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

Thoughts are wonderful things, that they can bring two people, so far apart, into harmony and understanding for even a little while.

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.

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

But to the fighting soldier that phase of the war is behind. It was left behind after his first battle. His blood is up. He is fighting for his life, and killing now for him is as much a profession as writing is for me.

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

Our artillery... The Germans feared it almost more than anything we had.