"I count easily five regiments together, but further to the right a sixth one evidently wards off a flank attack on the part of the French colonial troops. The lone regiment is the Second Prussian regiment of the guard, the emperor's own, the elite of the Kaiser's army, 2,500 of the brawniest, most disciplined men in the world. It is now 1 o'clock. In one hour only 300 of these men will leave the field. "A gust of wind brings to our ears the sound of music. The guards' band is encouraging the men. At the foot of the small hill on which we stand are twenty lines of trenches filled with Scotch and English infantry. The men are silently awaiting the attack. Not a rifle is being fired. The trenches are the Germans' goal; these and the British batteries once taken, the road into Ypres is clear. "In the valley the Germans halt. The range is only 1,500 yards now and every British shot is telling. The effects are appalling. The gray masses move onward once more, seem to hesitate, but sharp bugle blasts launch them forward again and on the run they come for the trenches. "At 1,000 yards our batteries again stop them. Whole rows are mowed down, vast spaces appearing between the ranks. The companies intermingle, then the regiments themselves seem to amalgamate and melt into one another. Officers are seen galloping along the sides, evidently trying to bring order out of chaos. "The artillerymen work silently, the perspiration streaming down their cheeks, and continue sending on their messengers of death. "The Second regiment of the Guard alone, off to the right, seems untouched, and on it comes. Suddenly the sound of a bagpipe is heard. The Scots are awake. From the trenches an avalanche rushes forward toward the disordered Germans. "At the double-quick Scots and English, a few feet apart, yelling like demons, pounce on the attackers. Rifles are silent. It is cold steel alone. Our battery captains cry 'Stop firing.' There is a risk of shelling our own men now. We become spectators. "On the right the Guard has suddenly turned toward the hill. A bugle blast and the mass of men half turns and seems to be thrown on the back of the British, outflanked. The situation is desperate. Our artillery is useless. "Listen! Over the valley, rising louder and still louder, comes a song which the Germans have heard before. A crash of brass, a hoarse roar fills the air, echoing across the valley, drowning the shouts and curses of the human wave fighting below. "The 'Marseillaise'--the English and Scots have heard it. 'Hold tight, the French are coming,' we scream. They cannot hear us, but we must shout--the strain is too intense. "Past our batteries a company of Spahis rushes like a cyclone. Two more follow, then the Zouaves. Rifles close to their hips, bayonets low, throwing out over the valley its glorious anthem, the human flood crashes against the Guard.