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xxiiv. I KNOW THE END IS NEAR

MASTERS OF THE AIR
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

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STALAG VIIA
MOOSBURG, GERMANY
APRIl 1945

|| THE BITTER CHILL OF THE GERMAN SPRING HUNG HEAVY IN THE NORTHERN AIR—gnawing at the skin of the weary POWs. After hours of marching and shouting, they had finally reached their new home, Stalag VIIA. The overly crowded camp in Moosburg, Germany.

Within, thousands of Allied prisoners from the far corners of the British Empire among others were confined—their collective suffering ballooning the population to over 100,000 souls. How the SS deemed this as okay, was beyond Celeste.

One by one, they were shuffled through the gates of the camp—- eyes hollow, spirits shattered. Stalag VIIA loomed like a behemoth, a sprawling labyrinth of dilapidated barracks and barbed wire fences that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Amidst the looming shadows of watchful guard towers, the Exhausted and hungry American POW'S had been stripped of their dignity—their identities reduced to mere numbers in tattered uniforms.

It was a chaotic symphony of languages, cultures, and despair. Each men, no matter where they came forth, bore the weight of their captivity with heavy hearts and worn bodies—-their eyes mirroring the bleak landscape that surrounded them.

The air hung heavy with a tapestry of melancholy within the enclosure, a desolate haven for the weary, the broken, and the lost. The Germans, now desensitized by the influx of captives, failed to process them with the same meticulous care as before. Egan made a mental note of this disparity upon crossing the threshold into the compound.

By his side remained Celeste—her gaze flitting from one face to another. Her mere presence drew curious gazes from the men around. Faces turned, their eyes agog at the sight of a woman in their midst. Whispering moving through the air like leaves in a tempest.

The air was thick with the scent of bodily odor and decay—mingling in a heady concoction that clung to their skin like a second layer.

And then, like a serpent's hiss in the silence, Egan heard it – the venomous whistle that slithered through the air, leaving a trail of dread in its wake. Celeste's grip on his arm tightened, her eyes widening in fear as she turned to face the source of the sound.

A soldier, swaggering with the arrogance of a conqueror, leered at Celeste with a twisted grin plastered on his face. His drawl dripped with malice as he taunted her with crude words, his eyes roaming over her like a hungry predator sizing up its prey.

Egan felt a primal fury rise within him, a rage so potent that it burned away reason and restraint. The world around him faded into a blur of background noise as he locked eyes with the soldier, his fists clenched so tight that his nails dug into his palms.

"You got something to say?" His voice was a growl, each word heavy with the weight of his fury as he advanced on the soldiers, a tempest of rage in human form.

The soldiers flinched as they recognized the insignia on Egan's uniform—their bravado melting away like snow under a scorching sun. Bodies shifted uneasily, eyes darting around in search of an escape route as Egan stood like a titan amongst mortals, his presence a force to be reckoned with.

With a thunderous clap that echoed through the alley, Egan pounded his chest—a primal challenge issued to any who dared to defy him. His words hung in the air like a tangible threat, a promise of retribution so fierce that it sent a shiver down the spines of those who heard it.

As his comrades dragged him back towards their destination, Egan's gaze never wavered, a silent warning etched into his features. And as the soldiers scurried away like rats fleeing a sinking ship, Celeste saw not just a man driven by duty, but a guardian whose protection knew no bounds.

The men's astonishment was of little concern to her; it was the first time she had experienced such crudeness. Frankly, Celeste was for more captivated by the rich tapestry of cultures that enveloped the allied soldiers.

It was a sight to behold - a convergence of nations, a mosaic of identities she had never encountered before. Celeste's inner cultural anthropologist stirred within, yearning to unravel the stories and traditions that bound these men together.

The Tuskegee airmen found solace in the presence of their brethren. Though these men were unrecognizable by their cone-shaped red hats and distinct uniforms reminiscent of the British. Despite their outward appearance, they obviously were not American nor British—a fact that intrigued Daniels.

Attempting to bridge the gap, he engaged them in conversation, only to be met with nods of agreement and uneasy silences. It was as if a veil of apprehension cloaked their words, shielding hidden truths and untold tales from prying ears.

The relentless flow of time seemed to slow within the confines of Stalag VIIA, where every day bled into the next with agonizing monotony. Two weeks had stretched like a taut wire, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on weary shoulders. Whispers of hope fluttered through the stagnant air, fragile dreams of liberation clutched tightly in the hearts of the prisoners of war.

But hope was a fragile thing, easily crushed beneath the jackboot of fear that prowled the grounds of the camp. The specter of the SS loomed large, casting a long shadow over any glimmer of optimism. The prisoners languished in limbo, their thoughts drifting between the distant rumble of war and the elusive promise of freedom. Would the Allies come to shatter the oppressive stillness, or would they be condemned to endure yet another grueling march into the unknown?

The barracks, if they could be called such, were a dismal sight. A haphazard collection of makeshift tents dotted the landscape, offering meager shelter to those deemed unworthy of true refuge.

Celeste, with her unwavering gaze and steely resolve, stood apart from her comrades. Though part of the same struggle, she was forbidden from sharing their humble dwellings. Instead, she was assigned her own tent, a solitary sentinel under the watchful eyes of guards and their vigilant German shepherds.

The commandant's motives were clear, veiled beneath a thin veneer of necessity. Celeste's fluency in the language marked her as a valuable asset—a pawn to be moved at will upon the chessboard of war. The commanding officer's decision to isolate her was not born of concern for her well-being, but rather a calculated move to exploit her fluency in the German language for his own purposes.

It was for the protection of those who held the reins of power. Yet Celeste was no idle pawn, no mere observer in this unfolding drama. She was sure to express her feelings to her men with an angered choice of words and arms flailing around. Mostly they sat there with blank stares upon their features.

Egan wasn't pleased either, not having her in his arms at night surely sent a shiver down his spine. Frankly anywhere else, he would have been fine with it but in a compound with hundreds of thousands of men whom hadn't seen a women in months, years. The very thought troubled him.

He wasn't the only one whom hated this. Celeste was still enraged, even days later. The flickering light reflected in her irises transformed her gaze into a blazing inferno, contrasting sharply with the weary lines etched on her otherwise composed face.

At a last attempt, Celeste went to Colonel Albert to ask for help in persuading the German commandant to allow her to sleep where she pleased. As she had in the last camp. The colonel paused in his writing, before placing his pen down. His piercing gaze settled upon Celeste, her features drawn with determination. She surely looked way better than she had when she first arrived.

Clasping his hands together in front of him, Albert's voice cut through the buzzing atmosphere like a whisper carried on the wind. "We both know they will not listen," he murmured, his words settling heavy, "so why even bother." The weight of his implication hung between them, a palpable tension that seemed to electrify the space.

"But why not?" Celeste says distastefully before stomping her foot down.

"Chief leader Jefferson... this is enough!.." the colonel barks, before composing himself once more, " while I understand your position, you need to remember you are now closer than ever to their quarters."

Egan shifted uncomfortably, a protective instinct compelling him to intercede on Celeste's behalf. "I don't know how I feel about this..." he began, a note of concern in his tone as he positioned himself in front of her—a silent shield against the dangers that loomed ahead. He never liked the thought of her spying and listening ti the guards. Not after learning what she had been through at Ravensbrück.

It appeared telling about the loss had the opposite effect if she had thought. As now Egan became far more clingy. Watching she went, caddling her,

But Albert's response was swift, his tone cutting and decisive. "She's a big girl," he retorted sharply, the title of 'Chief Leader Jefferson' dripping with implications of autonomy and capability, "she can make her own decisions... Major." His words held an unspoken challenge, a reminder of Celeste's strength and resilience in the face of adversity.

Celeste's furrowed brow betrayed apprehension. Once again, Albert was beckoning her into the treacherous world of espionage, a world fraught with peril and uncertainty. The shadows whispered of unseen dangers, ones of being sent back to ravensbrück. A place she dared not to step back into.

And yet, in the face of it all, there was a spark that was within Celeste, a defiant flame that refused to be extinguished. The prospect of saving the men by listening in  to intricate web of the German intelligence—it could ready the POW'S of another march or if the allies were finally moving.

So every morning, like clockwork, she emerged from the depths of the camp's underbelly, her mind ablaze with newfound knowledge. The guards, still sated from their morning meal, roamed the grounds aimlessly, oblivious to her.

With a subtle grace that belied her fatigue, Celeste navigated the fences of the camp. Her hands remained clasped behind her back, a facade of composure masking her turmoil within. Her gaze swept across the faces of the fellow prisoners, each bearing the weight of their own silent struggles.

Her keen eyes and sharp mind attuned to every whispered conversation and furtive gesture. Celeste's ears pricked at the sound of hushed conversations that reverberated off the cold walls. Most of the time, the German guards spoke in tones of women and battles fought.

Her mind sifted through the fragments of information gleaned from the guards' chatter. Among the mundane gossip and idle banter, Only a fraction—barely 10%—of their conversations yielded any valuable insight. But Celeste seized upon them like morsels of sustenance in a barren land. Nuggets of intelligence that could mean the difference between life and death in this brutal chess game of war.

Each piece learned, she would reciting it over and over until she was able to speak with the Colonel. Celeste would nonchalantly approach him, acting as if she was attending to a sick patient beside the colonel.

As April 25th lingered in the air like an ominous premonition, Celeste etched another mark on the crumpled paper in her trembling hand. "2 weeks..." Her breath escaped her lips like a weary traveler, carrying the weight of uncertainty. Folding the paper delicately, she tucked it away in the refuge of her worn pocket, a silent vow to mark the passage of time in solitude.

Beside her, Arnie and Jackson began cooking. One inspired by Lady Qin's creation known as 'survival goop'. It was a one made in times of scarcity—a humble concoction born from necessity rather than luxury. As Celeste sat guard over the simmering pot, her eyes clouded with doubt—Robert stood sentinel over the flames beneath.

Amidst the clatter of mismatched cookware and the chaotic symphony of ingredients colliding, Celeste couldn't help but question the wisdom of entrusting Arnie and Jackson with such a vital task. Their culinary prowess, or lack thereof, wasn't what she would have wanted. To her, both men were the masters of complains.

Stirring the concoction with a determination born from necessity, Celeste found herself listening in to the cacophony of conversations that swirled around like a maelstrom of forgotten words and lost promises. Most lingered over letters received months ago, relics of a time long past.

Frankly, the Red Cross didn't know where they were at this point. The Germans had kept good on their part to hide the POW'S.

As she listened, Celeste couldn't shake the lingering uncertainty that clawed at her heart. Had Cleven truly gotten away? Survived the treacherous journey beyond? The urge to flee, to break free from the shackles of their shared fate, whispered seductively in her ear—-a temptress promising solace in the embrace of uncertainty.

For the first time in what felt like forever, this morning held a faint glimmer of solace, a reprieve from relentless despair. Hearing the battles over the skies of Moosburg gave them a chance.

But not for everyone... as the chief leader was gripped by a gnawing anxiety that twisted at her stomach and quickened her pulse. While her comrades found momentary comfort, she remained trapped.

For days now, a relentless anxiety had coiled around her like a vengeful serpent, refusing to loosen its hold. The weight of impending doom bore down on her shoulders, a heavy burden that no amount of battlefield victories could alleviate. While her companions sought solace in the temporary calm, she found herself ensnared in a web of worry and doubt, unable to shake off the foreboding sense of doom that whispered in the wind.

Days ago, as she embarked on her customary stroll through the camp, the murmurs of two sentries drifted to her ears, setting her world ablaze with a newfound urgency. Concealing her turmoil behind a facade of nonchalance, Celeste feigned a need to adjust her shoelaces and knelt to the ground, eavesdropping on the clandestine conversation.

In hushed tones fraught with fear, one guard recounted the contents of a letter delivered days prior—an ominous message detailing the relentless advance of General Patton's formidable 3rd army. The words hung in the air like a dark cloud, casting a pall over the already somber atmosphere. But it was the frantic ramblings of the other sentry that sent a chill down Celeste's spine.

With wild eyes and a trembling voice, the young guard spoke of imminent capture and the horrors that awaited them at the hands of the enemy. His fingers clenched white-knuckled around his rifle, a grim determination etched on his face as he vowed to fight to the last breath rather than fall into the clutches of their adversaries.

The raw fear and desperation in his words mirrored the turmoil that churned within her own heart, each syllable driving home the harsh reality of their precarious situation.

As Egan and Daniels engaged in muted conversation about potential destinations upon liberation, the air tinged with the lingering scent of fear. "They'll probably send us home out of Marseille or Le Havre..." Egan's voice was a low murmur, carrying a tinge of resignation. Daniels merely nodded, his sight fixed on the boiling food before him.

Celeste, ever vigilant, interjected. Her delicate touch on Egan's thigh carried a weight of caution, "Be careful of what you say," she cautioned, her words a whispered secret shared among comrades, " The Germans are always listening."

Egan, frustration evident in the furrow of his brow, absentmindedly etched intricate patterns in the dusty ground, unaware of the watchful eyes that trailed his every move.

Daniels, his voice a low rumble in the tense atmosphere, validated Celeste's warning with a reluctant nod. Her gaze flitting across their surroundings like a wary bird, leaned in closer to the duo.

"From what little I could hear," her voice was a mere breath, teetering on the edge of silence, "the allies are closer now, closer than ever before." A heavy sigh escaped her lips, the sound mingling with the rustle of leaves in the night breeze. "They're antsy, cornered with nowhere to run," she continued, her jaw clicking side to side in anxious contemplation, "desperation is a dangerous thing."

Celeste's jaw clenched harshly—so much that her muscles shone through her skin. Her eyes shadowed with the weight of unspoken horrors witnessed. She knew the lengths to which the SS would go to conceal their atrocities, to bury the evidence of their sins beneath layers of blood-soaked earth.

"But that P-57 that flew over the camp days ago must mean something?" Ben muttered, biting at his nails. Everyone simultaneously glanced to the quiet man as he paced back in forth—wearing down a path in the dirt. It was not the plane that came over that caused hope or alarm, it was they all did victory barrel rolls. "It's gotta be a signal."

The major's brows furrowed in concern, the gravity of their situation settling upon his shoulders like a leaden shroud. Ben's words did hold some weight to them. Daniels' expression mirrored the gravity of the moment, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon as he voiced the unspoken fear that lurked in the shadows.

"I don't know, but if what you are saying is true, then the guards may resort to drastic measures to hide their deeds..." he concluded, "Those machine guns are not just there for decoration. Any talk of liberation could spur them to act recklessly, with no regard for consequences."

As the dread loomed over the group huddled around the flickering fire, Arnie's ceaseless prattle echoed like a discordant melody, in stark contrast to the harmonious symphony of clinking utensils and bubbling concoctions. Robert, usually the silent observer, couldn't contain his annoyance any longer and muttered a barely audible rebuke, "Arnie, will you ever shut up?"

Arnie, ever the quick-witted jester, retorted without missing a beat, his grin impish, "Do you ever stop walking?"

Before Robert could muster a retort, Celeste interjected with a firm authority that brooked no argument, "Both of you, be quiet and help add more water to the broth." Taking a cautious sip of the broth, Celeste's brow furrowed in disappointment. "It lacks... seasoning. More salt, perhaps," she critiqued—her discerning palate picking up on the subtle nuances of flavor.

Egan momentarily abandoned his sketches on the dirt and leaned in beside Celeste—his eyes fixated on the ladle clutched in her hand. In a swift attempt to sneak a taste, he reached for it, but she, with the reflexes honed from her days as a fighter pilot, skillfully evaded this attempt.

"Just wait," Celeste declared firmly, her tone brooking no dissent, prompting a chuckle from Daniels.

The scent of the cooking broth mingled with the acrid tang of the surrounding air, creating a peculiar olfactory tapestry. A wrinkling of the nose from the Pennsylvanian, followed by a sharp retort from the Bostonian, highlighted the diversity of personalities within the group. "It might not be gourmet, but it beats the alternative," Robert quipped, his irritation palpable.

Arnie, ever the philosophical thinker, interjected with a contemplative expression. "What if we're already dead and just haven't realized it yet? How could we be certain?" his words hung in the air, a thought-provoking inquiry that lingered long after the conversation had shifted.

As the tension in the air rose like a thick fog, Jackson's eyes darted between his companions, seeking an ally in the verbal battleground that had become their reality. His gaze settled on Celeste, a beacon of reason amidst the chaos, her unwavering expression a clear indication of her refusal to be drawn into the fray.

"Jefferson, come on, back me up on this," Jackson implored, his voice tinged with exasperation, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. But Celeste, ever the picture of calm in the storm, merely shook her head, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Jackson, you know the game you're playing. Stop trying to pull me into arguments you know you can't win just to make yourself look better," Celeste chided gently, her words like a soothing balm on the heated atmosphere of the room. Robert, the silent observer, offered a nod of agreement, his eyes twinkling with amusement at the spectacle unfolding before him.

Meanwhile, Daniels sat quietly in his own world, his pen scratching against the pages of his worn journal, a silent witness to the unfolding drama. Arnie, ever the provocateur, flung morsels of meat into the simmering broth before him, his restless energy palpable in the air.

"I mean, couldn't they just let us go?" Arnie interjected once more, his words punctuated by the rhythmic clinking of his utensils. Jackson furrowed his brow, a flicker of confusion dancing across his features.

"Just let us go?" Jackson echoed, his disbelief evident in his voice. "Are you serious?"

Arnie pointed a meat-laden fork in Celeste's direction, a mischievous glint in his eye. "She said they're losing, right? So maybe they'll just cut us loose..."

"You have got to be the most aggravating person I have ever encountered," Jackson finally declared, his irritation breaking through the veneer of civility. Arnie, undeterred, shot back with equal fervor, a clash of wills that seemed endless.

Celeste, still stirring the pot with a steady hand, felt a familiar sense of weariness settle over her. It was like watching two children squabble over a toy, their bickering a never-ending loop of frustration and futility. But she had endured their bickering for six and a half long years, a testament to her patience and fortitude.

"Arnie, Jackson, enough!" Celeste intervened, her voice laced with a hint of warning. "We've been about the same dumb shit for 6 years."

Arnie merely shrugged, his carefree demeanor untouched by Celeste's admonition. Jackson, on the other hand, looked wounded, a sense of injustice clouding his features. The dynamic between them was a delicate dance of egos, a fragile balance that threatened to topple with each passing moment.

Within moments, the tension in the air grew palpable, wrapping the group in an invisible shroud of uncertainty. Ben's restless pacing echoed like distant thunder, each step a thunderous rumble that reverberated off the rugged cliffs. His agitated movements painted jagged shadows on the ancient stones beneath his feet, a dance of anxiety and apprehension that seemed to mirror the churning of the stormy sea below.

Robert rose up—His voice, resonant and steady, sliced through the tumultuous silence. "Benny boy, how about you knock it off?" he implored. The tone was firm, yet beneath the stern facade there lurked a deep well of concern, a wellspring of brotherly love that knew no bounds.

Ben froze in his tracks, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as if each inhale was a battle against unseen foes. His wide eyes darted like frightened birds, seeking refuge in the shadowy alcoves of the ancient ruins that surrounded them.

Celeste, her gaze fixed unwaveringly upon him, felt her own heart quicken in tandem with his erratic pulse. She saw in his wild gaze a mirror of her own fears, a reflection of the doubts and anxieties that gnawed at her insides.

And then, amidst the swirling maelstrom of emotions, there came a sound that shattered the fragile peace like glass struck by a sledgehammer. The unmistakable hum of an aircraft's engine cut through the oppressive silence, a sharp and intrusive intrusion that pierced the stillness of the camp.

Silence descended upon the group, their voices fading into the background as Daniel's keen senses caught the sound first. His head swiveled slightly before comprehension dawned, setting off a cacophony of internal alarm bells.

"A P-51!" he exclaimed with fervor, his voice cutting through the lingering silence like a sharp blade, causing Egan and Celeste to swiftly rise from their seats. As the hum grew louder, the other's eyes turned skyward—their gazes locked on the horizon where dark storm clouds gathered like malevolent spirits.

Rays of sunlight played a game of hide-and-seek with the metal machine as it glinted amidst the bright sky. Hands instinctively rose to shield eyes from the blinding sun, squinting to catch a glimpse of the flying wonder painting streaks of silver against the azure canvas above.

Had the moment they had all been yearning for finally arrived? The skies above Moosburg had been alive with the sounds of fighter planes engaged in a continuous aerial ballet for days on end, tantalizing the prisoners of war with the promise of hope and liberation.

As the P-51 Mustang soared towards them at a precarious low altitude, a wave of exhilaration swept through the crowd of captives. The tension that had been coiled tightly around their hearts seemed to loosen its grip as they realized that freedom may no longer be a distant dream but a tangible reality, drawing closer with each passing moment.

The collective cheer that erupted from the POWs was like music to their ears, a symphony of joy and anticipation reverberating through the air.

The roaring engine drowned out the screams of war below, a wave of hope washed over the tired souls watching from the ground. It unleashed its deadly payload upon the unsuspecting watchtowers—sending a surge of adrenaline through the veins of the onlookers.

Daniels, with a glint of defiance in his eyes and a wide grin stretching across his face, was the first to spot the pilot's return. "He's coming back!" he bellowed. More cheers and yelling erupted from the group, each voice blending into a symphony of triumph.

Even Crank, usually a man of few words and unyielding skepticism, found himself swept up in the moment, his fists punching the air in celebration. The bullets from the plane sliced through the dense structures like a scythe through wheat, catching the enemy off guard and leaving chaos in its wake.

Celeste's jubilation pierced through the heavy veil of fear that had blanketed the Stalag VII for so long. Her ragged clothes fluttered around her as she raised her arms, a symbol of defiance against the oppressive regime that had held them captive. Egan stood beside her, his eyes shining with a mixture of joy and relief.

The harsh metallic clang of the bullets hitting the towers gates echoed through the air—a triumphant melody that signified the end of their suffering. With tears of joy streaming down her dirt-streaked face, Celeste let out a hoarse laugh that seemed to reverberate through the crumbling walls of their prison.

Egan turned to her, his rough hands reaching out to gently cup her face, his touch a balm to her weary soul. In that moment, as they stood on the threshold of freedom, he felt a surge of pride at the strength and resilience she had shown throughout their ordeal. Without a word, he pulled her close, enveloping her in a tight embrace that spoke of years of unspoken understanding and unwavering support.

As they swayed together, caught up in the euphoria of the moment, Celeste's voice broke through the haze of celebration, soft and tinged with humor. "Now we can finally make that soup," she whispered, a playful glint in her eye.

Egan's laughter mingled with the raucous cheers of their fellow prisoners, a sound of pure joy that seemed to lift them all up on wings of hope. "Indeed," he chuckled, the weight of their shared hardships falling away in the face of their newfound freedom.

But just as they began to revel in the promise of a brighter future, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Celeste's gaze darted to the outskirts of the yard, her eyes widening in horror as she caught sight of the menacing silhouette of a machine gun poised to strike. A cold dread gripped her heart as she realized that their liberation was not yet complete, that the shadows of their past loomed large over their fragile victory.

Her voice caught in her throat as she screamed out Egan's name, a desperate plea hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

As if propelled by unseen forces, she catapulted herself and Egan towards the hallowed shelter of a nearby, weather-worn tent. Their bodies collided with an unyielding force against the rough fabric—eliciting a yell from Celeste.

The sharp, merciless symphony of gunfire pierced the air, emanating from the towering watchtowers, each sentinel cloaked in the grim resolve. A wave of panic surged through the throng of POW'S like a fevered tide, wrenching them asunder in a frenzy of fear-fueled flight, their shadows vanishing into the grim canvas of night.

Within the chaotic swirl of violence and fear, Egan felt the thunderous drumbeat of his heart reverberating in his chest, a steadfast rhythm that echoed his resolve to protect Celeste. Instinctively, he drew her close, shielding her trembling form with his own, an unyielding barrier against the storm of terror that threatened to consume them.

In that harrowing cacophony of sound and motion, the fabric of reality frayed and fragmented, blending into a kaleidoscope of chaos that engulfed them. The haunting wail of anguished screams intertwined with the relentless burst of gunshots, creating a nightmarish tableau of despair that painted the world in shades of crimson and ash.

Amidst the turmoil and tumult, Celeste clutched onto Egan's trembling hand—her eyes mirrored a blend of fear and anger.

In the midst of the mayhem, Arnie stumbled over a crackling fire, sending a pot of soup tumbling to the ground. The fragrant liquid spilled out in a slow, mesmerizing cascade, forming pools of color against the dusty earth. Without missing a beat, Arnie scooped up a bit of the soup with his fingers, inspecting it with a critical eye before popping it into his mouth.

"Hmm, definitely needs more salt," he mumbled thoughtfully, his words strangely at odds with the chaos unfolding around them.

Jackson, his face a mask of grim determination, grabbed Arnie by the shoulder, yanking him towards cover with a rough urgency. "Are you out of your mind, Arnie? This is not the time for critiques!"

But Arnie just grinned, his eyes dancing with a reckless spark of humor. "If I had a penny for every time we've been under fire from a plane, I'd have two pennies!"

Egan and Celeste counted down to 3 before taking off.  The group scattered in desperate attempts to evade the relentless onslaught of bullets. Both moved in seamless synchrony while Daniels steadfastly guarded their rear. The piercing staccato of gunfire punctuated the air—drowning out the cries of agony and chaos that enveloped the camp.

Through the haze of battle, Celeste's gaze alighted upon the proud American flag billowing defiantly in the distance, a beacon of hope amidst the turmoil. Egan's eyes, ignited by a newfound resolve, fixated on the iconic stars and stripes dancing in the wind. If the town of Moosburg was truly captured, then they needed a flag for this camp.

So Egan embarked on a quest to procure an American flag. His fervor was palpable as he tirelessly sought out any soul who might possess the coveted banner, his heart set ablaze with the fervent desire to claim a piece of their homeland in this foreign land.

As the group navigated the tumultuous camp where some POW'S began climbing the barbed fences, fate intervened, leading Egan and Celeste down divergent paths. While Egan pressed forward in his quest, Celeste found herself compelled to tend to the wounded and offer solace amidst the maelstrom of suffering that surrounded her.

Frantically darting from one tent to another, the acrid scent of gunpowder clinging to her every breath, Celeste's heart drummed a steady beat. The cries of the wounded, the wails of anguish, all melded into a symphony of despair that threatened to engulf her.

Amidst the chaos and carnage, Celeste's path converged with that of a weary British soldier, his uniform a tapestry of grime and blood. Before she could extend a helping hand, a haunting scream shattered the air, pulling her gaze towards another fallen comrade writhing in agony.

Celeste, cloaked in determination, burst from the feeble safety of the battered tent, her stride purposeful as she crossed the treacherous terrain towards the stricken figure writhing on the mud-soaked ground. Each step felt like a battle won, her boots sinking into the mire, leaving behind imprints like scars on the earth.

With a grace born of necessity, Celeste slid across the slippery ground like a dancer, her movements a calculated frenzy of urgency. As she reached the fallen man, she gathered him into her arms, a lone beacon of hope in a sea of despair. The young soldier's cheek was marred by a gash, blood mingling with the mud, his pain etched into every line of his contorted face.

"Let me see, let me see!" Celeste's voice was a clarion call, slicing through the cacophony of battle. With deft hands, she wrestled his trembling grip away, her fingers gentle yet firm as she inspected the wound. Celeste didn't know medical, but she knew enough to patch someone up. Relief flooded her senses as she realized the injury was less severe than anticipated, a mere scratch in the tapestry of war.

The soldier's eyes, wide with fear and seeking reassurance, locked onto Celeste's gaze, his silent plea echoing in the air like a ghost of doubt. "Will I be okay?" His voice quivered, a fragile thread in the fabric of bravery.

A ghost of a smile tugged at Celeste's lips, a mixture of comfort and jest as she offered him a lifeline of levity. "Don't worry, the ladies will still swoon over you," she quipped, her words a shield against the harsh reality of their existence.

The soldier's tense features softened, a flicker of gratitude dancing in his eyes as he clung to her hand like an anchor in the storm of war. The fragile moment of respite was shattered by the thunderous roar of tanks, their metallic beasts rumbling towards them like heralds of destruction.

Celeste's gaze darted towards the gates, where the insignia of General Patton's army loomed large, a beacon of hope in the darkness of war. "They're here!" The young soldier's voice rang out, a note of pride swelling in the midst of chaos. "We're saved," another voice joined in, a chorus of relief echoing through the battered camp.

The tide of battle was shifting, the allies finally making their presence known after a year of relentless struggle.

As Egan sprinted towards the fluttering German flag, Celeste's determination surged through her veins, propelling her to her feet with a sense of urgency. However, before her feet could close the distance to Egan, a deafening explosion shattered the air, sending shockwaves rippling through the ground beneath her. Celeste's heart seized as the blast propelled Arnie off his feet, his body tossed like a ragdoll amidst the chaos.

A primal cry tore from Celeste's lips, a symphony of desperation drowned out by the clamor of discord around her. With a flurry of emotions clouding her movements, she stumbled towards Arnie, her hands reaching out to cradle his head in her trembling arms. With painstaking care, she aided him back to his feet, his expression a mosaic of agony and bewilderment as pain etched his features.

"That damn well hurt," Arnie grumbled through clenched teeth, his hand gingerly pressed against the searing wound at the back of his head. "You'll be okay," Celeste whispered softly, her slender frame supporting Arnie as he leaned into her, his arm draped wearily over her neck. Yet, as they sought to distance themselves from the bedlam of shouting men, it wasn't Arnie's weight that burdened her—it was the poignant sight of two majestic horses, shackled and vulnerable.

The ebony gloss of the horses' coats shimmered in the light, their eyes pools of terror as they stood restrained by a wagon. Clearly someone had tacked them up, reading to flee the camp. Their distressed whinnies cut through the eerie backdrop of the encampment like haunting melodies, striking a chord deep within Celeste's soul.

Amidst the chaos, Ben's frantic silhouette moved with purpose towards the entrapped horses, his hands deftly working to unbuckle their restraints in a fervent bid for their liberation.

"Ben?" Arnie's voice pierced through the turmoil, his brow knitted with worry as he surveyed the anguish etched upon Celeste's features. "What the hell is he doing?" Celeste's voice held a tinge of urgency as her gaze remained fixed on the gallant creatures ensnared by their captors.

A pregnant pause enveloped the air, broken only by the metallic clinks of Ben's valiant efforts to unshackle the helpless horses.

But fate is a cruel game, as the figure of a German lieutenant emerged—the man who had tacked the horses to escape. Rounding the corner, his weapon raised in a menacing stance, his eyes locked onto Ben with a volatile mix of anger skittering across his countenance. In his mind, this American was merely a barrier to his escape—a threat too significant to be allowed to slip through his grasp.

As Benny boy deftly unfastened the final buckle, a chilling voice cleaved through the silence—issuing a command in harsh, guttural tones. Time itself appeared to halt as Celeste stood frozen, her heart plummeting at the ominous click of the gun. With a blend of defiance and resignation, Ben slowly raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

In a surge of adrenaline, Celeste discarded all caution—only with the deafening gunfire merging into the background noise.

"Jesus Celeste, it's not safe! Stay back!" Arnie's voice pierced through the chaos, but her ears were deaf to his entreaties.

In a final desperate bid, he seized her forearm, fingers tightening in a vice-like grip. Celeste was wrenched backward, her eyes filled with fury locking onto his pleading gaze. Yet the cost of her inaction would be Ben's life, a price she could not bear. For a year, she had believed her crew to be lost to her, and she could not endure the thought of losing them again.

The fiery resolve blazing in Celeste's eyes eclipsed all restraint as she skillfully twisted free from his grasp.

"Don't hurt him! Aim for me, not him," Celeste's voice commanded, an act of unyielding selflessness positioning her as a guardian between Ben and the encroaching peril, willingly bracing for the inevitable repercussions of her actions.

The German was quite thrown off by this sudden change, her arms raised up with palms facing in surrender. His hand trembled, gun wavering between Celeste and Ben. Meanwhile, Jackson and Robert, seizing the opportunity, swiftly subdued two guards and armed themselves—their gazes suddenly locking on the scene before them.

As the heavy tank crashed through the metal gate of the camp, the chaos heightened, and the imminent clash between the American soldiers and the remaining German forces was palpable. Most gave up immediately, tossing their guns and weapons down.

The lieutenant's face was a mask of conflict, torn between duty and a flicker of humanity that still remained within him.

As the echoes of American boots drew closer, the German's resolve hardened. The remaining guards were surrendering without a fight. He couldn't let himself be captured, couldn't face the repercussions of his actions. And so, with a swift and decisive movement, he seized Celeste by the shoulder—pulling her into a tight embrace that felt suffocating against her will.

In that heart-stopping moment, Celeste's eyes locked with Ben's, a silent exchange passing between them before the lieutenant's cold touch and the hard metal of the gun pressed threateningly against her back, shattered the fragile connection that bound them.

The world around them seemed to blur as the tank thundered through, drowning out all other sounds except for the lieutenant's frantic voice—a mixture of pleading and threats.

"Let me go...or I will hurt her!" His words were raw, laced with a desperation that tugged at the frayed edges of humanity that still clung to him. Celeste's breath caught in her throat as she felt the weight of the weapon against her left shoulder. "Arnie, Jackson.. don't do anything stupid." She yelled, trying to keep them out of harms way.

Jackson's voice, smooth as silk but firm as steel, sliced through the pandemonium like a surgeon's blade. In the midst of swirling violence, his words were a lone beacon of reason yet to be extinguished. "Let her go!" he implored, his outstretched hands a feeble attempt at peace amidst the impending storm.

As the leading commander, it was Celeste's duty to protect her men, not the other way around. While Egan and his comrades were mesmerized by the triumphant raising of the flag and the ceremonious tearing of the Nazi emblem to shreds, a deadlock ensued.

The lieutenant's eyes, wide with a mix of desperation and rage, frantically searched the faces before him—seeking a glimmer of comprehension that remained elusive. "All lies!" he bellowed, the words dripping with a potent cocktail of fury and despair. His gaze, a tempestuous whirlwind, finally settled on the fluttering American flag—a cruel reminder of shattered ideals amidst the crucible of war.

"The accusations are false! I have done nothing wrong!" The lieutenant's words hung heavy in the air, a haunting testament to the fractured state of his mind. Before anyone could react, a solitary gunshot followed by another pierced the sound of combat—reverberating through the besieged camp like a thunderclap.

Celeste crumpled immediately to the ground. A wisp of smoke curled heavenwards from the barrel of Jackson's firearm—the weight of his actions settling upon his shoulders like a leaden shroud. Beside her, the once defiant German officer lay sprawled—his final breath stolen amidst the clamor of muted screams.

Jackson, his face a mask of anguish and fear, discarded his weapon and, alongside Ben, raced to Celeste's side. The resolute chief leader deftly maneuvering away from the fallen lieutenant's grasp. Despite the searing pain that clenched her left arm in a vise-like grip, Celeste managed a faint smile—reassurance for her concerned comrades.

The scene unfolded in slow motion, each second stretched taut like an archer's bow. As they both extended a helping hand towards her, she swiftly rebuffed their gestures with a firm hush, swatting away their assistance. "I am more than capable of standing on my own," she muttered through clenched teeth—a grimace betraying the pain she tried to mask as she struggled to rise.

Despite Celeste's insistence that she was unhurt, Arnie couldn't shake the concern etched on his face, noticing the subtle limp in her gait and the worrisome tilt of her left shoulder. Something felt amiss, and the determined Pennsylvanian vowed to uncover the truth.

In the midst of the tumultuous celebration and the jubilant cries of the liberated POWs, Celeste appeared. Her eyes, a mixture of relief and exhaustion, scanned the crowd until they met Egan's gaze. He stood amidst his comrades, engulfed in embraces and raucous laughter—the cheers of freedom ringing around them. Watching as the commandant surrendered his weapon the American general.

Daniel, ever vigilant, spotted Celeste's approach and discreetly alerted the Major, his voice low and urgent. "Egan, 6 o'clock." At the mention, a surge of adrenaline coursed through Egan, his head swiveling to lock onto her where she stood. In that fleeting moment, the world around him faded, leaving only her silhouette against the chaotic backdrop—a portrait of fortitude and strength amidst the wreckage.

She bore the scars of battle with a grace that belied the turmoil they had endured, her uniform in tatters, stained with the remnants of their shared struggles. Egan's mind raced back to the harrowing instances when he feared losing her, the anxiety resurfacing as she stood before him now. Yet there she stood, weathered but undefeated, a beacon of resilience that had captivated him from the start.

Closing the space between them with purposeful strides, Egan gently cradled her face in his hands—for first time, they were finally free to do what ever they pleased.

"You know, I've been meaning to tell you this...I've got notes, letters that I want to show you." Egan whispered, "Worked on them while you were away."  With a soft laughter that bubbled up from their shared relief, they met in a tender kiss—a promise of all the words left unspoken in the days of captivity.

He vowed to show her the world he had envisioned in his darkest hours. A world where they could finally be together, unburdened by the chains of the past, and free to embrace the promise of tomorrow.

"And I know Nugget will be thrilled to see you again.." he muttered but Celeste's smile faltered slightly as she remained holding him. A knowing that day would not come.

Egan felt a warmth seeping through her jacket, where a shiver coursing through her body. Her breath hitched, ragged with every inhale. She leaned into him more—placing her weight against his. "Make sure to take got care of her for me please..."

"Celeste..." His voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a mingling of disbelief and anguish. "What on earth are you speaking about?" Egan gingerly retracted his hand from her shoulder blade, before the realization dawned upon him. It wasn't water, as his palm was drenched in a sinister scarlet hue—the metallic scent of iron engulfing his senses.

Tremors quivered through him, to the profound horror that seized him as he beheld the crimson stain. He backed away slowly.

"Yes..." Celeste's voice, barely audible, held a tinge of surreal tranquility as if she was an ethereal being caught between realms. "Please just Don't forget to feed her.." As he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze— a ghostly pallor had overtaken her once rosy complexion, lending an otherworldly aura to her fragile form.

Egan hesitated for a fleeting moment, his hands trembling as he reached for the edge of Celeste's jacket. With a shuddering breath, he peeled back the fabric, and a scene of stark horror unraveled before him. The once dirtied white of her undershirt was now a canvas splattered with scarlet, a grotesque tapestry of despair.

The words he whispered next were filled with a sense of urgency laced with fear, "Oh my god...you've been hit..."Each syllable hung heavy in the charged air, a testament to the unspeakable dread that gripped his heart.

His voice faltered, emotions strangling his throat as he struggled to comprehend the brutality of the scene before him, "What happened...?"

Egan's voice cracked, the weight of the moment threatening to crush him as he tried to make sense of the senseless violence that had befallen Celeste. Her own voice, barely above a whisper, carried the weight of unspoken agony, "I'm so sorry..." Her words lingered in the space between them, a poignant confession of pain that resonated with heartbreaking clarity.

"But I had to watch out for Ben, he's just too kind for this world." And then, as delicate as a fragile porcelain doll, she crumpled against him—her strength fading like a dying ember.

His cry pierced the air, "Medic! Medic!" His knees buckled beneath him as he cradled her fragile frame close—a futile attempt to shield her from the cruel hand fate had dealt. With a final gasp out, Celeste muttered, " Tell my father I'm sorry, that I was a good soldier."

Arnie and Jackson, propelled by a frantic energy, sprinted through the chaos in search of aid, their gestures frantic and urgent as they sought assistance for their fallen comrade. The sight of the Red Cross emblazoned on the medics' shoulders brought a fleeting sense of relief.

Daniels, steady-handed but with eyes betraying his inner turmoil, knelt beside Egan. "Keep pressure here," he instructed, his touch joining Egan's on the gaping wound that marred Celeste's chest. They formed a fragile barrier against the encroaching darkness, their hands trembling in unison, a silent plea to stave off the looming shadows that threatened to take her.

His trembling fingers gently brushing away the strands of hair that framed her delicate face. Her skin now tinged with the stark contrast of blood that trickled down her cheeks from the corner of her mouth.

Tears welled in Egan's eyes, blurring his vision as he whispered her name like a fervent prayer, his voice filled with desperation and a hint of disbelief. "No, no, no!" he uttered, the words barely a whisper as his thumb instinctively moved to wipe away the warm liquid that caressed her cheek. His heart pounded in his chest, a rhythmic drumbeat of anguish and fear.

"Where's the damn medic?!" Egan's voice rose, a raw edge of panic lacing his words as he scanned the chaotic scene around them, searching for a flicker of hope amidst the despair. The world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound permeating the heavy silence was the distant hum of a jeep's engine as it appeared into view.

Refusing to accept the cruel reality before him, Egan leaned closer to her, his hand shaking as he pleaded her name, each syllable a poignant reminder of the love and life they had shared. He hoped against hope that she would stir as they awaited the medic—that her eyes would flutter open and meet his with that familiar spark of mischief and warmth....

Through the flames and battlecry
Alone in the darkness, I cry
Under red sky,
We rise

Will you stand by my side?

Will you always be there?

Will you stand by my side?

Will you always be there?....

———————————————————————

「 Only the dead
have seen the
end of war 」

AUTHORS NOTE
—-

The end

SIKE JK B**CHES ITS NOT THE END

Next chapter will be up shortly,
I like how I just keep adding more chapters to it 💀

So I'm about to get yeeted by everyone

NEXT ON AMOR VINCIT OMNIA
——

Egan and the crew are rushing against time to save the person they love. But the American medic delivers devastating news. And finding a doctor in the town proves difficult.