All Quiet On The Western Front.

We Came To Realise - First With Astonishment, Then Bitterness, And Finally With Indifference - That Intellect Apparently Wasn't The Most Important Thing...not Ideas, But The System; Not Freedom, But Drill. We Had Joined Up With Enthusiasm And With Good Will; But They Did Everything To Knock That Out Of Us.

No Soldier Outlives A Thousand Chances.

We Are Little Flames Poorly Sheltered By Frail Walls Against The Storm Of Dissolution And Madness, In Which We Flicker And Sometimes Almost Go Out…we Creep In Upon Ourselves And With Big Eyes Stare Into The Night…and Thus We Wait For Morning.

But Now, For The First Time, I See You Are A Man Like Me. I Thought Of Your Hand-grenades, Of Your Bayonet, Of Your Rifle; Now I See Your Wife And Your Face And Our Fellowship. Forgive Me, Comrade. We Always See It Too Late. Why Do They Never Tell Us That You Are Poor Devils Like Us, That Your Mothers Are Just As Anxious As Ours, And That We Have The Same Fear Of Death, And The Same Dying And The Same Agony - Forgive Me, Comrade; How Could You Be My Enemy?

We Want To Live At Any Price; So We Cannot Burden Ourselves With Feelings Which, Though They Might Be Ornamental Enough In Peace-time, Would Be Out Of Place Here.