With a longer reach and armed with a rifle and bayonet of greater length than the British service weapon the Hun had a certain advantage; but lack of initiative and the slowness of his mental and physical powers neutralized his ascendancy over the short, sturdily built Wheatshire corporal.
Thrice the steel crossed. Once the Prussian's bayonet rasped against the wood casing of Ginger's rifle—a foiled effort to cripple his antagonist's fingers. By a brilliant parry Anderson knocked the point aside, and the next instant his bayonet was thrust deeply into the Hun's body.
"Well done, Ginger!" shouted his comrades.
"Too bloomin' well done," rejoined the victor. "'Ere, you chaps, who's gotter fust-aid dressin'? Mine's been kippered. Thanks, mate."
And almost before the heat of the combat had had time to cool Anderson was on his knees by the side of his late adversary, working diligently to staunch the flow of blood from the wound that he had made.
"Yer asked for it properly, Fritz," he exclaimed. "Why didn't yer put yer bloomin' 'ands up when I told yer?"
In answer, the wounded Hun turned his head and bit the hand of the man who was tending him.
"Yer rotten cannibal!" ejaculated Ginger, and disregarding the advice of his comrades to knock the fellow over the head, Anderson gathered up his bombs, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and vanished from Setley's view.
By this time the battle had rolled onwards. Away on the right German shells were pounding the slopes of Vimy Ridge. That was a good sign. It proved that the British troops had secured a footing in what was unquestionably a key to this section of the hostile line.
Hindenburg had had his wish gratified—to meet the British in the open. He had failed to gain anything by it. In trench warfare the New Army had proved itself superior to the product of the German High Command, and now, with their trenches left miles in the rear, the Tommies were "mopping up" the Huns as neatly as the most exacting commander could wish.