Men, Women and Guns by H.C. McNeile — Read

Nothing in this war has so struck those who have fought in it as its / impersonal nature. From the day the British Army moved north, and the / first battle of Ypres commenced -- and with it trench warfare as we know / it now -- it has been, save for a few interludes, a contest between / automatons, backed by every known scientific device. Personal rancour / against the opposing automatons separated by twenty or thirty yards of / smelling mud -- who stew in the same discomfort as yourself -- is apt to / give way to an acute animosity against life in general, and the accursed / fate in particular which so foolishly decided your sex at birth. But, / though rare, there have been cases of isolated encounters, where / men -- with the blood running hot in their veins -- have got down to / hand-grips, and grappling backwards and forwards in some cellar or / dugout, have fought to the death, man to man, as of old. Such a case has / recently come to my knowledge, a case at once bizarre and unique: a case / where the much-exercised arm of coincidence showed its muscles to a / remarkable degree. Only quite lately have I found out all the facts, and / now at Dick O'Rourke's special request I am putting them on paper. True, / they are intended to reach the eyes of one particular person, but. / the personal column in the _Times_ interests others besides the lady in / the magenta skirt, who will eat a banana at 3.30 daily by the Marble / Arch!

And now, at the very outset of my labours, I find myself -- to my great / alarm -- committed to the placing on paper of a love scene. O'Rourke / insists upon it: he says the whole thing will fall flat if I don't put / it in; he promises that he will supply the local colour. In advance I / apologise: my own love affairs are sufficiently trying without / endeavouring to describe his -- and with that, here goes.