M. le maire, old Pierre Godolphin, sat slowly pulling at a new clay pipe as he looked with unseeing eyes up the long dusty road which led out of the village away over the northern uplands. A trimly kept hedge of privet bordered his rose-garden and the road, and his favourite seat was set in a little niche of the greenery whence he could command all that went on in his tiny kingdom and, without moving, could see exactly what Madame la Femme du Maire was about in the stone-flagged kitchen. That afternoon an avalanche of three-ton motor lorries had descended upon the village, weird vehicles which announced in blatant language the superiority over all others of Mayflower's margarine or the outstanding merits of Pulltite's corsets. The men in authority were obviously, from their uniforms, English officers, and not travellers for the firms in question. But, frankly, old Pierre was puzzled. They had come from the south, and why did they not continue their journey? Two of the officers were actually proposing to stay with him, for an indefinite period. M. le boulanger walked slowly across the road to confer with him about the baking of more bread. "But these English are like a locust swarm, and I have no more flour," he explained. "A glass of cider for monsieur, Henriette." "I do not understand," Pierre went on, "what it is ces braves garçons do here. It is the third week of war, and by now surely ces bêtes de Boches should have been driven back into their own pigsties---- Mais, nom de Dieu, qu'est ce que c'est?" Down the village street a four-seater car came lurching from side to side like a drunken man. Crash! It has caught a stone post and turned over. In an instant the road is full of people running. Two men lay dazed as they had been thrown out. Both in the yellow-green uniform of the British, one, certainly, an officer. Willing hands lift them tenderly, and someone dashes a jug of water over their heads. Then one sees what has happened. Between the shoulders on the officer's tunic there is spreading a great dark stain. Very carefully they take off the coat and shirt and try to stanch the blood. But it is too late; there is a bullet through the lungs, and, with a little gasp, the officer lies still. In a few minutes the other man recovers sufficiently to tell how they were taking a dispatch through to the rear. The officer was driving the car when they ran straight into a patrol of enemy cavalry. They had got through, but the enemy opened fire, and now his officer lies dead. Things are going badly up there--and the man vaguely indicates the country up north: our men are retiring as hard as they can; whole regiments are getting wiped out; and "Gawd knows where the French are." Can he get a motor-bike to take on the message? An A.S.C. officer runs for his car, the man is put in, and off they start again.