I want to paint – the view of the Luftwaffe getting ever nearer, the German paratroopers parachuting to the streets like swans, the bombs exploding below me.
I want to paint – the propellers on my spitfire spinning rapidly, the sound of bullets clanging deafeningly on the wing, the sweat on my face as the air raid sirens shriek down below.
I want to paint the acrid smoke that got through my mask.
I want to paint the leather of the steering handle my hand rested on.
I want to paint the rubber of my mask protecting my face.
I want to paint – the end of the ferocious war.