I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.

There's many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all hell.

War at best is barbarism.

You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it.

Any fool can bomb a train, but just try sorting out the mess.

A whole week, a single campaign, a month, a week, even a day was far more than enough to cut a company or platoon to ribbons or cripple a man for life: it needed only a quarter of an hour.

It takes a fool to rush off to war!

Only a magician can fix a head on a body, but any fool can lop it off.

Whither and to what end will we ... be moving? To beat the enemy over the head with a club-even cavemen knew that.

War loves to seek its victims in the young.