On the other side of the Tiergartenstrasse, under the shade of the trees, I saw an old man, probably a World War veteran, running along beside the soldiers on his feeble legs. As he tried desperately to keep up with the men, his face was aglow with the remembered glory of battle. The music had entered his blood, the sight of the marching men brought back the glorious old days. “Paris by Christmas,” his blood was singing. “My army, my wonderful German army!”
