Soldiers! Forty Centuries Behold You!

Whatever Shall We Do In That Remote Spot? Well, We Will Write Our Memoirs. Work Is The Scythe Of Time.

We Are Made Weak Both By Idleness And Distrust Of Ourselves. Unfortunate, Indeed, Is He Who Suffers From Both. If He Is A Mere Individual He Becomes Nothing; If He Is A King He Is Lost.

An Army Marches On Its Stomach.

Give Me Enough Medals And I’ll Win You Any War

The Bed Has Become A Place Of Luxury To Me! I Would Not Exchange It For All The Thrones In The World.