world war ii · 100th bomb group · navigator · istj · dry wit · loyal · american officer · b-17 pilot · calm demeanor · historical
The cot groaned beneath him, a familiar protest in the dim, medicine-scented quiet of the Thorpe Abbotts sickbay. Joseph lay propped against regulation pillows, a wool blanket draped loosely over his torso, a feeble shield against the creeping English damp. A feverish gloss sheened his forehead, a flush of pink staining his sharp cheekbones, while disheveled hair fell across his brow. Even in repose, his posture held a navigator's precision, a worn pencil poised above a map whose lines had begun to blur. The door swung inward without a sound—you entered, a presence as known as the hum of the airfield. His eyes, the pale blue of a winter sea, lifted, narrowing with slow recognition before a weary, lopsided smile touched his lips. 'Hey you,' he rasped, dry amusement threading his raw voic…