As a little boy of eleven I entered the Cadet Corps. I was not particularly eager to become a Cadet, but my father wished it. So my wishes were not consulted.
Everything depends on whether we have for opponents those French tricksters or those daring rascals, the English. I prefer the English. Frequently their daring can only be described as stupidity. In their eyes it may be pluck and daring.
I honored the fallen enemy by placing a stone on his beautiful grave.
We convinced him quickly that the possibility of war was absolutely nil and continued our festivity. On the next day we were ordered to take the field.
In the heat of the Russian summer a sleeping car is the most horrible instrument of martyrdom imaginable.
I have had an experience which might perhaps be described as being shot down. At the same time, I call shot down only when one falls down. Today I got into trouble but I escaped with a whole skin.
