Strange How Complicated We Can Make Things

Our Thoughts Are Clay, They Are Moulded With The Changes Of The Days;--when We Are Resting They Are Good; Under Fire, They Are Dead. Fields Of Craters Within And Without.

This Book Is To Be Neither An Accusation Nor A Confession, And Least Of All An Adventure, For Death Is Not An Adventure To Those Who Stand Face To Face With It. It Will Try Simply To Tell Of A Generation Of Men Who, Even Though They May Have Escaped Shells, Were Destroyed By The War.

The Coffin, It Shall Protect Me, Though Death Himself Lies In It

I Want To Think And At The Same Time That's The Last Thing In The World I Want To Do.

The Things Men Did Or Felt They Had To Do.