I shared the captivity

During my term of imprisonment none of those implicated in the first-mentioned Netsha?v trial (which belonged to the “Propagandist” phase of our movement, in 1870,) were still in Kara. They had all been released from prison and sent into exile, and I saw nothing of them; but of course I had known personally many of these revolutionists of earlier days when they were still in freedom.
of several who were sentenced in the various political trials towards the end of the seventies, these having been mostly concerned in deeds of violence, from armed resistance to the police to attempts on the life of the Tsar. The chief combatants in that terrorist campaign had for the most part ended their days on the scaffold, or were buried alive within the grim walls of Schlüsselburg or in the Alexei-Ravelin wing of the Fortress of Peter and Paul. I had been acquainted with most of them, both men and women, before their fate overtook them, and I could set down much that I learned from these comrades in the terrorist struggle; but my reminiscences already threaten to assume formidable dimensions, and I will only briefly mention some of the most remarkable of such incidents.

Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik were two prominent actors in the Propagandist movement, both of whom had been justices of the peace. In May, 1876, when imprisoned in 261the examination-prison in Petersburg, assisted by comrades outside they made an attempt to escape. They succeeded in getting out of their cell and climbing down a rope-ladder from one of the corridor windows; but an official who happened to be driving past the prison, thinking they were ordinary criminals, gave the alarm, and they were caught. They were sentenced to terms of penal servitude in the “Trial of the 193”; but again an attempt was made to rescue them, a plan being made to enable them to escape while being transported to the Khàrkov prison, where the prisoners considered most dangerous were then confined.

This was in July, 1878. A number of armed men, two of them mounted, stopped the prison-van in which Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik were being conveyed; one of the gendarmes guarding it was shot, and the attempt might have been successful had not the horses taken fright and stampeded, which led to the recapture of the prisoners. Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik spent many years of confinement in European Russia, and were then sent, in company with many other revolutionists, to Kara, where they finished their term of imprisonment, subsequently being exiled in Yakutsk. Most of their companions found graves in the wilds of Siberia, but Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik survived their hour of release; in the winter of 1898-1899 they returned to European Russia, where Voynoràlsky died soon afterwards in his own home.

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among the other convicts

In reality the thing had been very simple. One of my comrades, named Frolènko, had provided himself with a false passport, and had got employment in the prison; one night he took Stefanòvitch, Bohanòvsky and me away disguised as warders.99After the usual formalities I was led away to my cell, and as I passed along the corridors I noticed that structural alterations had been made everywhere. The cell in which I was installed was unusually large, and was almost filled up by the wooden bedshelves; apparently it was generally used for a large number of prisoners temporarily confined there, and had now been assigned for my sole occupation, so that I might not be left Makeup class.

The prison of Ki?v has an interesting history in connexion with the “politicals.” Many episodes—not always entirely tragic—in the revolutionary movement have taken place there; indeed, in that respect scarcely any other Russian prison except the Fortress of Peter and Paul can equal it. Above all, it has been the scene of frequent escapes. Besides us Tchigirìners, in the same year the student Isbìtsky and an Englishman named Beverley 100attempted an escape. They had scooped out a tunnel under the wall, and were actually already free, when a sentinel espied them and fired. The Englishman fell dead, and Isbìtsky was caught. Four years later another student, named Basil Ivànov, escaped with the help of the officer in command of the guard, a certain Tìhonov, a member of the Naròdnaia Vòlya. Shortly before my arrival, Vladìmir Bìtshkov also disappeared from Ki?v prison in a very mysterious way, and so far as I know a certain much-esteemed authority has to this day not solved the riddle of that, and is probably still racking his brains over it moving van rental.

Finally, in August, 1902, eleven “very important” prisoners escaped from Ki?v, nine of them having been arrested early in the year, and two the year before. These prisoners were allowed to take exercise every evening in the prison courtyard, in presence of only one warder. They and their friends knew that one of the surrounding outer walls, beyond which were fields, was unguarded on the outside. They were provided secretly with an iron anchor weighing twenty pounds, and with an improvised ladder made of strips of sheets. At a given moment some of the prisoners muffled and gagged the guard, and tied him up before he could give the alarm. In the meantime others formed themselves into a living pyramid, and thus managed to fix their anchor to the top of the prison wall, so that they could fasten to it their ladder for ascending and a rope for descending on the other side. That after they were actually free they could manage to hide in the town, and afterwards all get away safely, was due to the sympathy of the general public, many members of which not only helped the fugitives by deed, but also subscribed together a considerable sum to assist the escape. It is noteworthy that from first to last in this affair no one was killed or hurt, nor a drop of blood shed storage backup.

But these prison walls have also witnessed sadder scenes. Many revolutionists have passed their last hours within 101them, waiting to be led to the scaffold. Still greater is the number of those who have left this place to tread the path to exile and the Siberian prisons. Only the Fortress of Peter and Paul, the gaol at Odessa, and perhaps the Warsaw citadel, can for memories like these compare with the prison of Ki?v. Here too, more than anywhere else, have conflicts taken place between the imprisoned revolutionists and the authorities. The tradition as to these occurrences remains unbroken; every “political” cherishes the memory of the “old times”—i.e. the exceptionally stormy years 1877-9. The young generation speaks of them as the “heroic ages”; and not only the prison staff, but even the ordinary criminals (who are employed here in the domestic labour of the place), relate stories of them. The authorities have never succeeded in uprooting the independent spirit that flourishes within these precincts, and the door had hardly closed behind me when I had a proof of it.

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Curiously enough

Maria-Teresa opened her eyes. What was this dream from which she had awakened, or into which she had fallen? Little Christobal’s plaintive voice brought her keen realization of the brutal truth. She held out her arms to the child, but felt neither his kisses nor his tears on her face. Her eyes were still heavy with magic sleep, and she opened them with difficulty set up company in singapore.

When, gradually, she came out of the abyss of darkness and dreams into which she could be plunged almost instantly by the sacred sachets always ready in the hideous fists of the three living mummies; the mammaconas, too, had terrible perfumes which they burned round her in precious vases, sandia more pungent than incense, more hallucinating than opium, which transformed the Bride of the Sun into a beautiful living statue. Then they could sing their songs uninterruptedly, for Maria-Teresa had gone to another world, and heard nothing of what happened about her ski rental.

her spirit then carried her back to the hour when the knock had come at her window in Callao and when, dropping the big green register to the floor, she had run to meet Dick. She was worried, too, by the everpresent memory of an unfinished letter to their agent in Antwerp, which she had been writing when that other knock at the window had sent her running to Dick again. She remembered with horrible distinctness the appearance of the three living mummies, swaying in the darkness, and the feel on her mouth and face of the hands made parchment-like by the eternal night of the catacombs. Waking from this lethargic slumber, she thought she had shaken off a dream, but when her eyes opened, she no longer knew whether she had not just entered into a terrible dreamland.

When Maria-Teresa opened her eyes this time, she was in the House of the Serpent. She knew, for the mammaconas had told her, that when she, awoke there she would be near unto death. There it was that Huayna Capac, father of the last King of the Incas, would come to fetch the bride offered to Atahualpa, and take her with him to the Enchanted Realms of the Sun. In the lucid moments left to her during the voyage, when she was given the nectar that kept her alive, the mammaconas had taught her the duties of the Bride, and the first principles of the faith to which she was to be sacrificed Unique Beauty.

At first, Maria-Teresa had hoped that she would be happy enough to lose her reason, or that the terrible fever which took her would free the troubled soul before the body was taken to martyrdom. But the mammaconas knew the secrets which cure such fevers, and had given her to drink a reddish liquid, chanting the while: “Fever has spread over you its poisoned robe. The hated race shall never know our secrets, but our love for Atahualpa’s bride is greater than our hatred. Drink and be well, in the name of Atahualpa, who awaits thee!”

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Ernest saw no logical escape

from this conclusion. He saw that belief on the part of the early Christians in the miraculous nature of Christ’s Resurrection was explicable. without any supposition of miracle. The explanation lay under the eyes of anyone who chose to take a moderate degree of trouble; it had been put before the world again and again, and there had been no serious attempt to refute it. How was it that Dean Alford, for example, who had made the New Testament his specialty, could not or would not see what was so obvious to Ernest himself? Could it be for any other reason than that he did not want to see it, and if so was he not a traitor to the cause of truth? Yes, but was he not also a respectable and successful man, and were not the vast majority of respectable and successful men, such for example, as all the bishops and archbishops, doing exactly as Dean Alford did, and did not this make their action right, no matter though it had been cannibalism or infanticide, or even habitual untruthfulness of mind hong kong package?

Monstrous, odious falsehood! Ernest’s feeble pulse quickened and his pale face flushed as this hateful view of life presented itself to him in all its logical consistency. It was not the fact of most men being liars that shocked him — that was all right enough; but even the momentary doubt whether the few who were not liars ought not to become liars too. There was no hope left if this were so; if this were so, let him die, the sooner the better. “Lord,” he exclaimed inwardly, “I don’t believe one word of it. Strengthen Thou and confirm my disbelief.” It seemed to him that he could never henceforth see a bishop going to consecration without saying to himself: “There, but for the grace of God, went Ernest Pontifex.” It was no doing of his. He could not boast; if he had lived in the time of Christ he might himself have been an early Christian, or even an Apostle for aught he knew. On the whole, he felt that he had much to be thankful for Wedding gown rental.

The conclusion, then, that it might be better to believe error than truth, should be ordered out of court at once, no matter by how clear a logic it had been arrived at; but what was the alternative? It was this, that our criterion of truth — i.e., that truth is what commends itself to the great majority of sensible and successful people — is not infallible. The rule is sound, and covers by far the greater number of cases, but it has its exceptions doing business in hong kong.

He asked himself, what were they? Ah! that was a difficult matter; there were so many, and the rules which governed them were sometimes so subtle that mistakes always had and always would be made; it was just this that made it impossible to reduce life to an exact science. There was a rough-and-ready, rule-of-thumb test of truth, and a number of rules as regards exceptions which could be mastered without much trouble, yet there was a residue of cases in which decision was difficult — so difficult that a man had better follow his instinct than attempt to decide them by any process of reasoning.

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They would all

“Above all,” she continued, “do not let him work up to his full strength, except once or twice in his lifetime; nothing is well done nor worth doing unless, take it all round, it has come pretty easily. Theobald and Christina would give him a pinch of salt and tell him to put it on the tails of the seven deadly virtues”; — here she laughed again in her old manner at once so mocking and so sweet —“I think if he likes pancakes he had perhaps better eat them on Shrove Tuesday, but this is enough.” These were the last coherent words she spoke. From that time she grew continually worse, and was never free from delirium till her death — which took place less than a fortnight afterwards, to the inexpressible grief of those who knew and loved her Geschäftsreise Hong Kong.

Letters had been written to Miss Pontifex’s brothers and sisters, one and all came post-haste to Roughborough. Before they arrived the poor lady was already delirious, and for the sake of her own peace at the last I am half glad she never recovered consciousness.

I had known these people all their lives, as none can know each other but those who have played together as children; I knew how they had all of them — perhaps Theobald least, but all of them more or less — made her life a burden to her until the death of her father had made her her own mistress, and I was displeased at their coming one after the other to Roughborough, and inquiring whether their sister had recovered consciousness sufficiently to be able to see them. It was known that she had sent for me on being taken ill, and that I remained at Roughborough, and I own I was angered by the mingled air of suspicion, defiance, and inquisitiveness, with which they regarded me Hong Kong Macau Tour.

except Theobald, I believe, have cut me downright if they had not believed me to know something they wanted to know themselves, and might have some chance of learning from me — for it was plain I had been in some way concerned with the making of their sister’s will. None of them suspected what the ostensible nature of this would be, but I think they feared Miss Pontifex was about to leave money for public uses. John said to me in his blandest manner that he fancied he remembered to have heard his sister say that she thought of leaving money to found a college for the relief of dramatic authors in distress; to this I made no rejoinder, and I have no doubt his suspicions were deepened 48 hours in Hong Kong.

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new fangled papistry

rBACE1O3QFPy1kp8AABxTy6ZduI703But in the evening later on I saw three very old men come chuckling out of a dissenting chapel, and surely enough they were my old friends the blacksmith, the carpenter, and the shepherd. There was a look of content upon their faces which made me feel certain they had been singing; not doubtless with the old glory of the violoncello, the clarinet, and the trombone, but still songs of Sion and no hong kong companies registry.

THE hymn had engaged my attention; when it was over I had time to take stock of the congregation. They were chiefly farmers — fat, very well-to-do folk, who had come some of them with their wives and children from outlying farms two and three miles away; haters of popery and of anything which anyone might choose to say was popish; good, sensible fellows who detested theory of any kind, whose ideal was the maintenance of the status quo with perhaps a loving reminiscence of old war times, and a sense of wrong that the weather was not more completely under their control, who desired higher prices and cheaper wages, but otherwise were most contented when things were changing least; tolerators, if not lovers, of all that was familiar, haters of all that was unfamiliar; they would have been equally horrified at hearing the Christian religion doubted, and at seeing it practised Online PR agency.

“What can there be in common between Theobald and his parishioners?” said Christina to me, in the course of the evening, when her husband was for a few moments absent. “Of course one must not complain, but I assure you it grieves me to see a man of Theobald’s ability thrown away upon such a place as this. If we had only been at Gaysbury, where there are the A’s, the B’s, the C’s, and Lord D’s place, as you know, quite close, I should not then have felt that we were living in such a desert; but I suppose it is for the best,” she added more cheerfully, “and then of course the Bishop will come to us whenever he is in the neighbourhood, and if we were at Gaysbury he might have gone to Lord D’s Design course.”

Perhaps I have now said enough to indicate the kind of place in which Theobald’s lines were cast, and the sort of woman he had married. As for his own habits, I see him trudging through muddy lanes and over long sweeps of plover-haunted pastures to visit a dying cottager’s wife. He takes her meat and wine from his own table, and that not a little only but liberally. According to his lights also, he administers what he is pleased to call spiritual consolation.

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Perhaps this very hour the sun

Geoffrey Gaimer put these stories into French. The stories traveled to France. Once there, other legends were added, and when Geoffrey’s Chronicle turned up again in England it came back as the work of Wace, a Norman trouveur, or ballad-singer. But Geoffrey’s stories were too good to let drop even after they had been through so many hands. An English priest in Worcestershire by the name of Layamon, translating the French poem which Wace had made out of Geoffrey’s prose stories, retold the stories in English poetry. That was in 1205, after Geoffrey had died Managed SIEM Service.

Geoffrey of Monmouth must have been very happy as he sat in his sunny, golden window and heard about the tales he had written there. He must have chuckled many a time over what the world had made out of his nimble story-telling wits. English literature could not be at all the same, in either prose or poetry, if it were not for that golden palace door over which was written Welsh or that window upon the stairway where Geoffrey sat.

But it was the Normans who brought the taste for history with them to England in 1066, when they conquered the land which had been King Alfred’s land. It was some time before the Normans became what we call English in their feeling. Probably the Normans would never have become so strongly English in feeling if English patriotism, even after the conquest of 1066, had not remained very much alive. The English had written down in English some of the proverbs of their former King Alfred. The parents of the chronicler, William of Malmesbury, were both English and Norman. And, strangely enough, Layamon’s “Brut” is not unlike the poetry of the cowherd C?dmon, the first of the great English singers, the first of English poets Google Advertising.

is shining down upon that golden window of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and laughing for joy because the man who “lied so saucily” was the first of the great English story-tellers.

Geoffrey’s window is a very fascinating place to be—possibly the most interesting window the world has ever seen. It is not just one lifetime which has found that window interesting, but more lifetimes than we can count comfortably. Sir Thomas Malory, who wrote his Morte d’Arthur in 1469, fairly lived in that window; so did Shakespeare when he wrote “King Lear” in 1605, and even the modern poet, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, who wrote “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” composed a series of poems called “Idylls of the King,” which return for their sources through Malory to Geoffrey at his window LCD TV.

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In order to facilitate

further the research of the student and to make clear certain of the more obscure selections, I have preceded each chapter with a short account of the book and its contents. In these brief essays, I have reviewed the entire contents of each book, set down the circumstances under which it was written, and attempted to weigh its individual importance in relation to the others. Furthermore, I have attempted to state briefly certain of the doctrines which did not permit of entirely self-explanatory quotation. And where Nietzsche indulged in research, such as in tracing the origin[Pg 15] of certain motives, or in explaining the steps which led to the acceptance of certain doctrines, I have included in these essays an abridged exposition of his theories. In short, I have embodied in each chapter such critical material as I thought would assist the reader to a clear understanding of each book’s contents and relative significance rent power generator.

This book is frankly for the beginner—for the student who desires a survey of Nietzsche’s philosophy before entering upon a closer and more careful study of it. In this respect it is meant also as a guide; and I have given the exact location of every quotation so that the reader may refer at once to the main body of Nietzsche’s works and ascertain the premises and syllogisms which underlie the quoted conclusion BBA MBA.

In the opening biographical sketch I have refrained from going into Nietzsche’s personality and character, adhering throughout to the external facts of his life. His personality will be found in the racy, vigorous and stimulating utterances I have chosen for quotation, and no comments of mine could add colour to the impression thus received. It is difficult to divorce Nietzsche from his work: the man and his teachings are inseparable. His style, as well as his philosophy, is a direct outgrowth of his personality. This is why his gospel is so personal and intimate a one, and so closely bound up in the instincts of humanity. There are several good biographies of Nietzsche in existence, and a brief account of the best ones in English will be found in the bibliography at the end of this volume.

It must not be thought that this book is intended as a final, or even complete, commentary on Nietzsche’s doctrines. It was written and compiled for the purpose of[Pg 16] supplying an introductory study, and, with that end in view, I have refrained from all technical or purely philosophical nomenclature. The object throughout has been to stimulate the reader to further study, and if this book does not send the reader sooner or later to the original volumes from which these quotations have been made, I shall feel that I have failed somewhat in my enterprise office furniture.

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loyalty to a superior

Supposing it is the first time one has gone out on man?uvres, there are all sorts of pleasant speculations in which one can indulge. Guillaumette, the surly fellow, who when in barracks always occupies the next bed and snores so atrociously—he who is not always perfectly innocent of faire suisse, though he has the luck of a pig, and never gets caught at any of his mean tricks—Guillaumette will be going away when one returns to barracks at the end of the man?uvres, and who shall say what pleasant kind of a comrade may not come from among the new recruits to take his place? Jacques, for instance, who belongs to the third peloton has a first-year man in the next bed to him, one who is the son of a deputy, and has always plenty of money nu skin.

When the deputy’s son was for guard and was warned for duty so late that he could not possibly get ready in time, Jacques lent him kit and helped him to turn out, with the result that Jacques had five francs—five francs, think of it!—with which to go to the canteen. And, soon after one has got back off man?uvres, the new recruits will be coming in; one will be a second-year man, then, with perhaps a deputy’s son to sleep in the next bed and dispense five francs at a time to one who knows all the little ways of soldiering and can be of use. The possibilities, both of the man?uvres themselves and of what comes after, are endless, and speculation on them is a pleasant business. Surly old Sergeant Lemaire, too, is almost sure to get promotion this year, and the peloton will get another sergeant to take charge of it—certainly not one with a worse temper, for that would be impossible nuskin hk.

And the long road slips behind, while the troopers conjecture with regard to their future, talk together of horses bad and good, sergeants and corporals bad and good, comrades also bad and good; they smoke as they ride, and talk yet more of horses, for any army of the world the cavalrymen never tire of talking of horses and their own riding abilities, while in the French Army boasting of one’s own horsemanship, and all the rest of one’s own good qualities, is even more common than it is among English soldiers. Not that the boasting among either is carried to a nauseous extent, but the soldier is so subject to discipline, so used to doing good work with only the official recognition by way of return, that, knowing the work is good, he talks about it himself since nobody is there to do the talking for him—and this is especially true of the cavalry.

Some time ago Conan Doyle created in “Brigadier Gerard” an excellent picture of a French cavalry officer of the old type, and to some extent the picture of Gerard—the most human and realistic figure Conan Doyle has ever penned, by the way—still holds good as regards both officers and men. One may find in both officers and men of the French cavalry to-day much of the absolute disregard of risks, rather than bravery as that is understood among the English, which characterises the brigadier. There is, too, much of Gerard’s vanity in modern French cavalry officers and men, much of his susceptibility to influence, and all of his absolute nuskin hong kong.

The French cavalryman will tell his comrades how he dislikes his squadron officer, but he will follow that squadron officer anywhere and into any danger—his loyalty is sufficient for any test that may be imposed on him. Like Gerard, he will brag of the things he has done, will devote much time to explaining exactly how he did them and how no other man could have done them just as well, until a British cavalryman, if he were listening, would tell the speaker to pass the salt and hire a trumpeter to blow for him. But, though the French cavalryman is true to the Gerard picture in that he boasts inordinately, it will be found, when one has got to close acquaintance with him, that he does not boast without reason. He has done a good thing—why not talk about it, for if he does not nobody else will? The British attitude toward a boaster is one of contempt, since the man who boasts generally does little, and exaggerates that little out of recognition. But the French cavalryman boasts—and acts too; like the Englishman, he does his work, and, unlike the Englishman, he talks about it. But it must always be remembered that he acts as well as talks.

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This system of giving so much

The conscript system, leading to a number of unwilling soldiers, is much more provocative of punishments than the voluntary system. In the latter, all men who enlist get the habit of making the best of their service; they have joined the army of their own free will, and have only themselves to blame if they do not like it. In a conscript army, however, there are many who hate the limitations imposed on them by service in time of peace, and enter only with a view to getting the business over and getting back to their former positions in life; it is a disagreeable necessity, the period of military service, and they are there to do as little as possible, without any regard to the welfare of the country, though a national emergency like the present finds every man willing to do his part. Not that such an attitude is the rule in time of peace, but, especially among the very lowest classes, it is not unusual. Since it is impossible to make sheep and goats of the men, but all must be treated alike, discipline is much more rigid and severe than in the British Army—which is the only voluntary European army from which comparisons can be drawn. The view is taken—necessarily taken—that men must be compelled to do their work and learn their lessons of drill and shooting; for those who give trouble in any way, there is the salle de police, or guard-room, the prison for worse offences, and, for hardened offenders, there is service in the dreaded disciplinary battalions of Algeria. This last form of punishment is resorted to only in the case of men who have “committed one or several faults, the gravity of which makes any other mode of repression inadequate.”

Contrary to the rule of the British Army, in which only commanding and company or squadron officers are empowered to inflict punishment, in the French Army any man can be punished by any other man holding a rank superior to his own, under all circumstances that may arise. As an instance: if a private of a British regiment insulted a corporal of another regiment, the case would be reported to the man’s own commanding officer, who in due time would investigate the case and inflict the requisite punishment for the offence; in the French Army, if a private were guilty of a similar offence, the injured corporal would be at liberty to inflict the punishment on his own account; his action would have to be confirmed by a superior officer, but, under the rules governing the administration of punishment, there would be no difficulty about that.

The officer in command of a regiment has power to increase, diminish, or even cancel punishments inflicted by inferior officers, and the captain in charge of a squadron has a like power over the subordinate officers directly under his command and over the punishments they may inflict.

power to all has more against it than in its favour. Certainly, given a just junior officer or non-commissioned officer, he is more likely to inflict a punishment that fits the crime than the commanding officer to whom he may report the case—he knows all the circumstances better than the man to whom he may tell them, and, in direct contact with the offender at the time the offence was committed, is not so likely to err on the side of undue severity or that of undue leniency—and that is about all that can be said in favour of the system. Against it must be said that it places in the hands of very many men, of all ranks and grades, a tremendous power which may easily be abused; under such a system a sergeant or corporal who has a grudge against a particular man can make that man’s life a perfect misery to him, and, since in a conscript army authority must be upheld at all costs, even more than in a volunteer army, the right of complaint which belongs to the man is not often of much use to them—discipline would be impaired if officers upheld their men against their non-commissioned officers.

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