Some day I'd like to cover a war in a country as ugly as war itself.

One of the parodoxes of war is that those in the rear want to get up into the fight, while those in the lines want to get out.

About every two minutes a new wave of planes would be over. The motors seemed to grind rather than roar, and to have an angry pulsation like a bee buzzing in blind fury.

It was a night when London was ringed and stabbed with fire.

For a lifetime I had bathed with becoming regularity, and thought the world would come to an end unless I changed my socks every day. But in Africa I sometimes went without a bath for two months, and I went two weeks at a time without even changing my socks. Oddly enough, it didn't seem to make much difference.

I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end they are the guys that wars can't be won without.

If I can just see the European war out I think I might feel justified in quitting the war.