Articles liés à American Flyboy

American Flyboy - Couverture souple

Clark, N D

 
9781523323876: American Flyboy

Synopsis

Winter, 1943. Shot down over enemy skies, Lieutenant Kenneth Hellman lands in the merciless grip of Stalag Luft III—a prison where brutality and bartered power rule. Beneath cold stares and sharper knives, an unexpected alliance forms with the camp’s enigmatic commandant, Colonel Wilhelm Braun.

In a world torn apart by war, their bond becomes a forbidden flame—a dangerous solace amidst unforgiving shadows. As danger tightens like a noose, Hellman must navigate treacherous lines of loyalty, survival, and desire.

American Flyboy is a taut, unflinching tale of courage and connection when all seems lost—where love is the ultimate act of defiance.

Excerpt: After more than seventy hours crammed into the suffocating hell of the cattle car, the train eventually slowed to a jarring crawl, then stopped completely. The sudden stillness sent waves of unease rippling through the cramped box. Lieutenant Kenneth Hellman sat forward, his pulse thumping low and steady in his ears. He braced himself for a quick movement from the guards outside, but instead, the silence dragged. A slow hiss of the engine whispered through the dim light of day.
“They leaving us in here?” Shaw croaked from his side, disbelief imprinted on his parched voice.
Hellman didn’t need to answer. The blunt slam of fists against the car’s outer door suddenly cracked through the stillness, making the prisoners inside jolt awake with alarm. The door screeched open, icy air flooding the car in a freezing gust that clawed at exposed skin.
“Raus!” roared a deep, guttural voice. “Get out! Move!” The prisoners didn’t move fast enough for the callous Nazi soldier wielding the rifle. The sharp report split the frigid air, ricocheting through their ears with a crack like a lightning strike splitting a distant tree. “Now!”
The American squadron leader was one of the first to his feet, his legs slightly unsteady from the cramped conditions, but he mustered every ounce of strength to keep himself upright and steady. As the others stood and shuffled forward in a slow, disjointed march, he jumped down from the car, his boots sinking into half-frozen mud. What hit him next was worse than the bone-deep cold—the rank stench of unwashed bodies and damp mildew, heavy on the swirling breeze. It carried a hint of decay, not of death, but of a place left to fester. Whatever he was walking into saturated the air with a grimness he couldn’t yet put into words. He glanced up at the guards watching them with steely gazes, the dogs at their feet snarling and snapping to warn anyone against slowing down. Dead eyes, he thought. Every last one of them has dead eyes.

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