in which warfare might be directed from a center like Bray Park.
Thence aeroplanes, skillfully fashioned to represent the British
planes, and so escape quick detection, might set forth. They
could carry a man or two, elude guards who thought the air lanes
safe, and drop bombs here, there everywhere and anywhere. Perhaps
some such aerial raid was responsible for the explosion that had
freed him only a very few hours before. Warfare in England,
carried on thus by a few men, would be none the less deadly
because it would not involve fighting. There would be no pitched
battles, that much he knew. 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