Based on the WWII account of a US Navy man (image taken by Horace Bristol. Google it. It is worth a look, but is slightly nsfw) who stripped down during the heat of battle to rescue a downed pilot from the Pacific Ocean .
"First time on an Air-Sea Rescue Mission?" the handsome gunner, Killian Jones, called out over the roar of the engines. Emma offered him a tight smile and nod before going back to check her camera equipment. "Well, you never forget your first," he quipped, and despite her best efforts to smother it, a smile pulled at the corners of her lips.
Emma Swan was one of the few female photojournalists assigned to the Pacific theatre. It had originally been deemed too dangerous for women, and too much of distraction for the servicemen, but she was nothing if not tenacious in her pursuits. After months of lobbying, she'd finally gotten the assignment and now found herself strapped into a cramped space within the US Navy PBY Catalina patrol bomber flying out with its crew on a "Dumbo" mission.
"Look alive, lads!" the co-pilot's voice boomed over the headset. "We've just received word of a downed marine pilot. We're headed in."
Emma held on tight as the plane banked to the left and she marveled at the gunner's ability to keep his balance, bracing his stance and absorbing the movements of the plane as if he were an extension of it.
"So, how did you end up in the US Navy?" she shouted at Jones. "With that accent I would have taken you for a Brit."
Without taking his focus from the field of open sky in front of him, he replied, "Dad's a Brit, mom's American. My brother and I have dual citizenship. My older brother joined the Royal Navy when England entered the war in 1939. I was already here in the states attending university, and couldn't get home to follow in his footsteps. After Pearl Harbor though, I made my way to the nearest enlistment office."
"Is your brother… I mean, your family, are they…"
"They're all well," he assured, finally turning his face towards her and offering her an appreciative smile for her concern; one that absolutely did nothing to her pulse rate.
"We have a visual on our target, but heavy fire is coming from the island! Deploy the life raft, conditions are not safe for landing! Return fire to give the pilot some cover!"
There was a flurry of activity as the crew jumped to orders, and Emma pulled out her camera to document the activity. The deafening concussion of the .50 caliber guns rocked her to the core, as did the sight of Jones suddenly stripping off his boots and flight suit.
"What are you doing?" she inquired with a small tint of flustered hysteria in her tone, attempting to shield her eyes from the enticing view of his now bare backside.
Jones seemed completely unphased at standing before her in nothing but his skin, a look of determination set firmly upon his chiseled features.
"He can't see the lifeboat! Something's wrong with his eyes. He'll never find it if he can't see it," Jones shouted into his headset. The pilot squawked something back, but Emma couldn't quite make it out.
"Brace yourself, love," Jones instructed, removing his headset. "We're landing."
The plane roughly touched down onto the water and positioned itself between the downed pilot and the island from where they were still taking on fire. Without hesitation Jones dove into the blue waters of the Pacific and fought his way through the turbulent seas toward the nearly drowned man. Emma shook herself from the blatant appreciation she was giving and resumed documenting the rescue, snapping shots of Jones as he gathered the man in his arms and began the arduous task of swimming him back to the plane. Gunshots continued to ring off the hull, and the other gunners returned fire as the co-pilot and other crewman worked to pull the downed pilot, then Jones out of the water.
"The package is secured!" the co-pilot shouted into his headset, indicating to the pilot that both men were aboard.
Not quite, Emma mused to herself as she watched a still naked Jones take his place back at the gun, donning only his headset after shaking the excess wetness from his raven locks as the plane took flight once again.
"For god sakes Jones, put your pants back on, would ya?" one of the other gunners razzed.
"Not while we're still in danger of having my ass shot off, thank you very much."
Emma stared mesmerized at the way the salty ocean droplets beaded against his skin before running down the length of his body. His previously admired stance displayed the flex and strength of his legs, back, and buttocks as he manned the machine gun before him, the shockwaves of the blasts rippling through his muscles and causing droplets to fly off his nude form.
Emma brought her camera up to her eye and captured the glorious moment within her lens before stowing the equipment back into her case. When she looked back at Jones he was giving her a wicked smirk with a devilishly arched brow that told her he knew exactly what she'd done.
She replied with a innocent shrug of her shoulders and cheeky smirk. "What? I mean, I am a photographer, after all. You make for an interesting subject, Jones."
"I have a great many other subjects you might find interesting, love. Perhaps I can show you later?"
"I think I've seen quite enough already," she chuckled while pointedly dragging her gaze over his body.
"Oh, Darling," he purred. "You haven't seen anything yet."