“War is hell.”

I intend to make Georgia howl.

I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the city of Savannah.

War is at its best barbarism.

I would make this war as severe as possible, and show no symptoms of tiring till the South begs for mercy.

The better classes are tired of the insane howling of the lower strata and they mean to stop them.

I know I had no hand in making this war, and I know I will make more sacrifices today than any of you to secure peace.

It’s a disagreeable thing to be whipped.

War is too serious a matter to leave to soldiers.

He belonged to that army known as invincible in peace, invisible in war.

This war differs from other wars, in this particular. We are not fighting armies but a hostile people, and must make old and young, rich and poor, feel the hard hand of war.

Every attempt to make war easy and safe will result in humiliation and disaster.

I think I understand what military fame is; to be killed on the field of battle and have your name misspelled in the newspapers.

I will answer that war is war, and not popularity seeking.

Every change in the rules which impairs the principle weakens the army.

It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell.

I hate newspapermen. They come into camp and pick up their camp rumors and print them as facts. I regard them as spies, which, in truth, they are.