"He'd chosen to go for a soldier. Maybe he had a story that began that way: a poor widowed mother at home and three young sisters to feed and a girl from down the lane who smiled at him...he'd go home then in his fine uniform and put silver in his mother's hands and ask the smiling girl to marry him. Or maybe he'd lose a leg and go home sorrowful and bitter to find her married to a man who could farm; or maybe he'd take to drink to forget that he'd killed men..."They all had stories. They had mothers or fathers, sisters or lovers. They weren't alone in the world, mattering to no one but themselves. It seemed utterly wrong to treat them like pennies in a purse. I felt the soldiers understood perfectly well that we were making sums out of them...this many safe to spend, this number too high, as if each one wasn't a whole man."