Quotes About Soldier

He has the look of a Handsome Boy from a different time. He could be a dashing World War I soldier, handsome enough for a girl to wait years for him to come back from war, so handsome she could wait forever.

Podría ser un gallardo soldado de la Primera Guerra Mundial, lo suficientemente guapo para que una chica esperara años por su regreso de la guerra, tan atractivo que ella podría esperar por siempre.

You were a soldier?" "Yes, sir." "You barely look old enough to have seen the last battle." "My father was a career army man, sir. I was there at the first engagement with Analousia, and took up my father's rifle when I was barely fifteen." "Saints preserve us," Dr. Kelling said, and squeezed Galen's shoulder. "What have we done to our youth?

It rankled deeply that people who had never seen a battle should have such a strong aversion to the war. He'd actually seen people cross to the other side of the street to avoid passing him, and a man had spit at the sight of a crippled soldier begging outside the city gates.

To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters him and releases him for ten seconds to live, to run, ten seconds of life; receives him again and again and often forever.

No soldier outlives a thousand chances. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck.

There was only the broad square with the scattered dim moons of the street lamps and with the monumental stone arch which receded into the mist as though it would prop up the melancholy sky and protect beneath itself the faint lonely flame on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which looked like the last grave of mankind in the midst of night and loneliness.

I love him, his shoulders, his angular, stooping figure – and at the same time I see behind him woods and stars, and a clear voice utters words that bring me peace, to me, a soldier in big boots, belt, and a knapsack, taking the road that lies before him under the high heaven, quickly forgetting and seldom sorrowful, for ever pressing on under the wide night sky.

The soldier is on friendlier terms than other men with his stomach and intestines. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is derived from these regions, and they give an intimate flavor to expressions of his greatest joy as well as of his deepest indignation. It is impossible to express oneself in any other way so clearly and pithily.

Für niemand ist die Erde so viel wie für den Soldaten. Wenn er sich an sie presst, lange, heftig, wenn er sich tief mit dem Gesicht und mit den Gliedern in sie hineinwühlt in der Todesangst des Feuers, dann ist sie sein einziger Freund, sein Bruder, seine Mutter, er stöhnt seine Furcht und seine Schreie in ihr Schweigen und ihre Geborgenheit, sie nimmt sie auf und entlässt ihn wieder zu neuen zehn Sekunden Lauf und Leben, fasst ihn wieder und manchmal für immer.

To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters him and releases him for ten seconds to live, to run, ten seconds of life; receives him again and often for ever.

Es sind die Uniformen. Nimm ihnen die Kostüme weg, und es gibt keinen Menschen mehr, der Soldat sein will.

It is just as much a matter of chance that I am still alive as that I might have been hit. In a bomb-proof dug-out I may be smashed to atoms and in the open may survive ten hours' bombardment unscathed. No soldier outlives a thousand chances. But every soldier believes in Chance and trusts his luck.

Dem Soldaten ist sein Magen und seine Verdauung ein vertrauteres Gebiet als jedem anderen Menschen

Jeder Soldat bleibt nur durch tausend Zufälle am Leben. Und jeder Soldat glaubt und vertraut dem Zufall

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front.

GryzÄ™ poduszki, zaciskam pi??ci na ?elaznych prÄ™tach Å'ó?ka. Nie powinienem byÅ' tu przyje?d?a?. Tam byÅ'em zobojÄ™tniaÅ'y i czÄ™sto pozbawiony nadziei. Nigdy ju? nie wrócÄ™ do tego stanu. ByÅ'em ?oÅ'nierzem, a teraz jestem niczym wiÄ™cej, jak bólem z powodu siebie, z powodu matki, z powodu wszystkiego, co jest tak beznadziejne i bez koÅ"ca. Nie powinienem byÅ' jecha? na urlop.

Even a soldier's behind likes to sit soft.

The noises from outside all merge into one another, become a dream which disappears from the waking memory...he sees the woods and stars behind him, and so he moves on, an ordinary soldier, with his big boots and his webbing and his pack, making his tiny way under the sky's great vault along the road that lies before him; a soldier who forgets things quickly and who isn't even depressed much any more, but who just goes onwards under the great night sky.

There is the great sky again, and the stars, and the first streak of dawn, and he is walking beneath that sky, a soldier with big boots and a full belly, a little soldier in the early morning.

The soldier is on friendlier terms than other men with his stomach and intestines. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is derived from these regions, and they give an intimate flavour to expressions of his greatest joy as well as of his deepest indignation.

In 1945 I help liberate Berlin. I was six years in Red Army," Rogov said, his eyes gleaming with the memory.

They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. But in modern war, there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason.

And Barcelona. You should see Barcelona." "How is it?" "It is all still comic opera. First it was the paradise of the crackpots and the romantic revolutionists. Now it is the paradise of the fake soldier. The soldiers who like to wear uniforms, who like to strut and swagger and wear red-and-black scarves. Who like everything about war except to fight. Valencia makes you sick and Barcelona makes you laugh.