And so, pointing fingers become pointing guns, because nobody listens to fingers.

I confess, without shame, that I am sick and tired of fighting—its glory is all moonshine; even success the most brilliant is over dead and mangled bodies, with the anguish and lamentations of distant families, appealing to me for sons, husbands and fathers….Tis only those who have never heard a shot, never heard the shriek and groans of the wounded or lacerated…that cry aloud for more blood, more vengeance, more desolation.

Wars are indeed fought by children, by young people who have little to say in where they are sent to die.

The heavy round face was looking at him, the hard look of a man who had also understood, who had seen all the stupidity, who knew, after all, that the gold stars were often mindless decoration, that the army was led not by symbols, but by the fallible egos and blind fantasies of men.