In despair, he declared that he was not like those others.
He now conceded it to be impossible that he should ever become a hero.
He was a craven loon.

Those pictures of glory were piteous things.

He groaned from his heart and went staggering off.
A certain mothlike quality within him kept him in the vicinity of the battle.

He had a great desire to see, and to get news.

He wished to know who was winning.
He told himself that, despite his unprecedented suffering, he had never lost his greed for a victory, yet, he said, in a half-apologetic manner to his conscience, he could not but know that a defeat for the army this time might mean many favorable things for him.