I felt that I ought to put it on and wear it--proclaiming myself to all Redmond the coward I know I am.

The boys of my year are going--going.

Every day two or three of them join up.
Some days I almost make up my mind to do it--and then I see myself thrusting a bayonet through another man--some woman's husband or sweetheart or son--perhaps the father of little children--I see myself lying alone torn and mangled, burning with thirst on a cold, wet field, surrounded by dead and dying men--and I know I never can.

I can't face even the thought of it.

How could I face the reality?
There are times when I wish I had never been born.