If the Russians get through they will never recognize what is left of us among so much of the wreckage of battle.

The snow will soon cover us, and when the spring comes there will only be a few bleached bones.
Upon my soul it is the kind of death I always wanted.' And he quoted softly to himself a verse of an old Scots ballad: 'Mony's the ane for him maks mane, But nane sall ken whar he is gane.
Ower his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.' 'But our work lives,' I cried, with a sudden great gasp of happiness.
'It's the job that matters, not the men that do it.

And our job's done.

We have won, old chap--won hands down--and there is no going back on that.

We have won anyway; and if Peter has had a slice of luck, we've scooped the pool ...