her unexpected find.

Celeste gazed at the kitten with a mix of amusement and tenderness. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, as if she held a secret that the rest of the world was yet to discover.

"Indeed, quite the little cutie," she remarked, her voice carrying a melody that seemed to blend enchantment and curiosity. The others looked on in silence, their eyes reflecting a mixture of longing and despair in the tumultuous times they found themselves in.

Egan, standing nearby, whispered almost inaudibly, " Almost like someone else I know.." His voice trailed off as Celeste glanced up—a faint hint of impatience in her eyes. She shook her head, dismissing his suggestion, and refocused her attention on the kitten that had captured her heart.

The little feline exuded a lively energy, putting up a spirited resistance by tossing its head and bravely attempting to wield its tiny claws against a world too big and too harsh. "Well, I'll be damned," Egan muttered in astonishment, his hands instinctively inching towards his pockets as Celeste gently lifted the kitten to eye level.

"Hello there, little one... there's no need to be afraid," Celeste whispered soothingly to the jittery kitten, her delicate fingers unfastening the top buttons of her uniform. With a tender touch, she cradled the shivering creature against the warmth of her undershirt. Almost instantly, the frantic struggles ceased, replaced by steady breaths as only a curious little head peeked out.

Arnie and Rene, drawn by the commotion, approached with eager curiosity to greet their unexpected new companion, their eyes wide with wonder. "How about Rebecca, Becky..." Egan suggested, his voice barely above a whisper.

As Egan gazed at the tiny, furry bundle nestled in Celeste's  blouse—a mischievous spark flickered in her eyes, signaling the onset of banter. "Are you attempting to name the kitten or me?" she teased.

Egan, undeterred by Celeste's jest, flashed a grin filled with amusement as he replied, "Maybe... what about Pistol?" With a gentle touch, he placed his index finger beneath the kitten's chin—eliciting a contented purr from the tiny creature.

A soft chuckle escaped Celeste as she leaned in closer to examine the kitten. "Pistol? Really?" she quipped, her tone filled with affectionate incredulity at the suggestion.

"Not a fan of Pistol, huh?" Arnie chimed in with a grin, always ready to join in on the playful banter. "What about Nugget?" he proposed with a playful twinkle in his eye.

Rene, observing the interaction with amusement, furrowed her brows in mock disapproval. "Really, Arnie? Naming a kitten after food now?"

Celeste couldn't hold back a chuckle at Arnie's suggestion. "Nugget? That's even worse than Pistol," she mused, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Egan shrugged casually, a fond twinkle in his eye as he gazed upon the woman he had favored. "Well, I mean, her rescuer is definitely a pistol."

Celeste's grin widened, as she leaned closer to Egan—voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, he who happens to be quite the charmer," she teased, watching a hint of amusement sparkle in his eyes.

Egan chuckled softly, his charm ever apparent. "Oh really now, you admitting I'm the charmer, little lady?"

The banter between them was becoming almost natural, like breathing—the dance of words and glances a well-practiced routine. Celeste's scoff tinkled like wind chimes in the soft evening breeze as she fixed her gaze on him.

Egan, his features adorned with a playful grin that danced in the flickering light, elegantly tucked his hands into the depths of his trousers—a twinkle of mischief lingering in his eyes as he held her gaze captive. "How about 'lil lady' , my dear?" he teased, his voice laced with a hint of daring.

Celeste, having his eyes of ocean blue fixed on her—redirected her attention towards the tiny kitten in her arms—unwilling to plunge into the depths of her burgeoning emotions just yet. However, the electric thrill that pulsed through her veins in the presence of Egan was undeniable a sensation she couldn't ignore.

Observing the way Celeste's face glistened with a hopeful radiance upon seeing the kitten, Egan felt a warmth blooming within his chest. "Nugget it is," Celeste declared softly, her voice a tender caress as she nestled her nose against the kitten's velvety fur.

Arnie, a silent observer to this delicate dance of hearts, couldn't contain his joy and broke into a little victory dance, a triumphant smile gracing his lips.

As Egan found himself inexplicably drawn to Celeste, her essence wrapping around him like a spell, he couldn't help but ponder the possibility of her being his Marge—the one who would bring color to his world. Even with the kitten christened as Nugget, he fancied calling her "Lil' Lady."

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THORPE ABBOTTS,
2 DAYS LATER

                             OPERATION HUSKY
                              JULY 9th - 10th 1943

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|| THE SUNRISE GRACED THE TIPS OF TREES—BEFORE DANCING ALONG THE SWAYING GRASS. Each casting a golden hue over the aircraft that sat dormant. It had been awhile since the C-47's had left the safety of their landing strip. The light bounced off the olive-green metal, creating a flickering spectacle as if the windows had become self-made spotlights.

Only two days had passed since Celeste found Nugget, the orange-hued kitten who had quickly become her constant companion. Nugget adored Celeste, following her everywhere—even curling up to sleep in her quarters.

When approached by Col. Harding, Celeste insisted she needed a support animal—claiming Nugget filled that role perfectly, much like Demarco's faithful companion; Meatball.

Nugget had become a quite the celebrity among Lemmons's crew—receiving pets and treats whenever she accompanied Celeste on visits. The feisty kitten had a penchant for perching on the brunette's shoulder, surveying her surroundings with eyes that had only recently opened. Just like her rescuer, Nugget had a feisty and fussy personality that endeared her to everyone she met.

But upon hearing the news of a new mission, Celeste was eager to jump at the opportunity. Feeling as thought she was bundled up and shoved off into a corner by the late colonel. She left Nugget in the trusty care of Sammie; whether than Egan. The trust was quite lacking. He had been on about calling the kitten Lil' Lady as it only fitting.

It was Corporal Nathan that had been sent to fetch her after dinner. "Miss..." his voice caught in the air, " It is time..." Expressing how important it was to rally all the C-47 crews through uncontrolled breaths. The brunette breathed

Once arriving, Celeste did not hesitate once, hopping out the jeep with a newfound confidence. Adjusting her collar, she quietly chatted with Arnie. Mainly expressing how it was nice to finally be getting into the cockpit again. Upon entering the planning room where it was filled with the hum of hushed conversations and the scent of coffee lingering in the air—that confidence began to falter swiftly. Celeste stopped mid sentence as her eyes laid on a familiar face - her father.

A sudden stillness swept over her, legs locking in place, her chest prickling at the sight of his imposing figure. Clad in a brown flight jacket and olive drab trousers, his hat askew over his hair. He had been busying himself looking over the flight plans the British had prepared. Celeste felt a wave of emotions wash over her - pride, nostalgia, and a hint of trepidation.

Colonel Jefferson stood tall and authoritative at the forefront of the grand board, its surface cloaked in a deep black fabric. He was known for his strict demeanor and unwavering dedication to his job. As a pilot herself, Celeste admired him greatly but also felt a sense of pressure to live up to his expectations. It wasn't until Arnie noticed that he nudged her forward— noting she was blocking the doors. But instead of walking forward, she turned to walk away but Arnie stopped her. "Oh no you don't.." he whispered, grabbing her by the fore arm— placing her in front of him once more. With a forced smile, She took a deep breath and approached him, steeling herself for the inevitable conversation that would follow.

Her apprehension growing as she anticipated her father's reaction. Celeste fidgeted nervously with the edge of her flight suit as she approached. Harboring a fear that her father's unexpected presence was a consequence of her recent mishaps, causing her to be even more reluctant to meet his gaze or address him directly.

She attempted to shield herself by using her cap to partially obscure her face, but her efforts proved futile. "Ah, there is my sweet girl," Col. Jefferson's voice resonated as he made his way towards her with a smile akin to that of a Cheshire cat.

Caught off guard by his warm reception, Celeste found herself taken aback. She had braced herself for a scolding, yet here he was, enveloping her in a tight hug. Following the embrace, a firm handshake followed - a gesture dictated by military decorum. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, Celeste saw a hint of warmth in his expression before it was replaced by his usual stern demeanor.

Celeste mustered a meek smile at her father; nearly a year had passed since their last encounter, and predictably, he chose to make an appearance following her latest blunder. Call it parental intuition.

With a firm grip and a nod, her father reclaimed his position at the platform before engaging in hushed conversation with a fellow commander. A man quite unfamiliar to Celeste. But the stark contrast of the black fabric against the hut's predominantly white interior casted a foreboding shadow— an omen to the mission coming.

Robert, Frankie, and Ben entered the room with a slow, deliberate pace, eventually settling into their seats just behind Celeste and Arnie. A few others, including members of Jackson's crew and Yankee, joined them—each taking their respective seats while grumbling about the early hour.

Some shared stories of their previous night's escapades while others expressed their discontent with being awake at such an ungodly time.

The tall, wiry man who had been engaged in conversation with Celeste's father stood erect at the podium. His voice, barely audible through the microphone, implored the men to quiet down and pay attention. However, as moments passed, the noise level in the room seemed to escalate despite his efforts.

Colonel Jefferson, observing the men's lack of discipline and respect now that all crews had assembled, marched over to a corner and retrieved a long pointer stick. The determination of a bull, he stomped over and with a loud grunt—bought the stick down upon the floor, making a defeating noise. It sure silenced the chatter and commanded everyone's focus toward him. He glared at the men before him with an utter play of disdain upon his features.

"What is this, a ladies' night out?" Colonel Jefferson bellowed, tone tinged with exasperation as he continued to scan the sea of airmen. "No sir!" Arnie finally spoke up, earning curious glances from fellow crew members.

"Good. Now, quiet down," Colonel Jefferson directed, positioning himself sideways before gesturing towards the board. "I'm sure you're all wondering why we've gathered crews exclusively comprised of C-47 pilots here today."

The room fell into a hush, air thick with anticipation, as a few men nodded—their faces a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief. All eyes watched intently as the stick slowly shifted the fabric that rested atop a detailed map of Sicily. Celeste felt her eyes widen in astonishment, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. The map unveiled an enlarged portion of the island, with intricate red lines and arrows outlining the Axis grip on the region and below that, the path the Allies would take to reclaim it.

"This operation is known as Operation Husky, the Allied invasion of Sicily," announced Jefferson in a commanding voice. "Each Douglas C-47 will be carrying paratroopers from the 7th British and 8th American Regiments, accompanied by gliders." A soft chuckle rippled through some of the men as they realized they would have to work closely with the British forces. A few joked that the Americans might be better off without them, considering the British's reputation for taking their time, what with all the tea breaks.

Operation Husky, the precursor to D-Day, was the Allied invasion of Sicily, also known as the Battle of Sicily. This major campaign led to the invasion of the island in July 1943, targeting not just Germany but also Fascist Italy. It kicked off with a large-scale amphibious and airborne operation, followed by a six-week land campaign, marking the beginning of the Italian campaign.

To distract the Axis forces, the Allies employed several deception operations, the most famous being Operation Mincemeat. The operation commenced on the night of July 9-10, 1943. This attack would take place in the dead of night, with two American and two British airborne troops.

"Men from Colonel James M. Gavin's 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, along with the 3rd Battalion of the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the 456th Parachute Field Artillery Battalion, Company 'B' of the 307th Airborne Engineer Battalion, and other supporting units of the U.S. 82nd Airborne Division will be aboard our C-47s," announced the colonel, his solemn visage underscored by the gravity of the mission at hand, the wooden stick clutched firmly against his thighs to emphasize the weight of his words.

Celeste felt a wave of trepidation and exhilaration wash over her, her hands trembling against her thighs, the anticipation in the room reaching a fever pitch. As Colonel Jefferson stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, he declared, "Chief Leader Jefferson will lead this critical mission." Arnie and Frankie, their faces brimming with excitement, gripped Celeste's shoulders tightly—relishing the opportunity to take charge in this momentous undertaking.

However, not all among the men shared their enthusiasm; some glances were exchanged—disapproving murmurs hidden beneath forced nods and smiles. The prospect of a woman leading the mission didn't sit well with some, believing it to be doomed. Although they dared not voice their dissent in the presence of her father, who held a superior rank capable of dispatching them to the treacherous Pacific front.

"We have only one chance at success," the colonel emphasized, taking a step closer to the group. "I expect to see each of you prepared and back here later tonight." There was eerily, but respectful silence that fell over the room as some nodded in agreement. With a sigh from Colonel Jefferson, the men rose to their feet, saluting crisply before beginning to disperse—each harboring their own thoughts and uncertainties about the impending operation.

As they filed out of the room, the weight of the mission ahead hung heavy in the air, mingling with an undercurrent of tension and apprehension. The fate of Sicily, and perhaps the outcome of the war, rested on the shoulders of this assembly—each with their own motives, fears, and allegiances.

Celeste knew the path ahead was fraught with danger, but amidst the uncertainty, a sense of camaraderie began to blossom—a shared determination to rewrite the course of history, no matter the challenges that lay ahead.

Because Jackson was assigned to the 100th, that meant Celeste was down a crew member. And so, was given a new one, a newbie just out of flight school. The young lad was barely pushing 18 by the looks of it. He trained to be on the B-17's but didn't exactly get that. Instead, pushing him to the C-47's, where he would be their radio transmitter.

As dusk descended upon the air base, Celeste found herself amidst the hustle and bustle of the surroundings. The C-47 crews were gathered, meticulously inspecting their aircraft—the wings, the inner compartments—all in anticipation of the imminent arrival of the paratroopers. The atmosphere was charged with a sense of urgency, a palpable energy enveloping the air base.

Time seemed to stretch indefinitely as the paratroopers took their time to arrive. With Celeste wondering who had been entrusted with the task of driving them to the base.

To while away the moments of waiting, she found herself playing peekaboo with Nugget under the protective wing of her beloved aircraft; French Kiss. The thrill of being back in the air, the sense of freedom it brought, coursed through her veins like a tidal wave.

However, beneath the layers of excitement lay a subtle undercurrent of apprehension and doubt. As a woman in charge of piloting the mission, Celeste was acutely aware that any misstep would undoubtedly be attributed to her. Despite being accustomed to such biases, the weight of responsibility felt heavier on this particular mission, knowing that the lives of many hung in the balance.

While Celeste engaged with Nugget, Arnie lounged nearby, leaning against a tire with casual nonchalance. Frankie and Robert lay sprawled out next to him—seeking some moments of rest amidst the chaos.

Arnie couldn't resist teasing Nugget, issuing playful pst,pst that elicited fierce yet playful attacks from the spirited kitten. As nugget playfully targeted the Pennsylvanian, he melodramatically feigned injury—much to the amusement of those around.

Unexpectedly, a voice cut through the playful banter, drawing their attention. "Ah, you see, just like her rescuer..." he remarked. Sensing his presence, Nugget's playful demeanor shifted as she skittishly side-stepped towards Egan, her fur standing slightly on end, tail puffed up in an attempt to appear larger than her petite frame allowed. Yet, beneath the façade of bravado, it was evident that Nugget was trying to engage him in play.

Leaning down to Nugget's level, he started roughing the kitten against the ground—eliciting a playful meow. "Such a stinker.." he remarked, trying to remove his hand from the Nugget's grip.

"Like someone else I know." Celeste remarked just as Egan's gaze found hers. He could see the fear stemming from within, her eyes betraying that vulnerability he had only seen.

His eyes mirroring the soft red and orange hues of the mellowing sunset before them. "If you were to be reincarnated as anything, what form would you choose to take?" he inquired gently. His voice a soothing melody that floated in the crisp evening air like a feather drifting on a breeze.

Celeste was taken back by his question, never did she expect such thing to grace his lips. "Getting all sentimental on me now are you?" She poked fun, gaining a shrug from him. "You know, I Gotta try some new tactics..."

A serene smile graced Celeste's lips, her eyes shimmering with a radiant glow. "I would wish to return as a sunrise," she answered, her voice carrying a hint of reverence. Egan flickered a raised brow. "Sunrises are such exquisite, Like a benevolent angel overseeing and comforting those in distress, a sunrise possesses the unparalleled ability to lead one back to their true path," she pauses a moment, lowering her voice, " back to me..."

As the first glimmer of dusk broke over the horizon, Egan slowly followed Celeste's gaze to the burgeoning sun. Its golden rays painting the world in a majestic light. "My father used to tell my mother to seek him in the sunrise, for that's where he would be, coming home to her in the golden hues." she shared softly, a touch of wistfulness tingeing her tone. "It was her beacon of hope..."

Under the soft illumination of the waning evening sun, a surge of tender affection enveloped Egan as he longed to hold her close with every fiber of his being. But then Disdain flared within him for having shared his thoughts with Colonel Harding concerning her flying again.

Amidst the rumbling advance of troop transport engines, Celeste interjected with a mischievous glint in her eye, "Looks like you've been appointed as the babysitter now."

Attempting to hand Nugget over to Egan, Celeste found the kitten unwilling to part ways with the white scarf secured around her neck. With a resigned exhale, the dark-haired woman untangled it from around the feline's claws, revealing an intricately embroidered tiger in classic Chinese style.

As soldiers started boarding the awaiting C-47 aircraft, Celeste found herself entangled in a battle of wills with Nugget. "Oh, Nugget, please, I need this for warmth," Celeste muttered, tugging gently at the fabric. But the feline was not giving up on her mission—chewing and biting at it.

"You can take mine," he offered softly, his voice a whisper carried away by the breeze—as he carefully placed Nugget into the front pocket of his sheepskin jacket. The fluffy purred contentedly in the warm cocoon of his jacket—oblivious to the weight of the moment.

He removed his white scarf before Celeste ever had the chance to protest. Celeste, her features etched with a mixture of apprehension and gratitude, reached out for the white scarf, but he was swift to intervene—gracefully sidestepping her attempt.

Closing the distance between them, Egan enveloped Celeste in a tender cocoon of warmth, draping the scarf around her slender neck with a meticulous touch. The fabric caressed her skin, a whispered promise of protection against the chill that settled in the evening air.

Celeste's gaze fixated upon Egan, her eyes locked on his every movement as he secured the scarf, his hands deft and sure. He observed the delicate flush on her lips, painted in a shade of crimson, and the way her emerald eyes danced with a luminous intensity in the dimming light.

A nervous ripple of laughter escaped her lips as she playfully tousled Nugget's fur, the mischievous feline responding with a playful swat before settling snugly into Egan's pocket, a small, contented shape against his chest.

"Remember," Celeste's voice carried a note of urgency, a plea hidden beneath the surface, "look after Nugget and Jackson for me." Her voice carried a note of urgency, a silent plea beneath the surface. With a solemn nod, Egan watched as Celeste's silhouette melded with the looming frame of the C-47 aircraft, her form gradually receding from view.

In the hush of the departing dusk, Egan's gaze lingered on the fading outline, a silent prayer whispered to the heavens, a plea tethered to hope. "Please, Lord, bring her back," he murmured, his words a fragile echo in the vast expanse of the twilight sky,

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0700 HOURS,
THORPE ABBOTTS

|| EGAN HAD ALWAYS BEEN ONE TO
CHASE ADRENALINE, to seek out adventure at every turn. Love was a foreign concept to him, a territory unexplored and unknown. However, it took a while to see where his feeling lay—and it wasn't one of Lust...

The fear of losing Celeste, of never seeing her radiant smile again, of being torn away from the one person who had brought light. She walked into his life or more like he walked into her life—like a gust of wind, disrupting the calm that had settled within him for so long.

No one warned him about the fear that grips the heart at the mere thought of losing that person forever, the ache that tightens its grip and refuses to let go.

As minutes passed into hours, and as the clock ticked away, Egan's worry grew exponentially. He couldn't shake the feeling of dread that consumed him—an ache in his chest tightening with each passing second. The major paced in rigged form within in the command tower—mind racing with questions that had no answers.

Did the squadron of C-47s make it through enemy lines? Did Operation Husky succeed or fail? Was Sicily now under Allied control or still in the iron grip of the Axis forces?

The uncertainty gnawed at Egan's sanity, driving him to the brink of desperation. He scoured every piece of information he could find, grasping at straws in the hopes of finding some shred of assurance. Pretty sure Jack was becoming annoyed by him—reemerging every 3 minutes.

But the answers remained elusive, dancing just out of his reach, tormenting him with their silence. Egan's heart felt as heavy as the payload of a bomber aircraft when he found himself outside—standing on the tarmac. Staring at the horizon where Celeste had disappeared into the night sky.

He bit at the innards of his cheek, a nervous habit that betrayed the turmoil swirling within him. A sense of powerlessness, a frustration that he could not be by Celeste's side, to shield her from harm, to ensure her safe return.

And yet, buried beneath the layers of doubt and fear, there was a flicker of hope, a stubborn belief that Celeste would defy the odds, that she would return to him, victorious and unscathed.

In all his years of service, Egan had never felt this level of unease and fear for another person. Not even the lives of his own men elicited such a visceral reaction from him. Well, maybe Cleven did...

As the hours stretched, Egan found himself unable to stand still. He began pacing beside the jeep, his service shoes scuffing against the hard pavement in a restless rhythm. In a futile attempt to distract himself, he started tapping his fingers against the metal side of the vehicle—the staccato beat echoing in the empty silence of the airfield.

He tried to reassure himself, repeating like a mantra in his mind that Celeste was a pistol, a force to be reckoned with. She had the training, the experience, the determination. She had to be okay. But beneath the façade of confidence he tried to project, doubt gnawed at him like a relentless predator.

The sun had just begun its ascent above the distant tree line, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. Its weak rays offered little warmth to Egan as he stood there, a solitary figure in a world gripped by uncertainty.

"She's a fighter pilot," he reminded himself, his voice barely above a whisper. Nugget glanced up at him with innocent eyes. "She's a feisty thing. She's got this." Egan then assured the little kitten.

And so, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the air base, Egan stood there, his heart a turbulent sea of emotions, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts. And in that moment, as he waited for Celeste to return, he knew one thing with absolute certainty —— she wasn't like the others... she was worth every moment of worry, every iota of fear. For in her, he had found something rare and precious, something worth fighting for, worth waiting for, worth believing in.

Col. Jefferson stood beside Col. Harding at the base tower—their eyes forever aligned to the horizon. The sun was barely present, its touch upon the world hadn't taken yet. Silence hung over everyone, knuckles white from fists clenched.

Egan leaned himself against the jeep, his head low—he had been up the entire time; waiting. The mission over Sicily had been daunting, fraught with danger and uncertainty.

Amidst the birds chirping, a familiar sound of engines broke through the silence—causing him to immediately glance up. His eyes darted towards the source of the sound, and there it was—a C-47 emerging from the horizon...

The first light of dawn sliced through the mellowing yellows and glistening gold hues, painting the heavens with a tapestry of colors that danced like flames. A smile, as soft as the touch of butterfly wings, slowly crept across Egan's face, a wave of relief washing over him as he stood atop the highest watchtower.

And there she was, a silhouette emerging from the fiery embrace of the sunrise, her mighty wings casting shadows over the rolling fields below. But as the squadron drew closer, Egan's elation began to wane, like a wilted rose losing its bloom. Thick black smoke billowed from the left engine of the valiant French Kiss, her metal heart straining against the air, a desperate plea for mercy echoing through the skies. And a few others behind her shared the same ominous tale of woe.

"Tower to head, do you copy?" Egan heard the crackle of Col. Jefferson's voice over the radio, the concern palpable even through the static that crackled in the air like distant thunder.

There was a moment of breathless silence before a voice, as composed as a songbird's melody, pierced through the chaos. "Yes tower, we hear you loud and clear," came the response, a beacon of hope amidst the looming storm.

Egan's heart pounded in his chest like a war drum as he watched helplessly, a silent witness to the unfolding drama in the vast expanse of the sky. The C-47, lumbering and majestic, began its descent, the valiant crew comprising of Celeste and Arnie fighting with all their might to keep the wounded bird steady amidst the tempest. Inside, the paratroopers were tossed around like leaves in a hurricane, their fates hanging by the thinnest thread.

There was no telling how much longer the big beast could endure, its metal wings straining against the weight of fate itself.

As the plane descended, the tension in the air thickened, a palpable sense of impending doom swirling amidst the landscape of chaos. The acrid scent of burning oil mingled with the sharp aroma of rubber, creating a dissonant symphony that assaulted the senses.

Egan stood stoically, his gaze fixed on the runway where French Kiss made its shaky touchdown, the engine quivering with exhaustion. Lemmons and his crew rushed towards the stricken aircraft, frantically trying to douse the flames that threatened to engulf it. Their voices rose in urgent pleas for backup, the fear of an imminent explosion etched on their faces.

Even from a distance, Egan could see the toll the ordeal had taken on French Kiss. Her once majestic wings now bore ragged holes, her body scarred and maimed in a brutal dance with destruction. Beside her, California Sun stood forlorn, a silent witness to the devastation that surrounded them.

With a swift motion, the side hatch of the plane was thrown open, revealing a British paratrooper who leaped out with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the scene before him. Without hesitation, he plunged back into the billowing smoke, his silhouette a stark contrast against the fiery backdrop.

Through a chorus of voices, the trooper emerged, his burden cradled in his arms—a man, his head lolling limply against the trooper's shoulder. Two more figures materialized to support the injured man's weight, their faces grim with determination. Arnie brought up the rear, his strong arms cradling the man's legs as they navigated the treacherous terrain.

Two other troopers supported the man's midsection, his arms dangling limply as they carried him. Arnie held up the rear, supporting the man's legs and feet.

"Put him here," the Pennsylvania muttered through a trembling voice—on the verge of breaking. The three troopers gently laid the paratrooper on the ground, his bloodied arms hanging lifelessly. "Oh shit..." Egan whispered beneath his breath—before leaving Nugget in the care of Sammie.

Amid the chaos of the moment, Egan ignited the engine of the jeep, propelling himself away with such velocity that the tires screeched against the ground, leaving behind a trail of skid marks. An amalgamation of fear and concern painted his features as he sped towards the scene. Was she injured? Why hadn't she emerged yet?

Drawing closer, the jeep screeched to a sudden stop, and his gaze landed upon the bloodstains that stained Arnie's parachute cover and jacket. Had his worst fears materialized?

"Arnie!" he called out, the name barely escaping his lips and carried away by the wind. However, Arnie remained unresponsive to his presence, prompting Egan to grasp him firmly by the arms. "Where is Jefferson?" he demanded urgently, his voice quivering with anxiety.

Confusion clouded Arnie's expression as he furrowed his brow. "Who?" he responded.

"Your commanding officer! Jefferson, where is she?" Egan's voice rose with a tinge of desperation, his hands shaking.

Arnie's gaze shifted downwards as he replied solemnly, "She's still in the plane." Arnie knelt beside, checking for a pulse— a sense of helplessness engulfing him. "We faced significant resistance, but we accomplished the mission," his tone unwavering despite the evident exhaustion etched in every crease of his face.

Pushing his way past the paratroopers emerging from the plane, Egan faced their scornful glances and harsh remarks. He Trained as a soldier to confront danger head-on and emerge triumphant, yet Egan found himself ill-equipped to combat the anguish of waiting—the gnawing uncertainty that plagued his mind.

Scanning the interior of the C-47, his eyes fell upon the scattered bodies, weapons strewn about, and metal torn asunder. Having never been in a situation like this before, Egan's sense of direction was clouded. Clutching onto the parachute lines for support, he finally noticed a solitary figure seated outside the cockpit, a beacon of solitude amidst the chaos.

As the distance closed between them, it became unmistakably clear that it was Celeste sitting there, her figure illuminated by the soft morning light peeking through the decrepit walls. An eerie glow accentuated the crimson hue that marred her delicate porcelain complexion. Tremors quivered on her lips, her hands clutched tightly around the man cradled against her chest.

Egan approached slowly, his voice firm as he inquired, "Jefferson, are you hurt?" He attempted to break the haunting trance that enveloped Celeste. She only responded with a loud sniffle as Egan knelt down to her eye level. It was then when he saw who she clung to desperately; it was Frankie.

The man lay limp, mouth slightly open and dried blood tracing down his neck, his arm outstretched beside him. His chest remained still, devoid of the lively rise and fall from hours before. There was no smile on his lips—non cocky pun...

Celeste rested her chin on Frankie's raven hair, her fingers tightly gripping his flight jacket.

A baseball-sized hole, remnants of the shrapnel that had struck him—exposed a gruesome scene of blood and metal scattered around them. Frankie was dead before he could even comprehend it, his insides torn apart into a gruesome mess despite his pleas for Celeste to save him.

She held him close, making him feel the faint rhythm of her heart—providing the comfort akin to a mother's embrace. Yet, as the reality of his passing settled in, she refused to release him. Egan attempted to reach for her hand, only to have it swatted away promptly. "Leave me be!" Celeste snapped, her voice teetering on the edge of tears.

"I cannot do that," Egan murmured softly and resolutely, edging closer once more to try and pry Frankie from her grasp. "What part of 'leave me alone' do you not comprehend?"

Observing her shaky hands relinquishing their hold on Frankie, Egan took the chance to grasp her hands in his own, ensuring Frankie's lifeless form remained upright. However, a surge of anger and frustration from the failed mission erupted within Celeste. She resisted, struggling to free her bloodied hands from his grip. "Do not touch me!" she growled, tossing her head back in a futile attempt.

Only then did Egan notice the blood caked upon her neck, down her jacket where the emblem now sat soaked. It claiming her tie and undershirt—even her trousers were soaked a dark brown.

Arnie, amidst her struggle, entered the room alongside Robert to retrieve his body. Celeste's piercing gaze locked with his, "I understand the pain, believe me, I do." Her eye twitched slightly as she fought back tears that threatened her composure.

Tears were not shed by pilots in the Chinese 8th Air Force as it was considered unlucky. Despite her efforts to remain stoic, her trembling lip betrayed her emotions, "I did everything I could to save him..."

Struggling, Celeste lower her head in defeat—perhaps seeking refuge from the harsh reality. Egan gently cupped her stained cheek, "Just Let me help." His voice carried a sense of compassion as he removed his jacket—offering it to her for comfort.

Reluctantly, she removed hers, her arms feeling heavy as if weighed down by invisible burdens. Egan enveloped her in his, shielding her from onlookers' prying eyes— securing it snugly around her before helping her to her feet.

Stepping into the light, Celeste was met with a somber scene of the fallen—with Frankie's resting at a distance under a black tarp. It was the best Lemmons could do. Egan placed his hand in front of her sight, to divert her gaze elsewhere.

Her father, stationed at the tower, observed with a mix of fear and concern as the major guided his daughter towards the waiting jeep. When Egan looked up, he caught sight of Colonel Jefferson, initially apprehensive of his reaction. To his surprise, the colonel offered a nod of approval, acknowledging the thoughtful gesture.

Egan and Celeste arrived promptly at the medical office, the major striding in with her nestled securely under his arm. The doctor hurried outside to meet them, his concern
evident as he feared Celeste might have sustained injuries.

With a gentle hand, Egan guided Celeste towards the back of the office. Each step she took seemed burdened, her shoulders weighed down by the recent tragedy she had experienced. The echoes of explosions reverberated in her mind, and the chaotic scenes of destruction plagued her every thought.

Guiding Celeste to sit on the examination table, Egan observed anxiously as the doctor began his assessment. Arms crossed over his chest, the doctor's shirt bore traces of dried blood. Egan nervously chewed his thumbnail, knowing that mere words would not suffice to alleviate Celeste's pain. The doctor turned to him, breaking the silence. "She's physically unharmed. Just fatigued and shocked. Some rest will do her good."

"Thank you, sir," Egan muttered gratefully as the doctor excused himself, leaving them alone in the room. Celeste sat slightly slouched, her gaze fixed on the floor, lost in her thoughts. Egan hurried to the sink, preparing lukewarm water and soft towels.

Gently, Egan dipped a towel into the water and delicately cleansed the dried blood from Celeste's skin, moving with slow and deliberate motions. As he worked, he noticed the look of desolation etched on Celeste's delicate features. "Our own comrades turned their weapons on us," she finally spoke, her words punctuated by sorrow. "Some perished trying to break through, while others had no choice but to retreat."

Egan felt a surge of empathy, understanding the weight of her words. He continued to cleanse her skin, offering his presence as a source of comfort and support. In the quiet of the medical office, amidst the faint scent of antiseptic,

Celeste met his for a fleeting moment, " There was 144 of us and only 22 made it back.." The silence hung heavy in the air, as reality hit both like a truck.

Scrubbing diligently, her pale skin began to poke through the grim, with Egan attending to her like a mother with her child. It seemed even talking about it did not heed in making it better.

With the rag still in one hand, Egan slowly tilted her chin up to face him—their eyes locking. "So, Where's my smile?" He was soft, tender—stark compared to the yells from earlier. He figured he'd get her riled up, thus getting her to forget about the day's events.

Celeste's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she tried to muster a smile—a feeble attempt at masking the turmoil. Egan's touch was warm against her skin, a grounding presence amidst the chaos that threatened to consume her.

"I can't," she finally whispered, her voice barely above a breath. The weight of Frankie bore down on her, that her normal feisty voice didn't have the strength to emerge.

Egan searched her eyes, his expression filled with empathy and understanding. "You can..," Egan began softly, before demonstrating a smile by gently lifting the corners of his lips. "See? Like this."

A faint glimmer of a smile played at the edges of Celeste's lips, a delicate beacon of hope piercing through the dark clouds that had loomed over her. With a gentle chuckle, Egan tenderly wiped away the last speck of dirt from Celeste's cheek. "Now, There she is." He muttered with a smile.

Perhaps she was coming to terms with the sentiments she held for him. Whenever Egan returned from his missions, Celeste sought him out. In this moment of shared tranquility, a sudden urge washed over her to embrace him. Finding his hand resting against her cheek, she lifted her hand to rest atop his.

Leaning herself into his palm, grasp on his hand tightening. Egan fought against the impulse to pull her closer, to feel the touch of her lips against his own. But this was war... it Now or never, he reminded himself.

Slowly, the major inclined towards her, Celeste's heart somersaulted in her chest. The gentle touch of his forehead against hers sent shivers down her spine, igniting a fire within that threatened to consume everything in its path. She felt the weight of their unspoken words hanging in the air, a silent promise of what could be.

His forehead meeting hers in a tender touch. Yet Celeste did not resist; instead, she met his gesture. Their noses touching, eyes closing in anticipation for either to make the move.

Celeste suddenly felt Egan's lips press against hers—a whirlwind of emotions swept through, leaving her reeling in its wake. Desire warred with agony inside her, a tumultuous storm threatening to break free. With each passing second, she teetered on the edge of a precipice, unsure if she would leap or retreat.

As Egan sought more, willing her to surrender to the passion that simmered between them, Celeste's shattered pieces struggled to find coherence.

Despite her yearning to reciprocate, a sudden burst of clarity rushed throughout. Celeste quickly pulled away, her movements swift and decisive as she hopped off the table.

Egan's eyes, once filled with longing, now searched hers for answers. Celeste met his gaze with a mix of regret and determination. She couldn't let herself do this...No, no, what was she doing? The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and she was torn between indulging in the warmth of Egan's affection and shielding herself from the pain that lurked beneath the surface.

The memories of past heartache and shattered promises haunted her, forging an invisible barrier between them. It wasn't that she didn't want to love him—it was that she couldn't afford to risk her heart once more.

With a heavy heart, Celeste stepped back, her eyes betraying the turmoil within her. The vulnerability in Egan's gaze tugged at her, but she stood her ground.

The weight of an unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air—she just couldn't relive another leaving her behind. In that fleeting moment as silence enveloped them. "Sorry..." she whispered. "I just.. just can't..."  Celeste quickly dismissed herself, letting the door swing close with a loud thud.

                     ————————————

                             AUTHOR'S NOTE

                                   —————

IM BACK EVERYONEEEE:
REVISED DEC 23rd 2025

IM SO SORRY GUYS

FRANKIE IS DEAD 😭😭😭 war is hell

next chapter is going to hurt more, IM SO SORRY IN ADVANCE

Also, Celeste leaving Egan hanging, perhaps she has past trauma 👀 we will learn that next chapter or so....

UGHHH, my writing, please tell me this everything you ever wanted 😩 Im so picky when writinggggg

Yes those wondering, Operation husky was a real mission, I just used it and added a bit of my own twist.

NEXT ON AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

—Celeste founds herself losing another, spiraling out of control at a party. Both her and Egan are sent to London to relax for a week, yet Egan and Celeste's banter boils over. Celeste gets herself into trouble and Egan founds comfort in someone else's arms....