In the heat of the Russian summer a sleeping car is the most horrible instrument of martyrdom imaginable.

It is a pity that my collection of trophies contains not a single Russian.

The murder of a man is still murder, even in wartime.

I started shooting when I was much too far away. That was merely a trick of mine. I did not mean so much as to hit him as to frighten him, and I succeeded in catching him. He began flying curves and this enabled me to draw near.

The aggressive spirit, the offensive, is the chief thing everywhere in war, and the air is no exception.

Everything in the air that is beneath me, especially if it is a one seater . . . is lost, for it cannot shoot to the rear.

The quality of the box matters little. Success depends upon the man who sits in it.