From Grief to Hate

"August is with God." These are the words Father Josef spoke to me two days ago. My brother, my only brother, killed in a crash while taking off for a night raid to London several days prior to today. Him and his entire crew had been killed. It's Germany's fault; it has to be. No, it's the people that built his Ju-88. No. No! It's the war, this selfish, greedy war. No. No! NO! It's the British. The rotten-accented, tea drinking, cowering British. It was because of them that August had been flying at night, from grass airfields, in dangerous conditions because of them. My grief has chilled to hate. It will be against them for which this war is to be fought. I had trained, shaped, molded him into one of the most elite bomber pilots of his Jagdgeschwader. How, how has this come to be? However, the more I think about it, the more I know exactly what I want...