Articoli correlati a With the Conquering Turk; Confessions of a Bashibazouk

With the Conquering Turk; Confessions of a Bashibazouk - Brossura

 
9781150415937: With the Conquering Turk; Confessions of a Bashibazouk

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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1897. Excerpt: ... XXX. WHAT WAR FEELS LIKE. The strange thing about war is that it is so wonderfully like peace. Going to war is like coming of age. You expect to wake up one morning and find everything changed--a new self in a new world. You do wake up, and you are very much the same sort of boy at twenty-one as at twenty. So with war. You are rather disappointed to find yourself doing exactly the same things in war as you do in peace. You wear very much the same clothes; you eat--when you can get it--rather more than the same amount of breakfast; your disposition is no harder nor bloodthirstier than before. The horrors of war, of which you expected so much, leave you quite unmoved--just because you did expect so much. You wondered whether you would be sick when you came across the dead, and you were not even sorry. They were so still and restful--neither hot nor cold, nor hungry nor thirsty, nor tired nor famishing for sleep any more; it was not possible to be very sorry for them. Even when death had caught them unawares, twisting them awry and gnarling arms and legs, they only looked like strange shapes turned out of a mould, and you cannot weep for a shape out of a mould. When a shell had ripped all the features off a face, it was not pleasant to look at; but there was nothing human left about it to stir compassion. Put it in a Greek trench and cover it up; hang up its fez on a peg at its head. The poor crumpled fez that used to get so carefully blocked and ironed every morning in Elassona,--it was so much more pathetic than the body. Somebody will cry for the body, but not us. There are plenty of bayonets left in its battalion; roll up your overcoats, and sling on your water-cans, and march, and leave it behind. The wounded were worse, but even with them tragedy soon ...

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