Look at an infantryman's eyes and you can tell how much war he has seen.

Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.

I am a Soldier, I fight where I am told, and I win where I fight.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again.

Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.

Victory is not won in miles but in inches.

It is not the critic who counts. ... The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly ... who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground
over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation
to the foe whom he is facing.

Human progress is achieved by taking exact measurements.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again... who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.

History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

The truth is, no study is possible on the battlefield. One does there simply what one can in order to apply what one knows. Therefore, in order to do even a little, one has already to know a great deal, and to know it well.

On a stationary military frontier between a civilization and a barbarism, time always works in the barbarians' favour; and, besides this, the barbarians' advantages increases in geometrical progression at each arithmetical addition to the length of the line which the defenders of the civilization have to hold

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena: whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood... and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.