Then, when it seemed almost a physical impossibility to restrain
their itching fingers from pulling the triggers, the longed for
word was given.

"Here they are! Now, then, boys, fire!"

Volley after volley rang out. The foremost of the enemy fell
at their feet. Hand to hand was the fighting; the bayonets lunged
with deadly effect, but seemed powerless to thrust the mass back
on itself. Men shot, hacked, stabbed and clubbed each other. It
was a whirl of uplifting and descending rifles and bolos.

Fierce oaths vied with the shrieks of the wounded for supremacy.
The grunt of men who slaughter; the gasps of the victims when the
steel went home were heard on all sides. At times the soldiers
could not see on account of the sweat and blood pouring from their
faces; the very air was foul from the steam from the living and the
dead. They could not breathe; a sort of vertigo overpowered them,
and they only kept their feet by grappling with the enemy.

To Bansemer, it seemed that all his life he had been doing nothing
but warding off and ring blows. Fighting side by side with Rogers,
he saw, with horror, that the soldier's rifle had been torn from
his hands, and that he had no weapon to defend himself; but before
he could see just how it happened, this individual combat had altered
its aspect: Rogers had grabbed a Filipino's gun and was doing the
clubbing. With renewed zest Bansemer finished with the bayonet
his own assailant, and saw the man fall on top of poor Adams and
Relander.