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Iron Youth! Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk.
To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother;
“I tell you it is the vilest baseness to use horses in the war.”
“How can a man take all that stuff seriously when he’s once been out here?”
We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces.
terror can be endured so long as a man simply ducks;—but it kills, if a man thinks about it.
