For me war has become a flat, black depression without highlights, a revulsion of the mind and an exhaustion of the spirit.

The closest fires were near enough for us to hear the crackling flames and the yells of firemen. Little fires grew into big ones even as we watched. Big ones died down under the firemen's valor only to break out again later.

I've been immersed in it too long. My spirit is wobbly and my mind is confused. The hurt has become too great.

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

I try not to take any foolish chances, but there's just no way to play it completely safe and still do your job.

War makes strange giant creatures out of us little routine men who inhabit the earth.

There is no sense in the struggle, but there is no choice but to struggle.