And When The War Is Done And

The Dead...are More Real Than The Living Because They Are Complete.

O German Mother Dreaming By The Fire, While You Are Knitting Socks To Send Your Son His Face Is Trodden Deeper In The Mud.

You Smug-faced Crowds With Kindling Eye Who Cheer When Soldier Lads March By, Sneak Home And Pray You'll Never Know The Hell Where Youth And Laughter Go.

I Believe That The Purpose For Which I And My Fellow Soldiers Entered Upon This War Should Have Been So Clearly Stated As To Have Made It Impossible To Change Them, And That, Had This Been Done, The Objects Which Actuated Us Would Now Be Attainable By Negotiation.

For It Is Humanly Certain That Most Of Us Remember Very Little Of What We Have Read. To Open Almost Any Book A Second Time Is To Be Reminded That We Had Forgotten Well-nigh Everything That The Writer Told Us. Parting From The Narrator And His Narrative, We Retain Only A Fading Impression; And He, As It Were, Takes The Book Away From Us And Tucks It Under His Arm.