Battle Buddy Quotes

Not a bad thing to know something about darkness. You can’t talk about light without some knowledge of darkness. Like your buddy Nietzsche said, 'He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.' Keep that in mind.

I be crazy too, little buddy, but at least when I be craziest, I be floating all alone in space and the crazy, she float out of me, she soak into the walls, and she don't come out till there be battles and little boys bump into the walls and squish out de crazy.

Just heard that Gus Waters died after a lengthly battle with cancer. Rest in peace, buddy. I knew these people were genuinely sad, and that I wasn't really mad at them. I was mad at the universe. Even so, it infuriated me: You get all these friends just when you don't need friends anymore. I wrote a reply to his comment: We live in a universe devoted to the creation, and eradication, of awareness. Augustus Waters did not die after a lengthy battle with a cancer. He died after a lenghthy battle with human consciousness, a victim-as you will be-of the universe's need to make and unmake all that is possible.

While his relaxed, good-natured voice doled out his life for us to live a rollicking past full of kid fun and drinking buddies and loving women and barroom battles over meager honors-for all of us to dream ourselves into.

But how many young people truly comprehend the face of war until it's staring them down? You can't patrol unfriendly villages without embracing paranoia. You can't watch your battle buddies blown to bits without jonesing for revenge. You can't take a blow to the helmet without learning to duck. And you can't put people in your crosshairs, celebrate dropping them to the ground, without catching a little bloodlust. Paranoia. Revenge. Bloodlust. These things turn boys into men. But what kind of men?

A battle buddy is the person who, by policy, goes everywhere you go, just as you go everywhere they go, if there’s even the remotest chance that either of you might be alone. Being alone might lead to thinking, and thinking can cause the army problems.

Safely atop the opposite pavement, I lifted my middle finger overhead, calling, “Sit and rotate, buddy.” “Don’t tempt me,” the man answered, gaze set on my face. Uhm, did he just imply what I thought he’d implied? I recovered, shouting, “I’ll trim my nails then.

The lessons learned, then, in Robinson's case: "Additional training is required to inform soldiers of the dangers of self-medicating along with the associated risk of overdosing" is the first. "Encourage the use of a battle buddy among warriors" is the second. "Increase suicide prevention classes" is the third. "Increase communication to twice a day with high-risk soldiers" is the fourth. "Continue improvements in leader communication" is the fifth. And that's that. Eight months. Five minutes. The army moves on to the next suicide. Case forever closed.

I be crazy, too, little buddy, but at least when I be craziest, I be floating all alone in space and the crazy, she float out of me, she soak into the walls, and she don’t come out till there be battles and little boys bump into the walls and squish out de crazy.

Let’s incorporate behavior. If someone has extensive frontocortical damage, how predictable is it that you’d note something odd about them, behaviorally, after a five-minute conversation? Something like 75 percent. Now let’s consider a broader range of behaviors. How predictable is it that this person with the frontal damage will do something horrifically violent at some point? Or that someone who was abused repeatedly as a child will become an abusive adult? That a soldier who went through a battle that killed his buddies will develop PTSD? That a person with the “montane vole” polygamous version of the vasopressin receptor gene promoter will have numerous failed marriages? That a person with a particular array of glutamate receptor subtypes throughout their cortex and hippocampus will have an IQ above 140? That someone raised with extensive childhood adversity and loss will have a major depressive disorder? All under 50 percent, often way under.

The sudden silence was the first thing many survivors of the Hoel, the Gambier Bay, the Samuel B. Roberts, and the Johnston noticed after their ships had been smashed and swallowed. To many, the quiet was unwelcome. The noise of battle--the roar of machinery, the shrieks and blasts of shells incoming and outbound, the shouts and screams of their buddies--had anesthetized fear. Now the noise lifted like a curtain, unveiling the hidden inner vistas of their grief and shock. When their ships sank, their duties went down with them.

He ambled towards the abyss again, Acquiescing to the adroit turns of his Abtenauer, his Altai horse, his Appaloosa, His Ardennais, and his Australian Brumby….. Agilely each equine adumbrates the aesthetics Of aestivating, much like aficionados of nature And much like ailurophiles, too…… Ambrosial aromas attract his attention to the Assemblage of amaranth foliage growing At the abyss’s edge. “Anglophile!” “Antediluvian!” “Aplomb!” “Apocryphal!” “Apophenia!” “Apothecary!” Each petal calls out to him as he captures their vision in his Aqueous humor. Now an arabesque they display, Then some archipelago formation, as they (those purple perennials) Give in to the Wind’s whimsy. “What’s in my arsenal?” He asks himself. “Do I have Authenticity, like Astrophysics and Astronomy?” “Am I at last in my Autumn, torn asunder by Avarice? Shall I now step toward Winter to wither and waste away, without rebirth?” The Summer’s azure skies call him back, reminding him of his herd. Homeward he must turn. The pony pushes him back to the plain. And, as he trudges away from the abyss, the warriors of darkness— His old battle buddies who left him behind as they raced toward Providence— Rattle in his mind with their Paleolithic war toys, on the war path, chanting: “The greatest battles we face are in the silent chambers of our own souls…..” -----from the poem 'Summer Battle' in the book HOT STUFF: CELEBRATING SUMMER'S SIMMER AND SIZZLE, by Mariecor Ruediger

The first buddy pair enters the deep end of the pool and begins buddy breathing. The games begin when, like a hungry shark, an instructor menacingly stalks the two trainees. Suddenly, the instructor darts forward, grabs the snorkel, and tosses it about ten feet away where it slowly sinks to the bottom. It is the duty of the last person to have taken a breath, to retrieve the snorkel. As the swimmer dives ten feet deep to recover the snorkel, his buddy floats motionless, his face underwater, holding his breath, patiently conserving oxygen. The swimmer returns with the snorkel and hands it to his buddy, but before his teammate can grab it and breathe, the instructor sadistically snatches the snorkel and again tosses it away. The swimmer, still holding his breath, dives to get the snorkel, but the instructor grabs his facemask and floods it with pool water. The swimmer has a choice. He can clear his mask of water, by blowing valuable air into it through his nose, or he can continue to swim with his mask full of water blurring his vision. The swimmer makes the right decision and retrieves the snorkel. All this time both trainees are holding their breath, battling the urge to surface and suck in a lung full of sweet fresh air. With lungs burning and vision dimming, the swimmer hands the snorkel to his buddy. After taking only two breaths, his buddy returns the snorkel and, finally the instructor allows the swimmer to breathe his two breaths. While the trainees try to breathe, instructors splash water into foam around them while screaming insults. Despite the distractions, the snorkel travels back and forth between the trainees until once again, an instructor snatches it, tosses it across the pool, and floods both students’ masks. This harassment continues until the instructor is satisfied with the trainees’ performance.

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast, And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past. Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done, In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one. And tho' sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke, All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke. But we'll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away, And the world's a little poorer, for a soldier died today. He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife, For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life. Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way, And the world won't note his passing, though a soldier died today. When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state, While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great. Papers tell their whole life stories, from the time that they were young, But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung. Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land A guy who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man? Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife, Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life? A politician's stipend and the style in which he lives Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives. While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all, Is paid off with a medal and perhaps, a pension small. It's so easy to forget them for it was so long ago, That the old Bills of our Country went to battle, but we know It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys, Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys. Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand, Would you want a politician with his ever-shifting stand? Or would you prefer a soldier, who has sworn to defend His home, his kin and Country and would fight until the end? He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin, But his presence should remind us we may need his like again. For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier's part Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start. If we cannot do him honor while he's here to hear the praise, Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days. Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say, Our Country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.

There was no way, at the beginning of this battle, to predict that the Buggers would make such a mistake. Yet throughout history, great victories had come as much because of the losing army's errors as because of the winner's brilliance in battle. The Buggers have finally, finally learned that we humans value each and every individual human life. We don't throw our forces away because every soldier is the queen of a one-member hive. But they've learned this lesson just in time for it to be hopelessly wrong -- for we humans do, when the cause is sufficient, spend our own lives. We throw ourselves onto the grenade to save our buddies in the foxhole. We rise out of the trenches and charge the entrenched enemy and die like maggots under a blowtorch. We strap bombs on our bodies and blow ourselves up in the midst of our enemies. We are, when the cause is sufficient, insane.

The Army uses the same principle, but they call them “battle buddies.

I always felt like it was out of place, kind of like the idea that you're sitting in jail and lean over and ask the guy next to you, "Hey, buddy...What are you in for?" The irony is, most of them ...maybe not all but most wanted to talk. They/we have a story to tell. It is our story of survival ...our story of fighting the great battle and hoping to come through victorious. -Kyle

Leon was my battle buddy for this mission and he was thrilled. “Cake shop,” he said. “Yes.” Leon let out a long-suffering sigh. “Are you sure that I’ll be enough? These places can get pretty rough. You walk into a cake shop and then some gunslinger tells you, ‘You ain’t from around here, partner,’ and the next thing you know, you’re in the middle of the street, your horse is dead, the bad guy’s got your girl by her hair, and you’re down to one bullet.” “What is going on in your head?” “It’s a dark, lawless place, Catalina. So dark.

What’s up, buddy?” I asked as I sat on my stool. Then Stan jumped down and bolted toward his scrap pile, and he dug around until he found the bent scrap of steel he was looking for. I grinned as he hurried back to me, but when he slapped the steel on his head, I was lost. “Something fell on me?” I guessed, but the little metal man shook his head, and Aurora came over to help me decipher his charades. I couldn’t help chuckling at how cute the little guy looked while he marched in a circle, ducked, rolled, and saluted, but his scrap of metal kept falling off his head no matter how hard he tried to balance it there. “Stan, you’re so brave,” Aurora giggled, and I furrowed my brow. “How did you get brave from all of that?” I asked. “He wants to join us on the frontlines,” the half-elf told me. “See? That’s his little helmet.” Stan nodded vigorously, and then he powered through a set of jumping squats, ten pushups, and some more marching to prove his worth. I grinned. “Ahh… so that’s what you’ve been doing. You wanted to gear up for the battle?” The little metal man nodded again. “Stan, I appreciate the dedication,” I admitted, “but war is no game. It’s gonna get messy out there, and you’re--” Aurora elbowed me hard as Stan clutched his scrap metal against his chest, and my heart melted into a puddle at the hopeful hunch in his shoulders. “You’re… not properly dressed,” I fumbled. “That should fit more securely to your head. Here, allow me.

You know how the best stories are all about the Rambling Duke, or the Mountebank, or any old adventurer who takes off down the Wayward River?" "Yeah," I said. "So?" "There are other stories, Buddy," she said. "Of folks who maybe aren't quite so free, who can't just pack up and run after any adventure that comes their way. Their stories might not seem as exciting, and they might take place somewhere regular and boring. But that doesn't mean these folks haven't sacrificed and loved and lost and fought battles just as hard as someone out on the road. It doesn't make their stories any less powerful, important, or real. It doesn't make their stories mean any less.

Each soldier has his own personal thoughts about what he experienced there. You think of what happened there, who was where, who got hit, who died where, you look for foxholes. Some of them are graves of our buddies. You barely survived there. No place has the same charge as Bastogne. It looks like it did in 1944. The woods are there, the foxholes are there. The place is eerie.

Oh. I take it from your tone that the custody battle is not going well.” “Tom has an in with the judge. A golfing buddy, believe it or not.” “You can’t get a venue change?” “My attorney says no. Guess what Tom’s claiming.” “What?” “I lead a”—Esperanza made quote marks with her fingers—“‘prurient’ lifestyle.” “Because you’re a wrestler?” “Because I’m bisexual.” Myron frowned. “For real?” “Yep.” “But bisexuality is so mainstream now.” “I know,” Esperanza said. “Practically a cliché.” “Tell me about it. I feel so passé.” She turned away. “So it’s bad?” “I may lose him, Myron. You know Tom. He is one of those master-of-the-universe, take-no-prisoner types. It isn’t about what’s right or wrong or the truth. It’s all about winning. It’s all about beating me no matter what the cost.” “Anything

Waiting for Steve to come back felt like forever. I had to be strong for Boney Pete, who paced the end stone the entire time, waiting for his friend to come back. I might have done the same if I wasn’t caring for Pete, stroking his spine and telling him that Steve was going to be all right. We knew he defeated Herobrine when Lucius began to glow. “Oh my!” he said as white light flashed from inside him, a lot like the ender dragon when it exploded, but he zero time to be afraid. The change happened so quick. One minute Lucius was a snow-white fox jumping in fright and the next he was a librarian villager spinning in circles, as if chasing his tail. When Lucius realized he no longer had a tail, he froze, and, trembling looked over his old body, newly acquired. “It feels so strange… I have hands. I - I have hands! HAHA!” He jumped for joy and ran to me, grabbing my hands and shouting, “Dance with me, Alex! Dance with me!” When he got tired of dancing he sat down. When he got tired of that he crawled on his hands and feet. “How did I ever get around on four legs? It is the most unnatural thing in the world.” Soon the realization hit us that it was over. Herobrine was defeated. Lucius paused party and looked back at the bridge. “But does that mean…” Boney Pete inched toward the bridge and whinnied into the void. He called and he called, but there was no answer. I walked up beside him and rubbed his neck. Boney Pete pushed his body against me and shuddered. I had to hold him up, or else he might have collapsed. “There there, buddy,” I said and pet his forehead, not sure how else to comfort an undead horse on the death of his friend. And the death of my friend… Steve… I could feel the stupid emotions filling me up and I hated it, but it also felt right, so I let the tears flow. I always hated crying, hated the way it made me feel—weak and powerless. Worse, I hated the way people looked at me when I cried, but I didn’t feel those things then. I just felt sad and crying felt good. I hugged Boney Pete tight and clung to his back. “I’m sorry, Pete,” I said. Then I heard something from the void bridge. A voice. “Ow… Ow… Ow… Ow… Ow…” Boney Pete and I raised our heads and there, coming across the bridge toward us, was Steve. We rushed to the edge of the end island, but still waited until he got off to crush him in a hug. Boney Pete got him first, and then me, and then Lucius. Steve winced each time we hugged him, and I saw why. His leg was twisted in a way that no amount of cooked chicken would heal. “Your leg…” I said and reached my hand toward it, but Steve flinched back. “Yeah, I used an ender pearl to escape falling into the void and the fall damage got my leg pretty good. I think my hero days are over, and honestly that sounds okay with me.” He rubbed Boney Pete. “What do you say buddy, are you ready to rebuild?” Together, the four of us left the end through the portal and reappeared in a birch forest.

What happens to Orro if the Vein Ripper goes nuts and his humanizer fails?” “I’ll be carrying the humanizer, and if Qoros steps out of line, I’ll neutralize him and Orro will help me carry him to the car.” Sean glanced at Orro. “Isn’t that right, battle buddy?” Orro rose to his full height, all quills erect, claws spread for the kill. “I will assist, combat friend.

It would be forty-four years before physicist Donald Olson would discover that D-Day at Tarawa occurred during one of only two days in 1943 when the moon's apogee coincided with a neap tide, resulting in a tidal range of only a few inches rather than several feet. The actions of these Marines trapped on the reef would determine the outcome of the battle for Tarawa. If they hesitated or turned back, their buddies ashore would be decimated. But they didn't hesitate. They were Marines. They jumped from their stranded landing crafts into chest-deep water holding their arms and ammunition above their heads. In one of the bravest scenes in the history of warfare, these Marines slogged through the deep water into sheets of machine-gun bullets. There was nowhere to hide, as Japanese gunners raked the Marines at will. And the Marines, almost wholly submerged and their hands full of equipment, could not defend themselves. But they kept coming. Bullets ripped through their ranks, sending flesh and blood flying as screams pierced the air. Japanese steel killed over 300 Marines in those long minutes as they struggled to the shore. As the survivors stumbled breathlessly onto shore their boots splashed in water that had turned bright red with blood. This type of determination and valor among individual Marines overcame seemingly hopeless odds, and in three days of hellish fighting Tarawa was captured. The Marines suffered a shocking 4,400 casualties in just seventy-two hours of fighting as they wiped out the entire Japanese garrison of 5,000.

The angels came up to Jesus carrying Gabriel and Uriel. Raphael said, “Mikael is on his way to Tartarus with Ba’al.” Saraqael and Raguel approached from out of the black. Saraqael said, “Pan got away. He is a slippery scoundrel, that one.” Mary smiled broadly. “I know where he went.” They looked to her for more. She said, “He went to Gaia, the Mother Earth Goddess.” Gabriel said, “Well, isn’t that convenient. That old gnarly tree was next on our list. We can kill two gods with one battle axe.” He still had his wit through his wounds. Uriel croaked through his migraine headache. “Wrong, Gabriel. Three gods.” They all remembered that the Earth Goddess carried within her tangled roots of evil another demoness long worthy of punishment. Gabriel gave a lighthearted laugh, “Well, Uriel, I do defer. You have bested me verbally while suffering a worse handicap.” They both looked to Jesus for approval and they got it in the form of a very subtle smirk of acceptance. Uriel was not done. “Jesus, would you say that ‘little buddy’ remark from Gabriel constituted a putdown?” “That was a term of affection,” complained Gabriel. Jesus broke into a broad smile. “Do not start again, or I won’t bring you to find Gaia.” The two angels groaned simultaneously through their pains. Uriel said, “Our tongues will heal as quick as our wounds.” Jesus smiled. Mary said to Jesus, “I know where she hides.

I remember once in the Arctic, when we were attempting to cross the frozen North Atlantic in a small, open rigid inflatable boat (RIB), that I heard that voice very clearly. We had been caught out in a monster, sub-zero, gale-force 8 storm, 400 miles off the coast of Greenland - and we were struggling. We were reduced to a crawl as we battled up and down huge, freezing waves and crashing white water. It felt like only a matter of time before we would be capsized to our deaths in the black and icy sea during this longest of nights. Each time one of us handed over the control of the little boat to another crew member to do their shift at the wheel, we had an especially frightening few minutes as the new helmsman fought to become accustomed to the pitch and character of those freak waves. If ever we were going to be capsized, it was during these change-over times. We got lucky once. We were all thrown off our seats after the RIB had been tossed up and landed on the side of her tubes, only to topple back, by luck, the right way up. We then got lucky a second time in a similar incident. Instinct told me we wouldn’t get so lucky a third time. ‘No more mistakes. Helm this yourself,’ I felt the voice saying to me. As I prepared to hand over to Mick, my old buddy, something deep inside me kept repeating, ‘Just keep helming for a bit longer - see this team through the storm yourself.’ But we had a rota and I also knew we should stick to it. That was the rule. Yet the voice persisted. Eventually I shouted over the wind and spray to Mick that I was going to keep helming. ‘Trust me,’ I told him. Mick then helped me all through that night, pouring Red Bull down my throat as we got thrown left and right, fighting to cling on to the wheel and our seats. By dawn, the seas were easing and by the next evening we could see the distant coast of Iceland ahead. Finally. Afterwards, two of the crew said to me quietly that they had been so terrified to helm that they were praying someone else would do it. I had been exhausted, and logic had said to hand over, but instinct had told me I should keep steering. Deep down I knew that I had been beginning to master how to control the small boat in the chaos of the waves and ice - and that voice told me we might not get a third lucky escape. It was the right call - not an easy one, but a right one. Instinct doesn’t always tell us to choose the easier path, but it will guide you towards the right one.

Someone’s gotta do it. No one’s gonna do it. So I’ll do it. Your honor, I rise in defense of drunken astronauts. You’ve all heard the reports, delivered in scandalized tones on the evening news or as guaranteed punch lines for the late-night comics, that at least two astronauts had alcohol in their systems before flights. A stern and sober NASA has assured an anxious nation that this matter, uncovered by a NASA-commissioned study, will be thoroughly looked into and appropriately dealt with. To which I say: Come off it. I know NASA has to get grim and do the responsible thing, but as counsel for the defense—the only counsel for the defense, as far as I can tell—I place before the jury the following considerations: Have you ever been to the shuttle launchpad? Have you ever seen that beautiful and preposterous thing the astronauts ride? Imagine it’s you sitting on top of a 12-story winged tube bolted to a gigantic canister filled with 2 million liters of liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen. Then picture your own buddies—the “closeout crew”—who met you at the pad, fastened your emergency chute, strapped you into your launch seat, sealed the hatch and waved smiling to you through the window. Having left you lashed to what is the largest bomb on planet Earth, they then proceed 200 feet down the elevator and drive not one, not two, but three miles away to watch as the button is pressed that lights the candle that ignites the fuel that blows you into space. Three miles! That’s how far they calculate they must go to be beyond the radius of incineration should anything go awry on the launchpad on which, I remind you, these insanely brave people are sitting. Would you not want to be a bit soused? Would you be all aflutter if you discovered that a couple of astronauts—out of dozens—were mildly so? I dare say that if the standards of today’s fussy flight surgeons had been applied to pilots showing up for morning duty in the Battle of Britain, the signs in Piccadilly would today be in German. Cut these cowboys some slack. These are not wobbly Northwest Airlines pilots trying to get off the runway and steer through clouds and densely occupied airspace. An ascending space shuttle, I assure you, encounters very little traffic. And for much of liftoff, the astronaut is little more than spam in a can—not pilot but guinea pig. With opposable thumbs, to be sure, yet with only one specific task: to come out alive. And by the time the astronauts get to the part of the journey that requires delicate and skillful maneuvering—docking with the international space station, outdoor plumbing repairs in zero-G—they will long ago have peed the demon rum into their recycling units.

When a person fails or succeeds, I am not interested in their adjectives, I am interested in their reactions. When you fail your patrol, can you suck it up and help your buddy pass? Better yet, after you pass your patrol, can you reach down and help lift up those who are struggling to succeed? When the mountains are high and the packs are heavy, can you smile at a beautiful sunset and share a moment of serenity with your battle buddy?

Look at that,’ I say, ‘Cowhouse: The Mooo-vie! Now do you believe me?’ ‘Shh!’ says Terry. ‘The mooo-vie’s about to start.’ ‘Hey,’ says Terry. ‘Those cows look just like us.’ ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Except they’re cows!’ ‘Shh!’ says Jill. ‘Hey,’ says Terry, ‘that’s just like when my pants were on fire.’ ‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s where they got the idea!’ ‘Shh,’ says Jill. ‘Hey,’ says Jill, ‘that’s just like what happened to Silky.’ ‘No, it’s not,’ says Terry. ‘She turned into a catnary, not an udderfly.’ ‘Shh!’ I say. ‘Hey,’ says Terry, ‘that’s just like my Ninja Snails.’ ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Those cows have stolen all our stories.’ ‘Shh!’ says Jill. ‘Hey,’ says Terry, ‘that’s just like when the shark ate my underpants.’ ‘Duh!’ I say, jumping up in front of him. ‘Don’t you get it yet?’ ‘Sit down, Andy,’ says Jill. ‘I can’t see the mooo-vie.’ ‘Cows are funny,’ says Terry. ‘They’re also thieves,’ I say. ‘They stole that idea from Barky the Barking Dog.’ ‘Shh,’ says Jill. ‘I can’t hear what Mooey is saying.’ ‘Remember when we had an epic interstellar space battle, Andy?’ says Terry. ‘I sure do,’ I say. ‘And it looks like the cows do too. They are such copycats.’ ‘I think you mean copycows,’ says Jill. ‘Oh, that’s so sweet,’ says Jill. ‘But it’s OUR story,’ I say. ‘No, it’s not,’ says Terry. ‘We’re best friends not barn buddies.’ ‘Hey!’ says Terry. ‘That’s exactly how our story ends … Wait a minute … WAIT a minute … Hang on … Just one more minute … ‘THOSE THIEVING COWS STOLE OUR MOVIE!