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Five years of destruction and mayhem, lives lost everywhere, shortages of food and fuel and clothing - and the insane mind behind it just urges us all on and on to more destruction. And we all keep playing.

Elizabeth Wein

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Elizabeth Wein
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Southampton's barrage balloons floated gleaming in the moonlight like the ghosts of elephants and hippos.
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You can't just sit in a corner weeping or you'll die.
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She whispered, 'C'etait la Verite?' Was that Verity? Or perhaps she just meant, Was that the truth? Was it true? Did any of it really happen? Were the last three hours real? 'Yes,' I whispered back. 'Oui. C'etait la verite.
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Please come back soon. The window is always open.
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It's an illusion I've noticed before-- words on a page are like oxygen to a petrol engine, firing up ghosts. It only lasts while the words are in your head. After you put down the paper or pen, the pistons fall lifeless again.
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One moment flying in green sunlight, then the sky suddenly grey and dark.
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We are a sensational team.
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But I have told the truth. Isn't that ironic? They sent me because I am so good at telling lies. But I have told the truth.
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Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.
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You can come back to friendship. You can let it drop, for five years or ten years, and come back to it.
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It's impossible to stall a Lizzie.
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He just put his hand through the bulkhead, exactly as she'd done, and squeezed my shoulder. He has very strong fingers. And he kept his hand there the whole way home, even when he was reading the map and giving me headings. So I am not flying alone now after all.
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Fight with realistic hope, not to destroy all the world's wrong, but to renew its good.
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Careless talk costs lives.
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Oh Julie, wouldn’t I know if you were dead? Wouldn’t I feel it happening, like a jolt of electricity to my heart?
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Hope is the most treacherous thing in the world. It lifts you and lets you plummet. But as long as you're being lifted you don't worry about plummeting.
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A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
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But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France-a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
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Von Loewe really should know me well enough by now to realize that I am not going to face my execution without a fight. Or with anything remotely resembling dignity.
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There’s glory and honour in being chosen. But not much room for free will
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