Every day we saw more and more of Feodor, and we grew to love him. As to sniping him now—the idea never entered our beads. Accordingly, while a deafening strafe proceeded daily on both sides of us, we remained in a state of idyllic peace and hatelessness.
Then arrived the cruel day when the Brass Hats came round, and a large and important General asked us—
"But are you being offensive enough to the enemy in front?"
"Offensive to Feodor, Sir? Impossible!"
"You must be offensive," he rejoined. "I don't think there is sufficient hate in this part of the line."
It was this unfortunate moment that Feodor chose to step on to his parapet and call out cheerfully to the Great Man—
"Good morning, Johnee!"
For one tense moment I thought the General would burst. By an effort he pulled himself together, however, and shouted to my troops in a voice of thunder—
"At That Person in front—fifteen rounds rapid. Fire!"
We had to do it, of course, and, although I think most of our sights were a little high, accidents will happen. Feodor emitted one unearthly shriek, and his time back towards home would, if it had been taken, make a world's championship record.