Lucien Bouchard knew the Germans were coming by the dust that rose from the road. Two weeks before it was a country lane. Now it was crammed with people hurrying nowhere. Parents led bewildered children; the old hobbled on canes. Bicycles kept to the side of the road, suitcases strapped to handlebars. Men pushed wheelbarrows, home to toddlers or overflowing with belongings—although an elderly woman rested in one, frail and frightened. An occasional motor car inched forward, taking its occupants as far as petrol allowed, some with a mattress strapped to the top, a shield from shrapnel, a bed when needed. The swollen tide flowed forward, fleeing death and destruction, searching for safety that didn’t exist.
Tournai lay to the southeast, near the border with France. A commerce center since R
