Trench Warfare Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Trench Warfare. Here they are! All 59 of them:

Love is like trench warfare - you cannot see the enemy, but you know he is there and that it is wiser to keep your head down.
Lawrence Durrell (Balthazar (The Alexandria Quartet, #2))
In trench warfare five things are important: firewood, food, tobacco, candles, and the enemy. In winter on the Zaragoza front they were important in that order, with the enemy a bad last
George Orwell (Homage to Catalonia)
Real arms races are run by highly intelligent, bespectacled engineers in glass offices thoughtfully designing shiny weapons on modern computers. But there's no thinking in the mud and cold of nature's trenches. At best, weapons thrown together amidst the explosions and confusion of smoky battlefields are tiny variations on old ones, held together by chewing gum. If they don't work, then something else is thrown at the enemy, including the kitchen sink - there's nothing "progressive" about that. At its usual worst, trench warfare is fought by attrition. If the enemy can be stopped or slowed by burning your own bridges and bombing your own radio towers and oil refineries, then away they go. Darwinian trench warfare does not lead to progress - it leads back to the Stone Age.
Michael J. Behe (The Edge of Evolution: The Search for the Limits of Darwinism)
As long as we have a youth that stands for all that is strong and manly our future is assured.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Trench fighting is the bloodiest, wildest, most brutal of all ... Of all the war's exciting moments none is so powerful as the meeting of two storm troop leaders between narrow trench walls. There's no mercy there, no going back, the blood speaks from a shrill cry of recognition that tears itself from one's breast like a nightmare.
Ernst Jünger (Storm of Steel)
Certainly, a clear line must be preserved by strict discipline, and on the other hand the men must know that everything is done for them that hard times permit. On the top of that it follows that, among real men, what counts is deeds, not words; and then it comes of itself, when such are the relations between men and their leaders, that instead of opposition there is harmony between them. The leader is merely a clearer expression of the common will and an example of life and death. And there is no science in all this. It is a practical quality, the simple manly commonsense that is native to a sound and vigorous race.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
We had trench warfare in America way before World War I. Most people don’t know that.
Donna Tartt (The Goldfinch)
Minie balls and repeating rifles. That was why the body count was so high. We had trench warfare in America way before WW1. p128
Donna Tartt (The Goldfinch)
But Mann, who blogs along with Schmidt at RealClimate.org, sees himself as engaged in trench warfare against groups like the Heartland Institute. “We’re
Nate Silver (The Signal and the Noise: Why So Many Predictions Fail-but Some Don't)
Public debate over almost everything devolves into trench warfare, in which the most important goal is to establish that the other person is wrong.
Thomas M. Nichols (The Death of Expertise: The Campaign against Established Knowledge and Why it Matters)
Toleration of all sides, of which we were so proud, must be seen for what it is – a negative quality. He who as no real belief in anything can certainly be tolerant and to spare; but only intolerance has any force behind it.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Thus we can see that the mechanics of war not only mean increased power but also make the highest demands on the men concerned. The best men will have the best machinery and the best bachinery will have the best men – for the two are inseparable.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
But we have never stopped it [war] and never shall, because war is not the law of one age or civilization, but of eternal nature itself, out of which every civilization proceedes, and into which it must sink again if it is not hard enough to withstand its iron ordeal.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
From this it may be seen at once what is the most important quality a nation must possess when its position in the world compels it to reckon with the waging of great wars. This quality is more than ever, in peace as well as in war, the proof of its fitness to survive. It is the capacity for the speedy development of a large programme.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Russian rulers appealed to their people on the basis of their endurance, not their greatness. Russian diplomacy relied, to an extraordinary extent, on superior power. Russia rarely had allies among countries where it had not stationed military forces. Russian diplomacy tended to be power-oriented, tenaciously holding on to fixed positions and transforming foreign policy into trench warfare.
Henry Kissinger (On China)
To us, too, the machine is something external, something we that we have set up outside ourselves. But it is our indispensable resource, whether in peace or war; and for that reason we endorse it and accept it.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
The pretensioms of the other side may be even better grounded then ours. That is a matter of indifference. For it is not justification that turns the scale, but the stronger and more deeply realized will to power.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
The moment we give in, no machine in the world can help us. But as long as we do not lose the feeling that calls out to every valiant man, ’You are born to rule,’ we shall always know how to create the best instruments of power of our time.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Had we returned home in 1916, out of the suffering and the strength of our experience we might have unleashed a storm. Now if we go back we will be weary, broken, burnt out, rootless, and without hope. We will not be able to find our way any more.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)
The hardiest sons of the war, the men who lead the storm-troop, and manipulate the tank, the aeroplane, and the submarine, are preeminent in technical accomplishment; and it is these picked examples of dare-devil courage that represent the modern state i battle. These men of first-rate qualities with real blood in their veins, courageous, intelligent, accustomed to serve the machine, and yet its superior at the same time, are the men, too, who show up best in the trench and among the shell-holes.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Modern trench-warfare demands knowledge and experience; a man must have a feeling for the contours of the ground, an ear for the sound and character of the shells, must be able to decide beforehand where they will drop, how they will burst, and how to shelter from them.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)
Wars are bound to occur from time to time. In them is manifested that determination of nature to intervene directly in the evolution of the greatest organisms of the earth, though they strive to withdraw themselves from her influence, and to break it forcibly upon their one-sided and purely economic aims.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
From the outside, it was barely recognisable. Gaping holes in the walls and piles of smoking rubble had irrevocably altered the once imposing facade of l’Hôpital Saint Germain. The Allied propaganda machine had claimed the Battle of Amiens as a great victory – a turning point, spelling an end to the horrific futility of trench warfare. It was here in Amiens, the victors crowed, that the Germans had stumbled their first steps towards surrender. Yet as Dr Richard Buckley picked his way through the decimated city, he saw nothing about Amiens to suggest a city basking in the glory of victory. Instead, he found himself thinking: So this is what winning looks like. He
Jean Grainger (So Much Owed)
We are burnt up by hard facts; like tradesmen we understand distinctions, and like butchers, necessities. We are no longer untroubled-- we are indifferent. We might exist there; but should we really live there? We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial-- I believe we are lost.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet On The Western Front)
I peered cautiously through a loophole, trying to find the Fascist trench. ‘Where are the enemy?’ Benjamin waved his hand expansively. ‘Over zere.’ (Benjamin spoke English—terrible English.) ‘But where?’ According to my ideas of trench warfare the Fascists would be fifty or a hundred yards away. I could see nothing—seemingly their trenches were very well concealed. Then with a shock of dismay I saw where Benjamin was pointing; on the opposite hill-top, beyond the ravine, seven hundred metres away at the very least, the tiny outline of a parapet and a red-and-yellow flag—the Fascist position. I was indescribably disappointed. We were nowhere near them! At that range our rifles were completely useless.
George Orwell (Homage to Catalonia)
At the bottom I was quite content, for though I have never had great cares I have never had so care-free a life as at the front. Everything is clear and simple. My rights and duties are prescribed. I need earn no money. My food is provided me, and if things go badly with me I have a thousend fellow-sufferers, and above all, the shadow of death reduces every problem to a pleasant insignificance.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
For they who can come through this - and, as I say, there can only be a few, what can there be that they can not come through? And so I see in old Europe a new and commanding breed rising up, fearless and fabulous, unsparing of blood and sparing of pity, inured to suffering the worst and to inflicting it and ready to stake all to atain their ends - a race that builds machines, to whom machines are not soulless iron, but engines of might which it controls with cold reason and hot blood. This puts a new face on the world.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
A French officer . . . felt that there was a reverse correlation between xenophobia and proximity to the enemy: Hatred of the enemy diminished as one passed from the interior to the front, where it tapered still more as one went from staffs to field headquarters, from headquarters to batteries, from batteries to the battalion command post, and finally from there to the infantryman in the trench and observation sap, where it reached its lowest ebb. Or, as C.E. Mentague put it, rather more tersely: "War hath no fury like a noncombatant.
John Ellis (Eye-Deep In Hell: Trench Warfare In World War I)
Pacifism will rise and fall with the times. A period of weariness or one that lacks great ideas will always give it a clear field. And rightly, for when young men have no great aim before their eyes, why shold they sacrifice themselves? When they have, on the other hand, they will of their own accord be carried away by the force that quails at nothing. The proud and indisputable right of the victor to decide the world’s destiny is so intoxicating a prospect to a race that does not doubt its call to greatness, that all else must appear of no account.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Si existiera un gran ser al que no le costase ningún esfuerzo abarcar de una sola mirada el espacio que desde los Alpes se extiende hasta el mar, vería todo aquel trajín como una graciosa batalla de hormigas, como un suave martilleo en una misma obra. Pero nosotros vemos únicamente una parcela minúscula, y por eso nuestro pequeño Destino nos aplasta y la Muerte se nos aparece con una figura terrible. Tan sólo podemos conjeturar que estas cosas que aquí ocurren forman parte de un gran orden, y que en algún lugar se anudan, para formar un sentido cuya unidad se nos escapa, esos hilos de los cuales pendemos y en cuyo extremo realizamos contorsiones aparentemente absurdas e incoherentes.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
the military-industrial-scientific complex, because today’s wars are scientific productions. The world’s military forces initiate, fund and steer a large part of humanity’s scientific research and technological development. When World War One bogged down into interminable trench warfare, both sides called in the scientists to break the deadlock and save the nation. The men in white answered the call, and out of the laboratories rolled a constant stream of new wonder-weapons: combat aircraft, poison gas, tanks, submarines and ever more efficient machine guns, artillery pieces, rifles and bombs. 33. German V-2 rocket ready to launch. It didn’t defeat the Allies, but it kept the Germans hoping for a technological miracle until the very last days of the war. {© Ria Novosti/Science Photo Library.} Science played an even larger role in World War Two. By late 1944 Germany was losing the war and defeat was imminent. A year earlier, the Germans’ allies, the Italians, had toppled Mussolini and surrendered to the Allies. But Germany kept fighting on, even though the British, American and Soviet armies were closing in. One reason German soldiers and civilians thought not all was lost was that they believed German scientists were about to turn the tide with so-called miracle weapons such as the V-2 rocket and jet-powered aircraft. While the Germans were working on rockets and jets, the American Manhattan Project successfully developed atomic bombs. By the time the bomb was ready, in early August 1945, Germany had already surrendered, but Japan was fighting on. American forces were poised to invade its home islands. The Japanese vowed to resist the invasion and fight to the death, and there was every reason to believe that it was no idle threat. American generals told President Harry S. Truman that an invasion of Japan would cost the lives of a million American soldiers and would extend the war well into 1946. Truman decided to use the new bomb. Two weeks and two atom bombs later, Japan surrendered unconditionally and the war was over. But science is not just about offensive weapons. It plays a major role in our defences as well. Today many Americans believe that the solution to terrorism is technological rather than political. Just give millions more to the nanotechnology industry, they believe, and the United States could send bionic spy-flies into every Afghan cave, Yemenite redoubt and North African encampment. Once that’s done, Osama Bin Laden’s heirs will not be able to make a cup of coffee without a CIA spy-fly passing this vital information back to headquarters in Langley.
Yuval Noah Harari (Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind)
The important thing is that short and strenuous reverence be paid to the spirit of discipline. Three things keep a body of troops in fighting form: fighting spirit, strength and discipline. Fighting spirit – as I have said before – is the least easy to influence. It is the great prerequisite and justification of war – the spirit of the race and of the blood pledged to the last drop. There lie the roos of the strength whose full development is dependent on outward conditions, fresh air nourishment, clothing, and a lot else. When this soil fails fighting spirit is like a seedling plated in arenaceous quartz – it goes on growing for a while of its own resources and then gives out. It is a tragic destiny when a great enterprise comes to grief from this cause. Finally, the purpose of discipline is to economize and direct the two elements so that they are brought to bear on one aim with overwhelming force. It is a means, not an end; it is in seeing it in its true proportion that the real fighter is distinguished from the soldier. It is one of the danger-points of the Prussian system that it easily loses sight of the spirit in the letter and of real strength in the empty show of it. One of the most terrible apparitions is the sheer drill-master – a machine that goes by clockwork. It is bound to break down for the mere reason that in war there is no rule but the exception.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
When equal sacrifices are required, equal rights must be given likewise. This has been such commonplace of thought for a hundred and twenty years that one is ashamed to find it still in need of emphasis. I any case, if this principle is applied in an army, and the great saying about the Marshal’s baton that every recruit carries in his knapsack is not an mere empty phrase, everybody feels that he is in his place, whether he is born to command or to obey. If I give any offence by this, I may add that this would be an army composed entirely of Fahnenjunker. Democratic sentiments? I hate democracy as I do the plague – besides, the democratic ideal of an army would be one consisting entirely, not of Fahnenjunker, but of officers with lax discipline and great personal liberty. For my taste, on the contrary, and for that of young Germans in general to-day, an army could not be too iron, too dictatorial, ad too absolute – but if it is to be so, then there must be a system of promotion that is not sheltered behind any sort of privilege, but opened up to the keenest competition. If we are to come to grief in this war it can only be from moral causes; for materially, whatever any one may say, we are strong enough. And the decisive factor will be the defects of leadership; or to express it more accurately, the relation in which officers and men stand to each other. It would not be for the first time in our experience, and it would be another proof that peoples too (for it is on the shoulders of the whole people, not jsut the ruling class) always repeat the same mistakes just as individuals do. The battle of Jena is an instance. This defeat should not be regarded as a great disaster, but as a just and well-deserved warning of the fate to cut loose from an impossible state of affairs; for in that battle a new principle of leadership encountered and overthrew an antiquated one. Every war that is lost is lost deservedly. One must always bear that in mind if one wishes to be the winner.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
His trials were trench warfare.
Anonymous
… the white stain of chalk mixed with the clay topsoil zigzagging across the freshly-turned earth, the tell-tale marks of the German trenches from which ***** had been enfiladed. Fifty ploughings and fifty harvests had failed to erase those marks, so maybe they were etched into the land for all time, just like the spadework of the ancient peoples which the archaeologists studied with such fervour.
Anthony Price (Other Paths to Glory (Dr David Audley & Colonel Jack Butler #5))
Imperialistic war is a rebellion of technology which collects, in the form of “human material,” the claims to which society has denied its natural material. Instead of draining rivers, society directs a human stream into a bed of trenches; instead of dropping seeds from airplanes, it drops incendiary bombs over cities; and through gas warfare the aura is abolished in a new way.
Walter Benjamin (Illuminations: Essays and Reflections)
Un espíritu terrible ha borrado aquí todas las cosas superfluas y creado un trasfondo digno del cuadro que acabo de imaginar. Aquí el ser humano vuelve a convertirse necesariamente en un fragmento de la Naturaleza, que lo somete a sus leyes inescrutables y lo utiliza como una criatura hecha de sangre y músculos, de garras y dientes.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Para todos nosotros ha sido el Bosquecillo la encarnación suprema de esta posición, un símbolo como lo era, en épocas pretéritas, una bandera desgarrada por las balas. Y de igual modo que una bandera era entonces algo más que un ennegrecido pedazo de seda clavado a un palo, también ese pedazo de tierra arrasado y machacado por los proyectiles ha llegado a ser para nosotros algo más que un lugar carente de nombre, al que por ello fue preciso añadir un número con el fin de poder distinguirlo de los demás lugares. Los más de nosotros somos personas sencillas, gente que no sabría dar más que una respuesta confusa si alguien le preguntara por el origen de esta guerra o por sus grandes objetivos y sus grandes causas. Y si alguien les dijera a estos hombres que carece de toda importancia la pérdida o la ganancia de una parcela de terreno tan mezquina como ésa, sin duda no sería mucho lo que podrían replicar. A pesar de todo, sentirían que ese terreno representa algo más que una mezcla de greda y arena plantada de astillados troncos de árboles, cuya situación es determinable en un mapa y cuya superficie puede ser medida — de igual manera que la Cruz de Hierro que muchos llevan en su pecho significa para ellos algo más que un trozo de hierro con un borde plateado. El Bosquecillo 125 despertaría en estos hombres el recuerdo de marchas difíciles, de pesadas semanas de trabajo, de guardias nocturnas durante las cuales ese pedazo de tierra se destacaba en la oscuridad como un llameante alto horno, y de días en que sus ojos lo veían aplastado bajo el peso de nubes de proyectiles. El nombre del Bosquecillo 125 no se les aparecería como un nombre cualquiera, sino como un nombre que se graba al rojo vivo en la memoria y que evoca tal cantidad de acciones y sentimientos que, al mencionarlo, todos los detalles se vuelven insignificantes, como cuando contemplamos uno de esos sepulcros megalíticos que se han conservado de tiempos remotos. Esos hombres sentirían también que ese Bosquecillo no puede ser un lugar como otro cualquiera, porque cada uno de los pasos que en él dieron hubo de ser comprado con la vida, y porque el gran destino de los pueblos fue allí vivido y sufrido en el destino del individuo. Lo que el mensajero de los pocos supervivientes de la guarnición del Bosquecillo acaba de decir suena como una sentencia dictada por un Poder superior, pero como una sentencia de la que uno no tiene por qué avergonzarse, a pesar de lo dura que es.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Un recién llegado penetra en este momento en el angosto espacio; llega de fuera y pasa por encima de la muralla formada por los cuerpos humanos. Está herido y aún no lo han vendado; la herida, oculta bajo el cabello, ha inundado de sangre una de las caras de su rostro; chorros y salpicaduras de sangre han caído sobre el uniforme y llegado hasta las botas. La sangre parece seguir fluyendo todavía, pues, para que no le ciegue los ojos, aquel hombre aprieta una oreja contra un hombro. En la mano lleva un casco de acero, rajado por una larga hendidura. A pesar de su aspecto terrible posee una cierta majestuosidad. En su apostura y en sus ojos brillantes se le nota que no es uno de ésos que se dejan intimidar por la sangre cuando corre, sino de esos otros a los que ésta, como un primer sacrificio derramado en honor del dios de la guerra, vuelve aún más coléricos y salvajes. En la penumbra de la luz de las velas, que proporciona a su sangre un color oscuro, como de flores casi negras, y que hace juguetear alrededor de su cabello un áureo resplandor, el recién llegado aparece, entre los apretujados habitantes de esta caverna, como el mensajero de una raza más libre y más valerosa, de una raza que, si hay que morir, prefiere hacerlo fuera, a la luz del día. La noticia que trae suena como un último saludo de guerreros que han caído combatiendo como hombres, sosteniendo ante sus ojos una sola imagen, la del deber.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
El horizonte de los embudos y de las trincheras es —un horizonte estrecho. Su alcance no es mayor que el de una granada de mano; lo que uno ve allí se le queda bien grabado. Contra ese fondo horrible se yergue el combatiente, el hombre sencillo, anónimo, sobre el cual gravitan el peso y el destino del mundo. En los bordes de fuego situados más allá de todo límite procrea ese hombre — en la noche solitaria procrean el Hombre y la Tierra. Yo he visto su rostro bajo el brillante borde del casco cuando la Muerte se alzaba amenazadora ante él. Lo he visto caer muerto; su imagen y su legado permanecen en mi corazón.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
¿Qué clase de hombres son, pues, estos aviadores? Proceden de ese ejército gigantesco que, allá delante en las trincheras, está sometido a un fuego permanente, y constituyen una selección a la que ha congregado el afán de entregarse a formas de combate cada vez más audaces. También hay entre ellos soldados de caballería, figuras delgadas como yóqueis, de rostros afilados y monóculos brillantes. Se han cansado de estar inactivos en las aldeas y en las mansiones señoriales de la retaguardia y de esperar, sin hacer nada, a que se reanude el avance. Se les nota que pertenecen a familias que desde hace siglos llevan en la sangre el espíritu de los combates ecuestres y que miran con desdén, como poco adecuado a su rango, ese modo de luchar que consiste en situarse detrás de máquinas y de fusiles automáticos. Por ello se les acusa de que entienden más de cazar y disparar que de manejar los motores. Pero entre los aviadores hay también otros hombres que han nacido y crecido en las zonas llenas de humo de las grandes industrias y que desde su infancia han estado cerca de los medios y poderes propios de nuestra época. Ellos se han adentrado un poco más en este mundo nuestro que, por debajo de su superficie fría, hierve de misterios y prodigios incandescentes; estos hombres barruntan ese espíritu elemental que comienza a dar señales de vida en los átomos del acero y de los materiales explosivos y en las crepitantes chispas del encendido de una máquina. Y, sin embargo, sus pasos se orientan hacia lo sencillo; los aviadores dominan su avión como el australiano domina su bumerán. Hay, en fin, entre ellos, otros hombres en los que parecen haber resucitado, haber re-nacido de una manera extraña, los antiguos vikingos; apenas representa diferencia ninguna el que éstos de ahora suban a pájaros artificiales y los vikingos de otros tiempos subieran a naves piratas adornadas con escudos multicolores. Es cierto que han cambiado los tiempos y los medios, pero ha permanecido viva la audacia con que se enfrentan a la Muerte.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Nadie tomará a mal que aquí, sumidos en la concavidad de la ola, entre peligro y peligro, agarremos por los pelos la Vida, en la medida en que nos es posible. Son pocas nuestras alegrías. En realidad sólo tenemos una: beber y divertirnos en compañía de los camaradas. Cada vez puede ser la última vez; por ello disfrutamos con una fruición salvaje, como si fuera la única vez. Aquí alargamos nuestras manos hacia todos los frutos que se nos ofrecen, para volver a extraerles todo su jugo, y sentimos con un placer muy especial la acelerada circulación de la sangre en nuestras venas. La embriaguez es para nosotros una pregunta que hacemos a la Vida; cuando a esa pregunta se le da, de una manera desenfrenada, una respuesta afirmativa, nos sentimos reconfortados. En comparación con los guerreros de otros tiempos, hoy morimos de un modo muy amorfo, muy solitario — por ello sentimos tanto más intensamente el afán de demostrarnos a nosotros mismos, en una hora de euforia, que aún queda en nosotros, frente a la Muerte, algo de aquella polícroma magnificencia que el hombre valiente tiene el don de revelar ante el cuadrilátero cerrado.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Esos relámpagos describen un vasto y convulso círculo que corta los frentes y parece reunir a amigos y enemigos en una misma obra de destrucción. El conjunto produce la impresión de un jubiloso triunfo de los elementos, de una ígnea erupción de la Tierra misma; frente a ello, el ser humano, que en pequeñas hordas oscuras cruza a la carrera las sombras, representa un papel minúsculo e insignificante.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Es un espectáculo como sólo en las grandes ocasiones lo ofrece la Naturaleza: en una tempestad, en un huracán o en un incendio — uno puede estar contemplándolo sin notar que pasa el tiempo.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
The Rapid Reflection Force (RRF). Simply put, the RRF is an interdisciplinary group charged with assisting the incident commander “grasp and confront issues raised by unconventional situations.”127 Lagadec describes the RRF as …a spur that will prod crisis leadership to keep moving, keep thinking, never indulging in trench warfare against unconventional disruptions—as such events will instantly overwhelm or turn round all attempts to draw static lines of defense or restore intellectual comfort zones. With this objective in mind, the critical weapon in the RRF’s arsenal turns out to be insightful questions, rather than preformatted answers, which are the building blocks of artificial certainty, the Trojan horses of instant collapse.128
Naval Postgraduate School (When Will We Ever Learn? The After Action Review, Lessons Learned and the Next Steps in Training and Education the Homeland Security Enterprise for the 21st Century)
In fact, this was not a new lesson: by 1914, it was apparent to governments across Europe that the management of public opinion was an inescapable element of large-scale wars. On the Western Front, six correspondents had been ‘embedded’ within the British Army; they produced what some believe to be the worst reporting of any war, before or since, and all were knighted for their services.79 Their editors knew that these correspondents were concealing the horrors of trench warfare: the Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, told C. P. Scott, editor of the Manchester Guardian: ‘If people really knew, the war would be stopped tomorrow. But of course they don’t know and can’t know. The correspondents don’t write and the censorship would not pass the truth.
Ian Cobain (The History Thieves: Secrets, Lies and the Shaping of a Modern Nation)
I always thought their masterpiece was the night they hauled away a corrupt judge’s sports car from his driveway and returned it to the same spot before dawn, compacted into a gleaming block of crushed metal not much larger than a footlocker. Ozone Eddy was to New Orleans what mustard gas was to trench warfare; you tried to stay upwind from him, but it was not an easy task.
James Lee Burke (Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux, #19))
You never get used to the feeling of hot metal, entering your skull and exiting through the back of your head. It’s simulated in glorious detail. A burning train through your forehead, a warm spray of blood and brain on your shoulders and back, the sudden chill – and finally, the black, when things stop. The Archons of the Dilemma Prison want you to feel it. It’s educational. The Prison is all about education. And game theory: the mathematics of rational decision-making. When you are an immortal mind like the Archons, you have time to be obsessed with such things. And it is just like the Sobornost – the upload collective that rules the Inner Solar System – to put them in charge of their prisons. We play the same game over and over again, in different forms. An archetypal game beloved by economists and mathematicians. Sometimes it’s chicken: we are racers on an endless highway, driving at each other at high speeds, deciding whether or not to turn away at the last minute. Sometimes we are soldiers trapped in trench warfare, facing each other across no-man’s-land. And sometimes they go back to basics and make us prisoners – old-fashioned prisoners, questioned by hard-eyed men – who have to choose between betrayal and the code of silence. Guns are the flavour of today. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.
Hannu Rajaniemi (The Quantum Thief (Jean le Flambeur #1))
Remorse is like quicksand. The harder you try to redeem yourself, the greater you get pulled into the trench of psychological warfare.
Prasoon (The Imperfect)
father. For fifteen years Daedalus labored, creating what looked like a trench warfare playground in the backyard of the palace. Fortunately, it was a really big backyard. If you put the Mall of America, Walt Disney World, and twenty football stadiums together, they would all fit inside the Labyrinth with room to spare.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide))
The rules of warfare seem to go in cycles alternating from neat rows—the Roman square, the French knights at Agincourt, the fixed battles of the early eighteenth century, the trenches of 1915–18, and the Maginot/Siegfried lines—to rules that stress mobility, irregularity, adaptability—Attila the Hun, the English longbowmen at Agincourt, the colonial guerrillas in 1776, both sides in our Civil War, the German panzers, the Viet Cong, and the Afghan guerrillas.
Joe Coulombe (Becoming Trader Joe: How I Did Business My Way and Still Beat the Big Guys)
But these days, these warfare days, those old images just don’t cut it for me. I need a battlefield Jesus at my side down here in the dangerous, often messy trenches of daily life. I need Jesus the rescuer, ready to wade through pain, death, and hell itself to find me, grasp my hand, and bring me safely through.
Joni Eareckson Tada (A Place of Healing: Wrestling with the Mysteries of Suffering, Pain, and God's Sovereignty)
Nothing is more repulsive to me than the literary man who must immediately display every emotion and every experience to its best advantage and stick it on paper.
Ernst Jünger (Copse 125: A Chronicle from the Trench Warfare of 1918)
Lewis’s scant references to the horrors of trench warfare confirm both its objective realities (“the horribly smashed men still moving like half-crushed beetles, the sitting or standing corpses, the landscape of sheer earth without a blade of grass”) and his own subjective distancing of himself from this experience (it “shows rarely and faintly in memory” and is “cut off from the rest of my experience”).[156] This is perhaps the most distinctive feature of Lewis’s “treaty with reality”—the construction of a frontier, a barrier, which protected Lewis from such shocking images as “horribly smashed men,” and allowed him to continue his life as if these horrors had been experienced by someone else. Lewis spun a cocoon around himself, insulating his thoughts from rotting corpses and the technology of destruction. The world could be kept at bay—and this was best done by reading, and allowing the words and thoughts of others to shield him from what was going on around him. Lewis’s experience of this most technological and impersonal of wars was filtered and tempered through a literary prism. For Lewis, books were both a link to the remembered—if sentimentally exaggerated—bliss of a lost past and a balm for the trauma and hopelessness of the present. As he wrote to Arthur Greeves several months later, he looked back wistfully to happier days, in which he sat surrounded by his “little library and browsed from book to book.”[157] Those days, he reflected with obvious sadness, were gone.
Alister E. McGrath (C. S. Lewis: A Life: Eccentric Genius, Reluctant Prophet)
In the history of warfare, a succession of bold ideas and weapons had promised to curb the tyranny of distance. The horse and the cavalry had revolutionised warfare and tamed distance; but the Boer War, where more than 300,000 horses were killed in the fighting, foreshadowed the declining role of the horse. In the First World War the flimsy aircraft flourished high above the trenches without seeming likely to conquer distance; and yet in the Second World War the Japanese launched their devastating aerial attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, and the huge American aircraft dropped the first atomic bombs on two distant Japanese cities in 1945. In various other phases of the war, however, distance was still a powerful obstacle. In the following decades the latest American and Soviet missiles covered vast distances, but many military leaders in the nuclear era believed that ‘the tyranny of distance’ was far from ended.
Geoffrey Blainey (Before I Forget)
By the end of the war, the Civil War had become a forerunner to the trench warfare of World War I, and if an army was given 24 hours to entrench, their position became practically unassailable. Thus, the Army of the Potomac’s inability to clear Brock Road on May 8 allowed the Confederates to begin the process of digging in, a crucial advantage.
Charles River Editors (The Stonewall Brigade: The History of the Most Famous Confederate Combat Unit of the Civil War)
Haig and his colleague General Robertson’s commitment to trench warfare—in the belief that conscripted soldiers were too untrained to do anything other than stand in a line and walk forward—had a devastating effect on the casualty lists.
M.J. Carter (George, Nicholas and Wilhelm: Three Royal Cousins and the Road to World War I)
For more than two years he stayed on the slaughterhouse battlefields of France. In September at Varennes he was wounded by a ricocheting rifle bullet in his left thigh—characteristically for him, he was confronting three French soldiers alone and with an empty rifle. He was awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class. When he returned to the 124th Infantry from the hospital on January 13, 1915, it was fighting in grueling trench warfare in the Argonnes forest. Two weeks later he crawled with his riflemen through 100 yards of barbed wire into the main French positions, captured four bunkers, held them against a counterattack by a French battalion and then withdrew before a new attack could develop, having lost less than a dozen men. This bravery won Rommel the Iron Cross, First Class—the first for a lieutenant in the entire regiment.
David Irving (THE TRAIL OF THE FOX The Search for the True Field Marshall)
Behind us lay rainy weeks—grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing;—and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get dry. Those who will wear high boots tie sand bags round the tops so that the mud does not pour in so fast. The rifles are caked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oily mass in which lie yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood and into which the dead, wounded, and survivors slowly sink down. The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the child-like cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans painfully into silence.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)