Sometimes we have a kind of love for our enemies and sometimes we feel hate for our friends.
Is it then so terrible to kill an enemy in war--an enemy who has surprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades--an enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its numbers?
The soldier never becomes wholly familiar with the conception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot divest himself of the feeling that they are another order of beings, differently conditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth.
Oh yes, people always, everywhere, loved their enemies. It was their friends they preserved for pain and vacuity.