Benners crouched, his left foot a trifle advanced; his head drawn down well between his shoulders and shielded by one of his hands. The other hand covered his stomach. The sniper paused irresolute for a moment, then, with tiger-like fury, he swung into his man, striking out rapidly with both fists. Guarding his body carefully, Benners waited, ready for an opening, and when he saw his way he drove heavily with both hands for the sniper's mouth. The two blows went home; the German stepped back several paces, his mouth dripping with blood. Both had now forgotten about their bayonets.... Rage took possession of the sniper, a terrible, murderous rage, and he was upon Benners, striking out with his knees, fists and boots. Benners crouched, holding his body compactly together and covered his face and stomach with his hands. For two minutes he struggled to endure. His enemy was well-nigh resistless, and all the rage and cunning of the tiger were loose in the man. Benners went to the ground and was twice kicked as he curled over in an endeavour to rise, but seizing a chance he gripped his opponent's ankle, and brought him heavily to the ground. They fastened on to one another as they lay and still in embrace they got to their feet. As they stood Bowdy got his hand free and hit the sniper across the mouth. As if by mutual consent they broke apart and the sniper devoted the fraction of a second to wipe his mouth. Then he rushed in again and Benners backed round to save himself from a furious onslaught of stinging blows. The German, vital and overwhelming, seemed to be in his element. All the essence of passion, hate and elemental madness found expression in this onslaught. Thrice a twelve yard circle of ground was covered, Bowdy fighting gamely but ever giving backwards. His body and face were now covered with blood; and his hands went up, not in battle, but almost in mute protest against a crushing fatalism. The terrible charges of the sniper, the lightning thrusts of the man's fists were wearing Bowdy down. Suddenly the German, over-confident, struck out for his opponent's head, leaving his stomach unguarded, and Bowdy saw his chance and took it. A heavy swing of his left fist landed on the space between the ribs that fork outwards from the breastbone, and the sniper curled up and dropped like a wet rag to the ground. Bowdy fell beside him and the two men lay together, quiet as sleeping children. Bowdy turned over on his back and breathed deeply for a space, then stumbled to his feet. "I wish I had my bayonet," he muttered, rubbing his hand over his brow. "It's a fight between two of us, a fight to death.... By God! he can fight, too. But no wonder; he's a wrestler. And I feel done up."