There is always a way to get out of the most entangling net. Sometimes it narrows down to only one way and if the captive fails to choose that one particular hazard out of a thousand plausible ones, he is out of luck. So it was, there was only one way to extricate myself from the web that Brereton had spun so quickly around my whole ambition. Very, very fortunately I had picked the winner. It was a long chance, but I was Houdini this time. This hardboiled monster had to be met with his own style. So, with an assumed rôle of the hardboiled, man-eating cannibal, I right away cut out that “sir” stuff, took out my pipe and calmly started to fill it with “Bull Durham” tobacco, which was the only brand our little canteen had in stock, and we were really mighty happy to get even that. Brereton plainly saw that my temper had gotten out of bounds and that I was preparing to come back at his apparently final decision either with tears or blasphemy or both. But just as the matador seeks to infuriate the bull by waving a red flag before slaughtering him, so Brereton seeing me about to fill my pipe with this well-advertised and justly celebrated brand of tobacco, ventured forth. “Lieutenant,” he said, clearing his throat by way of emphasis, “I take it that you are about to use some Bull.” He said this quite seriously, without even a follow-up laugh to dull the cutting bluntness of it. It apparently was his day, for like the infuriated bull, I was seeing red already. I made the final run to gore him or be stabbed myself by his waiting poniard of arrogance. “You can call it Bull, if you like,” I fairly cried, “but, pardon my frankness, the fact that you classify what I have to say even before you have heard it shows your premature judgment, just as you prematurely judged my ability or lack of ability as an observer before even giving me an opportunity to demonstrate it. Of course, I don’t know whether you have ever been over the lines or not, but if you have, you will concur with me that the greatest thing an observer needs is ‘guts.’ I don’t say I’m a world’s beater in experience, but one thing I have and which can be demonstrated nowhere else but over the lines,” and here I threw out my chest, “and that is ‘guts’ or politely ‘intestines.’ Now, if that asset means anything to you, you will give me a chance to stay with the 12th. All I want is an opportunity to render good service, and to show the stuff I am made of. Now if you don’t want to give me a chance I can do nothing further except to tell you that I will get the chance elsewhere and that I know more about observation than most of your observers ever will know.” Major Brereton was dumbfounded. When he recovered he gave a real, ringing, golden, genuine laugh, came across and said, “Damn it all, my boy, maybe you’re right. I haven’t been over the lines myself yet.” I knew quite well he hadn’t. If it had been otherwise I would have mended my speech considerably.