Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1918 — The Day the Train Left
Bob, age 5

The station was crowded with dust, sweat, and the kind of heavy silence that settled before something broke.
The morning sky was slate-colored, already threatening rain, and little Bobby Floyd stood on the edge of the wooden platform in overalls too big for him, sleeves rolled twice. His wool cap itched. His cheeks were pink with the pinch of the cool morning air.

Beside him, his mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with her initials, a wedding gift she once told him when he had asked what L.F. stood for “Lauraine Floyd Booby dear, Mama’s not my name you know” she giggled.

He didn't quite understand that his mama could be anyone but his mama, the woman who sang him to sleep and mended the tears in his pants, who pushed him on swings and told him wild stories. He did know that that was what his pa called her, his Lauraine, his beautiful wife.

At this moment however she didn’t speak much. All traces of his bright mama gone the same as the rest of the women standing there sending off their boys and their men in brown wool and polished boots. His father, Henry Floyd, adjusted the strap on his duffel bag and crouched to eye level with Bob.

“You remember what I told you?” he asked, gently, as the train engine hissed behind him. His cap slipped slightly as he looked behind to be sure he hadn't missed the last call.

Bob nodded. “I’m the man of the house now.”

“That’s right.” His father smiled, crooked-toothed and kind, though his eyes held a weight Bob couldn’t name yet. “Which means you listen to your ma, you help with your brothers, don’t slack on your chores, and help Mr. Holloway with the hens when she can’t.”

Bob hesitated. “Can I still play with the Marlow boys?”

His father chuckled. “Course you can. Just don’t let ‘em talk you into jumping off the barn roof again. You’re not a barnstormer yet.”

Bob cracked a smile, one of his bottom teeth missing.

The train gave a long, mournful whistle. The majority of the men who had been stalling till the train nearly left without them had started to board. A baby cried somewhere down the platform. Women in all states of despair lined the edge of the platform, some sobbing, others stoic, some locked in embraces forced to be broken momentarily.

His father stood and turned to his wife. He didn’t say much. Just pressed his forehead to hers, like a prayer, and kissed her softly on the cheek. She stood there painfully quiet and fixed his cap back into place. “Is staying alive too much to ask?” she whispered. Henry’s eyes found their way to the floor and whispered back “Maybe.. But i'll pray day and night that i find my way back to you and to you too kid” with that said he then turned, slung the bag over his shoulder, and stepped up onto the train.

Bob ran alongside it as it started to pull away dodging women waving their handkerchiefs and blowing kisses, one mitten waving wildly.

“Come back soon, Pop!”

Henry leaned out the window, two fingers to his brow in salute.

“I’ll be back before the corn’s high, Bobby!”

The train thundered away, smoke rolling over the platform like a ghost.

It would be the last time Bob saw him.

1939 — The Paper in His Pocket
Bob, age 18

Diner smelled like burnt toast and cigarettes.

Bob Floyd wiped down the counter with the kind of rote attention that comes from months of the same routine: breakfast rush, mop floors, bus tables, repeat. Outside, the streets of Hastings, Nebraska, buzzed with early autumn. Leaves skittered down sidewalks ablaze with colour. Kids chased each other past the corner drugstore laughing all the while. Having lived here his whole life he knew every street like the back of his hand and every family like he’d grown up in their kitchens. It’s odd the way it was in the same town. Just now, he was a little older with a new perspective that could sense something different in the air these days.

He knew what it was; the war.

Not their war, not yet but war all the same. Europe was already knee-deep in it, and every radio broadcast sounded closer than the last. He’d hear it in the way the old-timers spoke over their morning coffee. The way his boss, Ernest, kept the news playing low behind the counter, like static.

Ernest was an honest man, but by no means kind. For Robert that was all right because a job was a job and he would do anything to make sure his mama and the younglings could afford all their desires since he was the man of the house, and for some time now.

Bob had finished high school in the spring. Top of his class in mathematics. Quiet as a mouse but sharp as a tack, as his teachers liked to say. Everyone expected him to go to college, Creighton, maybe, if he could put enough aside to afford it. But tuition money was hard to come by, and his mother had arthritis in both hands now. Her mending business was slowly becoming too challenging to keep up. So Bob stayed. He worked. He kept his head down.

Until the day the recruiter came to town. He’d passed the window of the post office and seen the sign:

“Serve your country. Learn to fly. Be somebody.”

That last part stuck with him. Be somebody. Who was really? Certainly not “Somebody”. He hadn't been a star quarterback, or class president. Didn't even have many friends for that matter. There was the Marlow girl across the street who he had tutored in math and she had tutored him in french. But she had married and moved, and the few letters they exchanged weren't more than checking in on an old friend, so old you might even call them your cousin, here and there more for politeness than anything else.

So, he’d walked in, heart thumping, and walked out with a folded enlistment form and a pamphlet about the Army Air Corps. Now, he stood behind the counter, that paper burning a hole in his pocket.

Ernest wandered out of the back with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “You headed out soon?”

Bob looked up, startled. “What?”

“Your break,” Ernest said. “You keep starin’ out the window like it owes you money.”

Bob managed a half-smile. “Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

Outside, he found a quiet patch beneath the elm tree near the alley and sat on the curb. He pulled the paper out and unfolded it slowly, like it might explode. He hadn’t signed it yet. Not with a pen at least.

But his mind was made up, he would.

He had to.

Not for glory. Not for the flag-waving parades. But because he didn’t want to stay behind while the world burned. Because there was something in him that wanted to move, to act, to be close to his father.

He looked up as a plane crossed overhead, barely more than a silver speck. He watched it until it vanished into the clouds.
Then he reached for his pen.

1941 — The Sound of the Radio
Bob, age 20

Sunday morning started slow. Bob had peeled potatoes for mess duty and traded shifts with a guy from Brooklyn who had “fancy” a date with a nurse. The sun was warm for December, but the wind carried the bite of winter.

He had just sat down in the common room, sipping watery coffee and flipping through an old Popular Mechanics, when the base radio flared to life.
“…this just in… we are receiving multiple reports from Hawaii… Pearl Harbor has been attacked…” the scratchy voice echoed.

The room stilled. A fork clinked against a tray. The corporal by the phonograph swore under his breath.

Bob stood.

“…Japanese planes confirmed… heavy casualties reported…” It continued.

Within an hour, the entire camp transformed. Soldiers ran drills with eyes wide open. Ground crews checked and rechecked aircraft. Officers marched in and out of briefing rooms. Rumors swirled: torpedo bombers, destroyers sunk, thousands dead. Dead. Bob knew from his tiny memories of mother keeping the radio open during the great war that death was catastrophic. But he didn't remember how haunting a simple report could be.

By nightfall, they were under blackout.

Bob sat on his bunk, boots laced, waiting for the next order. He pulled out his notebook, hands smudged with graphite, and began sketching the Pacific theater from memory. The distances between islands, the range of carrier-based aircraft, supply lines, fuel estimates.

He wasn't the kind of guy who looked for blood. But he could calculate it.

A sergeant tapped his shoulder. “Mail run. You got five minutes if you wanna send one out.”

Bob tore a page from his notebook and wrote quickly.

Dear Ma,
Heard the news. I’m all right, but things are moving fast. They’re saying we’ll be in the air before the month’s out. Might be headed west, not sure yet. I’m doing what I've trained for. I’m not scared. Not really. Tell Will I miss his antics and tell Henry jr. I can't wait to hear more about his first year of high school. Tell Mr. Parsons I still owe him a rematch at checkers. And if you could give Lottie Marlow my congratulations on the baby girl. I love you, so so so much Ma and i pray for this war to be over every night so that may be home for New Years. Don't ya worry about me, the fellas and i have each others backs.
And tell Pop — I get it now. I do.

He paused.

Then added: I’ll be brave like he was.

He signed

Love your eldest,
Bobby.

He sealed the letter, then stood and fell into formation.

The war had arrived.

And Bob was ready.

Chapter Text

 RAF Bletchley, England - October 1944

Lieutenant Robert Floyd had stopped pretending about sleep 3 weeks ago.

Since then, he’s sat hunched over the desk in the operations tent, illuminated by the dim yellow glow of a desk lamp. His eyes, sharp behind round spectacles, scanned wind drift calculations and bombing projections. He was the last one awake, as always. The others had long given in to exhaustion, their breath heavy and slow in the cold night.

A steaming mug of tea had gone cold beside him, forgotten. Pencil tapping in rhythm against a chart, he drew a line through the latest sortie projection. Off by a single miniscule degree. A small thing on paper, but up there, it was a mile. And mile could mean the difference between home and a coffin.

Flight Officer Delaney, again.

Bob circled the error in red, lips pressed in a flat line. It wasn’t personal. Not really. But the man had gotten Private Kelly killed last week. The gunner had bled out in Lady Guinevere’s belly before the wheels even hit the ground. The medics said he was dead by the time the engines cut.

He filed the corrected chart in the "REVISED" bin anyway, more out of stubborn principle than hope.

The only sound was the intermittent tapping of rain against the tent’s roof and the occasional static cough from the shortwave radio on the shelf. Outside, England shivered in mud and fog, but Bob’s mind was twelve thousand feet up, above the clouds, where math could save lives, if only people bothered to listen.

“You need rest.” a voice came from behind him.

“I need people to stop dying from lazy math.”

He’d known the boy. Private Kelly. Eighteen, freckles, eager. Bob had warned Delaney about the course projection, and said the flak guns would be waiting. But Delaney had laughed. “Floyd, you’re not a pilot. Leave the sky to the sky men.”

Now Kelly was in a box, and the sky didn’t care.

Bob didn’t cry over these things anymore. He calculated them. Drew the line between X and Y and watched the variables collapse into tragedy. It felt heartless to think of it that way, but three years in a war zone takes its toll on anyone and Lt. Floyd, like many, did whatever they could to be alright with themselves in the morning, no matter how heartless.  

A wind swept through the tent, flapping the canvas. Bob blinked and sat back in his chair, taking his time before turning to his superior. He rubbed the hollow under his eyes, the same way he had since he was a boy waking up too early to help his mother bake bread before church. He'd grown used to the weight of responsibility before he had even learned how to shoulder it.

“Specs, you’re still at it?” 

Colonel Whitaker stood in the tent flap, framed by mist and shadow. His voice cut through the quiet, half amused, half concerned. The nickname had stuck since basic training, Specs. It had started as a joke. Then Dunkirk happened and Bob’s calculations saved a whole squadron from flying straight into German flak. Then people didn’t laugh at Specs anymore, though it didn't stop some of the ruder fellas from being unpleasant .

Bob didn’t look up. “Someone has to be.”

“You know the sortie’s in five hours. Try not to burn yourself out.”

“That’s what got Shaw's crew shot down,” Bob said quietly, eyes still on the papers.

Whitaker didn’t answer. The name still stung. One of the gunners had been his bunkmate.

The Colonel stepped in, letting the tent flap fall shut. “You ever sleep, Floyd?” he said with a sigh.

“Not lately,” Bob muttered, flipping to another chart. “Too many ghosts.”

Whitaker shifted uncomfortably. After a pause, he left without another word and Bob kept working.

~

Dawn cracked open over the horizon, pale and damp. Bob stood at the edge of the airfield, coat collar turned up, watching the fog curl low over the runways. Lady Guinevere sat in the distance, frost clinging to her flanks. Her starboard wing still bore the bullet holes from that night. Someone had painted over most of them, but the jagged metal edges peeked out like old scars.

Bob squinted up at the sky, gray, bruised, uncertain. He imagined the boys up there now, flying blind on coordinates scribbled by hands like his. That thought never stopped haunting him. How a simple accident might cost the lives of good, honest men. Sometimes the men were just boys and that hurt tenfold. 

He didn’t know their names. Not all of them. But he carried their outcomes like tally marks behind his ribs.

That’s when he spotted the coat, a U.S. Navy standard issue, certainly out of place in an RAF base. The man had a trimmed mustache and an envelope in his gloved hand.

“Lieutenant Floyd?”

Bob approached slowly. “Yes?”

The officer handed him the envelope without introduction. “Orders. You’re being reassigned. Transport leaves within the hour.”

Bob blinked. “Reassigned to where?”

“Harrington Airbase.” A pause. “They’re assembling a special squadron. You’ve been requested.”

“By whom?”

“Admiral Simpson. Stateside command.”

“Why?”

“Not my job to ask, Lieutenant. Just yours to follow.”

Bob stared at the envelope, heart stuttering in his chest. Now Robert Floyd was not a fame seeker  but after being left uncredited for his constant hard work, after having been forgotten in data and predictions, someone pulling him out of the fog felt, well it felt really good. 

Requested him, specifically. He didn’t know whether to be nervous or relieved. 

“I need to pack,” he said finally.

The officer nodded and turned into the mist.

Back in his bunk, Bob’s pack was already half-ready. He hadn’t unpacked properly in months, just shuffled things around in the same satchel he carried from base to base. He folded a spare shirt, slid his navigation tools into their cases, then stared at the bottom of his locker.

A letter lay there. Unopened.

The envelope was creased, faded at the edges. Mailed months ago, the ink on the front blurred slightly from damp. Bob knew the handwriting. His mother’s—tight and proper, like she was still worried a teacher might correct it. It had come in after the Brenshaw mess, and by the time he’d seen it, he didn’t have the nerve to open it.

He picked it up now and turned it over in his fingers. The wax seal cracked as he peeled it back. Inside: a thin page of neat cursive.

Bobby,
We heard your name on the wireless. I can’t say I like it, but you’ve always had a good head for numbers and the Lord must’ve put you there for a reason. Your cousin Teddy is in REDACTED now, and Will has just been promoted. Junior has gone off as well now. I miss you boys terribly. I’ve started saving sugar rations so I can bake you all a pie when this war’s over… I just had more to say dear Bobby but rations simply keep coming and women are now taking their husbands who are off at war’s jobs. I think it’s distasteful. Women working in factories and all that rubbish. A woman's place is at home. I must say however that I admire their heart to the American cause. 

Take care,

Ma

He folded the letter slowly and slid it into his breast pocket, his throat tight. He sat down on the edge of the cot, staring at the floor. The tent around him was nearly empty just a few rucksacks and tin cups left behind by others who had already been transferred or killed. Outside, boots squelched in the mud as the next day’s shifts began.Both his brothers 23 and 21 respectively were now fully in this mess and he was no were near able to keep them safe. So he prayed quickly, for their safety, for his own, for the damn war to be over.  

He laced his boots with practiced motions. Another base. Another mess of names and ghosts.

~

Bob boarded the transport truck with half a dozen others—mechanics and clerks, mostly. They bounced along the wet country roads for miles, the sky a flat sheet of cold gray. The air reeked of petrol, damp wool, and the cigarette smoke of the corporal next to him.

The corporal glanced over. “You a navigator?”

“Something like that.”

“Helluva time to transfer, mate. I heard Harrington’s crawling with brass and hotshots. New squadron came in last week, cocky as hell. Called themselves ‘Dagger’ or some nonsense.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Dagger Squadron?”

“That’s the one. All flyboys, heard they bagged a Messerschmitt blind in a bank of fog and haven’t shut up since. Supposed to be some joint-force outfit. Navy boys flying with the Army. Damnedest thing I ever heard.”

Bob looked back out the flap, wind tugging at  his once neatly parted hair. Dagger Squadron. He’d read about them in a memo: experimental unit, high-risk ops. No fixed location, jumping base to base, using a patchwork of British and American air intel. The kind of place where a mistake on paper got people dead in real time.

And apparently, they needed someone like him.

He then took a lengthy train ride and by the time they arrived at Harrington Airbase, it was past noon and the clouds had begun to lift. The base was a bustle of motion, bombers lined the field like sleeping beasts, crews checking undercarriages, jeeps zipping between tents, and the distinct, sweet whine of a Mustang engine being tested nearby.

A captain in Army Air Forces green met them at the gate.

“Lieutenant Robert Floyd?”

Bob stepped forward. “Yes sir.”

“Captain Haskins. You’re with me. The rest of you, follow Corporal Dean for processing.”

Bob followed the captain toward a row of low, neat buildings. Harrington looked bigger than Bletchley much more permanent, more focused. There was less clutter, fewer tired faces. These people were used to speed.

As they passed the hangars, a group of pilots burst out of one laughing, loud, jackets half-zipped. American. Young. Confident. Bob watched them, expression unreadable.

“Those’d be your new squadmates,” Haskins said. “Dagger Squadron. They don’t look it, but they’re the best we’ve got.”

Bob adjusted his glasses. “They look like a football team on spring break.”

Haskins snorted. “That’s because half of ‘em were. We’ve got Navy aviators with over fifty missions under their belts, and a couple of Army hotshots straight outta the Pacific. You’ll be reporting to their CO-Commander Pete Mitchell. Call sign: ‘Maverick.’”

Bob’s head turned at that. “That Maverick? He’s here?”

“You’ve heard of him.”

“Everyone’s heard of him. The man who outran a 190 in a dive, flew under a bridge in Naples, and got court-martialed twice before breakfast.”

“Sounds about right.”

Bob fell into step again, boots thudding on gravel. “What does he want with me?”

“Beats me. He sent your name to Command personally.”

Haskins led him into a narrow room with a radio table, a chalkboard, and a coffee pot that smelled burnt three hours ago. A tall man stood at the far wall, arms folded, staring at a cluster of mission maps with the same intensity Bob used on a bombing chart.

He was older than Bob expected. Late fourties, maybe, but lean and sharp, like he’d been carved out of speed and stitched back together with instinct. His khaki flight jacket hung off one shoulder, call sign patched in red over the breast:

MAVERICK.

Mitchell turned as they entered. His eyes, gray-blue and unblinking, met Bob’s like he was sizing him up through a gun sight.

“So,” he said. “You’re Floyd.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I read your file. You corrected three nav courses before breakfast last week.”

“Four, sir. One got ignored.”

Mitchell grinned. “I like you already. Have a seat.”

Bob did, gingerly, still stiff from the truck ride.

Mitchell pointed to the map. “We’re planning a run into the German interior. Radar’s a mess, cloud cover’s thicker than molasses, and Jerry’s moved their anti-aircraft gear out of Bremen. We’ve already lost two planes trying to map a route.”

“And you want me to...?”

“Chart a ghost course,” Maverick said. “One that flies between their ears. You’ll be the eye in the sky, Floyd. You’re not just running math. You’re keeping my boys alive.”

Bob swallowed. “I’m not a pilot.”

“No,” Maverick said. “But you see things the rest of us miss.”

Bob’s fingers found the edge of the desk, the grain worn smooth. For the first time in months, someone wasn’t calling him just a number cruncher.

They were calling him necessary.

He nodded slowly.

“I’ll need weather charts, altimeter records, mission logs, any recon we’ve got from the last three weeks.”

Mitchell looked at Haskins. “Get him what he needs. And someone fetch Payback—he’s our other nav. He’ll show Floyd the ropes.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Haskins left, Mitchell leaned in slightly.

“One more thing, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir?”

“This place’s fast. We don’t do things by the book. If you’re gonna survive here, you’ll have to stop thinking like a desk jockey.”

Bob gave the faintest ghost of a smile. “That’s swell, sir. I hate desks.”

Mitchell chuckled. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

Outside, the fog had lifted. Bob stepped onto the tarmac again and felt the sun hit his face for the first time in days.

A fresh breeze blew in from the south.

And just beyond the hangars, a fighter screamed into the sky.

Chapter Text

In the barracks, it was quieter than Bob expected, just the ticking of a wall clock and the occasional clatter of boots down the corridor. The quiet wasn’t comforting. It pressed in around him like fog, thick and unfamiliar, with nothing to anchor to yet.

He sat at a narrow desk tucked beside his cot, hunched over a sheet of air mail paper, chewing the end of his pen. The letter had taken shape in fits. He had started it this morning during transport, but each sentence he’d written, he re-read, then scratched out, and rewrote. It was easier, sometimes, to break codes than to say what he meant.

The rest of the room was empty. No names were on the footlockers yet, but impressions of those freshly moved in already left, someone had scrawled something cheeky inside the wardrobe door; another bunk was tidily made, regulation-perfect, its occupant seemed to live and breathe uniformity. 

Bob sat down his suitcase on an empty coat, relieved that someone preferred the top to the bottom bunk. 

Bob hadn’t met anyone properly yet. Just handshakes and nods when he was dropped off, names said too quickly to stick. Still, he could feel just how the other people who he was going to room with, already belonged to one another. Whoever they were, the mere ghost of their presence gave the impression that they’d flown together, lived together, known each other in that unsaid way men did when they’d flown through fire side by side. That closeness. That ease. And here he was: the new boy. Again.

He pulled the pen cap off with a soft click and leaned forward.

Dear Ma,
Well, I made it to RETACTED in one piece. The train was late, of course, never known one that wasn’t, but I managed to find the right lorry once we got to the edge of the base. It’s a bit more remote than I thought it would be. Low clouds, or maybe I'm just higher in altitude. Muddy roads, and barracks that creak like old bones are all that surrounds this place. But there’s something kind of nice about it. Peaceful.

I’m in the small barracks designated for pilots, it’s just me for the moment. Can you believe me as a pilot? Well not really i’ve been promoted to weapons system operator or WSO as we call it. It’s bittersweet because had i not had a knack for codes and strategics i believe that i would have graduated the academy to this position. A little late to the game but I'm here non the less.  I think I’m early, or maybe the others are still out on duty. Either way, it’s silent here, save for the occasional bootsteps down the corridor and the wind nudging at the windows. It’s only a little strange, if you could picture a military base for a moment. They are always full of bustle and barking orders, but here it’s more like... well, like a church when it’s empty. All echoes and dust, and hope. That smart and brave people are truly working towards good.

You’ll be glad to know they’ve put me with a proper flying squadron, REDACTED , they’re called. As I've mentioned I haven’t met the others yet, not properly. Just passed a few of them in the corridor earlier. You can tell they’ve been together a while. It’s funny, I haven’t even learned their names and already I feel like the odd man out. But I suppose that’s always the way, isn’t it? Someone’s always the last one to the table. Might as well be me.

Still, it’s good work. Real work. The kind I’ve been asking for. I’m where I’m meant to be, even if I don’t feel it just yet.

You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve got my boots under me.

As for Henry jr.,
I know you’re scared, Ma. I would be too. But he’s braver than I was at his age. Braver than I am now, most days. You raised us right. You taught us that fear’s just a shadow that follows courage around. He’ll be alright. And I’ll keep an eye out, if he ends up posted anywhere nearby. You’ve got my word.

I know you wanted him to wait. I did too, in my heart. But we also both know that telling Hen ‘no’ is about as useful as nailing water to the wall. He’s got your spine and Pa’s fire. That’s a combination that doesn’t sit still long. He’s got something to prove. But he’ll learn that you don’t always have to shout to be heard.

Speaking of voices, thank you for your last letter. I’ve read it more times than I’d admit out loud. Your words always settle me in ways I didn’t know I needed. How’s your rheumatism been this month? Has Mrs. Wendell been over to help with the baking lately? Is Tommy keeping the hens in line or are they still pecking holes in his boots? You’ll have to give everyone my regards. Tell him I miss the honey cakes. And the soft kind of quiet that only comes from home.

The train ride here was long. Cold at first, and damp, but not altogether unpleasant. I had a window seat. The landscape rolled past, fields, fences, half-flooded creeks, even a few children waving from a stone bridge as we passed. One stop, somewhere outside REDACTED , a young woman boarded with a little girl in her lap. She must’ve been four, maybe five. The girl, I mean. She had those round cheeks and wide eyes like the ones in storybooks. So pure, so innocent. She was the most simple and true reminder of why we are fighting. A reminder of my duty to my country, to democracy. The child fell asleep before the second whistle. I gave up my seat so her mum could stretch her legs a bit. I think she was surprised. Not many uniforms do kind things these days, I guess.

Most of the carriage was soldiers. You can tell who’s new by the way they carry their gear over one shoulder instead of two, boots too clean, trying not to look nervous. I laugh to think of Junior standing so and how not that long ago I was one of them. Sometimes I still feel like I am, still the quiet cadet or private, too shy to do anything but listen, to the dice games in the corner, to the quiet prayers muttered when no one thought anyone else was paying attention. To the boys who laughed too loud because they didn’t know what else to do. War makes strangers kin, even before you learn their names.

It’s funny, Ma. I used to think I was invisible in places like that. Kept to myself, kept my head down, didn’t say more than I had to. I’m sure this comes as no surprise to you, Henry was always much more outgoing than myself. But then someone passed me a boiled sweet out of their pocket and said, “You look like you could use it,” and I realized people see more than we think. Maybe I’m not quite as hidden as I thought. Or maybe folks just know what it looks like to feel alone.

That’s been the hardest part of today, I think. Not the travel, not the strange beds or cold sheets, but not knowing anyone. It’s silly, I suppose, I’ve been the new man before. But there’s something different about joining a squad that’s already stitched itself together. I imagine they’ve flown missions, maybe lost friends together. I’ll be a thread that doesn’t match.

I’ve unpacked most of my things. Keep it light, like you told me. I’ve got your photo by the bedside, Pa’s too, and one of all four of us , maybe ten years ago now in front of the barn. The edges are curled now. I don’t mind. It makes it feel warmer, somehow. Used and well loved.

I’ll probably head out in a bit. They said there’s a pub nearby where some of the men go to blow off steam. Maybe I’ll make my way there, sit in a corner, and listen a while before I try speaking. One toe in the water. But don’t worry, I’ll make friends .Quiet ones, I hope. Like me. The good sort.

Tell Junior to write to me when he gets his orders. I’d like to know where he lands. And tell Will I haven’t forgotten about his bet, don’t worry Ma nothing serious, I owe him a pack of cards and a tin of biscuits when I’m back. Hold me to it.

Give my love to everyone back home. And take care of yourself. No lifting sacks of flour without help, you hear? I’ll come find you and scold you proper if I hear otherwise.

With all my heart,
Your Bobby

Bob paused and let the pen hover. His knuckles aching from clenching too tight. 

There was something about being the new one that never got easier. No matter how many times he moved bases or got reassigned or slipped into another uniform. There was always that moment, suitcase still zipped, boots not yet muddy, when everyone else seemed carved from the same cloth.

He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, smoothing it flat against his heart.

The chair creaked as he stood. He ran a hand through his hair, checked his reflection in the small metal mirror bolted above the desk, half-distorted, half-him. His cap sat on the bedpost, waiting. His boots were already laced. One more deep breath.

He wasn’t fearless. But he was here. And that counted for something.

~

The English dusk had begun to settle into a familiar autumn gloom by the time the squadron reconvened at the old barnhouse that passed for a bar: The Hard Deck . It sat crouched at the edge of Harrington village like a secret, its red brick walls cracked and worn from age and wartime weather, windows glowing gold with the promise of warmth, ale, and respite. The inside smelled of tobacco, old wood, and the lingering musk of aviation fuel that clung to every flight suit like a second skin.

Hangman was already at the billiards table, cue in hand, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. He was chalking the cue lazily.  Phoenix leaned over the jukebox, frowning at the limited selection of American records they’d scrounged from a black market supply run. Billie Holiday warbled softly from the machine, giving the room a dreamy, haunted glow.

“Did you see that?” Rooster dropped onto a cracked leather stool at the bar, cheeks still flushed from the cold. He jerked a thumb toward the hangar they'd just left. “Mav nearly scraped his wingtip off the ground pulling that inverted split.”

“He did more than nearly,” Phoenix muttered. “I’m pretty sure the runway needs to be repaved.”

Behind the bar, Penny Benjamin, a sharp-eyed and unflinching woman even in wartime, poured drinks without asking. She passed Rooster a whiskey and Phoenix a tall gin with a curl of lemon peel. “Your C.O. sure does fly like he’s got nothing to lose.”

Rooster snorted. “That’s the thing. He flies like he knows he’s already dead, and the sky’s just keeping him alive for fun.”

“Maybe that’s how you survive,” said Phoenix, raising her glass. “Be too crazy to die.”

Hangman swaggered over, cue still in hand, grinning like a boy who never lost a dare. “You lot gonna talk all night or play?”

“Anybody ever tell you no, Jake?” Phoenix said. “Give us a second to finish our drinks.”

“Suit yourselves.” He turned toward Rooster with a wink. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw. You could be as crazy as Mav if you quit waiting around. Probably. Eventually? Never.”

Rooster’s expression tightened, but he said nothing. 

The jukebox shifted to Glenn Miller just as the front door creaked open.

A young man stepped inside, military cap tucked under one arm, glasses catching the light. He paused for a moment, scanning the room like he was trying to orient himself, sizing up every person there and calculating every potential outcome for the evening. But right now all he wanted was a drink. He sat down near the bar and ordered some peanuts and a pint. 

Rooster noticed him first. “You lost, Lieutenant?”

The newcomer shook his head once, crisply. “No, sir. Just new.”

“When did you get here?” retorted Coyote.

Hangman broke away from his light hearted banter with Phoenix “Well the man’s a stealth pilot.”

“Literally.”  responded Coyote

Phoenix stood from her stool, eyeing him with polite curiosity. “You Air Force?”

“RAF Intelligence, actually.” Bob said, voice clear, clipped.

“With no sense of humor.” quipped Hangman focusing back on the billiards.

 “ Was RAF, anyway. I’ve been transferred to Dagger Squadron effective immediately.”

Payback raised an eyebrow. “Intelligence? You planning to quiz us to death?”

“I was told to report to Lieutenant Trace first thing tomorrow morning, is he here?” he added.

There was a pause. Phoenix blinked. “ She’s right here.”

Bob's face paled, it's not that he didn't think a woman could fly, of course she could, she looked able enough, gritty in the best sense. It’s only he’d never heard of a female pilot let alone met one before. His face brightened the shade of a beet, the tip of his ear burning hot. 

“Of course ma’am- I well- I didnt mean anything by it- Oh I’ve just never- I feel so stupid- I’m very sorry Lieutenant Trace” He extended a hand apologetically. 

“What do they call you?” Phoenix shot back

“ Bob.”

Payback let out a scuff. “No, your call sign.”

“Uhhh..Bob.” he nodded.

“Seriously?” Rooster repeated, unsure whether to laugh.

 “Yes,” Bob said, unbothered. “It’s short for Robert.”

“Yeah, we got that,” Hangman said. “Jesus, did you come out of the womb in glasses?”

“They issued them to me at birth,” Bob said without missing a beat. “Along with the top score in every simulator at Bletchley.”

That got a laugh, dry and surprised, from Phoenix. She shook his hand, firm and square. “Alright Bob, Nine-Ball, rack’em.”

“Okay” he respond uncertain but appreciative for the invitation.

She then turned to the bar. “Penny, pour the kid something harder before Hangman starts testing his reflexes.”

Penny poured a neat whisky without a word and set it in front of Bob, who nodded politely before taking a cautious sip. He didn’t flinch at the bitterness.

Hangman leaned in close, voice low and theatrical. “Just so you know, Bob, call signs are earned. You stick with us, you might end up with one that sticks.”

Bob gave a faint smile. “Or I might just keep mine.”

Fanboy glanced at Phoenix, who was watching Bob now with a look somewhere between curiosity and surprise.

“Well,” she said, raising her glass. “To the new guy.”

They all lifted their drinks.

“To Bob,” Rooster said.

“To not dying,” Coyote added.

“To surviving Maverick.” Hangman said.

The clink of glasses echoed through the warm, smoke-hung room.

Outside, night blanketed the countryside in quiet black. But inside The Hard Deck , Dagger Squadron, newly forged and still full of sharp edges, had just gained its final piece.

Phoenix grabbed a cue from the rack on the wall and twirled it once in her hand before tossing it to Bob.

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, Bletchley. Nine-ball. House rules,” she said.

Bob caught the cue awkwardly but managed not to fumble it, adjusting his glasses with one hand as he looked toward the table, where Hangman had already started racking up the balls with the casual authority of someone who played more often than he flew.

Coyote moved to stand near the chalk tray, leaning on his cue like a walking stick. “Alright, since we’ve decided you’re not an alien—or a ghost sent by Allied Command to spy on our incompetence, I guess introductions are in order.”

Rooster leaned against the corner of the table and gestured to himself with a lazy salute. “Bradshaw. Callsign’s Rooster.”

“Fanboy,” said the lean one with the slicked hair and mischievous eyes, stepping forward with a quick grin. “Don’t ask unless you want to hear the story.”

Bob blinked. “I—uh—wasn’t going to.”

“Smart man,” Payback muttered, cue in hand as he took a sip from a half-full pint. “I’m Payback. Don’t get on my bad side, or you’ll find out why.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to be threatening?”

“No,” Fanboy piped in. “That’s him being friendly.”

Coyote laughed. “I’m Coyote. Don’t let Hangman fool you, he’s not nearly as dangerous as he thinks he is.”

Hangman smirked without looking up. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

“Yeah,” Coyote shot back. “And somehow it’s still surprising when you open your mouth.”

Phoenix motioned Bob to break. He stepped forward, took a moment to line it up with clinical precision, then let the cue crack against the cue ball. The balls scattered, clacking loudly across the felt, and the four-ball dropped into the corner pocket with a clean thunk.

“Not bad,” Hangman said grudgingly. “Bit mechanical, but you’ve clearly done this before.”

“Calculations help,” Bob replied mildly. “Geometry’s the same whether you’re flying or playing pool.”

“God help us,” Rooster muttered, but not unkindly.

They took turns, falling into a casual rhythm of play and conversation. Bob moved around the table with deliberate efficiency, still stiff, still too careful, but he was trying. He listened more than he talked, eyes constantly flicking between players as if building a file on each of them in his head.

Rooster took a long shot that missed by half an inch, giving an exaggerated sigh. “So, Bob. What brings a quiet codebreaker like you into the shark tank?”

Bob lined up a shot, considering the question. “I asked for reassignment a very long time ago. After being in Bletchley for so long, I wanted something different. Closer to the line.”

“Hell of a change,” said Payback, watching him sink the two-ball. “You go from breaking ciphers to riding backseat with maniacs.”

“I’m not sure which is more dangerous,” Bob said without looking up.

That got a laugh from Coyote, who clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s got jokes. Careful, Hangman. New guy might out-charm you.”

“Impossible,” Hangman said, missing a bank shot and muttering a curse.

Fanboy leaned on his cue. “You actually get used to it out here. The noise, the speed, the fact that we might not come back every time. There’s a weird kind of peace in that.”

Bob nodded slowly. “I think I get that.”

Phoenix was watching him again, her arms folded as she waited for her turn. “You’ll have to, if you’re flying with me.”

Bob met her gaze, steady. “I will.”

“Good,” she said, then stepped up and sank the five-ball like it had insulted her mother.

Outside, the wind pressed against the old bricks of The Hard Deck, and the low moan of an RAF Spitfire overhead reminded them all that the war was still out there, waiting.

But in that moment, under the low golden lights and the smoke-threaded air, they weren’t just names on a duty roster. They were a team,uneven, untested, sharp-edged, but maybe, just maybe, something that could hold together under fire.

Bob watched as Phoenix circled the table, quick and confident.

He’d been transferred into the belly of something fast and dangerous and half-mad.

And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to go back.

Chapter Text

The conversation drifted, as it often did, back to flying.

"France," Hangman was saying, tipping back in his chair, legs crossed casually at the ankle. "Late September. We came out of the clouds and flew straight into a hornet’s nest—Messerschmitts everywhere. My wingman caught flak on the first pass. Never saw him again." He said it like a weather report, he was just stating facts, nothing more, nothing less. Not cold, exactly just… distant. “We strafed the rail yard anyway. Finished the run.”

Bob didn’t know what to say. No one did.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “My first captain sent me into Stuttgart solo. ‘Test run,’ he called it.” She gave a humorless laugh, swirling the dregs of her drink. “Suicide mission more like it. He told the squad that if I failed, I’d be reassigned to supply runs. If I died, well, he didn't really care for me much, wanted me out of his hair since the minute I got there. A win-win, as they say, m’I right?”

Hangman gave a low whistle. “Charming.”

“I made it out,” she said. “Just me, no plane. Had to ditch over an open field and crawl my way to Allied lines with half my ribs busted and a compass I stole from a dead Kraut.”

There was a silence. Then Rooster muttered, sipping his beer, “That sounds like you.”

“Burned the skin off my left arm,” she added, rolling up her sleeve to show the faded scar. “Still smells like ash when it rains.”

“And so the Phoenix was born,” Fanboy whispered in awe. 

Hangman raised his glass. “To hell, and back.”

Phoenix clinked his glass without smiling.

Rooster hadn’t said much that night, but eventually his voice joined in, quieter than usual.

“My old man flew,” he said. “Back when the first bombs dropped. Called him Goose.” He hesitated, looking down into his glass. “Didn’t come home.”

The others didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. They knew the rhythm of grief when it landed, how to let it sit in the air and settle, how to offer silence as respect.

“He died cause his pilot was doing something stupid,” Rooster said, his voice rough around the edges. “Got caught in a flat spin, tried to recover instead of punching out. By the time they did eject…” His jaw clenched. “The canopy didn’t clear. He didn’t stand a chance.”

There was a long pause. Rooster’s eyes were hard, distant.

“They gave him a medal afterward. Called it brave. But I didn’t want the medal.” His voice dropped, nearly a whisper. “I wanted him .”

Payback reached over and squeezed his shoulder once, then let go.

Bob sat still, hands in his lap, listening. He hadn’t lost anyone in the war, not yet. His mother wrote him every week. Somehow, the ache inside him felt the same. The ache of being left out of something sacred. Of standing at the edge of the firelight, watching grief bind people together in a language he hadn’t yet learned.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Rooster glanced at him. “You don’t have to be. You’re still here.”

Bob didn’t answer, but something inside him shifted. Was he part of this now?

~

Later, Bob stepped outside for fresh air. The storm had broken, rain tapping softly on the eaves. The night sky was a deep indigo, stars just beginning to prick through the clouds.

He pulled his jacket tighter around him, feeling the cool night seep into his bones as he struggled to light a cig. The wind was blowing out match after match. The distant lights of the base twinkled, a reminder of the world waiting for him beyond this moment. He thought again of his letter, of home, and the family waiting for news.

This was his chance to find his place. To belong.

Just as he was coming to terms with there being no chance to leave now, that there was no going back, a hand holding a small metal lighter appeared beneath his chin.

Rooster.

He flicked it open with a soft chik , shielding the flame against the wind with steady fingers.

Bob leaned in, letting the cigarette catch. A curl of smoke drifted upward between them as he took a slow, grateful drag.

Rooster didn’t speak right away. Just stood beside him, hands shoved deep into his bomber jacket pockets, eyes scanning the wet tarmac like it might reveal something more than just puddles and runway lights.

Finally, Rooster said, voice low, “You fly much before this?”

Bob exhaled, smoke trailing out like breath in winter. “More than some. Less than most.”

Rooster gave a soft snort that might’ve been a laugh. “Tell me if i’m wrong but you seem like someone who gives a damn.”

“I do,” Bob replied, quiet but firm.

Another pause. Raindrops pattered on the edge of the awning above. The wind had softened and so had Rooster's posture, his right hand fidgeting with his lighter. 

“My dad used to say the backseater’s the brain of the plane,” Rooster said suddenly. “Pilot's hands get you there, but the WSO keeps you alive. That’s what he did. Saved more guys than I can count. Even saved some not worth saving, that’s how incredible of a man he was.”

Bob swallowed. The smoke felt heavier in his lungs now.

“You remind me of him,” Rooster said, then glanced over, something unreadable in his expression. “Not just ‘cause you sit in the back. You’re… I mean he died when I was pretty young, but from what I do remember and from my mother's stories, he was steady. Quiet. Makes people pay attention when you finally speak. So are you.”

Bob looked at him, unsure what to say to that. “That’s… really observant. More than many pilots I’ve met”

Rooster shrugged. “Just the truth mate.” He nudged Bob’s shoulder lightly with his own. “Don’t let them rattle you. Hangman gives everyone hell.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bob said, with a ghost of a smile.

Rooster looked up at the sky, now peeling open to reveal stars, sharp and cold and far too many to count.

“You ever feel like you're just... playing catch-up?” Rooster asked. “Like everyone else got a head start and you’re still trying to lace your boots?”

“All the time,” Bob said honestly.

Rooster nodded, a grim satisfaction in the shared confession. “Yeah. Well. You’re here now.”

He flicked the lighter shut with a metallic clink . “That counts.”

And then he walked back inside, leaving Bob with the cigarette burning low in his fingers and the strange warmth of being seen.

For once, the night didn’t feel quite so cold.

The night wore on. Stories grew louder, laughter more frequent. Bob found himself talking more freely, jokes slipping out easier. He even caught Payback nodding in approval once or twice.

By the time the Hard Deck began to empty, Bob felt something he hadn’t in a long while. Hope.

~

The dawn was pale and hesitant, the sky a wash of silver and ash. Bob arrived early at the briefing room, the gravel crunching under his boots echoing in the cool morning air. The airbase was just stirring, mechanics already hunched over engines, pilots sharpening their focus like gladiators before the fight.

Bob carried his notebook and pen, fingers curling tightly around them. This was more than just another day; it was the moment he’d been waiting for. No more shadows at the edges of the squadron. Time to step into the light.

Inside, the room was austere, maps pinned on corkboards, chalkboards scribbled with coordinates and code names, the faint smell of stale coffee lingering.

Maverick stood at the front, tall and commanding. His uniform was immaculate, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. There was an air of undeniable authority, tempered with an undercurrent of restless energy.

“Alright, everyone,” Maverick began, voice low but firm, “we’ve got a high-stakes operation coming up. Recon over enemy lines, intel gathering. This isn’t a drill. Keep your heads clear, your eyes sharper.”

Bob scanned the room. Phoenix sat with folded arms, Rooster’s jaw was clenched tight, and Hangman’s usual grin was replaced by a grim set to his mouth.

Maverick’s gaze landed on Bob. “New guy. You’ll be flying support. Keep comms clear, eyes peeled for anything out of place. This squadron depends on every man and woman pulling their weight.”

Bob nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

After the formal briefing, the squadron broke into smaller groups, double-checking equipment, running through flight plans. Bob moved cautiously toward Maverick.

“Lieutenant,” Maverick said without looking up, “you’ve got brains. More than half of em combined, all i need to know is if you understand what happens if you can’t handle it.”

“I understand, sir.”

Maverick’s eyes softened for a brief moment. “Good. Because this war doesn’t wait for anyone.”

Later, Phoenix caught Bob by the lockers.

“You holding up?” she asked, voice quieter now.

Bob hesitated, then nodded. “Trying to.”

“You’ll find your rhythm,” she said. “Just don’t let yourself think you can’t. If you do you’re already lost.”

Bob looked at her, surprise flickering. “How did you-?”

She smiled sadly. “We’ve all once had that look. Trust me Brains, you got this.”

Bob spent the rest of the morning reviewing intel, memorizing codes, and checking his gear under the watchful eyes of Payback, who offered terse but useful advice on squadron protocol.

As the hours ticked down, Bob felt the weight of expectation settle fully on his shoulders, but also a quiet determination. This was his moment.

When it came to the hour before the mission, all things passed in a haze, controlled chaos all around. The hangar buzzed like a beehive. Technicians scrambled over fuselages. Propellers kicked up dust. Radios crackled with static.

Bob stood beside his aircraft, trying to look composed as he reviewed the flight plan for the tenth time. His fingers trembled slightly at the edges of his clipboard. The codes, the vectors, the fallback coordinates, he had them memorized, but it didn’t settle the knot in his stomach.

Hangman strolled by with a helmet tucked under his arm. He paused when he saw Bob.

“You look like you’re about to hurl,” he said cheerfully. “You get airsick, Lieutenant?”

Bob met his gaze squarely. “No, just mentally running through the mission. The stuff that’s going to keep us all alive.”

“Good,” Hangman said, eyes narrowing. “Because if you freeze up mid-air, and I die, I’m going to haunt you from the grave.”

“I won’t freeze.”

Hangman tilted his head. “We’ll see.”

He gave Bob a sharp slap on the shoulder and walked off, whistling.

A few minutes later, Phoenix approached with her parachute slung over one shoulder. Her gaze swept over Bob, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to prove anything to him,” she said simply.

Bob looked at her, uncertain. “Then who do I have to prove it to?”

She shrugged. “Yourself, Maverick. But mostly… us. We don’t need heroes. We need teammates.”

Her voice wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t soft either. A balancing act, as if everything at war.

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” Bob replied. “Just trying not to screw up.”

Phoenix gave him the ghost of a smile. “Then you’re halfway there.”

Rooster hadn’t spoken a word to Bob since the pub. But just before takeoff, Bob saw him at the far end of the hangar, checking his wing flaps. Their eyes met.Rooster gave him a tight nod. Not warm. But not cold either. It felt, strangely, like permission. For what exactly Bob could only guess.

~

The aircraft vibrated beneath him, alive and thrumming like a beast on a leash. Bob adjusted his oxygen mask, heart thudding in his ears.

Maverick’s voice came crackling over the comms:

“Dagger Squadron, this is Lead. Sound off.”

“Dagger One, Phoenix—ready.”

“Dagger One Echo, Bob—locked in.”

“Dagger Two, Rooster—ready.”

“Dagger Three, Hangman—ready.”

“Dagger Four, Fanboy—ready.”

“Dagger Four Echo, Payback—locked in.”

There was a short pause.

“Copy that. Wheels up in ten. Stay tight, stay fast. And remember—nobody flies alone.”

At 10,000 feet, the world changed. The sky was endless and pale blue, with tufts of white cloud like misplaced cotton balls. The horizon curved in every direction, no edges, no up or down. Just freedom, and danger, and silence punctuated by the rhythmic hum of engines.

Bob sat behind Phoenix, eyes flicking between the radar and the horizon. The aircraft thrummed beneath them, a living thing straining for speed and silence all at once. The early morning light cut across the clouds in golden slashes. Bob flicked through the targeting data, fingers flying across the radar panel. “You’re at 1.6, steady. Bring nose two degrees right.”

“You seeing anything, Bob?” Phoenix’s voice crackled in his headset, steady and confident.

“Clear on scope for now. No movement, but I don’t like how quiet it is,” he answered, keeping his voice calm. Every nerve was taut, but outwardly, he was stone.

She banked gently to stay tight on Rooster’s wing.

“Keep your head on a swivel. Command spotted enemy patrols near the French border last night.”

“Copy that.”
Bob's gloved fingers hovered over the ECM panel, thumb brushing the chaff release. Just in case.

Suddenly, Maverick’s voice cut in, sharp as a blade:

“Bandits, nine o’clock high. Tighten formation. Do not engage unless fired upon.”

Phoenix shifted instantly, instincts on autopilot. Bob adjusted the radar to track the approaching blips. Four of them. Close.

“Altitude steady,” Bob murmured, guiding her through it. “They’re shadowing us, not closing. Yet.”

“We’re not here to pick a fight,” Rooster’s voice came across cool and clipped.

The enemy fighters streaked by in eerie silence, glinting in the sun—too close for comfort, but not hostile. Not yet. Bob could see the painted insignias on their tails as they passed.

He held his breath.

Seconds crawled.

Then, they were gone.

“Let ’em go,” Maverick said. “We’re ghosts today.”

Bob exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. Back on the tarmac, Bob climbed down from the cockpit, legs shaky under his weight. The adrenaline had carried him this far, but now that it was gone, he felt hollowed out.

Phoenix tugged off her helmet beside him and raked a hand through her sweat-damp hair. She gave him a nod, not flashy, not loud. 

“Good eyes back there,” she said.

He returned the nod. “Thanks for keeping us flying straight.”

Hangman passed them without his usual swagger. He glanced at Bob, brief, unreadable, and kept walking. Not exactly warmth, but it wasn’t contempt either.

Rooster strode up a few seconds later, still in flight gear, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses.

Inside, the debriefing was quick. No combat, but they’d spotted key rail activity on a freight line near Metz. Intel that could shift operations.

“You did well,” Maverick told the room. “We were there to observe, and that’s exactly what we did. Bob, good comms discipline.”

Bob blinked. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re starting to earn that callsign.”

Phoenix snorted softly behind her hand. Bob didn’t ask.

~

That night, Bob returned to his bunk late. The air was damp, the wind rattling the barrack windows. He pulled out his notebook and began to write notes about the mission, radio etiquette, and formation spacing. But after a while, his pen slowed.

Instead, he flipped to a clean page.

He started writing a letter home.

Dear Ma,

 I flew with Phoenix today.

I don’t know how to describe it. You remember when I was little and you caught me tossing stones into the river for hours, just to watch the ripples spread? That kind of stillness. That kind of focus. It was like that, but electric. Every second mattered, every breath measured. I wasn’t just riding, I was part of it. She trusted me. Gave me control. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was tagging along. I felt like I was needed

We ran a tight recon mission across enemy-adjacent airspace. There were bandits in visual range, German fighters, slick and fast, but they didn’t engage. Still, for a moment, I thought I’d have to call it. I had my hand hovering over the chaff and flares, heart in my throat. Phoenix didn’t flinch. Neither did I.

Later, she said, “Good eyes, Bob.” Simple as that.

After we landed, I could hardly stand. My legs shook, like they weren’t mine anymore. But it wasn’t fear, it was the weight of it all. Of flying with them. Of being one of them.

I’ve never felt so alive, Ma. I’ve flown before, but not like this. Not with this kind of clarity. Not with this kind of team. I didn’t expect to be accepted so quickly, but after today, it feels like the first crack in the ice. They joked with me after debrief—nothing cruel, just the way soldiers talk to each other when they’re starting to let you in. One of them, Hangman, tossed me a ration bar and said, “That’s for keeping us out of a dogfight, Harvard.” He still calls me Harvard even though I keep telling him I don’t have much of an education. I don’t think it’s gonna stick, but he gets a laugh out of it.

Phoenix doesn’t say much unless she means it. She’s sharp as a tack, and I can tell she’s one of the best. You’d like her, reminds me of Aunt Lottie in some ways. Although maybe you wouldnt her being a “her” and all. 

We share a cockpit, so I suppose I’d better learn to match her tempo. We didn’t talk much in the air. Just call signs, numbers, coordinates. But that silence felt like something holy, Ma. Like a prayer. Like trust.

I don’t know how many more missions we’ll fly together. No one does. It’s war, after all. But I think, if I had to go up again tomorrow, I’d be ready.

There’s this feeling in my chest lately, like a weight pressing down, and at the same time, lifting me up. Strange, isn’t it? To feel heavier and lighter all at once? Kind of like my soul’s grown wings, but it’s carrying something sacred now. 

Every time I look at the sky now, I don’t just see clouds and blue. I see routes, exits, threats, angles. But I also see purpose. I see the shape of who I’m becoming. And I think—no, I know you’d be proud. If I’m being honest, there was a time I thought I’d never measure up to the others. That I’d always be the quiet one in the back, the kid who could break a cipher but not speak up in class. But something changed up there, with Phoenix. Being up in the air burned all the doubt off me, it’s magical.

It’s funny, the silence in the barracks doesn’t feel so lonely now. I think I’m starting to see what kind of men these are. They're not just pilots. They’re a family. I know that sounds sentimental, but I think you’d understand.

I’m not afraid, Ma.

Not because I think nothing can happen, but because I finally feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. That’s all any of us want, right? To live true. To give something of ourselves that matters.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. We’ve been briefed on some potential movements, nothing confirmed, so I won’t trouble you with guesswork. But I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ve made peace with it. I know this letter will take days to reach you. I hope by the time you read it, I’ll have more stories to send. More skies under my belt. Maybe even a nickname that sticks.

Tell Peter to write. I want to hear about his training, how he’s finding it, what’s got him excited. If he needs advice, tell him not to be too proud to ask. I’ll write him separately too.

And tell Will that if I ever make it home, we’re having that bonfire we talked about. Out by the creek. Just the four of us. I’ll bring the biscuits this time.

Don’t let the chickens bully Tommy. And make sure you let Mrs. Wendell do the heavy kneading if your wrists are acting up again. You’re not twenty anymore, Ma, even if your stubbornness still is.

I’ve got to go now. There's a storm rolling in and the generator's been flickering. Makes the whole barracks feel like a haunted house. 

If this is the last letter I get to send you, don’t worry.
I’m with good people. I’m doing good work.
And I’m not alone.

Your son,
Your Bobby

P.S.
Don’t forget to feed the barn cat. He’s a menace, but he loves you. Just like me.

Chapter Text

Three weeks in, and the fog still had yet to lift.

It clung to Harrington Airbase like a second skin, soot-stained, damp, and thick enough to lose yourself in. Bob Floyd had stopped noticing the cold, however, or the wet. One thing he couldn’t seem to forget, no matter how much he tried, was the perpetual state of discomfort that came with living in the shadow of war. He hadn’t stopped noticing how each passing day made Dagger Squadron less of a mystery to him, becoming a clearer picture day after day, a breathing thing that he was slowly becoming part of.

Sort of.

Most days, he still felt like a square peg in a cockpit-shaped hole. The squadron had inside jokes shared across smoke breaks that he just wasn't a part of. Bob knew all of their names and respective callsigns now. He knew how Rooster took his coffee, black and bitter, and which of Hangman’s stories were probably fabricated, small indiscretions that just didn't make sense when Bob had been marking flight paths his whole career. But there was still a line between knowing and belonging. And he had yet to cross it.

“Floyd,” Hangman barked from across the flight line, waving a clipboard. “You calculate the fuel burn for a forty-five-degree dive or just stare at your charts and pray the math holds?”

Bob didn’t look up from the schematic in his lap. “Depends. You planning to keep your airspeed within parameters this time?”

Rooster, walking past with a mug in hand, snorted into his coffee.

Hangman blinked, momentarily stunned. Then a grin spread across his face like a cat finding a mouse. “Well, look who found his spine.”

Bob shrugged. “I just like not dying.”

“Same thing, ” Rooster muttered as he passed, slapping Bob lightly on the back. “Good one.”

That afternoon, the squadron prepped for what should’ve been a simple support recon run over northern France. No more than three aircraft, low-level, no engagement expected. Bob ran drills with Payback before takeoff, logging radar refresh rates, fuel margins, and backup vectors.

Dagger Squadron had a rhythm now. Phoenix in the lead. Much to Hangman's protest, grumbling about how it should be a man in the lead. But Maverick wasn't a very conventional Captain so Rooster covered high. Hangman dragging the rear, still annoyed about “low-speed recon duty.” Bob in Phoenix’s backseat, sharp eyes and sharper math.

Not thirty minutes into the flight, the calm cracked.

“Bogeys, two o’clock high,” Phoenix’s voice snapped over comms. Calm. Controlled. “Three. Fast movers.”

Bob’s gut dropped. He glanced at the scope. “That’s not a recon flight pattern. They’re closing. Aggressive.”

Hangman swore under his breath. “Shit. They’ve spotted us.”

“Evasive pattern Delta-5. Execute,” Phoenix ordered, already pulling hard to port.

Engines roared. The sky twisted into chaos.

Bob’s hands moved fast across the scope and charts. “Two breaking toward us. One trailing Rooster.”

“Not ideal,” Rooster muttered, breath ragged.

Bob’s voice cut in, sharp. “Phoenix, hard starboard, full throttle. Dive to four hundred feet, now.”

There was a half-beat pause.

“If we hit the ground, I’m haunting you,” Phoenix warned, even as she adjusted.

“Trust me.”

The dive was brutal. Wind howled. Ground raced up. Bob felt his stomach in his throat.

They cleared the ridge by maybe fifteen feet.

“Rooster?” Phoenix demanded.

“Still with you,” came the strained reply. “Lost visual—wait. Yeah. They’re pulling off.”

“Confirmed,” Bob said, scanning fast. “They broke off. No pursuit.”

For a few long seconds, the only sound on the channel was breathing.

Then Hangman said, “Who taught you that little maneuver?”

“No one, theoretically it works, just not enough pilots dumb enough to put all their faith in numbers, I suppose,” Bob said, without thinking.

~

Back at The Hard Deck, the bar was quieter than usual. No victory laps. Just low voices, tired eyes, and drinks nursing the buzz of adrenaline withdrawal.

Phoenix sat at the bar, nursing a lukewarm coffee. Bob approached, still in partial flight gear, gloves stuffed into his belt.

She didn’t look at him at first. Just said, “You saved our asses today.”

Bob gave a modest shrug. “That’s the job.”

She turned to him. “No. That was more than math. That was instinct. You made a call.”

“I ran the numbers.”

“You gambled,” she corrected. “And thank the lord it paid off. You trusted me to make it stick. Not everyone would.”

He didn’t have an answer to that. She didn’t need one.

She lifted her mug slightly. “To not dying.”

He lifted an invisible glass in return. “To teamwork.”

She cracked the smallest smile.

That night, the rain came down in steady sheets, tapping the tin roof of the barracks with the steady beat of a metronome. Bob sat at his desk with a pen in hand and the comforting smell of aviation oil and old wool all around him. It’s hard to grasp how fast foreign feelings become your home, how quickly strangers become brothers. He pulled out a fresh sheet of airmail paper.

Dear Ma,

Today wasn’t supposed to be anything special. Routine patrol. But nothing’s routine anymore. We got jumped. Three Messerschmitts. Close call. Closer than I’d like to admit. I made a call in the air. One I wasn’t sure about. Told Phoenix REDACTED . The kind of maneuver that leaves no room for error. But she trusted me. And I trusted her. And we made it.

The others are looking at me differently now. Less like a stranger, more like someone who belongs. I don’t know if I’ve earned it, not really. But maybe I’m starting to. I’m okay, Ma. Really okay.

I haven’t heard from you since my transfer, I’m starting to get a little worried for your sake. How are your hands? Maybe your letters are still being sent to Bletchley, as long as you are receiving this, it shouldn’t be a cause for worry. I haven’t heard from Will in a while, but as you know, he is stationed across the ocean from me so naturally his letter would take longer. 

I hope you are keeping yourself busy now that Junior is gone and that you aren't worrying yourself into the ground. I would love to hear about the simple things back home. I miss it Ma, I really do. I feel as though everyone and everything back home is frozen in my memory and every time you give me a small update it defrosts a little, revealing how much has changed, how much I’ve changed. It troubling. What if I come home and it isn't home anymore… always your overthinker even in Europe haha. 

I leave you a lighter note. Being on the French border so long, I’ve picked a couple common phrases, I leave you with, in my opinion, the most beautiful and meaningful

Tu me manque et Je t’aime de tout mon coeur,
Your Bobby

He folded the letter carefully and set it aside to mail in the morning. Then he leaned back, breathing slowly, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

For the first time in a long time, he let himself wonder if something had happened to her, had she fallen ill, or fallen down the stairs? Was William alright? He worked a desk job back in Washington, Army procurement. But who knew with the state of the world if he was safe, and if is was, why hadn't his younger brother written to him in months?

The next morning broke gray and bitter. The rain hadn’t let up. Puddles pooled in the airstrip cracks, and the fog rolled in so thick the hangars looked like ghosts.

Bob was already in the briefing room when the others trickled in.

Maverick arrived last. He walked to the front, clipboard tucked under one arm, leather gloves still damp from outside.

“No speech today,” he said. “You all know what we’re doing.”

Everyone quieted.

“We’ve got movement in Metz. German trains hauling something big, maybe mobile flak or V-weapon components. Command wants eyes on it by week’s end.” His voice sharpened. “And I want it done without losing anyone.”

Phoenix’s arms were folded, expression unreadable. Rooster shifted in his seat, jaw clenched.

And Maverick’s eyes lingered on him just a moment longer before he moved on. There had always been a familiarity there, but neither of them acknowledged it, and the team didn’t know how to approach the subject without being too pushy, so they left it there. 

Outside, the wind bit hard. Bob stood by one of the Mustangs, his coat collar flipped up, watching as mechanics loaded fuel. Phoenix appeared beside him like a shadow.

“You good with this?” she asked.

Bob blinked. “You mean, am I scared? Yeah. Little.”

She smirked. “Means you’re thinking. That’s why I'm grateful to have you behind me.”

He turned to her with a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “You ever not ready?”

Phoenix tilted her head, considering. “Not really. But it doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.”

She held his gaze a beat too long. Then she said, “Let’s make it back. Again.”

That night, the squad holed up in the barracks lounge, old couch cushions, flickering oil heater, and a warped chessboard that Payback and Fanboy had been fighting over since lunch.

Hangman was sprawled out in a battered armchair, legs up, chewing a toothpick.

“You know, Harvard,” he said casually to Bob, “you keep telling her to fly like that, and you’re gonna ruin your brand.”

“My brand?”

“The whole ‘awkward genius who accidentally saves the day’ thing. People might start expecting you to do it on purpose.”

Bob smiled faintly. “Then I’ll just have to start charging.”

Fanboy laughed. “Told you he had jokes.”

Coyote flopped down beside them. “What I want to know is, how does some random guy from Nebraska end up a first-class backseater with the legendary Maverick’s handpicked team?”

“Uhhh..Luck,” Bob said, eyebrows furrowed.  

“Bullshit,” Rooster muttered. “It’s because you’re good. Quiet about it. But good.”

Everyone looked at Rooster. He didn’t usually hand out praise.

“Hey! Where is my gushing Bradley? I think I deserve a little love over here, too.” Hangman objected.

He received a soft warning whack on the back of his head from Phoenix, which he met her with an equally menacing glare.

Bob sat up straighter, a little warm under the collar. “Thanks.”

Rooster shrugged like it was nothing. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Later that evening, when most had turned in or passed out in their bunks, Bob stood under the eaves just outside the barracks. The never-ending English rain tapped on the tin roof. A cigarette burned between his fingers.

Rooster joined him, silent at first. Seems they were making silent smoking breaks a habit. 

“You were solid today,” he said. “Better than some who’ve been flying for years.”

Bob nodded with a self-deprecating laugh. “It helps that I was a pilot in the academy before I was pushed to paper pushing.”

“Well, they’re idiots. You belong here mate.”

“I wish I had gotten here sooner.”

“So do I.”

“What do you mean?”

“Got my papers pulled, set me back four years. Now you might be new, but you ain’t the oldest here.” Rooster said solemnly, there was more to the story, but Bob had noticed that asking for more information from the man only got you fewer answers, so he abstained his tongue.

Rooster glanced at him. “You ever wonder what happens after this? After the war?”

“All the time,” Bob admitted. “But I try not to find the answer. I’ve gotten good at planning three days ahead. That’s about all we’re guaranteed. And I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get out of that thinking that way. Best not think of it too hard.”

Rooster exhaled slowly, then held out his lighter. Bob took it.

As he lit up again, Rooster added, “I tell you, you remind me of him. My dad.”

Bob’s throat tightened. “Ya when we first met, it meant a lot.”

Rooster clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Just don’t die on me. I’m tired of writing names on walls.”

“I’m not going anywhere. At least not for the next three days.”

“Good,” Rooster breathed a short laugh, then turned and left.

Back in his bunk, Bob pulled out a new sheet of paper. The words came easier now.

Dear Will,

It’s been a while. Longer than either of us meant, I think. I kept waiting for the right moment to write, and the truth is, there never really is one. So I figured I’d stop waiting and just get on with it.

I hope you’re well. I’m sure you’ve been working long hours in D.C., something about tracking logistics for the Atlantic supply routes. I don’t pretend to understand half of what that means, but if anyone’s suited to chasing down details and making sure a thousand moving pieces fall into place, it’s you. You always were the organized one.

Funny how we ended up on opposite sides of the same war, me out here squinting at clouds and praying I don’t blink at the wrong time, and you behind a desk making sure the gears keep turning. I don’t say that as a slight. Without the gears, none of us gets off the ground. I just think Ma always thought you’d be the one on the front line and I’d be the one behind a desk back in America.

I guess I just wanted to reach out. It’s been months since we heard from each other, and I miss talking to you. Things out here are... well, they’re war. Fast and cold, loud and quiet, depending on the hour. I’ve been assigned to a new squadron. I’d tell you where and what they’re called, but I’m certain it would only end up blacked out. They are good people. Brave. A little unhinged. The kind you want in your corner when the sky’s on fire.

There’s a pilot I fly with, callsign Phoenix. Sharp as they come. Makes you feel like maybe there’s a way through this after all. And the rest, Hangman, Rooster, Fanboy, Payback, they’re starting to feel like brothers in their own right. Not the kind you share blood with, but the kind who’d share their last cigarette or pull you out of wreckage. It means something. 

I’ve been thinking lately about us. You and me. How we used to sit by the creek and argue about which tree was taller. How you used to sneak Ma’s pies before they cooled. I think I was always too quiet, and you were always trying to get me to lighten up. Maybe that’s why the silence between us these past months feels heavier than it should.

Whatever it is, whatever’s kept us both from writing, I hope we can knock it down. We’ve both seen too much of the world to think we’ve got all the time in it. And truth be told, I could use a letter from home that doesn’t come with a sugar ration folded inside.

So write back, if you can. Tell me about the city. About the mess halls and the trains and the things that aren’t falling apart. Tell me something good, even if you have to make it up.

And hey, if you’re still holding onto that poker debt from before I shipped out, consider this a formal declaration of intent: I fully plan to win it back.

Take care of yourself, Will. And keep writing. We’re still brothers. That matters more now than ever.

Yours,
Bob

P.S. Any pretty Capital ladies I should know about? Don’t want to come home to a surprise sister in law now. 

The next day arrived with a storm.

Wind howled through the rafters of the operations tent. Rain pelted the roof hard enough to drown conversation. The barometer needle swung like a drunk sailor, and thunder cracked so often the sky itself was having its own air raid.

The mission to Metz was postponed. Maverick didn’t look happy about it.

He stood at the front of the room, gloved hands tight behind his back. “Weather’s grounding us. For now.”

Coyote leaned back in his chair. “You say that like it’s our fault. Sir.”

“It’s not,” Maverick replied. “But I wish it was. At least then I could yell at someone.”

A few chuckles broke the tension, but not much.

Bob sat near the back, flipping through altimeter charts. He wasn’t sure if anyone else in the room noticed the trembling in his fingers. He did.

Phoenix approached as the squad filtered out. She held two tin mugs of one with coffee with some sugar, the other black tea, which she slid toward him.

“You’re getting that look again,” she said.

Bob blinked. “What look?”

“The one that says you’re already flying the mission in your head a hundred different ways.”

“I do not have a look.” 

“You’re trying to work out the worst-case scenario.”

He sat there stunned and took a sip of his tea. It burne,d and he made a painfully funny face as the liquid went down. Phoenix could help but laugh.

“Good,” she giggled, “That’s your job.” sipping her coffee. “And mine is making sure none of them happen.”

He looked at her, and for the first time in a while, the knot in his chest loosened. Just a little.

That night, the power went out.

Somewhere around 2300 hours, the entire base was plunged into darkness. A transformer had blown during the windstorm, taking the generator with it. For once, it wasn’t the war making things dangerous. Just good old Mother Earth, and she was angry.

Bob lay awake in the pitch black, listening to the sounds of breathing in the next cot over, the creak of the wind against the walls, the distant, familiar thrum of planes grounded for now.

In the dark, his thoughts wandered.

He thought of his father, Henry Senior, the man who left on a train when Bob was five and never came back. He tried to remember the shape of his face in full. The sound of his voice when he said, “You’re the man of the house now.”

He thought of Junior and Will. Of their neighbour Peter. Of the letters Ma wrote in her tight, careful hand. He remembered the girl on the train, five years old, asleep in her mother’s arms. The war hadn’t touched her yet. But it would if it didn't end soon.

Bob swallowed. He’d never told anyone, but sometimes, he dreamed of fire. Not the kind in engines or on maps. Real fire, the consuming kind, hungry, hot enough to melt the muscle off your bones and then your bones themselves.

He hated that dream.

Tonight, in the dark, it haunted it more than it ever had before.

The morning was quiet. Too quiet. No rain. No wind. No birds.

Just mist curling low around the hangars and the sound of officers walking on the gravel. Bob walked alone to the mess tent, boots damp, coat zipped high. Inside, the usual clamor was missing. Most of the squad hadn’t even woken up yet.

He poured himself a cup of hot water and put a tea bag in it and sat near the back.

Rooster joined him not long after, dragging a stool across the floor with a shriek. Placing his weak drip coffee on the briefing table. They stayed there in comfortable silence for hald an hour before Bob spoke up.

“You know if there were no war, I’d probably be teaching math to kids who hate it. Living a simple life. But it’s not a bad one. Never would I have gone to Europe, met you lot, found i like tea much more than coffee,”

Rooster gave a soft laugh. “I don’t know what I’d do. Sometimes I wonder if flying is the only thing I’m good at.”

“You’re good at a lot of things,” Bob said.

Rooster tilted his head. “Yeah? Name one.”

“You remember everyone’s birthday. Even Hangman’s. That’s saying something. You know how to calm people down without them realizing you’re doing it. You see through bravado faster than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Rooster blinked.

“You’re good at being human,” Bob added.

They sat in silence for a long time. Then Rooster muttered, “Don’t make me like you too much, Floyd.”

Bob cracked a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

~

The storm continued an entire week, when the skies finally had cleared. The mission was back on the board. Metz. Forty-eight hours.

The squadron buzzed with quiet tension. Equipment was checked twice. Radios tuned and retuned. Bob sat with Phoenix and Payback, running over the maps for the seventh time.

“Don’t chase the train if it turns,” Bob warned. “If they’re expecting us, that valley becomes a kill zone.”

Phoenix nodded. “So we’re ghosts. In and out.”

“Exactly.”

Hangman passed behind them, pausing to slap Bob’s shoulder. “You figure out a way to do this blindfolded yet, Harvard?”

“I could,” Bob said. “But you’d be the one flying. I don’t like those odds.”

“Rude,” Hangman muttered, walking off.

Phoenix chuckled. “You’re getting good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being one of us.”

Outside, a single plane lifted into the sky on a test run, its engine purring like a cat on the edge of a fight.

Bob looked out the window, staring after it, wide-eyed.

The sky was clearing now.

Chapter Text

The rain had finally stopped, but the airfield still smelled of smoke and damp concrete. Somewhere across the tarmac, a truck backfired, sharp and metallic, and the echo rolled across the hangars like a cough. Bob was awake before dawn, staring at a half-empty mug of tea and a set of unfolded weather reports, squinting at the margins. It’s where he put his note and correction, and for goodness' sake, the standard margin needed to be increased by at least double in his opinion, but he’d never complain about something so trivial when people were losing their lives every day. 

They didn’t have any errors. But something just didn’t feel right.

He couldn’t name it. But it gnawed at the edge of his thoughts, just under the surface, a tension that made every thought traversing his mind blur and reform like static. The weather fronts were shifting. The wind patterns from the east had changed. Barometric pressure read just about as good as a liar's promise, so he tried reading it aloud under his breath, hoping the cadence of speech might reveal what his eyes couldn’t.

Nothing. Just lines and pressure points and projections that skated too cleanly across terrain he knew to be rougher than it looked.

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything.

The tea had gone cold. He didn’t notice until the cup was already halfway to his mouth, again.

He set it down, ran a hand through his hair, and started reviewing the intel packet once again. There was something about the way the train routes were logged, a sloppiness in the pattern that didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just a typo. Not a clerical error. It was a rhythm, a beat just slightly out of step. Someone had drawn the logistics by rote, not by instinct.

He circled a set of coordinates and stared at them as if at any second they might confess to a murder. They were innocent, for now. 

The hangar lights outside clicked on, one row at a time, casting long, pale streaks across the windows. The world was waking up, but Bob still felt like he hadn’t really gone to sleep.

By 0700, the Dagger Squadron briefing room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with too many pilots and not enough chairs. Jackets hung from hooks along the wall like shed skins. Coffee steamed from mismatched tin mugs. The projector flickered, casting light across creased flight suits and scratched dog tags.

Bob sat near the back, notebook balanced on one knee, weather report still folded under one arm. His pencil tapped absently against the edge of his boot.

The room buzzed with low conversation, Rooster griping about sock rations, Hangman teasing Payback for misplacing his lucky coin again, until Maverick entered, and then the room stilled.

He wasn’t alone.

A major from command, broad-shouldered, buzz-cut. Followed him in, and the mood shifted like a sudden wind change. Officers from higher up the chain rarely showed unless things were escalating. And this one moved like a loaded weapon, quick to snap, quick to fire.

The squad stiffened almost reflexively. They so rarely had to stand at attention that this stiffness that had once been second nature was practically unbearable. 

Phoenix slid into a seat beside Bob. She passed him a stale biscuit without looking and muttered, “You nervous?”

“I’m always nervous,” Bob said. “Statistically safer that way.”

“Charming,” she replied, dry as dust.

The major stepped forward, clearing his throat with military precision.

“Morning. I’m Major Lorne. Strategic Operations.” His voice was sharp, clear, and unfriendly. “We’ve got confirmation of heavy Axis movement near Metz, munitions trains, likely heading east. Rumors of mobile flak. Possibly V-2 components.”

Hangman whistled low under his breath. “Aren’t those still in prototype?”

“Not anymore,” Lorne said. “We need eyes. Quiet. No engagement unless fired upon. You all have been selected to go through training specific to this mission's dangers.”

He clicked to the next slide: flight paths, coded objectives, timestamps. Diagrams skittered across the screen like ants. A blurry photo of a rail yard appeared, taken from too far away and too high up to be of much use. Still, the room leaned in. One of the maps was marked in red grease pencil, something rough and rushed, not the usual neat plotting of a practiced hand.

Phoenix leaned forward.

Rooster folded his arms, frowning.

Bob blinked at the numbers on the map. His brows pulled together. There it was again, wrong. Not a glaring error, just... misalignment. An assumption baked into the route that no one had questioned.

He raised a hand.

Major Lorne looked vaguely annoyed. “Lieutenant?”

Bob cleared his throat. “Sir, you said they're moving east out of Metz, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But your recon path here—” he pointed, “—approaches from the northwest. If the trains are mobile, and the tracks are what I think they are, wouldn't they be crossing southbound into the Hunsrück region? The elevation data here shows the valley is narrow. And the fog’s been sticking low pretty consistently. If we fly this route and they’ve already moved, we’ll miss them by a full mile.”

Silence dropped across the room like a shroud.

Lorne’s jaw tightened. “We received this intelligence yesterday, Lieutenant.”

“With respect, sir,” Bob said, careful but steady, “German rail logistics don’t wait on Allied timetables. They don’t park weapons out in the open unless they want us to find them. If we use this route, we’re flying blind.”

A few heads turned. Some curious. Some skeptical.

Phoenix was still staring at the map, chewing the inside of her cheek. Rooster tapped his pencil against the edge of the table. Hangman raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Lorne didn’t answer. But Maverick did.

“He’s right.”

All eyes turned.

Maverick stood near the back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “The Luftwaffe's pulled decoy runs through Metz before. If we hit the wrong stretch of track, we lose everything.”

Bob looked at Maverick. Their eyes met just long enough to register something that wasn’t quite gratitude. Recognition, maybe. The kind of look that passed between people who knew how fast the sky could turn on them.

Lorne sniffed. “Fine. Adjust the path. Just don’t bring this whole op to a halt.”

He left without another word, boots clipping hard against the floor. The moment the door closed, Phoenix exhaled; she’d been holding her breath, he realised.

Rooster turned to Bob. “Nice save, Harv.”

Hangman kicked his boots up on the table. “You’re still a pain in the ass. But today, you might’ve kept us out of a flak field. So thanks.”

“Glad to be of service, you on the other hand are still a pain in my ass you know that” Bob said with a dry smile.

Phoenix gave him a small smile and rolled her eyes back to the front.

Maverick called them all back to attention.

“I want an updated route on my desk by 0900,” he said. “Phoenix, you and Bob get on it. Everyone else, check your gear. We’re wheels up in 36 hours.”

They filed out slowly. Some slapped Bob on the shoulder in passing. Others nodded. For once, he didn’t feel like they were just being polite. There was weight behind it now, a shift in tone, like someone had finally removed a question mark from the end of his name.

Bob packed up his notes, still half-expecting to be called out for overstepping. He was rehearsing apologies in his head. He had three versions ready.

Instead, Maverick brushed past him on the way out, pausing just long enough to say, “Good eyes for someone with glasses.”

Then he was gone.

Later, in the mission planning room, Phoenix leaned over the map table with a red grease pencil in hand, completely out of her depth. Bob knelt beside a topographic chart, cross-checking elevation marks, flight times, and wind shear estimates. His pencil tapped rhythmically against the edge of the map. The lamp above them buzzed softly, casting pools of yellow light across the table.

“You know, I was thinking you ever thought of maybe not.. How do I say this nicely…shutting your mouth?” she asked, voice quiet.

Bob looked up. There was nothing malicious in her tone, she was looking out for him.

She shrugged. “You had a room full of people staring at you today. Some higher ranked than both of us combined. And you didn’t blink.”

“I blinked,” he said. “You just didn’t see it.”

She smiled faintly. “Still. Most guys would’ve shut up.”

“I’ve been wrong before,” Bob said. “But if I’m wrong and don’t say anything? That’s worse. The cost of silence is higher than the cost of looking like a smartass.”

Phoenix traced the line he had just drawn. “Well, for a guy with a quiet voice, you sure know how to stick out like a sore thumb.”

He grinned faintly. “That sounds like something I should be worried about.”

She laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe not.”

They worked in silence for a while, the room lit only by the overhead lamp and the occasional sweep of a searchlight through the window. Their redrawn flight path slowly curved southward across the Hunsrück hills. It would mean a tighter turn. Lower elevation. Less margin for error.

But it felt right.  Phoenix stepped back, arms crossed, surveying the new line.

“You think Maverick will go for it?”

“He already did,” Bob said. “He backed the call. That’s more than enough.”

She nodded. Then added, “You do good work, Bob.”

He looked up again.

“I mean it.”

He didn’t know what to say. Compliments always landed awkwardly, like a salute delivered in the wrong direction. His instinct was to deflect, to downplay, to file the words away like intel. But this time, he didn’t.

He just nodded and went back to the map.

The mess hall was nearly empty that night, save for a few scattered pilots hunched over trays of something that might have been stew. The air hung thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and wet wool, a scent that clung to the walls no matter how many windows they cracked.

Bob sat alone by the far wall, tray untouched, journal open beside him. His fork idled between his fingers, slowly tracing the rim of the tin plate.

He wasn’t hungry.

Across the room, Rooster and Payback were deep in a game of cards, their laughter occasionally punctuated by curses. Hangman leaned back in a chair nearby, one boot on the table, balancing a cigarette between two fingers. Every now and then, he glanced toward Bob. Not hostile. Not exactly friendly either. Just watching.

Phoenix slid into the bench across from him with a sigh and dropped a folded paper bag on the table. “Here.”

He blinked. “What’s this?”

“Better dinner,” she said. “Stole it from the officer’s pantry. Don’t tell Mav.”

Bob peeked inside. Bread. Real bread. With crust and everything. A hard-boiled egg. A small, slightly squashed apple. He smiled.

“You’re committing war crimes for me now?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You drew a new flight plan for us. That’s worth an egg.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

Then she asked, “You always like this before a mission?”

He tilted his head.

“Being up before the Rooster himself. Thinking too much. Staring at walls. Not eating.”

Bob offered a dry smile. “Is there a better way?”

Phoenix shrugged. “Most guys drink. Or joke. Or write goodbye letters they don’t intend to send.”

“I’ve done my fair share of all three,” he said. “Guess I’m mixing it up.”

She nodded. “You think we’ll find something tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly. Then hesitated. “I think we’ll find more than we’re ready for.”

“You think we’re flying into a trap?”

“I think,” Bob said slowly, “that if I were them, and I knew the Allies were watching the Metz… I’d make it look like something was moving east. Then I’d load my real cargo southbound and wait for the reconnaissance pass. Either we miss it entirely, or we show up early and walk right into calibrated flak.”

Phoenix leaned back, chewing on the corner of her thumb.

“Well,” she said, “you’re either wrong, or you just got us on a suicide run.”

“I’m sincerely hoping for the first one.”

“You better be,” She bumped his knee gently under the table. “Don’t give yourself a heart attack on me  before tomorrow, Floyd, you’ll regret it.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Yes mame, I’ll make sure to pencil it in.”

The barracks after lights-out were quiet in that strange, too-loud way. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of fabric or clink of dog tags, seemed to echo louder than it should. Outside, rain tapped softly on the tin roof—steady, hypnotic, like a clock ticking down.

Bob lay awake in his bunk, eyes on the ceiling. Someone was snoring faintly two beds over. Someone else had a small radio playing low, far too low to make out words, just soft static and distant notes of some song he couldn’t name.

He didn’t write a letter tonight.

He’d already written two this week. One for his mother. One for no one in particular. Both folded, sealed, and marked with tomorrow’s date, just in case.

He turned toward the wall, staring at the faint moonlight that streaked across the floorboards. His mind kept drifting to coordinates. Wind speed. Elevation. The little tug in his gut that said, you missed something. The human error that always came too late.

And yet… something else tugged at him, too.

Not fear, exactly. Not anymore.

Something quieter. A thread of purpose. Of belonging. A feeling that had taken root slowly, since that first shaky beer at The Hard Deck. Since Phoenix passed him that stolen egg. Since Maverick didn’t dismiss his voice in a room full of louder men.

He wasn’t just here to fill a seat.

He wasn’t background personnel.

And tomorrow, if the skies opened wide and showed their teeth, he’d fly anyway.

He exhaled and let sleep take him.

By 0430, they had finalized the alternate route. It cut low along the river bend and pulled tighter near a valley whose name Bob couldn’t pronounce without stumbling. The timing was tighter now. There would be less room for correction. But the terrain masked the radar signature and offered cover beneath the fog line.

When they finally stepped outside, the night had surrendered to a pale, overcast morning. Mist clung to the runway, and the air smelled like wet stone and machine oil. The first hangar lights were flickering on across the base. A mechanic rolled past, pushing a trolley of tools, whistling something off-key.

“You sleep at all last night?” Phoenix asked.

“Define sleep,” Bob said, yawning.

She smiled, pulling her jacket tighter around her. “C’mon. Mess hall’s opening soon. We earned eggs.”

“Real eggs or powdered?”

“I think you know the answer…”

The mess was half-empty, filled mostly with maintenance crews and early risers. Bob picked at a rubbery plate of something resembling scrambled eggs while Phoenix loaded toast with butter scraped from a tin labeled “NOT FOR INDIVIDUAL SALE.” They sat near the window, boots caked in mud, jackets slung over the backs of their chairs.

Maverick entered not long after, alone. He scanned the room, spotted them, and walked over with a nod.

“You finish the route?” he asked, no preamble.

Bob passed him the folder. Maverick flipped through it, eyes scanning faster than expected. He stopped twice to study the updated elevation markers and circled one of the backup zones without comment.

After a long moment, he closed the folder.

“This’ll work,” he said. “Good instincts.”

Bob tilted his head. “It’s just math, sir.”

Maverick gave him a faint smirk. “Maybe. But knowing when to trust it? That’s instinct.”

He glanced at Phoenix. “You flying lead?”

“Wouldn’t dream of letting BOB here call the shots solo,” she said, grinning.

“Then make sure your bird is prepped. Pre-flight briefing’s in six hours. I want every Dagger sharp and scrubbed.”

“Understood.”

Maverick lingered a moment longer, but then just nodded once and walked off, the folder tucked under his arm.

Phoenix watched him go. “You notice how he gets like that?”

Bob sipped his tea. “Like what?”

“Like he’s already seen how it ends.”

Bob didn’t answer. They both knew the war taught men to see ghosts before they arrived. And he wondered just how many Mav carried with him.

By mid-afternoon, the hangars were alive with movement. Ground crews ran diagnostics. Pilots paced in circles, reading and rereading mission specs. Rooster practiced hand signals with Coyote out on the tarmac while Hangman heckled them from atop a crate of ammo belts.

Bob sat alone in the radio room, tuning into static, then signal, then static again. His headset buzzed against his ears, and he adjusted the dials by instinct. Somewhere overhead, a gull wheeled past the window, calling sharply.

Phoenix ducked in without knocking, holding two canteens.

“Hydrate,” she said, tossing him one.

“Thanks.”

“You alright?”

He gave a vague shrug. “As alright as anyone is before a, in your words: possible suicide run.”

She didn’t argue. Just leaned against the wall beside him, letting the silence stretch.

“You know,” she said after a minute, “You never talk much about where you’re from.”

Bob didn’t look at her. “Not much to say.”

“Bet there is.”

He paused. “Hastings, Nebraska. Tiny town. My mother mended clothes before her arthritis got bad. My father was killed in action during the Great War. Conscripted infantry.”

“Older siblings?”

“No. two younger brothers. Both are serving now. We has too many books. Too many scrapes and breaks. Not enough common sense. The usual.”

She looked at him sidelong. “You miss it?”

He nodded. “More than I thought I would.”

Phoenix looked out the window. “We should write letters before we go wheels up.”

“I already did.”

“Yeah?” She glanced at him. “To your mom?”

“To myself,” Bob said quietly. “In case I forget who I was before,” he sighed “Before whatever happens today.”

Phoenix was silent for a long time. Then she said, “Smart man.”

“What can I say.” He took a slow breath. “I just want to remember I was something besides a uniform.”

“You are,” she said.

He looked at her.

“Trust me,” she added, softer. “You are.”

Chapter Text

The clouds overhead had lifted just enough to show a dull, steel sky, and somewhere across the tarmac.

Bob had been awake long before dawn, long before the sun even considered rising. He sat hunched over a table in the corner of the mess, a half-empty mug of lukewarm tea beside a spread of weather reports and reconnaissance updates. He squinted at the margins hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves into a message, a warning, something tangible he could point to. They did not. 

Bradley sat down in front of him, coffee in hand and cigarette in mouth.

By the time the squad filed into the briefing room, boots still damp from puddles and jackets zipped up against the cold, Bob’s nerves had coiled tight. Overhead, the flicker of fluorescent lights cast a jittery pulse across the room. Maverick stood at the front, chalk already dusting his flight suit, the map of northern France behind him crowded with arrows, zones, and question marks.

"Metz," he said, tapping the board. "Recon mission. High-risk sector. Too quiet for too long. Command thinks something’s up. They want confirmation before we move in troops."

Phoenix, standing beside Bob, shifted just slightly. He noticed. A glance, a breath—a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. She felt it too.

"We’ll go in high, then turn south along the river bend. Drop to two thousand for visual passes," Maverick continued, his tone clipped. "Fuel loads are light. This is in and out. No extra fly-bys. No cowboy maneuvers."

Bob raised a hand. It shook just a little. Maverick paused.

"Yes, Floyd?"

"Sir," Bob began, his voice careful but clear, "weather models are showing a low-pressure system pushing in along the Moselle. That could bring unexpected fog, scattered cloud layers, and wind shear. Might compromise visibility. Also..." He hesitated for a beat. "Luftwaffe's been shuffling units. Corridor was quiet three days ago. Might not be anymore."

Hangman let out a soft, impressed whistle. "Looks like someone’s been busy doing their homework."

Maverick narrowed his eyes slightly. "This intel from Bletchley?"

Bob nodded. "Got a last-minute update around 0100. Recent aerials show camo nets strung near the tree lines. Odd positioning. Could mean they're concealing flak cannons or prepping fighter nests."

The map rustled as Maverick stared at it. The room had gone still. Even Rooster, who'd been slouched in the back with his arms crossed, now stood straighter, arms dropping to his sides.

Maverick nodded once. "Alright. We adjust. Altitude change at waypoint Charlie. Phoenix, Hangman, you’re with me. Rooster takes second flight."

~

Out on the tarmac, dawn had stained the sky a bruised gray-pink. The metal of the planes steamed in the cold air, vapor rising in long, slow curls. Bob adjusted the strap on his parachute, his fingers stiff with cold and nerves.

Phoenix approached, helmet under one arm, her expression unreadable. "You really trust the intel?"

"I don’t know if I trust it," Bob said. "But I know it doesn’t sit right. Numbers, they’re too clean. Too…” he sighed “-neat."

She nodded. " I sort of like it when things don’t line up. Means there’s something under the surface, you know."

They climbed into the cockpit. The engines came alive with a roar, coughing fire and smoke into the dawn. The line of aircraft shuddered and rolled down the strip. The ground fell away, and England became a patchwork of green and brown below.

Crossing into France, the clouds broke into wide swaths of dull blue-gray. The Moselle shimmered below, winding like a silver scar across the earth. Maverick’s voice cracked over the radio. "Eyes sharp. We’re on the clock."

Bob scanned, his gaze slicing across forest lines and fields. Nothing moved. No smoke trails. No signal mirrors. Just the usual silence.

Then, a flash.

"Phoenix, two o’clock, low, about twenty degrees. Possible reflection. Could be a lens. Scope or cockpit."

She banked hard.

Tracer rounds stitched the sky around them.

"Flak!" Rooster shouted over comms. "We’re in it!"

The sky exploded. Black clouds puffed up around the formation. From the edge of the forest, fighters screamed up in tight formation, Focke-Wulfs, sleek and fast. The squad broke formation, ducking and weaving. Bullets zipped past, tearing through clouds and wing edges.

Bob’s world shrank to the instruments and the blur of wings and smoke. He tracked each movement, marked threats, shouted coordinates. "Six o’clock, coming fast—break right!"

Phoenix veered hard, pulling Gs as they twisted through a gap in the flak net. The plane jolted, but held. Another volley passed close, too close.

"Fall back," Maverick ordered. "Mission’s blown. We’ve got what we came for."

The retreat was messy but controlled. They limped back across the Channel, battered but intact.

~

At the debrief, the room was silent but crackling with adrenaline. A reel of film played softly, aerial stills caught mid-run. Bob stepped forward, pointing at the grainy black-and-white frames.

"Here, see the ridges? Those weren’t there last week. Fortifications. And that—"

He paused, pointing to a dark smudge.

"Camouflaged landing strip. Could be for emergency supply drops or reinforcements. Hidden in plain sight."

Maverick nodded slowly. "You were right. That was an ambush. And we walked out because we knew it was coming. Good work."

Coyote elbowed him. "Not bad for a codebreaker."

Bob allowed himself a small smile. He wasn’t used to this, being heard, being right. Being trusted. Being essential. 

Outside, the clouds had returned. The wind shifted again. Rain loomed heavy on the horizon.

But inside the base, the briefing room felt warmer than usual. Maybe it was the heating. Or maybe it was something else.

For the first time in a long while, Bob didn’t feel like an outsider.

He felt like part of the team.

The others filtered out of the briefing room slowly, peeling off in twos and threes, Hangman tossing a cocky grin over his shoulder, Rooster brooding in silence, Phoenix pausing just long enough to bump her shoulder against Bob’s on the way out. Maverick stayed behind, arms crossed, eyes on the fading image of the landing strip projected on the screen.

“You got good instincts,” he said, finally.

Bob, halfway to the door, turned back. “Sir?”

“I’ve known a lot of officers who wait for perfect proof before speaking up. Most of them don’t make it past their third mission.” Maverick paused, lost in thought “Sometimes they do, make it but-” he turned and looked at him, really looked. “You saw a pattern. You trusted your gut. That saved lives today.”

Bob opened his mouth, unsure what to say. “I… thank you, sir.”

“This squadron needs people who see what others miss. Don't drop the ball.”

He nodded, that warm kernel in his chest glowing just a bit brighter. “Understood, Captain.”

Maverick gave a short nod. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

By the time Bob stepped back outside, the clouds had thickened again, bruising the horizon a dusky purple. The smell of rain was in the air, the sky holding its breath.

Back in the barracks, the others had started to decompress. Phoenix sat on the edge of her bunk, unlacing her boots. Rooster leaned against the wall, arms folded, gaze distant but not unfriendly. Rooster was already halfway into a bottle of something suspicious and brown, regaling anyone who’d listen with his dramatic retelling of the ambush.

Bob slipped inside quietly, setting his flight jacket on the hook by his cot.

“You see that bastard pull a split-S through flak?” Rooster said, miming the maneuver with exaggerated flair. “I tell you, we’re damn lucky Phoenix can fly like she does.”

“She had help,” Hangman muttered.

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Hangman jerked his chin toward Bob. “He called the angels. Caught the glint before it hit the rest of us. Just saying it takes a man in there, that’s all.”

Phoenix looked up, locking eyes with Bob across the room. “Yeah. He did. I don’t think it has anything to do with him being a man though. I’m a damn good pilot with or without a man in the cockpit. Understood?”

Hangman stood. “Ouh feisty tonight.”

Before Bob could say anything, Rooster got up and broke their death glances. “Pick on someone your own size Saransin or did you forget we are a team?”

“If by team you mean i do 90% of the work and yall make up the other 10% then ya we a team.” 

“I’m going to wipe that smug grin right off of you, you self-absorbed asshole,” Rooster snapped, stepping in close.

Hangman’s grin didn’t falter. “Careful, Bradshaw. Keep puffing your chest like that and someone might think you’ve got the balls to back it up.”

Rooster didn’t hesitate. He shoved Hangman square in the chest.

Chairs scraped. Cards scattered.

Fanboy cursed and ducked out of the way. Phoenix stood so fast her stool toppled.

Bob didn’t move.

He was frozen, still seated at the edge of the chaos, watching it explode like a dogfight he couldn’t fly out of. His hand hovered uselessly over the table, unsure whether to reach for someone or pull back entirely.

Rooster landed a punch that sent Hangman reeling into a crate of supplies. Hangman spat blood and charged back, fists raised.

Then—Payback stepped in.

“ Enough! ” he barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the commotion. He shoved himself between them, catching Rooster with one arm and throwing the other out to block Hangman’s path. “You wanna beat the hell out of each other, do it in the sky, not in our goddamn quarters!”

Both men paused, panting, faces red and bruised, shoulders heaving with barely restrained anger. The room slowly stilled. Someone picked up a mug and set it upright with a faint clink. Hangman wiped his nose on his sleeve. Rooster shook off Payback’s arm and took a step back.

Phoenix let out a breath, then turned to Bob. Her voice was quieter now, but firm.

“You alright?” murmured Bob. 

She looked at him for a long moment, as if deciding whether it was worth answering truthfully. Her shoulders dropped a little, the weight of the room still hanging on her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “You spend all day fighting to stay alive up there, then you come down and have to fight to be seen .”

Bob said nothing.

Phoenix folded her arms, eyes scanning the wrecked table, the bruised egos, the sidelong glances that were already starting to reset the room. “They don’t even know they’re doing it, half the time. They act like it’s banter. Like it’s all part of the game. But I can’t afford to shrug it off. If I don’t bite back, I disappear.”

She looked over at Bob, her tone sharpening.

“You think they’d come after you like that? Try to trip you up in front of the others? No. But with me—it’s always: ‘Let’s see if she can take it. Let’s see if she’ll crack.’”

She drew a breath. Not angry. Just… tired.

“I didn’t come all the way through flight training, through the damn war effort, through a dozen bases where I was the only woman in the damn hangar, just to get pushed around by some cocky bastard with something to prove.”

Her jaw clenched. “So no. I’m not really alright. But I will be. Because I have to be.”

Silence stretched. Bob didn’t try to fill it.

Phoenix’s expression softened just slightly. “Thanks for asking, though. Most don’t.”

She clapped him lightly on the shoulder and turned back toward the others, already gathering the scattered remains of the card game. For a moment, Bob just sat there, staring at the spot where she’d stood. The room was loud again, jokes forced, tension slipping into habit, but something about her words stayed lodged in the quiet space behind his ribs.

From across the room, Rooster muttered, “This is why I hate poker night.”

Fanboy snorted. “This isn’t poker night anymore. This is emotional warfare.”

~

Later, after dinner and half a game of cards, Bob slipped away to write. His cot creaked quietly as he sat, pulling a weathered notebook from his pack. Not his official journal, the one Intelligence reviewed, but the real one. The one he kept to himself.

He opened it to a fresh page and began to write:

October 20th, 1944  Dear Mum,

It was a rough one today. We flew over REDACTED intel was right. They’re preparing something, and we nearly didn’t make it out. But we did. I did. And I think… maybe I’m starting to matter here. Not just as a spare seat in the cockpit or a desk jockey with access to codes. But as someone they’ll listen to. Someone they trust.

I miss home. I miss your bread rolls and the way the kettle never quite stopped whistling. But I think I’m where I need to be.

Please don’t worry too much. I’m not reckless. I’m not brave enough, either—not in the way Dad was. But I’m trying. And that has to count for something. I’m very tired and don’t have much in the matter of news to share beyond my previous letters. I pray for your health and the safety of our country every day and I know you do the same.

 I’ve now heard from both of them, not so little, littles, and I’m so proud to hear about Juniors promotion. So fast, but that is the nature of war, positions tend to empty faster than back home.

All my love,

Robert

He closed the book gently, setting it beside his pillow. The rain began at last, soft against the windows, steady and rhythmic.

As he lay back, the sound of it was oddly soothing.

Tomorrow would bring more questions. More flights. More risk.

But tonight, he was alive.

And that was enough.

Sleep didn’t come easily, not with adrenaline still lingering in his blood like static. Even after lights-out, the barracks buzzed faintly, snoring, the occasional rustle of sheets, someone muttering in a dream. Bob lay still, staring at the underside of the bunk above him, the ceiling lost in shadow.

He kept replaying the mission in his head, the flash of metal in the trees, the burst of flak too close to the left wing, Phoenix’s voice steady even as the sky went to hell. He hadn’t felt fear so much as clarity, a sharpness of mind that surprised even him. Everything had moved fast, but he’d kept up.

He’d contributed.

That shouldn’t have felt so strange.

A bunk creaked nearby. Phoenix’s voice cut through the dark.

“You awake?”

Bob hesitated. “Yeah.”

A pause. “Hell of a first real flight.”

He could hear her shifting, maybe sitting up. “Did I look like I was going to puke?”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, you did.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” Bob murmured.

“You were very calme too though”

“I was sure we were going to die”

“No, you didn't.” She paused again. “You saved my ass back there. You know that?”

Bob felt warmth bloom in his chest. He tried not to let it show in his voice. “You did the flying.”

“Yeah, but flying blind’s still flying blind.”

Bob didn’t answer right away. It mattered more than she knew.

Another pause, longer this time. Then her voice again, quieter.

“We lost good people over Metz last year. I was part of that run. We didn’t see it coming. We didn’t have anyone like you then.”

The silence that followed felt heavier. Bob turned onto his side, watching the faint silhouette of the window where moonlight tried and failed to push through rain.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Phoenix didn’t respond immediately. Then, softly: “So was I. But maybe this time, we’re ahead of it.”

He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Sleep finally came in fits. Bob drifted in and out of uneasy dreams, clouds stitched with tracer fire, letters without recipients, his mother’s voice fading like static in the headphones. But morning eventually broke, watery and pale, and with it came the low drone of engines overhead.

Recon flights. Routine patrols. Business as usual.

Except nothing felt usual now.

At breakfast, the mood was subdued. Rooster kept glancing at the sky between bites. Hangman didn’t brag. Even Payback and Fanboy, who usually made a show of arguing over rations, were quiet.

Bob spooned oatmeal into his mouth, trying not to think too hard about the chalkboard back in the briefing room. He already knew what would be on it, Metz again. Follow-up analysis. The next mission.

Maverick strode into the mess mid-meal, eyes sweeping the room. “Squadron Dagger, briefing in twenty.”

Everyone stood. No orders needed.

Bob followed the group into the corridor, boots echoing on concrete. But just before the door to the war room, Maverick caught him by the shoulder.

“Walk with me.”

They peeled off toward a side hall. Bob fell in step, heart ticking up.

“You said those fortifications were new,” Maverick said without preamble. “Landing strip, camo netting, all of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think it’s a staging point?”

Bob hesitated. “I think it’s bigger than that. Metz was bait. We were supposed to see it. But the real build-up’s happening further east. If I had to guess, Saarbrücken.”

Maverick stopped. Studied him. “You have confirmation?”

“Not yet,” Bob said. “But I’m working on it.”

Maverick nodded slowly. “Keep at it. If you're right, we’ll need to act fast.”

They returned to the others just as the projector flicked on.

This war wasn’t over. Not yet.

Not while the enemy was still moving under cover of shadow. Not while war was still playing chess with men’s lives, and Bob had just begun to understand the board.

The projector buzzed softly, throwing light onto the wrinkled map tacked to the wall. Black-and-white reconnaissance photos clicked through one by one, forests, rail lines, river bends, blurred silhouettes of trucks under camouflage tarps. No movement, but there was a strange order to it. It all felt intentional .

Bob sat at the edge of the room, notebook open, pencil twitching between his fingers..

Maverick gestured toward the newest frame, what looked like a string of fuel tanks nestled against a hillside. “They’ve cleared space for armor. They’re staging for something. Not Metz, this is deeper inland. Bob?”

Bob stood, heartbeat tapping against his ribs. “This is south of Saarbrücken,” he said, pointing with the blunt end of his pencil. “German industrial routes feed through here. It’s heavily forested, which means better cover, but the terrain is rough—no reason to move heavy tanks through unless they’re planning to punch through fast.”

“Offensive?” Payback asked.

Bob nodded. “If I had to guess, yes. Limited-scale, maybe, testing Allied response times. But if they’re refueling aircraft this far out, they’re not just preparing for defense.”

Maverick folded his arms. “Command will need confirmation. We’ll prep for a second recon run. Two ships, low and fast. Dagger Two and Three. Visuals only. We don’t draw attention. We just look.”

Rooster groaned. “Because that worked so well last time.”

Maverick didn’t flinch. “We walked out of Metz because we anticipated it. If we hadn’t adjusted based on Floyd’s warning, we’d be picking pieces of you out of a wheat field.”

Rooster’s jaw tightened. Bob braced himself for a retort—but it never came. Instead, Rooster looked at Bob with barely disguised annoyance.

Maverick’s voice softened. “Bob, you’ll prep intel packages for the pilots. Narrow visual search zones. I want you in the war room until they land.”

Bob nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The briefing broke. Outside, the clouds were beginning to scatter, but the air still felt heavy. Bob lingered by the map, eyes tracing the contour lines of the German border like bruises on skin.

Hangman drifted up beside him, arms crossed loosely. “Not bad for for our resident nerd.”

Bob glanced over, unsure if it was a jab.

“Seriously,” Hangman added. “You kept us from getting painted like sitting ducks. I like living another day don't you?”

Bob smiled faintly. “I just read reports.”

“I read the same ones as you, you read between them. Big difference.”

Bob hadn’t expected that. Not from Hangman of all people.

~

Later that afternoon, he sat alone in the converted records office, surrounded by stacks of decoded messages, mission notes, and aerial maps. His fingers smudged pencil across page after page as he outlined observation points, terrain elevation, estimated risk zones. He didn’t notice Phoenix standing in the doorway until she knocked on the frame.

“You look like you’ve aged a decade.”

Bob leaned back. “My eyes feel like they’ve aged two.”

She stepped in, holding two mugs. She passed one to him—tea, warm, strong. He wrapped his fingers around it, grateful.

“You ever think you’d be doing this?” she asked.

Bob shook his head. “I thought I’d spend the whole war in a cold room with a codebook and a radio. Never thought I’d end up in a cockpit, or briefing pilots for that matter.”

Phoenix nodded, taking a seat across from him. “I used to think I’d be flying circles around German bombers over London. Turns out the real war’s messier. Slower. More waiting. More… knowing what’s coming and not being able to stop it fast enough.”

“Being helpless,” Rooster said from the doorway.

Bob met his eyes. “That’s the worst part. Not knowing.”

Rooster stepped inside and pulled up a chair. He didn’t sit close, but close enough.

For a moment, there was silence between them, filled only by the ticking of the wall clock and the low murmur of planes landing somewhere beyond the hangars. The scent of machine oil lingered on all their jackets.

Phoenix set down her mug with a dull clink, Bob could tell she still had something on her mind since last evening’s debacle.

“You know,” she said, voice steadier now, “it’s not the sky that wears me down. Not even the flak. It’s walking into rooms full of men who think I’m just playing dress-up in a uniform. Who think if I fly well, it’s luck. And if I mess up, it’s because I don’t belong.”

She didn’t look at either of them, but kept her gaze on the scratched tabletop.

“I have to be perfect every time just to be seen as equal. If I get angry, I’m ‘hysterical.’ If I’m direct, I’m a bitch. And if I let something slide, if I let Hangman run his mouth, then I’m weak. There’s no winning.”

Rooster was quiet. Then he said, “You shouldn’t have to carry that on top of everything else.”

Bob gave a small, solemn nod. “I get that. I do.”

“You’re good at this, and I saw Bagman complement you ok.”

It wasn’t praise for show. 

Bob swallowed. “Thanks. You're incredibly ok.”

Rooster leaned forward, arms on his knees. “And for the record, I think you’ve got more guts than half the squad put together. Hell, you decked Hangman with words. That’s harder than a right hook.”

Phoenix let out a huff of laughter. “I appreciate that, Rooster.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I won’t try to land before you tomorrow.”

“Good luck with that,” she smirked. “You’ll need it.”

She rose and gave Bob a nod. “Get some rest. I think tomorrow’s going to be heavier.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

As evening fell, radio chatter crackled to life again. The recon pair had just cleared the target zone. Their voices were clipped, urgent.

“Confirmed armor,” Rooster was saying. “Multiple tank lines under netting. At least three supply trucks inbound. Smoke from somewhere further east—possible engine depot.”

Then static.

Bob leaned forward, heart thudding.

“Dagger Two, report status,” Phoenix’s voice cut through. Sharp. Focused.

“Taking light fire. We’re pulling out. Footage secured. ETA twenty minutes.”

Bob let out a slow breath.

Another close call, but another warning delivered.

The war was changing. The front was curling inward, and the sky felt tighter than it had the week before.

He closed his notebook. The margin he’d written in earlier, where he’d first noticed the odd numbers, as now filled with cross-references, underlines, and notes in red pencil.

At the bottom, he wrote a single line:

We need to move faster.

Because now he knew: it wasn’t just about decoding the war.

It was about staying one step ahead of it.

~

Bob sat by the small, flickering lantern in his bunk, the night outside thick and silent except for distant engine hums and the occasional shuffle of feet. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled a worn sheet of stationery from his kit and unfolded it carefully. The words didn’t come easily, how do you explain the weight of an unseen war, the tightening noose of danger, or the quiet camaraderie born in smoke and steel?

He dipped the pen into ink and began:

Dear Ma,

I won’t lie, there are nights I wonder if this will ever end. If the quiet will ever feel safe again. And if I’ll make it home to you.

For now, I keep writing, keep watching the skies, and keep moving forward. Because this war won’t wait for me to feel ready.

Give my love to everyone back home. I think of you all every day.

Yours,

Bob

He folded the letter with care, sealed it, and placed it gently in his jacket pocket. Outside, the distant rumble of thunder reminded him the storm was never far off—either in the skies above or the war unfolding below.

But for tonight, that was enough.