THE GREAT RETREAT
On the morning of the 27th we draggled into Saint Quentin. I found the
others gorged with coffee and cakes provided by a kindly Staff-Officer.
I imitated them and looked around. Troops of all arms were passing
through very wearily. The people stood about, listless and sullen.
Everywhere proclamations were posted beseeching the inhabitants to bring
in all weapons they might possess. We found the Signal Company, and rode
ahead of it out of the town to some fields above a village called
Castres. There we unharnessed and took refuge from the gathering storm
under a half-demolished haystack. The Germans didn't agree to our
remaining for more than fifty minutes. Orders came for us to harness up
and move on. I was left behind with the H.Q.S., which had collected
itself, and was sent a few minutes later to 2nd Corps H.Q. at Ham, a
ride of about fifteen miles.
On the way I stopped at an inn and discovered there three or four of our
motor-cyclists, who had cut across country, and an officer. The
officer[8] told us how he had been sent on to construct trenches at Le
Cateau. It seems that although he enlisted civilian help, he had neither
the time nor the men to construct more than very makeshift affairs,
which were afterwards but slightly improved by the men who occupied
them.
Five minutes and I was on the road again. It was an easy run, something
of a joy-ride until, nearing Ham, I ran into a train of motor-lorries,
which of all the parasites that infest the road are the most difficult
to pass. Luckily for me they were travelling in the opposite direction
to mine, so I waited until they passed and then rode into Ham and
delivered my message.
The streets of Ham were almost blocked by a confused column retreating
through it. Officers stationed at every corner and bend were doing their
best to reduce it to some sort of order, but with little success.
Returning I was forced into a byroad by the column, lost my way, took
the wrong road out of the town, but managed in about a couple of hours
to pick up the Signal Co., which by this time had reached the Chateau at
Oleezy.
There was little rest for us that night. Twice I had to run into Ham.
The road was bad and full of miscellaneous transport. The night was
dark, and a thick mist clung to the road. Returning the second time, I
was so weary that I jogged on about a couple of miles beyond my turning
before I woke up sufficiently to realise where I was.
The next morning (the 28th) we were off before dawn. So tired were we
that I remember we simply swore at each other for nothing at all. We
waited, shivering in the morning cold, until the column was well on its
way.
At Oleezy the Division began to find itself. Look at the map and think
for a moment what the men had done. On the 21st they had advanced from
Landrecies to Bavai, a fair day's march on a blazing day. On the 22nd
they had marched from Bavai to the Canal. From the morning of the 23rd
to midday or later on the 24th they had fought hard. On the afternoon
and evening of the 24th they had retired to the Bavai-Saint-Waast line.
Before dawn on the morning of the 25th they had started off again and
marched in column of route on another blazing day back to a position a
few miles south of Le Cateau. The battle had begun as the sun rose on
the 26th, and continued until three o'clock or later in the afternoon.
They plodded through the darkness and the rain. No proper halt was made
until midday of the 27th.
The General, who had escaped, and the Staff worked with ferocious
energy, as we very painfully knew. Battalions bivouacked in the open
fields round Oleezy collected the stragglers that came in and
reorganised themselves. The cavalry were between us and Saint Quentin.
We were in communication with them by despatch rider. Trains full of
French troops passed westwards over Oleezy bridge. There were, I
believe, General d'Amade's two reserve divisions. We had walked away
from the Germans.
We rode after the column. On the way we passed a battalion of men who
had been on outpost duty with nothing but a biscuit and a half apiece.
They broke their ranks to snatch at some meat that had been dumped by
the roadside, and gnawed it furiously as they marched along until the
blood ran down from their chins on to their jackets.
I shall never forget how our General saw a batch of Gordons and K.O.S.B.
stragglers trudging listlessly along the road. He halted them. Some
more came up until there was about a company in all, and with one piper.
He made them form fours, put the piper at the head of them. "Now, lads,
follow the piper, and remember Scotland"; and they all started off as
pleased as Punch with the tired piper playing like a hero.
Oving or the Fat Boy volunteered to take a message to a body of cavalry
that was covering our rear. He found them, and then, being mapless (maps
were very scarce in those days), he lost his way. There was no sun, so
he rode in what he thought was the right direction, until suddenly he
discovered that he was two kilometres from Saint Quentin. As the Germans
were officially reported to be five miles south of the town he turned
back and fled into the darkness. He slept that night at a cottage, and
picked up the Division in the morning.
I was sent on to fill up with petrol wherever I could find it. I was
forced to ride on for about four miles to some cross-roads. There I
found a staff-car that had some petrol to spare. It was now very hot, so
I had a bit of a sleep on the dusty grass by the side of the road, then
sat up to watch lazily the 2nd Corps pass.
The troops were quite cheerful and on the whole marching well. There
were a large number of stragglers, but the majority of them were not
men who had fallen out, but men who had become separated from their
battalions at Le Cateau. A good many were badly footsore. These were
being crowded into lorries and cars.
There was one solitary desolate figure. He was evidently a reservist, a
feeble little man of about forty, with three days' growth on his chin.
He was very, very tired, but was struggling along with an unconquerable
spirit. I gave him a little bit of chocolate I had; but he wouldn't stop
to eat it. "I can't stop. If I does, I shall never get there." So he
chewed it, half-choking, as he stumbled along. I went a few paces after
him. Then Captain Dillon came up, stopped us, and put the poor fellow in
a staff-car and sent him along a few miles in solitary grandeur, more
nervous than comfortable.
Eventually the company came along and I joined. Two miles farther we
came to a biggish town with white houses that simply glared with
heat.[9] My water-bottle was empty, so I humbly approached a good lady
who was doling out cider and water at her cottage door. It did taste
good! A little farther on I gave up my bicycle to Spuggy, who was riding
in the cable-cart.
We jolted along at about two miles an hour. For some time two spies
under escort walked beside the limber. Unlike most spies they looked
their part. One was tall and thin and handsome. The other was short and
fat and ugly. The fear of death was on their faces, and the jeers of our
men died in their mouths. They were marched along for two days until a
Court could be convened. Then they were shot.
Just before Noyon we turned off to the left and halted for half an hour
at Landrimont, a little village full of big trees. We had omelettes and
coffee at the inn, then basked in the sun and smoked. Noyon was
unattractive. The people did not seem to care what happened to anybody.
Perhaps we thought that, because we were very tired. Outside Noyon I
dozed, then went off to sleep.
When I awoke it was quite dark, and the column had halted. The order
came for all except the drivers to dismount and proceed on foot. The
bridge ahead was considered unsafe, so waggons went across singly.
I walked on into the village, Pontoise. There were no lights, and the
main street was illuminated only by the lanterns of officers seeking
their billets. An A.S.C. officer gave me a lift. Our H.Q. were right the
other end of the town in the Chateau of the wee hamlet called La
Pommeraye. I found them, stumbled into a loft, and dropped down for a
sleep.
We were called fairly late.[10] George and I rode into Pontoise and
"scrounged" for eggs and bread. These we took to a small and smelly
cottage. The old woman of the cottage boiled our eggs and gave us
coffee. It was a luxurious breakfast. I was looking forward to a slack
lazy day in the sun, for we were told that we had for the moment
outdistanced the gentle Germans. But my turn came round horribly soon,
and I was sent off to Compiègne with a message for G.H.Q., and orders to
find our particularly elusive Div. Train. It was a gorgeous ride along a
magnificent road, through the great forest, and I did the twenty odd
miles in forty odd minutes.
G.H.Q. was installed in the Palace. Everybody seemed very clean and
lordly, and for a moment I was ashamed of my dirty, ragged, unshorn
self. Then I realised that I was "from the Front"--a magic phrase to
conjure with for those behind the line--and swaggered through long
corridors.
After delivering my message I went searching for the Div. Train. First,
I looked round the town for it, then I had wind of it at the station,
but at the station it had departed an hour or so before. I returned to
G.H.Q., but there they knew nothing. I tried every road leading out of
the town. Finally, having no map, and consequently being unable to make
a really thorough search, I had a drink, and started off back.
When I returned I found everybody was getting ready to move, so I packed
up. This time the motor-cyclists rode in advance of the column. About
two miles out I found that the others had dropped behind out of sight. I
went on into Carlepont, and made myself useful to the Billeting Officer.
The others arrived later. It seems there had been a rumour of Uhlans on
the road, and they had come along fearfully.
The troops marched in, singing and cheering. It was unbelievable what
half a day's rest had done for them. Of course you must remember that we
all firmly believed, except in our moments of deepest despondency,
first, that we could have held the Germans at Mons and Le Cateau if the
French had not "deserted" us, and second, that our retreat was merely a
"mouvement stratégique."
There was nothing doing at the Signal Office, so we went and had some
food--cold sausage and coffee. Our hostess was buxom and hilarious.
There was also a young girl about the place, Hélène. She was of a middle
size, serious and dark, with a mass of black lustreless hair. She could
not have been more than nineteen. Her baby was put to bed immediately
we arrived. We loved them both, because they were the first women we had
met since Mons who had not wanted to know why we were retreating and had
not received the same answer--"mouvement stratégique pour attaquer le
mieux." I had a long talk that night with Hélène as she stood at her
door. Behind us the dark square was filled with dark sleeping soldiers,
the noise of snoring and the occasional clatter of moving horses.
Finally, I left her and went to sleep on the dusty boards of an attic in
the Chateau.
We were called when it was still dark and very cold (August 30). I was
vainly trying to warm myself at a feeble camp fire when the order came
to move off--without breakfast. The dawn was just breaking when we set
out--to halt a hundred yards or so along. There we shivered for half an
hour with nothing but a pipe and a scrap of chocolate that had got stuck
at the bottom of my greatcoat pocket. Finally, the motor-cyclists, to
their great relief, were told that they might go on ahead. The Grimers
and I cut across a country to get away from the column. We climbed an
immense hill in the mist, and proceeding by a devious route eventually
bustled into Attichy, where we found a large and dirty inn containing
nothing but some bread and jam. The column was scheduled to go ten
miles farther, but "the situation being favourable" it was decided to go
no farther. Headquarters were established by the roadside, and I was
sent off to a jolly village right up on the hill to halt some sappers,
and then back along the column to give the various units the names of
their billets.
We supped off the sizzling bacon and slept on the grass by the side of
the road. That night George burned his Rudge. It was an accident, but we
were none too sorry, for it had given much trouble. There were messages
right through the night. At one in the morning I was sent off to a
Chateau in the Forest of Compiègne. I had no map, and it was a pure
accident that I found my way there and back.
The next day (Aug. 31) was a joyous ride. We went up and down hills to a
calm, lazy little village, Haute Fontaine. There we took a wrong turning
and found ourselves in a blackberry lane. It was the hottest,
pleasantest of days, and forgetting all about the more serious
things--we could not even hear the guns--we filled up with the softest,
ripest of fruit. Three of us rode together, N'Soon, Grimers, and myself.
I don't know how we found our way. We just wandered on through sleepy,
cobbled villages, along the top of ridges with great misty views and by
quiet streams. Just beyond a village stuck on to the side of a hill, we
came to a river, and through the willows we saw a little church. It was
just like the Happy Valley that's over the fields from Burford.
We all sang anything we could remember as we rattled along. The bits of
columns that we passed did not damp us, for they consisted only of
transport, and transport can never be tragic--even in a retreat. The
most it can do is to depress you with a sense of unceasing monotonous
effort.
About three o'clock we came to a few houses--Béthancourt. There was an
omelette, coffee, and pears for us at the inn. The people were
frightened.
Why are the English retreating? Are they defeated?
No, it is only a strategical movement.
Will the dirty Germans pass by here? We had better pack up
our traps and fly.
We were silent for a moment, then I am afraid I lied blandly.
Oh no, this is as far as we go.
But I had reckoned without my host, a lean, wiry old fellow, a bit stiff
about the knees. First of all he proudly showed me his soldier's
book--three campaigns in Algeria. A crowd of smelly women pressed round
us--luckily we had finished our meal--while with the help of a few
knives and plates he explained exactly what a strategical movement was,
and demonstrated to the satisfaction of everybody except ourselves that
the valley we were in was obviously the place "pour reculer le mieux."
We had been told that our H.O. were going to be at a place called
Béthisy St Martin, so on we went. A couple of miles from Béthisy we came
upon a billeting party of officers sitting in the shade of a big tree by
the side of the road. Had we heard that the Germans were at Compiègne,
ten miles or so over the hill? No, we hadn't. Was it safe to go on into
Béthisy? None of us had an idea. We stopped and questioned a "civvy"
push-cyclist. He had just come from Béthisy and had seen no Germans. The
officers started arguing whether or no they should wait for an escort.
We got impatient and slipped on. Of course there was nothing in Béthisy
except a wide-eyed population, a selection of smells, and a vast
congregation of chickens. The other two basked on some hay in the sun,
while I went back and pleased myself immensely by reporting to the
officers who were timorously trotting along that there wasn't a sign of
a Uhlan.
We rested a bit. One of us suggested having a look round for some Uhlans
from the top of the nearest hill. It was a terrific climb up a narrow
track, but our bicycles brought us up magnificently. From the top we
could see right away to the forest of Compiègne, but a judicious bit of
scouting produced nothing.
Coming down we heard from a passing car that H.Q. were to be at
Crêpy-en-Valois, a biggish old place about four miles away to the south
the other side of Béthancourt. We arrived there just as the sun was
going to set. It was a confusing place, crammed full of transport, but I
found my way to our potential H.Q. with the aid of a joyous little
flapper on my carrier.
Then I remembered I had left my revolver behind on the hill above
Béthisy. Just before I started I heard that there were bags of Uhlans
coming along over the hills and through the woods. But there was nothing
for it but to go back, and back I went. It was a bestial climb in the
dusk. On my way back I saw some strange-looking figures in the grounds
of a chateau. So I opened my throttle and thundered past.
Later I found that the figures belonged to the rest of the
motor-cyclists. The chateau ought to have been our H.Q., and arriving
there they had been entertained to a sit-down tea and a bath.
We had a rotten night--nothing between me and a cold, hard tiled floor
except a waterproof sheet, but no messages.
We woke very early (September 1st) to the noise of guns. The Germans
were attacking vigorously, having brought up several brigades of Jaegers
by motor-bus. The 15th was on our left, the 13th was holding the hill
above Béthancourt, and the 14th was scrapping away on the right. The
guns were ours, as the Germans didn't appear to have any with them. I
did a couple of messages out to the 15th. The second time I came back
with the news that their left flank was being turned.
A little later one of our despatch riders rode in hurriedly. He reported
that, while he was riding along the road to the 15th, he had been shot
at by Uhlans whom he had seen distinctly. At the moment it was of the
utmost importance to get a despatch through to the 15th. The Skipper
offered to take it, but the General refused his offer.
A second despatch rider was carefully studying his map. It seemed to him
absolutely inconceivable that Uhlans should be at the place where the
first despatch rider had seen them. They must either have ridden right
round our left flank and left rear, or else broken through the line. So
he offered boldly to take the despatch.
He rode by a slightly roundabout road, and reached the 15th in safety.
On his way back he saw a troop of North Irish Horse. In the meantime the
Divisional Headquarters had left Crépy in great state, the men with
rifles in front, and taken refuge on a hill south-east of the town. On
his return the despatch rider was praised mightily for his work, but to
this day he believes the Uhlans were North Irish Horse and the bullets
"overs"[11]--to this day the first despatch rider contradicts him.
The Division got away from Crépy with the greatest success. The 13th
slaughtered those foolish Huns that tried to charge up the hill in the
face of rifle, machine-gun, and a considerable shell fire. The Duke of
Wellington's laid a pretty little ambush and hooked a car containing the
general and staff of the 1st Cavalry Division. The prisoners were
remorsefully shot, as it would have been impossible to bring them away
under the heavy fire.
We jogged on to Nanteuil, all of us very pleased with ourselves,
particularly the Duke of Wellington's, who were loaded with spoils, and
a billeting officer who, running slap into some Uhlans, had been fired
at all the way from 50 yards' range to 600 and hadn't been hit.
I obtained leave to give a straggler a lift of a couple of miles. He was
embarrassingly grateful. The last few miles was weary work for the men.
Remember they had marched or fought, or more often both, every day since
our quiet night at Landrecies. The road, too, was the very roughest
_pavé_, though I remember well a little forest of bracken and pines we
went through. Being "a would-be literary bloke," I murmured "Scottish";
being tired I forgot it from the moment after I saw it until now.
There was no rest at Nanteuil. I took the Artillery Staff Captain round
the brigades on my carrier, and did not get back until 10. A bit of hot
stew and a post-card from home cheered me. I managed a couple of hours'
sleep.
We turned out about 3, the morning of September 2nd. It was quite dark
and bitterly cold. Very sleepily indeed we rode along an exiguous path
by the side of the cobbles. The sun had risen, but it was still cold
when we rattled into that diabolical city of lost souls, Dammartin.
Nobody spoke as we entered. Indeed there were only a few haggard, ugly
old women, each with a bit of a beard and a large goitre. One came up to
me and chattered at me. Then suddenly she stopped and rushed away, still
gibbering. We asked for a restaurant. A stark, silent old man, with a
goitre, pointed out an _estaminet_. There we found four motionless men,
who looked up at us with expressionless eyes. Chilled, we withdrew into
the street. Silent, melancholy soldiers--the H.Q. of some army or
division--were marching miserably out. We battered at the door of a
hotel for twenty minutes. We stamped and cursed and swore, but no one
would open. Only a hideous and filthy crowd stood round, and not one of
them moved a muscle. Finally, we burst into a bare little inn, and had
such a desolate breakfast of sour wine, bread, and bully. We finished as
soon as we could to leave the nightmare place. Even the houses were
gaunt and ill-favoured.
On our way out we came across a deserted motor-cycle. Some one suggested
sending it on by train, until some one else remarked that there were no
trains, and this was fifteen miles from Paris.
We cut across country, rejoined the column, and rode with it to
Vinantes, passing on the way a lost motor-lorry. The driver was tearing
his hair in an absolute panic. We told him the Germans were just a few
miles along the road; but we wished we hadn't when, in hurriedly
reversing to escape, he sent a couple of us into the ditch.
At Vinantes we "requisitioned" a car, some chickens, and a pair of
boots. There was a fusty little tavern down the street, full of laughing
soldiers. In the corner a fat, middle-aged woman sat weeping quietly on
a sack. The host, sullen and phlegmatic, answered every question with a
shake of the head and a muttered "N'importe." The money he threw
contemptuously on the counter. The soldiers thought they were spies. "As
speaking the langwidge," I asked him what the matter was.
"They say, sir, that this village will be shelled by the
cursed Germans, and the order has gone out to evacuate."
Then, suddenly his face became animated, and he told me volubly how he
had been born in the village, how he had been married there, how he had
kept the _estaminet_ for twenty years, how all the leading men of the
village came of an evening and talked over the things that were
happening in Paris.
He started shouting, as men will--
"What does it matter what I sell, what I receive? What does
it matter, for have I not to leave all this?"
Then his wife came up and put her hand on his arm--
"Now, now; give the gentlemen their beer."
I bought some cherry brandy and came away.
I was sent on a couple of messages that afternoon: one to trace a
telephone wire to a deserted station with nothing in it but a sack of
excellent potatoes, another to an officer whom I could not find. I
waited under a tree eating somebody else's pears until I was told he had
gone mad, and was wandering aimlessly about.
It was a famous night for me. I was sent off to Dammartin, and knew
something would go wrong. It did. A sentry all but shot me. I nearly
rode into an unguarded trench across the road, and when I started back
with my receipt my bicycle would not fire. I found that the mechanic at
Dammartin had filled my tank with water. It took me two hours, two lurid
hours, to take that water out. It was three in the morning when I got
going. I was badly frightened the Division had gone on, because I hadn't
the remotest conception where it was going to. When I got back H.Q. were
still at Vinantes. I retired thankfully to my bed under the stars,
listening dreamily to Grimers, who related how a sentry had fired at
him, and how one bullet had singed the back of his neck.
We left Vinantes not too early after breakfast,--a comfort, as we had
all of us been up pretty well the whole night. Grimers was still upset
at having been shot at by sentries. I had been going hard, and had had
only a couple of hours' sleep. We rode on in advance of the company. It
was very hot and dusty, and when we arrived at Crécy with several hours
to spare, we first had a most excellent omelette and then a shave, a
hair-cut, and a wash. Crécy was populous and excited. It made us joyous
to think we had reached a part of the country where the shops were open,
people pursuing their own business, where there was no dumbly
reproaching glance for us in our retreat.
We had been told that our H.Q. that night were going to be at the
chateau of a little village called La Haute Maison. Three of us arrived
there and found the caretaker just leaving. We obtained the key, and
when he had gone did a little bit of looting on our own. First we had a
great meal of lunch-tongue, bread, wine, and stewed pears. Then we
carefully took half a dozen bottles of champagne and hid them, together
with some other food-stuffs, in the middle of a big bed of nettles. A
miscellaneous crowd of cows were wandering round the house lowing
pitifully.
We were just about to make a heroic effort at milking when the 3rd Div.
billeting officer arrived and told us that the 5th Div. H.Q. would be
that night at Bouleurs, farther back. We managed to carry off the
food-stuffs, but the champagne is probably still in the nettles. And the
bottles are standing up too.
We found the company encamped in a schoolhouse, our fat signal-sergeant
doing dominie at the desk. I made himself a comfortable sleeping-place
with straw, then went out on the road to watch the refugees pass.
I don't know what it was. It may have been the bright and clear evening
glow, but--you will laugh--the refugees seemed to me absurdly beautiful.
A dolorous, patriarchal procession of old men with white beards leading
their asthmatic horses that drew huge country carts piled with clothes,
furniture, food, and pets. Frightened cows with heavy swinging udders
were being piloted by lithe middle-aged women. There was one girl
demurely leading goats. In the full crudity of curve and distinctness of
line she might have sat for Steinlen,--there was a brownness, too, in
the atmosphere. Her face was olive and of perfect proportions; her
eyelashes long and black. She gave me a terrified side-glance, and I
thought I was looking at the picture of the village flirt in serene
flight.
I connect that girl with a whisky-and-soda, drunk about midnight out of
a tin mug under the trees, thanks to the kindness of the Divisional
Train officers. It did taste fine.
The next day (September 4th) I was attached to the Divisional Cyclists.
We spent several hours on the top of a hill, looking right across the
valley for Germans. I was glad of the rest, as very early in the morning
I had been sent off at full speed to prevent an officer blowing up a
bridge. Luckily I blundered into one of his men, and scooting across a
mile of heavy plough, I arrived breathless at the bridge, but just in
time. The bridge in the moonlight looked like a patient horse waiting to
be whipped on the raw. The subaltern was very angry. There had been an
alarm of Uhlans, and his French escort had retired from the bridge to
safer quarters....
I shared Captain Burnett's lunch, and later went to fetch some men from
a bridge that we had blown up. It seemed to me at the time that the
bridge had been blown up very badly. As a matter of fact, German
infantry crossed it four hours after I had left it.
We had "the wind up" that afternoon. It appears that a patrol of six
Uhlans had either been cut off or had somehow got across the river at
Meaux. Anyway, they rode past an unsuspecting sleepy outpost of ours,
and spread alarm through the division. Either the division was panicky
or the report had become exaggerated on the way to H.Q. Batteries were
put into position on the Meaux road, and there was a general liveliness.
I got back from a hard but unexciting day's work with the Cyclists to
find that the Germans had got across in very fact, though not at Meaux,
and that we were going to do a further bunk that night. We cursed the
gentle Germans heartily and well. About 10.30 the three of us who were
going on started. We found some convoys on the way, delivered messages,
and then I, who was leading, got badly lost in the big Villeneuve
forest--I forgot the name of it at the moment.[12] Of course I pretended
that we were taking the shortest road, and luck, which is always with me
when I've got to find anything, didn't desert me that night.
At dead of night we echoed into the Chateau at Tournan, roused some
servants, and made them get us some bread, fruit, and mattresses. The
bread and fruit we devoured, together with a lunch-tongue, from that
excellent Chateau at La Haute Maison--the mattresses we took into a
large airy room and slept on, until we were wakened by the peevish
tones of the other motor-cyclists who had ridden with the column. One of
them had fallen asleep on his bicycle and disappeared into a ditch, but
the other two were so sleepy they did not hear him. We were all weary
and bad-tempered, while a hot dusty day, and a rapid succession of
little routine messages, did not greatly cheer us.
At Tournan, appropriately, we turned. We were only a few miles S.-E. of
Paris. The Germans never got farther than Lagny. There they came into
touch with our outposts, so the tactful French are going to raise a
monument to Jeanne d'Arc--a reminder, I suppose, that even we and they
committed atrocities sometime.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] I do not know who the officer was, and I give the story as I wrote
it in a letter home--for what it is worth.
[9] It must have been Guiscard.
[10] August 29th.
[11] Stray bullets that, fired too high, miss their mark, and
occasionally hit men well behind the actual firing line.
[12] Forêt de Crécy.