The Colours of Love by Rita Bradshaw

King’s commission.
    ‘When I say march, I mean Air Force march, not some fancy university shuffle . . . SIR!’
    ‘Right turn,
right
– don’t you know your damned left from your right, for crying out loud . . . ? SIR!’
    ‘Put some backbone into those press-ups, you’re not taking tea with Lord and Lady Muck now . . . SIR!’
    But they’d survived; postings to flying schools had been announced, and with twenty-five other airmen Monty had made the train journey to RAF Cranwell on an overcast, grey day, arriving at Sleaford station on a coal-black evening that the blackout did little to alleviate. And, in the Christmas break, he had met Esther. Sweet, passionate, wonderful Esther.
    Suddenly the reason for the scramble to the skies became clear, as a twin-engined Junkers 88 dived out of the cloud layer above. Now there was nothing on his mind but chasing his quarry, along with his comrades ahead and to one side of him. They tore after the enemy plane, which, realizing its mistake, was diving towards the haven of cloud layer some distance below. Machine guns rattled, there was smoke, and then the German plane was spiralling out of control, and their squadron leader, Salty Fiennes, called over the R/T, confirming the hit and ordering them to return to base.
    ‘Roger, Blue one,’ Monty drawled. ‘Wish they could all be as straightforward as that one.’
    ‘You’ll be wanting jam on your toast next, Blue three.’
    Monty grinned. Salty was the sort of man you would want with you in a tight spot. He was a brilliant fighter pilot with a wicked sense of humour and a reassuring air of maturity about him, probably due to his shock of prematurely grey hair, which had earned him his nickname.
    Where the second German plane materialized from, he was never sure. It came out of the blue like a predatory bird, and Salty’s aircraft was suddenly engulfed in smoke and orange flames.
    At the same time as the controller’s voice came sharply to his ears, asking what was going on, Monty realized that the Junkers 88 had made a mistake. In its eagerness to attack Salty, it had dived too close and become a target itself.
    Monty didn’t hesitate, keeping the firing button pressed until comparative silence, and the hiss of escaping air, told him that his ammunition was expended, but that was all right. The German plane had become a burning funeral pyre, and it went some way towards satisfying the anger and shock he felt at the suddenness of Salty’s end. He didn’t know why he felt such fury; he’d seen so many of his friends and colleagues die, after all, but somehow this was different. Maybe it had just been one too many, he didn’t know; but he had wanted the enemy pilot dead, wanted him to burn in hell, and the force of his feeling was still causing his hands to tremble. If he could have killed the man with his bare hands, he would have done so and taken joy over it.
    Sick to his stomach, he forced himself to concentrate on flying the plane, but inside he was asking, ‘What am I turning into? Dear God, what’s happening to me?’
    Some time later, physically tired and mentally drained, Monty arrived back at the fighter squadron at Horsham St Faith airport, near Norwich, where he had been posted from flying school. He taxied back to the dispersal pen, still shocked at the pleasure that had coursed through him when he had destroyed the enemy pilot, and knowing that something had changed in him that day. He had shot down and disabled other planes in his time, but none of those fights had been personal. Then he had been doing his duty for King and country against a faceless foe that, if it was not stopped, would take over England’s green and pleasant land and commit the same atrocities that were happening elsewhere. It had been simple and clear-cut. But today . . . today he felt like a murderer.
    Once back in his hut, he sat on the bed and looked at Salty’s empty bunk. The others had gone for breakfast, but he hadn’t felt