This was a machine, endless, tireless, with the delicate organization of a watch and the brute power of a steam roller.

And for three days and three nights through Brussels it roared and rumbled, a cataract of molten lead.
The infantry marched singing, with their iron-shod boots beating out the time.

They sang "Fatherland, My Fatherland." Between each line of song they took three steps.

At times two thousand men were singing together in absolute rhythm and beat.

It was like the blows from giant pile-drivers.