“So Wilibald’s gone west?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you spot him?”
“The cold woke me. I have noticed how the gas from a rifle hangs on chilly days. Wilibald forgot that. He had a shot at the loophole of No. 16 Bay Post, and I was watching, and spotted him. He was lying out in the turnips, about seventy yards from our line. He had turnip-tops fixed round his cap, and lay in a hole he’d dug. He must have come out before dawn and gone back after dark. He was a pretty gallant fellow, sir.”
The C.O. nodded.
“D——d gallant,” said he.
“I thought, sir, if you’d no objection, I’d take a patrol out and fetch him in—for purposes of identification.”
So Wilibald was brought in. His cap, some letters in his pocket, and his shoulder-straps were forwarded to Brigade; but his rifle, beautifully fitted with a Zeiss telescope sight, which had taken over twenty British lives, turned its muzzle east instead of west, and began to take German lives instead.