I've been immersed in it too long. My spirit is wobbly and my mind is confused. The hurt has become too great.

Our artillery has really been sensational. For once we have enough of something and at the right time. Officers tell me they actually have more guns than they know what to do with.

About every two minutes a new wave of planes would be over. The motors seemed to grind rather than roar, and to have an angry pulsation like a bee buzzing in blind fury.

Someday when peace has returned to this odd world I want to come to London again and stand on a certain balcony on a moonlit night and look down upon the peaceful silver curve of the Thames with its dark bridges.

There is no sense in the struggle, but there is no choice but to struggle.

For me war has become a flat, black depression without highlights, a revulsion of the mind and an exhaustion of the spirit.

Somebody said that carrier pilots were the best in the world, and they must be or there wouldn't be any of them left alive.