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xxv. TILL THE VERY END

MASTERS OF THE AIR
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

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MOOSBURG, GERMANY
APRIL 25th 1945

|| THERE'S A CHILLING EMBRACE KNOW TO ONE AS MORTALITY; SOMETHING THAT TIGHTENS ITS GRIP UPON THE BELOVED. A profound despair that envelops the heart of the beholder. The sensation, akin to a leaden weight dragging one into the abyss, whispers of loss.

In despair, words often falter, caught in overwhelming emotions. Should one unleash a guttural scream that would shatter the fragile tranquility of the moment? Should one unleash a torrent of curses at the heavens above, accusing them of this cruelness?

Egan remained seated upon the dampened ground, cradling the woman he loved tenderly against his chest. His pleading eyes searched her face, silently urging her not to surrender to this darkness. A fruitfulness implore for her to hold on—to cling to the fragile thread of life.

The distant rumble of the approaching jeep resonated through the panic shouts and praises of freedom. Egan's voice pierced the celebration, bellowing for the medic with impassioned desperation, "Medic! his vocal cords strained with worry and fear. "Hurry it up! Damnit!"

Celeste's feeble coughs reverberated through her failing body where crimson tide surged forth from her pallid lips—painting a stark contrast against her porcelain complexion. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. Each rattle seemed to drain the life from her fragile frame, each droplet of scarlet staining the major's uniform.

Egan's heart hammered in his chest like a war drum, each beat a solemn rhythm of dread and urgency. The tangled voices seemed to close in around them, a suffocating embrace that mirrored the impending fate that threatened to consume them both. The flickering shadows danced a macabre waltz around the pair, casting twisted silhouettes that whispered of untold secrets and forgotten dreams.

As the jeep careened to a halt, slipping slightly within the mud—a plume of blackened smoke billowed behind it. The screech of metal through the camp, jolting birds into a panicked flight from nearby trees. An American medic of Patton's platoon emerged—hopping himself over the side of the jeep.

The young man moved fast, his olive-green uniform caked with residue of battle. Arnie and Jackson, flanked behind, their faces etched with worry as they hurried to where Celeste lay motionless—praying they haven't been too late.

The medic's boots sunk into the soft earth as he knelt beside the woman—his hands steady despite the chaos around. With a swift yet gentle motion, he peeled back her uniform to reveal a gaping wound in her chest—the crimson of blood stark against her pallid skin. "Okay..." he muttered softly, before retrieving a small power packet from his satchel.

Quickly, he tore it open with practiced efficiency before pressing its contents onto the wound—the substance fizzing as it reacted with her blood. Then, muttering more to himself, he grasped a bandage from his bag. He didn't have much faith that mere fabric would not stop the severity of blood coming forth. It also did not help that Arnie was practically up on the medic's personal space, begging, pleading—to tell him everything was alright.

"Well, the Good thing is she's still breathing." He says before pointing to the gentle, but soft pulse of the wound, " blood is still pumping," the medic reassured. Though it didn't make anyone feel any less pain. He continued his ministrations, reaching for another roll of bandages to secure the first makeshift dressing in place. However, as he moved to place more cloth, a shadow marred over his features—a flicker of concern upon facade.

"I'm not gonna be able to patch this up with mere bandages," he murmured, his brow furrowed in consternation. These were not the words Egan wished to hear from the medic. For the major quickly seized the man's arm with a vice-like grip—his eyes ablaze with a mix of fear and anger. "What do you mean? You're a medic!" he demanded.

The medic, undaunted by Egan's intensity, shook off his grasp with a solemn resolve. "Yes, but not for this. She needs a surgeon," he stated firmly, his gaze never leaving Celeste's ashen face. "There is a hospital in the town of Moosburg."

Egan's hands dropped to his sides in a gesture of defeat, his mind racing as he grappled with the seemingly insurmountable challenge ahead.

"Where are we gonna find a surgeon out here?" The major's voice echoed with a hollow sense of foreboding, his words a stark reminder of their isolation in a foreign land where allies were scarce and enemies abounded. The odds seemed stacked against them.

The medic slowly withdrew a glass bottle brimming with saline solution, his movements deliberate and precise. Followed by the slender clear line, like a spiders web—it appeared almost fragile in his steady hands.

With meticulous care, he extended Celeste's arm, her delicate frame barely stirring at the man who disturbed her somnolence.

His index and middle fingers began a dance of palpation over the crook of her elbow, seeking out a vein. Upon locating his target, he deftly plunged the needle with a swiftness that bespoke of years spent mastering his craft.

Celeste, languishing in a haze of delirium, murmured unintelligible gibberish as the man's ministrations disrupted her feeble repose. The drip was swiftly connected before being entrusted to Arnie's grasp. "Raise this above her, just so," the medic instructed, his voice a blend of authority and compassion, as he secured the needle in place with a steady hand.

Egan, his countenance etched with a mixture of concern and resolve, dared to question the medic once more—impatience evident. "I believe there is a surgeon in town," the youthful medic hesitated, adjusting his collar nervously, "...However."

"However what?" Egan's voice carried a steely edge, his gaze locking onto the medic's own, demanding answers amidst the encroaching shadows of uncertainty. " He's a German surgeon. I cannot guarantee his willingness to assist..." the medic's confession hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Egan's features, his jaw clenched with a quiet determination. "Well then, I shall simply have to compel his aid through alternate means," he remarked with a subtle smirk.

Taken aback by the major's menacing insinuation, the medic raised a tentative eyebrow, a flicker of disquiet surfacing in his wary countenance. Egan, his eyes scanning the area with a tinge of calculation, fixed his gaze upon the army driver before posing a direct question, his voice laden with an ominous gravity, "Do you happen to carry a firearm?"

The young driver's face was a canvas of raw fear, his wide, frantic eyes glinting under the dim glow of the dashboard lights. His trembling fingers gripped the steering wheel as if it anchored him to reality, knuckles bleaching white with tension. Egan's piercing gaze drilled into him, an unspoken command wrapped in relentless urgency, the very air between them vibrating with compressed intensity.

"Good, now hand it over," Egan growled, his voice a gravelly rasp that scraped against the brittle silence. His fingers flicked impatiently in a beckoning motion, a subtle dance of authority and desperation. The medic, sensing the precarious edge on which the situation teetered, surged to his feet. His heart hammered with unease, the sharp tang of adrenaline mingling with the sterile scent of antiseptics lingering on his uniform.

"Hey, let's not!" he shouted, voice cracking under the weight of panic and conviction. He lunged between Egan and the driver, arms outstretched like fragile barriers against an oncoming storm. "Using force isn't going to help!"

But Egan was a man frayed by the merciless grind of time and grief. His patience, worn thin like threadbare fabric, snapped. With a swift, brutal motion, he grabbed the medic by the lapels, knuckles digging into the coarse fabric, twisting it into wrinkled submission. His breath was ragged, hot tendrils of frustration ghosting across the medic's face.

"Listen here, buddy," he hissed, words dripping with venom and despair, "she is dying. And you're telling me I won't be able to save her because of some German doctor's goddamn pride? Because his people lost?" His voice cracked, not from rage but from the unbearable weight of helplessness, each syllable a shard of his own splintering soul.

Jackson, ever the voice of reason and composure, stepped in between the two men, his hands outstretched in an attempt to diffuse the escalating tension. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us not lose our heads in this crucial moment," he implored, his tone firm yet tinged with a touch of compassion, "now is not the time for petty conflicts."

As Egan's anger threatened to spill over, Jackson With a firm yet gentle touch, managed to pry the major's clenched fists away from the medic.

"Now listen," the Bostonian's tone was earnest, his words carrying the weight. "Celeste and I have traversed continents together—China, Africa... I can't bear to lose her now. Not after everything."

The medic, his gaze dropping briefly to the scuffed floor before meeting Egan's steely stare once more, finally relented. "Alright.... I will take you there," he conceded.

As Egan hoisted Celeste effortlessly into the air, his sinewy arms enveloped her delicate frame with a firm yet gentle embrace. Celeste's soft groans of discomfort were drowned out by the pulsating rush of blood in her ears, each heartbeat a poignant reminder of her dire situation. Tremors of agony rippled through her body as she dangled weightlessly in the air, her limbs hanging listlessly like wilted petals.

Arnie leapt into action, cradling Celeste carefully in his sturdy arms as he stepped back into the jeep—with Egan gingerly transferring her drip. The seamless exchange was a ballet of cooperation and trust—with the mission to make sure Celeste was comfortable and secure. Arnie swiftly switched places with Egan, taking the saline bottle back into his grasp.

The major secured her against his chest, his touch a balm to her aching soul. Allowing her to listen to the best of his heart—to allow her know that he loved her with everything.

Meanwhile, Jackson was dead set on seazing control of the jeep. He appeared at the worried driver's side immediately, with a grin upon his face. "Hey there buddy, I'm gonna need to borrow this vehicle." The young man, noticed the tiger patch upon the jacket, quickly stammered out of the jeep.

Robert merely raised a brow of concern, the 1st lieutenant hadn't exactly been the best driver. Sure, he could fly a plane—but that was a lot different than driving.

Jackson had been told before that his driving wasn't exactly the safest, but he didn't really think about it much. Driving fast got him places quicker and that's all he really cared about, although at times he had done some reckless driving because he enjoyed seeing Celeste's reaction.

As the vehicle roared to life, its engine revving as a small creeped across Jackson's lips. Ah the taste of freedom, but was it coming at a price? Celeste stole a fleeting glance at Egan.

In that brief moment, their eyes locked in a silent exchange of understanding and gratitude. She tried to whisper, but only her lips managed to move—not her words. His fingers intertwined with hers as if to anchor her to this world against all odds. And as the jeep surged forward, leaving a plume of dust and debris in its wake, Celeste slowly closed her eyes.

Each exhale felt like a betrayal, a cruel reminder of mortality's unrelenting grasp. Egan clung to her faltering form with a tenacity born of love and despair. The cacophony of the revving engine grew deafening—as Jackson put his foot to the petal.

As the town's church materialized through the gloom, a beacon of light in the enveloping darkness, Egan's heart soared with a fragile hope that defied the specter of death that loomed so ominously overhead.

The vehicle had had to drive through a narrow road. The town was in a poor state, buildings destroyed, debris everywhere. Corpses of dead soldiers lined the sides of the road, piling atop of one another. But there wasn't time for a scenic drive.

The realization dawned upon them that time was a cruel mistress, Jackson leapt into action, his sinews of iron propelled the jeep towards the town. With a thunderous roar, the engine revved like the fiery chariot of legend—propelling them through the entrance with a reckless abandon.

Through the winding streets of Moosburg, the Bostonian drove like a phantom unleashed, the jeep careening over curbs and hurtling past wagons and other obstacles with a grace that belied the chaos of the moment.

Meanwhile, within the back of the speeding jeep—Egan's countenance etched with lines of concern and fervor, sat vigil beside Celeste's pallid form as Arnie, continuied to hold aloft the vessel of saline. With every jarring lurch of the jeep, like a leaf caught in the capricious dance of the autumn breeze—Celeste's fragile form seemed to teeter on the precipice of eternal slumber.

"Please stay with me little lady," Egan whispered, the timbre of his voice quivering with the weight of pain that bore upon a weary soul. His cerulean eyes, illuminated by unsted tears, met Arnie's gaze. Worry clouded the Pennsylvanian's eyes—knowing this could be truly it. Celeste was running out of lives..

The young chief leader's gaze flickered, her eyelids waging a valiant battle against the heavy veil of weariness that threatened to shroud her consciousness. "I feel cold... so cold," she murmured faintly—-barely forming the words.

Egan enveloped her trembling form in a protective embrace, brushing aside the disheveled locks of her blood-stained hair. "Don't you leave me!" He yelled, trying to shake her back,"There is so much yet to discuss... our future, and nugget," he implored, his lower lip quivering with unspoken fear. "We can't forget about nugget."

Yet, Celeste offered no reply as her eyelids fluttered shut, her body yielding to a numbing lethargy. "Little lady?" Egan's voice cracked with anguish, a desperate plea as he gently brushed her cheek in a futile attempt to rouse her from the encroaching slumber. Silence echoed in response, her pallid lips parting slightly.

"Don't you leave me!" Egan's anguished cry filled the air, his gaze locking with her still form as he pressed his brow against hers, swaying gently in a poignant dance of sorrow. Robert, his own distress masked beneath stoicism, rested a comforting hand on Egan's trembling shoulder—his lips drawn into a tight line.

Silence met his pleas, the stillness of the night broken only by the sound of his ragged breaths. Egan's heart shattered in that moment, the weight of grief crushing him as he pressed his forehead against Celeste's—a silent lament for dreams left unfulfilled.

"Here!" the medic's voice pierced through the heaviness of the moment, shattering the fragile peace that hung in the balance. Jackson, with a jerky motion, maneuvered the vehicle to a halt, the windshield protesting with a resounding crash against the hood. Offering a sheepish smile to the awaiting medic, Jackson murmured a soft apology.

As the group disembarked, the medic rapped briskly on the double doors of the dimly lit makeshift hospital, the hinges creaking in reluctant welcome as a weary nurse appeared, her gaze less than enthusiastic at the sight of the American arrivals.

Amidst the hushed whispers and frantic footsteps that echoed through cobblestone roads nearby, Egan could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he slowly took her body into his arms. That once vibrant countenance, the one of the many moments he loved, was now shrouded in pallor—laying motionless.

Egan held her close with a fervor born of desperation as he began sprinting towards the opening—his eyes a wellspring of unshed tears. Betraying the overly cocky demeanor he held onto.

Noticing the medic and nurse caught in a heated exchange, Arnie couldn't take it and grabbed the concealed gun from Egan's back pocket.

The Pennsylvanian then marched over, gun concealed before pushing the medic out of the way and waving it in the nurse's trembling face.

"Out of the way!" He shouted, waving the weapon back in forth before him. "Nein!" The young blonde nurse shouted back, shaking her head from side to side.

"Look, we have a wounded soldier." Arnie tries to plea, pointing towards Celeste. The blonde whimpers to herself, before tracing the cross over her chest. Seeing the weapon within the Pennsylvanian's hand, she slowly backs into the hospital—leaving the doors wide open. 

Most of the people inside stop what they're doing, watching the exchange unfold before them. Some whispering under their breath about the damn Americans whilst others were in free.

"Please, I'm begging you.." Arnie pleads once more before Egan butts himself in, " Just let us in! We have a wounded woman!" He bellows through clenched teeth, his entire body shaking with anger. But the woman is still adamant, quickly shaking her head side to side. Nearly giving herself whiplash.

Arnie brandishes the weapon once more, its shining barrel reflecting the light.

"What is the meaning of this?" Someone yells in a thick German accent. Hearing the fast approaching footsteps, Arnie instinctively points the gun towards the man. But upon seeing the white coat, he quickly lowers the weapon.

"Are you the surgeon?" Egan suddenly blurts out. The German doctor stares down the American pilot—his grey eyes scanning him before noticing the young woman held within his grasp. "Yes I am Doctor Schmidt." The man twice his senior replies.

His darkened brows raise slightly, etching with a worry at the sight before him. The two nurses, frat with worry—try to grab the doctor by his coat arm. The older man merely ignored their request.

Egan's heart raced like a thoroughbred on the final stretch of a racecourse as he begged the German doctor for assistance, "Please help us," he pleaded, his quivering voice trembling with desperation. Celeste, fragile and fading fast, nestled closer to his chest—her life was slipping away like grains of sand through an hourglass.

The German doctor, a man of wisdom and compassion, beheld the scene before him, recognizing the injustice inflicted upon these Americans by his own kin. Reaching a hand out to feel her pulse, noting the warmth draining from her fragile body. With a resolute nod and a ghost of a smile dancing upon his weathered lips, the doctor declared, "I will help."

The aging healer extended a weathered hand, gesturing towards the secluded back room of the makeshift infirmary. The nurse by his side, a portrait of skepticism and hesitance, muttered under her breath, disapproving of aiding the perceived enemy.

He brushed aside the disapproving gaze of the nurse who murmured under her breath about treating the enemy. As she pleaded once more, the doctor waved her off dismissively—firm in his belief that it was his duty to save lives, regardless of nationality or creed. He had taken an oath to uphold the sanctity of life—-a vow he intended to honor.

As they hurried to the back of the makeshift infirmary, Dr. Schmidt drew back the curtains to reveal a metal gurney surrounded by gleaming medical instruments. "Place her carefully upon the table," he instructed, his voice commanding yet tinged with compassion as he set his glasses aside and motioned for the nurse to prepare the rubber gloves.

Egan gently laid Celeste on the cold surface, his fingers tracing the delicate contours of her face with agonizing tenderness. Dr. Schmidt, his hands steady and sure, introduced himself in a solemn tone before donning the rubber gloves and swiftly cutting away Celeste's bloodstained clothing, the sickening sound of fabric tearing like a knife through the silence of the room.

With bated breath, Egan watched as the doctor unveiled the wound, his expression betraying a hint of concern at the sight before him. Hastily discarding the stained tools, Dr. Schmidt carefully turned Celeste over to her side, searching for any sign of the bullet's exit wound. But his worst fears were soon confirmed—it had not passed through.

""Help me with her clothes," the doctor implored, his tone tinged with impatience as Egan hesitated. The silver haired man glances up at the man before sighing heavily, "we're not going to do anything... I need to see the extent of the damage." With a heavy heart, the young major assisted in the removal of Celeste's bloodied attire, revealing the grim reality.

As the skilled nurse and gallant Egan worked in tandem, delicately guiding Celeste's slender arms through the sleeves of her attire, they exercised the utmost caution to avoid inflicting further pain upon the wounded maiden. With precision akin to a surgeon's steady hand, Schmidt, the astute physician, observed from behind as Celeste's injury was unveiled.

The nurse swiftly gathered the blood-stained remnants of her clothing, a leather jacket once fine but now marred by tragedy, and a shirt bearing the evidence of a fierce struggle, depositing them outside the makeshift infirmary.

Dr. Schmidt's gaze met Egan's, a silent exchange of shared apprehension passing between them. With a grave expression, he confirmed his worst fears –"What I had suspected is true," he murmured— voice heavy with concern. "The bullet has not left her body. Instead, it is lodged in the outer layer of her heart."

Egan's eyes widened in disbelief, his fingers anxiously running through his unruly curls. "But is there anything you can do, Doctor? Can you save her?" he implored, his desperation palpable.

Schmidt's expression remained inscrutable as he carefully set aside his magnifying glass. "It will not be easy," he intoned gravely, his voice carrying the weight of impending doom, "but I will do everything in my power to help." A tangible sense of urgency filled the room like a thick fog.

"Everyone must stay away and not make a noise," he commanded, his words cutting through the tense silence like a knife. "This is a very delicate process, for one slight move could cause the bullet to shift and pierce her heart." His gaze then fixed upon Celeste, her pale face a stark contrast against the sea of worried expressions.

"Which would kill her immediately," Schmidt continued, his words hanging in the air like a heavy pall. "There is only a 50 percent probability she'll live..." The doctor's grim prognosis fell upon Egan's ears like a death knell, stirring up a storm of turmoil within his soul.

Was this the price he must pay for the sins of his past? —Egan wondered in agonizing silence. Was fate, in all its cruel irony, now testing him by threatening to snatch away the one woman who had stolen his heart with effortless grace?

With a hard swallow, Egan approached Celeste's bedside and gently cupped her cheek in his trembling hand. "Do what you can to save her," he implored, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his plea hung heavily in the air, a desperate cry for redemption in the face of impending tragedy.

With all the authority of his position, Schmidt ushered Egan out, urgently insisting that the Major withdraw so that the doctor could dedicate his full attention. An air of reluctance clung to Egan's departure, his valiant plea for a continuance in Celeste's company falling on deaf ears as the partitions were drawn closed—shrouding her from view.

In the quiet aftermath of Egan's exit, as he stood bereft of the woman he loved presences, his gaze wandered over to the discarded remnants of her outerwear. With a poignant resolve, his fingers traced the circumference of the bloodstained aperture in her jacket.

Moving with a measured grace, his touch then lingered over the rust-hued splatters upon her undershirt. Egan soon found himself ensnared in a haunting reverie, where he couldn't help but wonder, if he hadn't been so involved in finding the American Flag—could he have saved her from this fate?

Schmidt turned his attention back to Celeste. With a steady hand, he cleaned around her wound—with a delicate touch as to not cause more discomfort. Then came the moment to extract the bullet—with a harsh sigh, the surgery was underway.

The quiet was sickening to the major, making him restless—he paced back in forth. Biting away endlessly at his nails, the weight of worry pressed heavily on his chest. His each breath a reminder of the stakes faced. His thoughts kept drifting back to Celeste, the woman he loved so fiercely. Egan's heart ached with the thought of her, leaving him for good—gone forever.

How many hours had it been since the surgery? Maybe hours, 2 maybe, 3—-Egan did not know. He had lost count after the fact.

Schmidt, parted the thick, velvet curtains with a gentle hand. His brow furrowed, eyes tired yet gleaming with a hint of victorious satisfaction as he peeled off the bloodied rubber gloves that had been his staunch companions in the long, arduous battle.

Egan sprang to his feet in an instant, his gaze fixed intently upon the esteemed doctor—as if seeking solace and hope in his every movement. A palpable tension hung heavy in the air, the stillness broken only by the sound of labored breaths and the occasional distant echo of footsteps in the corridor beyond.

"The surgery was a success," declared Schmidt, his voice a solemn proclamation that reverberated through the hushed whispers like a sacred incantation. A collective exhale of relief swept through the gathered assembly, a symphony of whispered prayers and silent thanks rising like a soft hymn to the heavens above.

Arnie, his heart heavy with unspeakable gratitude, bowed his head in silent reverence, offering a prayer of thanks to the old physician. "We owe a debt of gratitude to you," she whispered, his voice a fragile melody that danced upon the still air. "And sorry for before, that wasn't exactly polite of me..."

Schmidt's gaze softened, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his weary lips. "It's quite alright..." he started, " But the coming days will not be without their trials," he continued, his tone grave yet resolute. "She must remain in her bed, with someone by her side at all times. The path to recovery is treacherous, and we must tread carefully."

Arnie glanced down at his commander, before smiling.. "Well I guess she likes using her nine lives..."

APRIL 30th 1945

     || WITHIN THE DAYS FOLLOWING, EGAN OBSERVED CELESTE WITH A HEAVY HEART; her delicate form sprawled out on the bed, still connected to a saline drip that whispered promises of healing. Patton's 3rd army had made more headway into taking back other cities once under the Nazi regime.

They were finally liberated, liberated from the suffocating grasp of evil that had ensnared them for years. With great care, he clasped her hand in his, a tender gesture of solace before the nurses materialized like guardian angels to transport her to another part of the infirmary.

For days on end, Celeste drifted in and out of consciousness, her fragile existence teetering on the edge of a precarious abyss. The nurses meticulously tended to her needs, moving her every two hours to avert the looming threat of bedsores.

The major closely monitored their every move, a silent sentinel guarding his beloved in her time of need. When he offered to assist in her care, the nurses hesitated momentarily.

Yet When questioned about his relationship to her, the words "Fiancée" escaped his lips with a fervor that brooked no argument—causing a ripple of astonishment among the assembled company. Jackson and Arnie, stood side by side—their skepticism palpable in the narrowed glares they directed towards the major.

The mention of such a profound bond between Egan and Celeste sent a shiver down the spines of the crew, whispering rumors of past transgressions that lingered in the shadows of his reputation. Her boys that were bound by loyalty and love for her—were quick to sense a storm brewing beneath the surface. They knew Egan's past all too well and were not eager to trust his sudden professions of commitment.

In the days that followed, Egan found himself ensnared in a web of scrutiny and speculation, each clamoring for a clearer understanding of his true intentions. Arnie, in particular, nursed a wounded pride at not being consulted prior to Egan's bold proclamation. His indignation simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.

Amidst the swirling tensions and whispered accusations, a fragile truce was struck between the wary parties. Despite their misgivings about Egan's proclamation, a unifying concern arose for the well-being of Celeste. The grievous wound that marred her delicate frame loomed.

The wound, a sinister intruder perilously close to her heart, demanded constant vigilance and meticulous care. Egan, with a tenderness that surprised even himself, took up the mantle of caregiver, tending to Celeste's needs with a devotion that belied his roguish reputation. The arduous task of cleaning and dressing the wound became a ritual of love, repeated every three hours without fail.

Yet Arnie stood vigil by her bedside, like a disgruntled child—still locked in silent rivalry. Meanwhile, Jackson, the silent observer, maintained a vigilant watch, his calculating gaze betraying the depths of his apprehension. He chose to remain out of the conversation—well for the most part anyway.

As the days stretched into a week—the once bustling infirmary began to empty of familiar faces, the clamor of war gradually receding into the hushed whispers of memory. The arrival of more American troops signaled a shift in the winds—prompting the relocation of the airmen to a distant airbase nestled amidst the rolling hills of Belgium.

Here, Celeste found solace in the tender care of the resistance fighters, who tended to her wounds with a reverence born of shared sacrifice.

Hearing the distant rumble that heralded the arrival of the B-17s—Egan rushed out. His hearts, swelled with a mixture of gratitude and hope as the imposing figures of the airplanes loomed closer, casting shadows of both comfort and uncertainty.

Arnie, Jackson, and Ben stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the plane before them. The silhouettes of the aircraft against the crimson sky painted a picture of awe and reverence, stirring emotions long buried beneath the facade.

Among the crew emerged Major Cleven, he had truly made it back. With a quiet resolve that spoke volumes, he descended from the aircraft, his gaze meeting each man in turn with a lingering intensity.

"Well if it ain't the stone in my boot," Cleven's voice carried across the tarmac, laced with a hint of levity as he approached Egan—who stood with a mixture of relief and trepidation etched upon his features. The reunion between the two men bore the marks of camaraderie forged in the crucible of conflict, their embrace a testament to the bond that surpassed mere words.

"I know you missed me," Egan quipped, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "I trust you've kept the lads in line in my absence."

Cleven merely smirked, " Possibly.. But it's good to have you back." As the men exchanged pleasantries, the blonde found his attention shifting towards the figure of Celeste, pale and fragile upon her cot—being rolled out towards the awaiting plane.

"Well, it seems I've missed a lot in my absence," Cleven's voice held a tinge of regret, just as Egan glanced back at his beloved. A sense of protectiveness shadowing his features. "Yeah just a bit. That last camp really got to us. She was shot by a fanatic," he confided.

Ben, the youngest among them, lingered at a distance, his guilt a palpable presence that weighed heavily upon his shoulders. The memory of Celeste's injury haunted him, a specter of what-ifs and unspoken regrets that threatened to engulf him in a tide of self-blame. As Arnie and Robert moved to offer their support, Ben remained rooted to the spot, his eyes cast downward in a silent plea for forgiveness that only his comrades could discern.

"I'm here to take you guys back, back to England that is..."

"Hey, I'll take anything at this point.." Jackson plainly remarks, before chucking a bag over his shoulders.

And so, Celeste was carefully placed inside the rearranged B-17– were whisked back to the familiar shores of East Anglia, England—where their story had begun. Arnie and Robert could not get over the fact the Bombers were being used as supply droppers instead of the C-47's.

Egan paid no attention to the boys as they blabbered away. He never strayed from Celeste's side, checking her pulse and temperature with the back of his hand. Even Crosby came to offer some comfort, explaining Nugget had grown and had become quite the nuisance. Knocking paperwork over and meowing endlessly until she was fed. 

As they soared over the scarred landscape of once-occupied territories, a profound sense of peace descended upon them, a fleeting moment of respite in a world ravaged by war.

Upon their return to the shores of England, a most peculiar reception awaited the travelers. Rene, with her eager countenance and arms outstretched in anticipation, enveloped them in a warm embrace that spoke of both relief and joy.

The British lady, whose features bespoke astonishment as she beheld Jackson's countenance once more, standing before her in flesh and blood, not as the mere ghost of memory for a year. "What the devil are you doing here?" she inquired with a sharpness that betrayed her flustered emotions.

Jackson, the Bostonian with a mischievous glint in his eye, merely arched a brow in response to her abrupt query. "Surprised to see me alive and kicking, are you?" he quipped, his tone laced with subtle humor that danced on the edge of audacity.

As their attention shifted to the figure being gently transported on a gurney, a hushed realization dawned upon Rene, and tears threatened to spill from her eyes. That darn American had once again cheated death's relentless pursuit, emerging from the shadows of mortality with a resilience that defied reason.

"Ah, our dear Miss Prim and Proper returns to us," Rene remarked with a wry smile, her hand delicately tucking a stray lock of hair behind Celeste's ear. "How long has she been out ?" she inquired of the arriving medical attendants, her concern veiled beneath a facade of composure.

"A week's time, perchance a day or so," the Bostonian interjected proudly, a hint of camaraderie underlying his jest, to which Arnie offered a chuckle. "Knowing her, she might be feigning to eavesdrop on our conversations," he jested—the lightness of his words a fleeting respite in the weighty atmosphere.

A poignant silence descended upon the gathering, all eyes turning to the stirring figure on the gurney, her eyelids fluttering with the tentative awakening of consciousness. Rene's brow arched in mild reproach at the banter of the men, while Ben and Robert, ever dutiful, exchanged resigned shrugs in response to her unspoken query.

With a soft sigh, Rene's voice, tinted with a hint of wry amusement, broke the veils of silence surrounding her. "Right.... I'm sure she is" she remarked, her jest carrying a subtle note of affection.

With bated breath, Egan bestowed upon her hand a tender squeeze—offering her what little comfort he could muster. To his astonishment, her hand responded in kind, returning his gesture with a gentle, reassuring pressure—like a flickering flame in the darkness.

"Little lady..." he murmured, leaning in closer to her. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly, a subtle movement that did not escape his watchful gaze. Before he could utter another word, the attending medics materialized like ghosts in the mist, their urgent expressions urging them to transport her swiftly to the medical center of the hospital.

As they bore her away, Rene remained beside Arnie. Despite the gravity of the situation, Arnie kept up a semblance of conversation, a thread of normalcy in a world torn asunder by war.

"You know, Arnie," Rene began, her voice tinged with a mixture of weariness and resignation, "I had hoped that with the war and all its horrors, your reckless banter would cease. And yet, here you stand, unyielding in your ways."

Arnie met Rene's gaze with a knowing twinkle in his eye, a hint of mischief dancing within the depths of his soul. "Ah, you know you missed my company," he retorted, his words laced with a subtle charm that belied his true intentions.

The blonde merely shook her head in mock disbelief, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

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MAY 3rd, 1945
EAST ANGLIA, ENGLAND
THORPE ABBOTTS

      || After a fortnight of slumber stealing her away from the living, Celeste felt the gentle tug of consciousness teasing her back into the world. Her eyelids fluttered as if hesitant to reveal the secrets of the room around her, but ultimately they relented, her sapphire eyes slowly unveiling the chamber bathed in dim sunlight.

Her gaze danced from side to side, taking in the familiar furnishings that surrounded her. The crackling of distance planes, the scent of lavender lingering in the air, and the faint murmurs of English voices. The melodic tones washed over her like a gentle stream, their honeyed lilt caressing her ears before fading into the symphony of soft, contented snores that filled the chamber.

With a languid yet purposeful movement, Celeste turned her head to the side, her gaze alighting upon the figure of Egan, who lay in a blissful slumber in the plush leather chair beside her. His countenance bore a tranquil semblance, akin to that of a marble sculpture carved by the finest hands of antiquity. His head drooped forward slightly, his hands clasped together in silent repose, a visage of peaceful repose.

A subtle, enigmatic smile graced Celeste's lips as she beheld the sight before her, a silent testament to the profound bond that tethered her heart to his. In the stillness of that moment, she observed the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic cadence of his breath a soothing melody that suffused an aura of tranquility. It was a lullaby soothing her awakening spirit.

With a whispered sigh, Celeste mustered the strength to shift her body, turning towards her slumbering companion.
In the hushed stillness of the room, she marveled at the sight before her—a tableau of serenity and vulnerability captured in the form of a man.

The glowing sunlight cast gentle shadows across Egan's features, illuminating the lines of exhaustion that etched his brow and the innocence that softened his features in repose.

As Celeste reached out a trembling hand to brush just a touch upon his leg, to make sure he was really there with her. Feeling the warmth of leg felt a flutter in her chest—a symphony of emotions rising within her like a crescendo.

Egan stirred restlessly in his slumber as an unexpected sensation grazed his leg. Instantly, his eyes fluttered open, darting towards the source of the disturbance. To his astonishment, there, bathed in the dim candlelight, lay Celeste, her once-pallid face now aglow with the faintest hint of color.

A rush of relief flooded his every fiber, for he had feared the worst upon witnessing her form a mere week ago. Yet, here she was, a beacon of hope amidst the shadows that threatened to consume them. Her eyes, though bleary from the haze of sleep, met Egan's gaze with a clarity that stirred something deep within his soul.

With bated breath, Egan dared not utter a sound, lest he disturb the peace that enveloped the medic hut. Arnie and Jackson lay in peaceful repose like two children at an overnight—their snores filling the air with a comforting rhythm.

Seizing the opportunity afforded by this fleeting moment, Egan shifted closer to Celeste's side, his heart pounding with a mixture of joy and trepidation.

As he gazed upon her delicate features, now softened in the gentle glow of the firelight, Egan felt a swell of emotions wash over him. Gratitude, relief, and an unspoken longing coursed through his veins, binding him to this woman who had captured his heart in ways he could scarcely comprehend.

Silent as a whisper, Egan reached out a trembling hand to brush a strand of hair from Celeste's face, his touch reverent in its tenderness. In that brief instant, time stood still, the world outside fading into oblivion as he allowed himself to savor this intimate connection with the woman who had become his beacon of hope in a time of darkness.

Good morning there, little lady," Egan's voice, warm and familiar, greeted her ears.

Celeste groaned softly as she tried to sit herself up, a dull ache pulsing in her side. With a deft hand, Egan adjusted the pillow behind her back, his touch as gentle as a summer breeze. "Take it easy," he advised.

With a look of confusion clouding her delicate features, Celeste glanced down at the bandaged wound on her side before exhaling softly, her voice laced with drowsiness and bewilderment. "How long have I been out?" she asked, her words trailing off into the stillness of the room.

Egan's chuckle, reminiscent of distant thunder, rumbled softly in the air. "About a month..." he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he observed the astonishment that flickered in Celeste's widened eyes and parted lips.

"What? The war!" Celeste exclaimed, her voice rising in a mixture of shock and disbelief, her hand instinctively reaching for the wound that bound her to this place. In her attempt to rise from the bed, determination etched in her every movement, Egan gently nudged her back, a knowing smile playing upon his lips.

"It's only been a week and a half," Egan revealed, his laughter like a bubbling brook that danced over rocks, carrying away the tension that had settled between them. Celeste gritted her teeth playfully, a fire of defiance flickering in her eyes as she voiced her thoughts.

"If I wasn't bedridden, I'd have punched that smug face of yours!" Celeste declared, her voice filled with a fiery spirit that refused to be extinguished. Egan's response was one of amusement blended with a hint of admiration for her unwavering spirit.

"I await that day," the major replies, meeting her playful challenge with a twinkle in his eye. Celeste merely rolled her eyes before searching the door and surroundings for her men.

"Where my boys?" She suddenly mutters, concern lacing her words—brow furrowing slightly. "You mean the sleeping beauties over there?" Egan mocked, pointing to the other bed. Celeste carefully looks over to see them curled up, arms tucked across their chest—like they learned whilst in China.

The pain that had consumed her body moments before was a distant memory, replaced by a lingering ache piercing through her side. She attempted to reposition herself, but a sharp gasp escaped her lips.

"Egan," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. The throbbing ache in her shoulder reminded her of the unforgiving bullet that had pierced her skin, threatening her very existence. With frail strength, she managed to get herself to ask the question that had been nibbling at her mind.

"Cleven... How is he?" The brunette inquired—her eyes searching Egan's for reassurance.

With a solemn nod, he began recounting the events that had unfolded in her absence. His words floated in the air, painting a vivid picture of the chaos and despair that had gripped everyone. Then how they had moved to an outpost near Belgium—much to her dismay. Celeste uttered the words, "Damnit, I missed it all." Under her breath. But amidst this, there was hope as Egan uttered the words, "Cleven had made it."

A wave of relief washed over Celeste, her tense muscles finally relaxing as she let out a deep sigh. Knowing that Cleven had survived brought a sense of comfort to her troubled mind. Especially with all the talk about him marrying Marge and her saying yes.

As the tension ebbed away, Egan's brow furrowed in curiosity. "What did you dream about?" he asked gently, his concern genuine.

Celeste furrowed her brow, her mind reaching back into the depths of her fractured dreams. Memories of China flooded her thoughts, the faces of the men she had trained emerging like specters in the mist. Their smiles were bittersweet, their voices filled with longing as they inquired about the world below.

Celeste pursed her lips slightly, the visions from her dreams slowly coming into focus. She spoke softly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile threads that bound her to the realm of dreams.

"Well, I saw them all, Egan," she confessed, her voice tinged with sadness. "The men I lost in China, the men I had trained with. They stood before me, their faces etched with smiles of familiarity. They asked about those still walking the earth, inquiring about their well-being as if they were merely on a temporary journey."

Egan listened with rapt attention, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Celeste continued, her words painting a vivid picture of a reunion beyond the veil of mortality.

"But they said... It wasn't my time yet," Celeste continued, her eyes distant yet haunted. "They vowed to wait until my final hour, standing vigil until the end of days.""

Silence descended upon the room, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. Celeste closed her eyes, the echoes of her dream fading into the recesses of her mind. "Then I dreamt of you, our family—Ana was there. And our baby.."
she whispered, her voice on the verge of breaking, " I didn't want to leave. I believed it to be real and if it was my end, then I would have been alright with it."

Celeste exhaled a breath she had not realized she was holding, a sense of relief washing over her weary body. As the tense atmosphere began to ease, Egan's gaze softened, a glimmer of curiosity dancing in his eyes. He gently took her hand into his, adding a gently squeeze.

A moment of profound stillness enveloped them like a heavy fog, pregnant with unspoken emotions that danced tantalizingly on the edge of their consciousness. Celeste's eyes, pools of uncertainty and longing, met Egan's gaze, searching for answers that lay buried beneath his stoic facade. Egan, with a demeanor as solid as the oak trees— felt her silent inquiry like a weight upon his chest.

"When Cleven ran, why did you not go with him? you could have been home," Celeste finally dared to voice the question that had tormented her soul. It had been something that danced around for weeks after Cleven escaped—knowing Egan had talked about leaving for months. Going over and over the plans, only to stay behind.

Egan's lips formed a thin line, the crease of worry etched upon his forehead as he traced delicate circles on her trembling hand with his thumb. "You know, I glimpsed that life. Seeing the look on my parents faces...But the very thought of going back to such a life wasn't something I wanted," he murmured.

Celeste's response was a wistful chuckle, filled with equal parts amusement and affection. "Ah, such a poetic ," she teased, " Are you sure you never did any poetry in school? Besides baseball." A glint of admiration dancing in her tearful gaze.

"No, I think it's been you rubbing off on me... that or Cleven..." he laughed. In a single breath, Egan closed the infinitesimal gap betwixt them, his kiss a gentle caress upon her quivering lips, tender and sacred as a whispered prayer in the night. Their souls intertwined in a delicate dance of yearning, crafting a shimmering tapestry woven from unspoken vows and silent pledges.

As their lips parted, a fleeting smile graced Celeste's countenance, her delicate fingers brushing against the stubble that graced Egan's jawline, a mantle of masculinity that bespoke of his resilience and strength. "We are finally free," he solemnly murmured, his hands cupping her face with a gentleness that spoke volumes of his devotion.

A solitary teardrop escaped the confines of Celeste's lashes, traversing a glistening trail down her alabaster complexion. The burdens of yesteryears were flung aside, discarded in favor of a future unblemished by the looming shadows of remorse and hopelessness.

Their gentle murmur stirred Arnie and Jackson from their slumber. Arnie's eyes fluttered open, a lazy grin dancing upon his lips as he addressed the room with a boisterous declaration, "Oh hey! Look who is finally awake!"

The sound of his jovial voice pulled Celeste from the grasp of Egan's talking—her gaze languidly shifting towards him as he rose with the grace of a cat unfurling from slumber, stretching his limbs in an exaggerated display. Jackson, still cloaked in the remnants of slumber, narrowly avoided a wayward swipe from Arnie's hand, his gruff voice muffled by the haze of morning, "Damnit Arnie. Watch where you're putting your hand."

A soft chuckle slipped from Celeste's lips at the playful banter between the two, her serene countenance a contrast to their lively exchange. "Let us compose ourselves, gentlemen," she interjected, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, "There is no need for such rambunctiousness at this early hour."

In response, Arnie and Jackson, ever the jesters, mockingly bowed to each other before closing the gap between them. "We truly thought we had lost you," Arnie quipped, a glint of relief shining in his eyes as he regarded his companions. Jackson nodded in solemn agreement, his expression mirroring the collective sense of gratitude that they were all together, unharmed.

The tranquility of the moment was soon interrupted by the creaking of the doors to the medical hut, drawing all eyes towards the figure of Rene bustling in, a vibrant bouquet of flowers cradled delicately in her arms. "A token from Crosby on well-wishes for your recovery," she beamed, placing the kaleidoscope of blooms upon the table with care.

Celeste's cherubic countenance was aglow, emanating a reverent delight that matched the vibrant petals adorning the scene. Her comely lips contoured into a symphony of graceful curves, expressing gratitude that transcended mere words as her gaze, akin to an ethereal dove in flight, wafted between the resplendent floral tapestry and the company of Rene and Egan, their gazes intertwined in camaraderie.

"Thank you," she breathed with a voice akin to a murmuring brook—a delicate lilt underlying her words like a hidden undercurrent. Yet, as swiftly as a fleeting shadow, a flicker of concern danced across her brow, a subtle play of shadow upon alabaster marble—her emerald eyes flitting around Rene with a cadence of anxiety that was as delicate as a butterfly's flutter.

"Everyone is here. But where is Sammie and Nugget and Ben, Robert," she mused in a voice as soft as the rustling leaves, though a veil of worry lingered like a whisper of mist in the early morning.

Yet, not one to let gravity linger overlong in the midst of such conviviality, Jackson stood poised on the precipice of mischief. There a mischievous twinkle illuminating his eyes akin to a rogue star amidst a tapestry of velvet night.

With a chuckle that bubbled forth like a hidden spring, he teased, his tenor as light as a lark's song, "Oh, are we not good enough?"

Celeste's eyes narrowed playfully at Jackson's jest, a glint dancing within them. "Jackson, i will say, I found your company more tolerable when you were dead," she retorted with a mock sigh.

"Ben and Robert are getting ready for a flight out. To deliver goods..." Egan muttered, before Celeste tried to get herself up—much to everyone's chagrin. "Whoa, whoa there bronco, let's rest first. The boys have got it." Jackson remarked, trying to place his hand out to keep her from getting up. "No, I have to be there with them..."

"We'll be there with them." Hearing his statement, Celeste slowly relaxed back—taking a harsh gulp.

The Pennsylvanian, with a mischievous glint in his eye, delivered a hearty punch upon the shoulder of Jackson. Where both then exchanged chose words under their breath.

Before Arnie extended forth his calloused hand toward her. "Till the very end," he intoned, a warm smile adorning his rugged countenance. In response, Celeste, with a delicate grace, accepted his proffered hand, clasping it with a firm and resolute shake. "Till the very end," she echoed—a pledge that resonated deep within the core of their shared bond.

Through trials and tribulations untold, through the vast expanse of lands both near and far, they had traversed the globe as a steadfast trio, united by an unbreakable alliance forged in the crucible of adversity. From the sun-kissed plains of China to the untamed heart of Africa, and finally to the verdant shores of England.

For Arnie, Jackson, and Celeste, the journey had been long and arduous, fraught with peril and uncertainty, but in each other, they had found a strength that would carry them through to the very end—-come what may.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE
——-

YES I REUPLOADED THIS CHAPTER WITH MORE THINGS ADDED! I HSD MOVED MOST OF IT AWAY AS A DELETED CHAP, BUT I DIDNT LIKE THAT

Well we are almost to the end my peeps 🥲
I'm gonna cry for real here

Nugget comes in the next chapter, I PROMISE

So like 2 chapters left my dudes 😭😭