The Wisest Were Just The Poor And

To Me The Front Is A Mysterious Whirlpool. Though I Am In Still Water Far Away From Its Centre, I Feel The Whirl Of The Vortex Sucking Me Slowly, Irresistibly, Inescapably Into Itself.

The Miracle Has Passed Me By; It Has Touched But Not Changed Me; I Still Have The Same Name And I Know I Will Probably Bear It Until The End Of My Days; I Am No Phoenix; Resurrection Is Not For Me; I Have Tried To Fly But I Am Tumbling Like A Dazzled, Awkward Rooster Back To Earth, Back Behind The Barbed Wires.

In Any Case, The Bayonet Isn't As Important As It Used To Be. It's More Usual Now To Go Into The Attack With Hand-grenades And Your Entrenching Tool. The Sharpened Spade Is A Lighter And More Versatile Weapon - Not Only Can You Get A Man Under The Chin, But More To The Point, You Can Strike A Blow With A Lot More Force Behind It. That's Especially True If You Can Bring It Down Diagonally Between The Neck And The Shoulder, Because Then You Can Split Down As Far As The Chest. When You Put A Bayonet In, It Can Stick, And You Have To Give The Other Man A Hefty Kick In The Guts To Get It Out.

Good Or Ill, Life Is Life; You Only Realize That When You Have To Risk It.

We're No Longer Young Men. We've Lost Any Desire To Conquer The World. We Are Refugees. We Are Fleeing From Ourselves. From Our Lives. We Were Eighteen Years Old, And We Had Just Begun To Love The World And To Love Being In It; But We Had To Shoot At It. The First Shell To Land Went Straight For Our Hearts. We've Been Cut Off From Real Action, From Getting On, From Progress. We Don't Believe In Those Things Any More; We Believe In The War.