Instead, there would be swift, stabbing raids.
Water works, gas works, would be blown up. Attempts would be made to drop
bombs in barracks, perhaps. Certainly every effort would be made to destroy
the great warehouses in which food was stored. It was new, this sort of
warfare; it defied the imagination. And yet it was the warfare that, once
he thought of it, it seemed certain that the Germans would wage.
He gritted his teeth at the thought of it. Perhaps all was fair in love and
war, as the old proverb said. But this seemed like sneaky, unfair fighting
to him. There was nothing about it of the glory of warfare. He was learning
for himself that modern warfare is an ugly thing. He was to learn, later,
that it still held its possibilities of glory, and of heroism. Indeed, for
that matter, he was willing to grant the heroism of the men who dared
these things that seemed to him so horrible. They took their lives in
their hands, knowing that if they were caught they would be hung as spies.
The truck was well into London now, and the dawn was full. A faint drizzle
was beginning to fall and the streets were covered with a fine film of mud.
People were about, and London was arousing itself to meet the new day.
Harry knew that he was near his journey's end. Tired as he was, he was
determined to make his report before he thought of sleep.
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