We're clamouring for brains.

It's the healthy, brilliant-brained men like Randall that the Army's yelling for--simply yelling for," I repeated, bringing my hand down on the arm of my chair.
Two little red spots showed on each side of her thin face.
"I've never looked at it in that light before," she admitted.
"Of course I agree with you," I said diplomatically, "that Randall would be more or less wasted as a private soldier.

The heroic stuff of which Thomas Atkins is made is, thank God, illimitable.

But intellect is rare--especially in the ranks of God's own chosen, the British officer.

And Randall is of the kind we want as officers.