In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield.

They died hard, those savage men-like wounded wolves at bay. They were filthy, and they were lousy, and they stunk. And I loved them.

I can recall no parallel in history where a great nation recently at war has so distinguished its former enemy commander.

I see that old flagpole still stands. Have your troops hoist the colors to its peak, and let no enemy ever haul them down.

A general is just as good or just as bad as the troops under his command make him.

By profession I am a Soldier and take pride in that fact, but I am prouder to be a father