The Guard had its garrisons chiefly in Potsdam, but also partly in Berlin, and represents the physical flower of German manhood.  On parade it was inspiring to look at, and no military officer in the world ever doubted its prowess.  Nor has it failed in the war to show splendid courage and fighting qualities.  English people simply do not understand its prestige at home and among neutrals.

The Guard is sent only where there is supreme work to be done.  If you hear that it has been hurled into a charge you may rest assured that it is striving to gain something on which Germany sets the highest price—­for the life-blood of the Guard is the dearest that she can pay.

In the battle of the Marne the active regiments of the Guard forming a link between the armies of von Bulow and von Hausen were dashed like spray on jagged cliffs when they surged in wave after wave against the army of Foch at Sezanne and Fere Champenoise.

Germany was willing to sacrifice those superb troops during the early part of the battle because she knew that von Kluck had only to hold his army together, even though he did not advance, and the overthrow of Foch would mean a Teuton wedge driven between Verdun and Paris.

One year and ten months later she hurled the Guard Reserve at Contalmaison because she was determined that this important link in the chain of concrete and steel that coiled back and forth before Bapaume-Peronne must remain unbroken.  The newly-formed lines of Britain’s sons bent but did not break under the shock.  They were outnumbered, but, like all the rest of the British that the back-from-the-front German soldiers have told me about, these fought on and on, never thinking of surrender.

I know from one of these that in a first onslaught the Guard lost heavily, but was reinforced and again advanced.  Another desperate encounter and the men from Potsdam withered in the hand-to-hand carnage.  The Germans could not hold what they had won back, and the khaki succeeded the field grey at Contalmaison.

The evacuation of the wounded occupied hours.  I purposely missed my train, for I knew that I was probably the only foreign civilian to see the historic picture of the proudest soldiery of Prussia return to its garrison town from the greatest battle in history.

Empty trains were pulled out of the way, to be succeeded by more trains full of wounded, and again more.  Doctors and nurses were attentive and always busy, and the stretcher-bearers moved back and forth until their faces grew red with exertion.

But it was the visages of the men on the stretchers that riveted my attention.  I never saw so many men so completely exhausted.  Not one pair of lips relaxed into a smile, and not an eye lit up with the glad recognition of former surroundings.