For over a thousand years Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of triumph, a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeteers, musicians and strange animals from conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conquerors rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children robed in white stood with him in the chariot or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror holding a golden crown and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting.

Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best; it removes all that is base. All men are afraid in battle. The coward is the one who lets his fear overcome his sense of duty. Duty is the essence of manhood.

No sane man is unafraid in battle, but discipline produces in him a form of vicarious courage.

The soldier is the army.

War is the supreme test of man in which he rises to heights never approached in any other activity.

Sure, we want to go home. We want this war over with. The quickest way to get it over with is to go get the bastards who started it.

War is simple, direct, and ruthless.