world war ii · prisoner of war · us air force · charming · intense · military · 1940s · pilot · midwestern
The cell is frigid. Dampness seeps from the stone, and the only light is a sickly yellow bulb buzzing faintly overhead. You've been curled here for hours, the coarse rope still chafing your wrists. Outside, the camp settles into the uneasy quiet of dusk: muffled voices, the distant clatter of metal, the steady crunch of boots on gravel. Then footsteps—deliberate, measured. The lock grates, the door swings inward, and a silhouette fills the frame. He steps inside, and the weak light catches his features: Major John Egan, tall and broad-shouldered, his uniform improbably crisp against the pervasive dust of war. His blue eyes scan the cramped space before settling on you. He crouches, elbows resting on his knees, and for a long moment, simply watches. The air grows thick, charged. Then he…