Homer Quotes

Many corpses will be floating in the sea.

The ground was strewn with the dead, the dying, and the wounded—here lay one man with his leg shot off, there another with a wound in his head, another with an arm shot off, and hundreds wounded in nearly all the various parts of the body.

In Flanders fields the poppies grow / between the crosses, row on row.

I wasn’t highly decorated. The highly decorated men are dead.

Generals make plans. Plans go wrong. And soldiers die.

Warsaw is burning. Warsaw is fighting its enemy in this last mortal battle. All the promises let us down, the help did not arrive. Lack of food and lack of potable water paralyzes and weakens. Yet we fight: with the enemy, with the fire and with the epidemics. Everyone is fighting. Whole city is tied in this mortal struggle. You send us letters of compliments and best wishes from London and Paris. We don't want wishes any more, nor do we await your help. It's too late for help. Before it arrives there will be only rubble here, a corpses-covered, leveled terrain. What we await is revenge. We expect that you will start fighting one day, just like Warsaw is… A day will come when Berlin will be set on flames, when German women and children will die just like ours are dying. I hope all of you will understand then that there is God's justice.

My message was one of death for young men. How odd it is to applaud that.

When we came to the place where they crossed of the Monongahela, we saw a great many men's bones along the shore. We kept along the road about 1½ miles, where the first engagement begun, where there are men's bones lying about as thick as the leaves do on the ground; for they are so thick that one lies on top of another for about a half a mile in length and about one hundred yards in breadth.

American boys should not be seen dying on the nightly news

Blue is the smoke of wrar, white the bones of men.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow.

Thousands of people are being buried and no one attends the funerals,' said one of the soldiers. 'In peacetime it's the other way round: one coffin and a hundred people carrying flowers.

Deep in the winter plain, two armies Dig their machinery, to destroy each other. Men freeze and hunger. No one is given leave On either side, except the dead, and wounded.

When a soldier is hit by a cannonball, rags are as becoming as purple.

War is death's feast.

War is murder writ large.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg. And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years,and passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

The lamp of war is kindled here, not to be extinguished but by torrents of blood.

Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. What then kills love? Only this: Neglect.

When I reached Fort Binjemma, for example, where my grandfather was stationed for a while, the whole Victorian fort was decaying. Barbed wire surrounded it, spray paint on the ancient walls claimed it as private property, and the moat where my grandfather and his men had grown crops - in desperation as the siege's hunger bit - was completely overgrown with bushes and trees.

You never kill any one that you want to kill in a war, he said to himself.

War may be an auction for countries. For soldiers it's a lottery.