The officer turned, and the stretcher-party resumed its way. He stood watching them for a little, his thoughts roving from the horrible way in which a pointed bullet, fired from a rifle with a muzzle-velocity of 3,000 feet a second, will at times keyhole, to the deeds and too-haunting personality of Wilibald the Hun. British troops have throughout the war given names to any German sniper whose deeds lent him a personality. Fritz is generic; but once let a Hun impress himself by skill, and he is christened. Thus we have known Adolfs, Wilhelms, Old Seven-trees, Bluebeard, and a hundred others. At first, thanks to the Duke of Ratibor, who collected all the sportsmen’s telescopic-sighted rifles in Germany—and it is proof of German far-sightedness that a vast percentage of them took the military cartridge—the Hun sniper took heavy toll against our blunt open sights. Later, things happened, and the plague was stayed; but in the days of this incident the Hun and the Briton were still striving unevenly for mastery.
The officer turned at length, and walked slowly down the trench till he came to company headquarters. A second-lieutenant, standing at the entrance to the dug-out, was unloading a rifle.
“Hullo, Bill,” said the officer. “Whose rifle?”
“My batman’s.”
“What have you been doing with it?”
“Wilibald shot Jack Harrison through the head. I——”
“Don’t,” said the red-haired officer shortly.
“Why not?”
“Have you ever shot with that rifle?”
“No.”