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