1927, a factory in Watford, Hertfordshire. A small firm of wheelwrights and coachbuilders rolls out a heavy truck designed for hauling logs in colonial oil fields. It has no armor, no weapons, no military purpose whatsoever. It produces less horsepower than a modern family car. And within 15 years, this truck will be crawling onto battlefields under fire, dragging broken tanks back from the dead, and keeping entire armored divisions fighting across North Africa, Italy, and Northwest Europe.
At a single battle, El Alamein, vehicles like this one will recover over a thousand tanks. The enemy will covet every example they capture, and the last one will not retire from the British Army until the 1980s, roughly 60 years after that first prototype left the factory floor. This is the Scammell Pioneer, the civilian truck that won a world war.
To put that in perspective, consider what military vehicles looked like in 1927. The standard American military truck was still the World War I era Liberty truck, a 4×2 vehicle with a 52 horsepower engine and a 15 mph top speed. Most artillery was still horse-drawn. The British Army’s experimental mechanized force, the world’s first armored formation, was formed on the 1st of May, 1927, the same year the Pioneer prototype appeared.
The concept of a specialized heavy recovery vehicle essentially did not exist. And yet this truck, born in that primitive era, would still be serving in the 1980s. The story begins with a family of Victorian craftsmen. George Scammell founded the original business as a wheelwright and coachbuilding firm called G.
Scammell and Nephew, operating from Fashion Street in Spitalfields, East London. George worked alongside his nephew Richard and Richard’s sons Alfred and James. By the early 1900s, the firm had diversified into maintaining steam wagons and small trucks. The critical figure in the Pioneer’s creation was not a Scammell at all, Percy Garibaldi, who served as the company’s chief designer and technical director.
He’s often confused with the founding family because of the company name, but he was the engineering mind behind the machines. The family member who brought military thinking to the business was Lieutenant Colonel Alfred George Scammell, George’s great-nephew, who was invalided out of the Army during World War I and brought his battlefield experience into vehicle design.
The turning point came after the war, when Percy Hugh conceived a revolutionary articulated six-wheeler. Presented at the 1920 Commercial Motor Show, it generated 50 immediate orders. The vehicle could carry 7 and 1/2 tons legally at 12 mph when heavier trucks were restricted to just five. This success demanded larger premises.
Scammell Lorries Limited was floated on the 1st of July, 1922, with 250,000 pounds in capital. The new factory went up at Tolpits Lane, Watford, next to Watford West Railway Station. Every single Pioneer ever made, military or civilian, came from this one site. The Pioneer itself emerged from a specific colonial need.
In 1924, British authorities in India and other territories requested a heavy 6×4 off-road vehicle for regions where sealed roads barely existed. Scammell proposed a design in 1926, and the first prototype was ready by June 1927. It was built for oil fields and logging, environments that, as it turned out, closely mirrored the demands of mechanized warfare.
The Pioneer’s secret weapon was its suspension. The man behind it was Oliver Danson North, Scammell’s design engineer. North’s patented walking beam bogie rear axle gave the Pioneer off-road performance that would not be matched for decades. The rear four driving wheels were mounted on a centrally pivoted walking beam gear case.
This beam could articulate so that any individual rear wheel could rise or fall up to 2 ft vertically without the other wheels losing ground contact. If one wheel hit a boulder, the opposite wheel dropped to compensate, maintaining traction across all four rear driving wheels simultaneously. The effect was that the Pioneer could, as one contemporary observer put it, literally climb walls.
The front axle was equally clever, with only three attachment points and a centrally pivoted transverse leaf spring giving the steering wheels exceptional travel over rough ground. Although the Pioneer was only 6×4, not all-wheel drive, its ground-conforming ability was extraordinary.
For conditions demanding even more traction, auxiliary tracks could be fitted over the rear wheels, temporarily converting it into a half-track. In 1933, Scammell adopted the Gardner 6LW diesel engine for all subsequent Pioneers. Built by L. Gardner and Sons of Patricroft, Manchester, the 6LW earned a reputation as one of the most reliable engines ever manufactured.
It displaced 8,370 cubic centimeters across six cylinders in line, producing 102 brake horsepower at just 1,700 revolutions per minute. Torque peaked at 350 pound-feet at only 1,000 revolutions per minute. Fuel consumption came in at approximately 0.360 pounds per brake horsepower per hour, with a thermal efficiency of 39 to 40%, exceptional for the era.
What made the Gardner legendary was its engineering philosophy. The engine turned slowly, meaning internal components experienced far less stress than in higher-revving designs. Gardner cast virtually every component in-house to exacting standards. In marine applications, the recommended service intervals called for a full rebuild not until 100,000 hours, a figure many engines surpassed multiple times.
One truck operator reported Gardner engines running 700,000 to 800,000 miles between overhauls. The Gardner 6LW series remained in production for 35 years, with over 90,000 LW series engines built. A veteran who drove a Scammell gun tractor left this blunt assessment, “6LW pulled like a train. Only problem I had was with the starter motor.
” The military Pioneer shared a common chassis and drivetrain across its variants, but differed in role-specific equipment. The six-speed constant-mesh manual gearbox drove the rear four wheels through a power take-off capable of running the Scammell winch. Maximum road speed was 24 mph unladen. The 54-gallon diesel tank gave an operational range of 430 miles, a figure that proved devastatingly superior to every German equivalent.
Now, before we get into the combat record, if you are enjoying this deep dive into British engineering, hit subscribe. It takes a second, costs nothing, and helps the channel grow. Right, let us get into the battlefield. The Pioneer served in four primary military variants. The R100 heavy artillery tractor, with 980 built between 1935 and 1945, towed the heaviest British guns, including the 7.
2-inch howitzer and the Lend-Lease 155-mm Long Tom. The SV1S and SV1T recovery vehicles, with just 43 built, were nearly all lost with the British Expeditionary Force in France in June 1940. That devastating loss prompted an urgent redesign. The SV2S heavy breakdown tractor became the workhorse, with 1,975 built between 1938 and 1945. It carried an 8-ton Scammell winch with 500 to 600 ft of steel cable, rated at a 22-ton breaking load, a 3-ton sliding jib crane by Herbert Morris Limited, and removable ballast counterweights bolted forward of the radiator. Operated
primarily by REME, the SV2S was the vehicle that crawled onto battlefields under fire to drag disabled Shermans, Churchills, and even captured Tigers back to repair workshops. When field workshops lacked a proper crane, crews devised an ingenious improvisation. They would park the Scammell on a tank transporter trailer, pile railway sleepers into a ramp, and reverse up the slope to gain additional lifting height.
The TRMU30 tank transporter, with 459 built, carried tanks up to 30 tons on its semi-trailer, but proved too tall to pass under some British bridges with higher-profile American tanks, leading to its partial replacement by the Diamond T 980. Total production across all variants reached approximately 3,414 units, all manufactured exclusively at the Watford Works.
The Pioneer’s finest hour came in the North African desert. The Battle of El Alamein was the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers’ first major test. REME had been formed barely 3 weeks earlier, on the 1st of October, 1942. According to Imperial War Museum records, REME units recovered 500 armored cars and carriers, and 1,244 tanks, of which 1,007 were returned to battle, an 81% return rate.
The asymmetry was decisive. While approximately 500 Allied tanks were knocked out, roughly 350 were repaired and sent back into action. All 450 Axis tank losses were permanent because the Germans and Italians lost control of the battlefield and could not recover their vehicles. The walking beam suspension proved ideal for desert conditions, maintaining traction on soft sand where conventional trucks bogged down.
The Gardner diesel’s range of 430 miles was critical across the vast North African distances. Recovery crews also systematically recovered enemy equipment, pressing captured Italian and German tanks into British service or stripping them for intelligence. In Normandy, after D-Day, Pioneers served with the 7th Armored Division and Guards Armored Division REME workshops.
Roughly 20% of all spare parts used in the early stages of the Normandy campaign came from salvage. During the Battle of the Bulge, up to 17 recovery vehicles were simultaneously deployed on a single corps axis between Namur and March. At the Rhine crossing in March 1945, Pioneer recovery vehicles helped retrieve at least eight Sherman DD amphibious tanks that had bogged down emerging from the river.
The Pioneer also served in Italy with the 6th Armored Division, where mountain roads and steep gradients tested its high-torque diesel and walking beam suspension to the limit. In the Far East, it served until the last days of the war in the summer of 1945. Though detailed accounts from Burma remained scarce, at least one Pioneer saw action in the Korean War where it was damaged by a mine but repaired and returned to service, a fitting testament to its durability.
To understand why this mattered strategically, consider the Pioneer’s most direct German equivalent, the Sonderkraftfahrzeug 9, commonly known as the Famo, was an 18-ton half-track purpose-built from 1936 with a 270 horsepower Maybach 512 petrol engine. On paper, the Famo was vastly more capable. Two and a half times the power, 28-ton towing capacity, higher road speed at 50 km/h, but the Famo’s petrol engine gave it a range of just 160 mi, less than 40% of the Pioneer’s 430 mi range.
Its interleaved road wheels were notoriously maintenance-intensive and prone to clogging with mud and ice. At 18 tons unladen, it weighed more than twice the Pioneer. And even the mighty Famo required two to four vehicles working together to tow a single Tiger, Panther, or King Tiger. Germany’s other option, the Bergepanther, offered a 40-ton winch but consumed a desperately needed Panther tank chassis and only 297 to 347 were ever produced.
The closest American equivalent was the Ward LaFrance M101 heavy wrecker, a 6×6 vehicle producing with front and rear winches. It was faster and more powerful with all-wheel drive, but it achieved only two and a half miles per gallon on petrol. The Americans built 5,765 of them, compensating through sheer industrial volume for what they lacked in efficiency.
Three fundamentally different philosophies. The British approach prioritized reliability, fuel economy, and simplicity, accepting lower all-performance for vastly better logistics. The German approach sought maximum capability through engineering complexity, producing superb vehicles in insufficient numbers at unsustainable cost.
The American approach applied industrial might to brute force the problem, building thousands of fuel-hungry vehicles because they could afford to. The most telling verdict came from the enemy. According to historical records, captured Pioneers were pressed into enthusiastic service by the Wehrmacht. The Scammells that were captured by the Germans and could be repaired were extensively used by their new owners who valued the model for its robustness and reliability and kept them running until the end of the war.
After 1945, Pioneers continued serving with the British Army of the Rhine until approximately 1955. REME units employed them during the Korean War where at least one was damaged by a mine, repaired, and returned to service. The last operational military Pioneer, an SV2S nicknamed Swampy, served in the jungles of Belize until the mid-1980s, approximately 40 years after manufacture.
It was eventually shipped home in pieces and painstakingly reconstructed by 43 District Workshop REME at Aldershot. It now resides at the REME Museum in Lyneham, Wiltshire. Beyond Britain, Pioneers served with Belgium, South Africa, Poland, Denmark, New Zealand, and even the Soviet Union via Lend-Lease. Surplus vehicles found civilian homes in heavy haulage, forestry, construction, and with traveling fairgrounds.
Showman families prized the Pioneer’s pulling power for hauling rides and powering attractions with massive generators fitted in the rear. One enthusiast reported in the 2020s that his local fair still operated three Pioneers bought at the end of the war, still going strong. Preserved examples appear at vintage vehicle rallies across Britain, and museums holding Pioneers include the REME Museum, Bovington Barracks in Belgium, and the Wight Military and Heritage Museum.
The Pioneer survived where contemporaries vanished because of its design requirements, reliable pulling power in terrible conditions, extreme durability with minimal maintenance, simplicity enabling field repair, never fundamentally changed between 1927 and the 1980s. The walking beam suspension provided off-road capability rivaling many modern designs.
The Gardner diesel’s low operating speed meant components simply did not wear out at normal rates, and the absence of sophisticated systems, no power steering, no electronics, no turbocharger, meant there was nothing complex to fail in remote postings where spare parts were months away. The Scammell Pioneer was not cutting edge.
It was not fast, not powerful, not sophisticated. It was a commercial truck from the horse-drawn era, powered by an engine that produced less horsepower than a modern family car, designed by a Victorian wheelwrights firm for hauling logs in the colonies. Yet it outlasted every purpose-built military rival.
It served in every theater of the largest war in human history. It recovered more than a thousand tanks at a single battle. It was coveted by the enemy that captured it, and it remained in military service for nearly six decades. Oliver North’s walking beam suspension, the Gardner diesel’s under-stressed longevity, and the Watford factory’s robust construction created a vehicle whose capabilities aligned so precisely with the timeless demands of recovery work that no amount of additional complexity could improve upon it.
Germany built fewer than 350 Bergepanthers. Britain built 1,975 SV2S Pioneers and kept using them for 40 years after the war ended. That is not luck. That is British engineering.
QQ4 Bob Dylan and Keith Richards have been close friends for nearly 40 years. The friendship began on a live television program in November of 1986 in the 11 seconds after Bob Dylan called Keith Richards music derivative on camera. Keith Richard’s response to that assessment, one sentence said without anger, without performance, with the specific directness of a man who has nothing to prove and knows it made Bob Dylan laugh.
Then made Bob Dylan go quiet. then made Bob Dylan say two words that people who know Bob Dylan say he almost never said to anyone. This is the story of those 11 seconds and the 40 years that followed them. The program was a live music interview special broadcast on an American network on the evening of November 3rd, 1986. The format was simple.
Two musicians, a host, an hour of conversation about music and the state of it. The producers had assembled the pairing of Bob Dylan and Keith Richards with the specific calculation of television producers who understand that two people with equally strong and potentially incompatible views about what music is and what it should do will produce better television than two people who agree about everything.
The calculation was correct, though not in the way the producers had anticipated. Bob Dylan was 45 years old in November of 1986. Bob Dylan had released Empire Burlesque the previous year and had been on the road for most of the intervening period as part of the True Confessions tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
Bob Dylan was in November of 1986 in one of the most prolific and restless phases of a career that had consisted almost entirely of prolific and restless phases. A career that had moved through folk, rock, country, gospel, and back again, that had been declared finished at least six times by the music press, and at each time continued with the serene indifference of a river to the opinions of people standing on its banks.
Bob Dylan had been redefining what music could be. Since 1962, Bob Dylan had invented and reinvented himself so many times that reinvention had become his defining characteristic, not in the superficial sense of a performer changing costumes, but in the deeper sense of a musician who had never allowed his work to settle into a form that could be anticipated or categorized from the outside.
Bob Dylan understood influence and originality and the relationship between them better than almost anyone alive in 1986. Bob Dylan had spent 24 years thinking carefully and specifically about where music came from and where music was going and what it meant that those two things were always in constant conversation with each other.
Keith Richards was 42 years old in November of 1986. Keith Richards had been playing guitar professionally since 1962. Keith Richards had built a career on a foundation of American blues and rhythm and blues. A foundation that Keith Richards had studied with the systematic devotion of someone who understood that the tradition he was building on was not incidental to the music he was making, but essential to it.
that you could not understand what Keith Richards did without understanding where Keith Richards had come from and what Keith Richards had been listening to since he was a teenager in Dartford with American Import Records and a secondhand guitar and no teacher except the recordings themselves. Keith Richards had never pretended otherwise. Keith Richards had in fact spent considerable energy across his career making the lineage explicit, naming the artists, citing the recordings, insisting on the acknowledgement of influence that the mainstream music
industry had a long history of suppressing or ignoring or crediting to the wrong people. If anything, Keith Richards was more transparent about his sources than most musicians of his generation. Keith Richards had always said openly that the Rolling Stones came directly from the blues, that Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson and the specific tradition of the Mississippi Delta were not background influences, but foundational ones.
The music Keith Richards made was in direct and sustained conversation with that tradition, something Keith Richards considered not a limitation, but a responsibility and a form of respect. The interview had been running for 8 minutes when the host asked Bob Dylan about the current state of rock and roll.
Bob Dylan answered with the density and the indirection that characterized Bob Dylan’s responses to direct questions, turning the question over, approaching it from an unexpected angle, finding his way to what he actually thought through a series of observations that moved like a river rather than a road. Bob Dylan was not a straightforward interview subject.
Bob Dylan had been asked about rock and roll in hundreds of interviews across 24 years and had developed the habit of treating the question as an invitation to think out loud rather than a request for a prepared position. The producer Gerald Sherman said afterward that in the first 8 minutes of the interview, he had been slightly anxious, not because anything was going wrong, but because nothing was going anywhere in particular yet.
The interview had the feeling of two conversations happening simultaneously. Bob Dylan’s internal one and the external one visible to the cameras. And Gerald Sherman was not certain in those first eight minutes that the two conversations would converge into something. Bob Dylan talked about influence. Bob Dylan talked about originality.
Bob Dylan talked about the difference between music that absorbed a tradition and transformed it and music that absorbed a tradition and reproduced it. And then Bob Dylan made his assessment. And then Bob Dylan said with the precision of a man making a musical assessment rather than a personal judgment that the Rolling Stones work, and Bob Dylan was specific, naming Keith Richards as the guitarist whose approach he was discussing was derivative in a way that Bob Dylan found limiting.
Bob Dylan said it without hostility. Bob Dylan said it as a technical observation about the relationship between source material and the work that came from it. Bob Dylan said that Keith Richards played the blues the way the blues had already been played, rather than using the blues as a starting point for something that had not yet been played.
Keith Richards had been listening to this with the specific attention Keith Richards gave to things being said about music by people who knew music. Keith Richards did not interrupt. Keith Richards did not shift in his chair or display any of the visible signals of a person preparing a defensive response. Keith Richards listened to Bob Dylan’s complete observation all the way to its conclusion without interrupting and without displaying any visible signal of preparing a response.
Then Keith Richards said one sentence. The sentence was not a rebuttal. The sentence did not defend Keith Richards music or argue for its originality or challenge Bob Dylan’s characterization of what the blues meant in the context of rock and roll. The sentence was something else entirely, something that required a specific kind of confidence to say.
The confidence of a person who has spent long enough thinking about the same things as the person they are talking to that they can locate the exact point where their thinking diverges and say something useful about that point rather than simply defending their own position. The sentence acknowledged everything Bob Dylan had said, the assessment, the distinction Bob Dylan was drawing, the specific musical concern underlying the observation, and then turned it 90°.
Keith Richards took Bob Dylan’s own framework, the one Bob Dylan had used to analyze Keith Richards relationship to the blues tradition, and applied it back to Bob Dylan’s work with the same precision Bob Dylan had used to apply it to Keith Richards. Spare aimed. The sentence asked Bob Dylan something about Bob Dylan’s own music, about the relationship between Bob Dylan’s sources and Bob Dylan’s output that Bob Dylan had not been asked on television before.
The sentence did not attack. The sentence illuminated. Bob Dylan laughed. The laugh was not the polite laugh of someone responding to a joke. The laugh was the involuntary laugh of someone who has been genuinely surprised. The specific kind of surprise that a person of exceptional intelligence experiences when someone else’s intelligence exceeds their expectations.
Bob Dylan laughed for 4 seconds. Then Bob Dylan stopped laughing. Then Bob Dylan was quiet for 3 seconds in the way that Bob Dylan was quiet when Bob Dylan was thinking rather than performing thought. Then Bob Dylan said, “You’re right.” The producer in the booth, a man named Gerald Sherman, who had been working in television for 14 years, said afterward that in 14 years of live television production, he had never heard Bob Dylan say those two words in a public forum.
Gerald Sherman said he had worked with Bob Dylan on two previous occasions and had observed Bob Dylan in numerous other contexts and that you’re right was not a phrase that Bob Dylan deployed easily or often because Bob Dylan had spent 24 years being right about music in ways that other people eventually caught up with. And the experience of being right ahead of everyone else does not generally produce a man who says you’re right readily when someone else makes a point.
The host of the program, a journalist named Patricia Wells, who had been interviewing musicians for 12 years, said afterward that the 11 seconds between Bob Dylan’s assessment and Bob Dylan saying, “You’re right,” were the most extraordinary 11 seconds of television she had been present for. Patricia Wells said that what she witnessed in those 11 seconds was not a debate or a confrontation or a celebrity exchange of competing opinions.
Patricia Wells said what she witnessed was one musician recognizing another musician as an equal, which was in the specific context of Bob Dylan in 1986, not something that happened in public very often. The interview continued for another 42 minutes after those 11 seconds. The conversation between Bob Dylan and Keith Richards in the remaining 42 minutes was described by everyone who watched it as fundamentally different from the first 8 minutes.
The host, Patricia Wells, who had been conducting music interviews for 12 years and understood the difference between the performance of conversation and actual conversation, said that at approximately the 9-minute mark, something shifted in the studio. That the formal interview, architecture dissolved, and what replaced it was something less structured and more genuine.
Bob Dylan and Keith Richards talked about influence and originality and the blues and what it meant to build on a tradition without being consumed by it. They talked about specific recordings and specific musicians with the specificity of two people who had spent their entire adult lives thinking about these things and rarely found another person who had thought about them with equivalent care.
They talked about where music came from and where music was going and whether those two questions were actually one question or two. Patricia Wells said afterward that she had asked approximately four questions in the remaining 42 minutes because Bob Dylan and Keith Richards did not require questions. They required only a room and a camera and the shared understanding that what they were saying together was worth recording carefully.
She said it was the best interview she had ever conducted and that she had conducted the smallest part of it. After the program, Bob Dylan and Keith Richards were in the corridor outside the studio when the host Patricia Wells passed them. Patricia Wells said she did not stop because she did not want to interrupt.
She observed them for approximately 30 seconds from a distance. She said they were talking with the ease of people who had known each other for years rather than people who had met for the first time 2 hours earlier. She said that something had shifted between them during the broadcast that the broadcast had made permanent rather than temporary.
She continued down the corridor and did not look back. She said in her account of that evening that she had decided in that moment not to interrupt the conversation because some conversations are more valuable than any question a journalist might ask and that the conversation she had observed for 30 seconds in the corridor outside the studio was one of them.
She had been a music journalist for 12 years. She recognized the difference. Bob Dylan and Keith Richards have maintained their friendship across four decades. They have appeared together at various events, most significantly at the concert for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995, where people who were present described them as inseparable for most of the evening, occupying the same corner of the backstage area and talking with the concentrated attention of people who only have a limited amount of time together and intend to use it
well. Bob Dylan has spoken about Keith Richards in interviews with the specific thoughtful care that Bob Dylan reserves for musicians whose work Bob Dylan considers genuinely important rather than merely culturally prominent. Keith Richards has spoken about Bob Dylan in similar terms with the specific respect of someone who recognizes in another person a commitment to music that goes deeper than career.
Neither Bob Dylan nor Keith Richards has made a public statement specifically about how the friendship began or about the November 1986 interview. Bob Dylan has not mentioned the 11 seconds. Keith Richards has not mentioned the sentence. The interview exists in the archive. The 11 seconds are there. The laugh is there. The two words are there.
What is also there for anyone who watches the interview from its beginning and pays attention to the shift that happens at the 9-minute mark is the specific moment when two people who thought they were appearing on a television program discovered they were actually talking to each other. What Keith Richards said in that one sentence has never been officially reported.
The people who were in the studio that evening, Gerald Sherman, Patricia Wells, the floor crew, the two camera operators, the makeup artist who was watching from the side of the set, have described the sentence in consistent terms. They have described its effect. They have described Bob Dylan’s laugh and Bob Dylan’s silence and Bob Dylan’s two words.
They have not repeated the sentence itself in the specific understanding that the sentence was said between two musicians on a television program and that its power resided in the specific context of that exchange and would not survive removal from it intact. What can be said is this. Keith Richards said something to Bob Dylan about Bob Dylan’s music that used Bob Dylan’s own observation about Keith Richards as its starting point and arrived somewhere that Bob Dylan had not anticipated.
Keith Richards turned Bob Dylan’s assessment 90° and showed Bob Dylan something about the music they had both spent their lives making that Bob Dylan recognized immediately as true. And Bob Dylan said, “You’re right.” Two words said by Bob Dylan in public on live television in 1986 to Keith Richards in response to a single sentence Keith Richards had said about music.
Two words that Gerald Sherman, who had worked with Bob Dylan on two previous occasions, said he had never heard Bob Dylan say in a public forum. Two words that Patricia Wells, who had been interviewing musicians for 12 years, said were the most significant two words she had heard in those 12 years. Not because of their content, but because of who said them and what it cost to say them and what it meant that Keith Richards had produced them in 11 seconds from a conversation that began with Bob Dylan calling Keith Richards’s music derivative. And Keith Richards and
Bob Dylan have been close friends for nearly 40 years. The sentence did its work in 11 seconds on the evening of November 3rd, 1986. The work has been ongoing ever since. If this story moved you, subscribe and leave a comment below. Have you ever said something to someone that turned a potential disagreement into an unexpected and lasting connection? Tell us about it in the comments below.
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