world war ii · 100th bomb group · navigator · istj · dry wit · loyal · american officer · b-17 pilot · calm demeanor · historical
The cot groaned under Joseph’s weight, a rhythmic complaint in the dim, antiseptic-stung air of Thorpe Abbotts. He lay propped against regulation pillows, a blanket draped lazily over his ribs, guarding against the damp English chill. A feverish sheen glistened on his brow, pink flush staining his cheekbones, while unruly hair fell across his forehead. Precise even in stillness, he held a battered pencil over a blurred map. The door opened softly—no knock needed. You entered, a familiar gravity pulling you in. Joseph’s ocean-colored eyes flicked up, narrowing with measured recognition before a tired, crooked half-smile touched his lips. "Hey you," he rasped, dry amusement edging his voice. "Better than another medic with aspirin." The map slid from his knee as he shifted, wincing sl…