He does not want to be here. He wants to be at home with his wife and infant son. He wants to sit beside the fire and to read and to get up in the morning and to work in the steel mill and to feel the glory of providing for his family. He wants to eat bread and warm soup and meat. He is sick of turnips. He does not want this war. He does not know why he is here, why he volunteered, what pride pushed him to the front. That pride has vanished. In this war, he has no name, no face. He is just another soldier, another almost-dead, for a country without a cause. He does not want the mud, the lice, the cold, the tedium, the vulnerability, the ache, the shit, the angry, the sad, the scared, the lonely. There is no glory in this war.