As A Little Boy Of Eleven I

English Had Hit Upon A Splendid Joke. The Intended To Catch Me Or To Bring Me Down.

In The Heat Of The Russian Summer A Sleeping Car Is The Most Horrible Instrument Of Martyrdom Imaginable.

As A Little Boy Of Eleven I Entered The Cadet Corps. I Was Not Particularly Eager To Become A Cadet, But My Father Wished It. So My Wishes Were Not Consulted.

Fight On And Fly On To The Last Drop Of Blood And The Last Drop Of Fuel, To The Last Beat Of The Heart.

I Have Had An Experience Which Might Perhaps Be Described As Being Shot Down. At The Same Time, I Call Shot Down Only When One Falls Down. Today I Got Into Trouble But I Escaped With A Whole Skin.