Summer 1940, Romney Marsh, Kent. Seven soldiers from the Somerset Light Infantry climb aboard a steam train. The locomotive stands barely 3 ft tall. The tracks are 15 in apart. The armored wagons are so small that the men have to crouch inside them, knees against chests, Lewis guns balanced on ring mounts designed for weapons twice their size.
From the air, the whole thing looks like a child’s toy. It held the Guinness World Record for the smallest armored train ever built. It patrolled 13 and 1/2 miles of Kent coastline during the Battle of Britain. And according to the men who crewed it, this ridiculous little train shot down three Luftwaffe aircraft. This is the story of how a millionaire racing driver’s toy railway went to war.
The Romney, Hythe, and Dymchurch Railway exists because of a dead man and four monstrous cars. Count Louis Zborowski was a wealthy Anglo-Polish racing driver who, at his country estate near Canterbury, built a series of aero engine racing machines he called Chitty Bang Bang. The first used a 23 L Maybach aero engine bolted to a Mercedes chassis.
The fourth packed a 27 L Liberty V12 producing 450 horsepower. They were so loud that Canterbury reportedly passed a bylaw to keep them away from the city walls. A young Ian Fleming watched Zborowski race at Brooklands and later turned those cars into a children’s novel. Zborowski also built a miniature railway at his estate and planned a public one with his friend Captain Jack Howey.
Both men were millionaires. Both loved speed. Before they could choose a route, Zborowski was killed at the Italian Grand Prix at Monza on October the 19th, 1924. He was 29. Howey pressed on alone. He commissioned engineer Henry Greenly to design a fleet of 1/3 scale steam locomotives and laid 13 and 1/2 miles of 15-in gauge track across the flat Romney Marsh from Hythe to Dungeness.
A light railway order was granted in May 1926. And the Duke of York, the future King George VI, visited during construction and drove one of himself. The railway opened on July 16th, 1927, marketed as the smallest public railway in the world. Locomotive number five, Hercules, hauled the inaugural train. She was a 4-8-2 Mountain class, the only wheel arrangement of that type on any British railway.
Greenly designed her as a freelance outline, not a scale replica of any full-size prototype. With eight coupled driving wheels, she was built for heavy freight, not passengers. By the early 1930s, the expected passenger traffic never materialized and Hercules sat near derelict. She was rebuilt in 1936 and returned to working order just before the war.
Nobody knew it at the time, but those eight driving wheels would prove essential when the army came calling. By the late 1930s, nine express locomotives hauled tourists through some of Kent’s most peaceful countryside. The Dungeness extension had been laid directly onto shingle, making it possibly the most cheaply constructed railway in the world.
That peace lasted until the summer of 1940. After the fall of France, Romney Marsh became one of Britain’s most vulnerable coastlines. German planning for Operation Sealion assigned the beaches between Folkestone and New Romney to two infantry divisions of the 16th Army’s 13th Corps. An airborne division was earmarked to seize Lympne Aerodrome just north of Hythe.
The miniature railway ran directly through the planned German landing zone. Britain had lost vast quantities of equipment at Dunkirk. The army was arming itself with whatever it could find. 12 standard gauge armored trains, lettered A through M, were assembled in June and July of 1940 using repurposed 40-ton coal wagons fitted with armor plate.
Each carried a QF 6-pounder Hotchkiss gun, Vickers and Lewis machine guns, Bren guns, and Thompson submachine guns. Crewed by roughly 26 men, they patrolled the south and east coasts against invasion, but standard gauge track did not reach across Romney Marsh. The only rail line covering those 13 and 1/2 miles of exposed coastline was Captain Howey’s toy railway.
The War Department requisitioned it on July 26th, 1940. Howey’s home at New Romney was seized for officer billets. The 6th Battalion, Somerset Light Infantry, took operational control. And someone had the idea to build an armored train. Conversion work actually began 10 days before the official requisition date, on July 16th, suggesting desperate urgency.
The original plan called for a diesel shunter to haul the armored wagons. It failed immediately. The additional weight of armor plate overwhelmed the diesel’s bogie and two driven axles. The army turned instead to locomotive number five, Hercules, a 4-8-2 Mountain class steam engine built by Davey Paxman and Company in 1927.
Her eight coupled driving wheels distributed the extra burden far more effectively than the diesel ever could. According to the War History Research site, fitting the armor took approximately 1 month. Boiler plate covered the entire engine except the driving cab, which was left open at the rear. Two bogie mineral wagons were purchased from the Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway in the Lake District, another 15-in gauge line.
These former quarry wagons were fitted with armor plate to create fighting platforms. Each wagon carried a Boys .55-in anti-tank rifle mounted coaxially with a Lewis .303 machine gun behind a shield on a ring mount at one end, allowing traverse against both ground and air targets.
A second Lewis gun sat on an anti-aircraft mounting in the central compartment, this time without a shield. The complete train ran with Hercules sandwiched between the two armored wagons. Total armament across both wagons was four Lewis machine guns and two Boys anti-tank rifles. Crew complement was seven men including the driver.
Consider what the British were working with. The Lewis gun was a World War I design, over 25 years old by 1940. It fired .303 British ammunition at 500 to 600 rounds per minute with an effective range of 800 yards. The distinctive aluminum barrel shroud provided air cooling. Weight was 28 lb with bipod. By 1940, the Lewis was officially obsolete, replaced by the Bren gun.
But after Dunkirk, Britain had lost so much equipment that nearly 59,000 Lewis guns were pulled from storage, refitted, and reissued to Home Guard units, airfield defense positions, and improvised formations like the armored train. German troops in World War I had nicknamed it the Belgian rattlesnake. The British would later credit Lewis guns with bringing down more low-flying enemy aircraft than any other anti-aircraft weapon during the war.
A remarkable claim reflecting their sheer numbers in the field. The Boys anti-tank rifle fired a .55 caliber armor-piercing round capable of penetrating 23 mm of steel at 100 yards. Australian troops called it Charlie the bastard for its shoulder-breaking recoil. It was the first British army weapon requiring mandatory ear protection.
On the armored train, the Boys was primarily intended against German landing craft and light vehicles expected in an invasion. Against aircraft, its slow rate of fire of roughly 10 rounds per minute made hits unlikely. Though the .55 round could penetrate any aircraft armor of the era. Now, compare that to what Germany was fielding.
Britain’s 12 standard gauge armored trains each deployed 6-pounder guns and multiple Vickers machine guns crewed by 26 men with Bren guns and Thompsons for close defense. The German Panzerzug BP42 configuration fielded 76 mm artillery, quad 20 mm anti-aircraft guns, 30 mm armor plate, and crews of over 170 soldiers.
Some carried Panzer tanks on flat cars. The Romney Marsh armored train had seven men, four obsolete machine guns, two anti-tank rifles that could barely scratch a Panzer, and a top speed of about 20 mph. It was, by any conventional measure, ridiculous. Now, before we see what happened when the Luftwaffe came calling, if you are enjoying this deep dive into British engineering, hit subscribe.
It takes a second, costs nothing, and helps the channel grow. Right. Back to the smallest armored train in the world. The combat record of this train is the most disputed part of its story, and it deserves careful handling. The RHDR Supporters Association, the railway’s official heritage group, states the train was credited with shooting down three German planes.
Some secondary sources name the specific aircraft as a Messerschmitt Bf 109 fighter, a Heinkel He 111 bomber, and a Dornier Do 17 bomber. The We Are The Mighty military history site repeats this three aircraft claim. Other sources are more conservative. The HubPages railway enthusiast account credits the train with at least one German aircraft, specifically a Dornier 17.
The LNER Encyclopedia Railway Forum records one confirmed kill and several assists. The most revealing account comes from Andy Nash, a member of the railway’s own heritage group, who was quoted in media stating they shot down one plane, but that was by balancing a gun on somebody’s shoulders. That is a significant detail.
It suggests an improvised, chaotic engagement rather than a textbook anti-aircraft action. The Imperial War Museum, which holds both film footage and photographs of the train, makes no mention of aircraft kills in any of its catalog entries. The IWM film, cataloged as a YY38, is 35 mm black and white silent footage running 2 minutes.
Produced on September 23, 1940 by the War Office Film Unit, it shows the train on active patrol. The photographs, dated October 14th, 1940, are captioned light railway armored train, anti-invasion precaution. Raw operational documentation, not propaganda. Yet neither the film nor the photographs record any combat claims. Here is what we can say with reasonable confidence.
One aircraft kill, most likely a Dornier Do 17, has a credible basis in unit-level claims. The three aircraft version appears to have inflated over decades of retelling. None were confirmed through RAF or anti-aircraft command records, which is unsurprising. The armored train sat outside the normal reporting chain, and World War II ground-based kill attribution was notoriously unreliable across all forces. Now for the legend.
The most famous story claims that German pilots misjudged their altitude when attacking the train because its 1/3 scale tricked their depth perception on the flat featureless marsh. The pilot thought he was higher than he actually was and flew into the ground. No primary documentation supports this, but it is worth noting that aviation psychology confirms pilots can misjudge altitude from visual reference cues.
The well-documented runway width illusion shows that narrower than expected runways cause pilots to believe they are higher than they are. A 1/3 scale train on Romney Marsh with no trees, buildings, or vertical references for miles could theoretically produce this effect during a fast low-level strafing pass.
Whether it actually happened remains unproven. Legend has it that it did, and the story has persisted since 1940. Could Lewis guns realistically down these aircraft? The answer is yes. A Messerschmitt Bf 109E had no armor protection except a 10-mm plate behind the pilot in later variants. Its liquid-cooled engine was vulnerable to even .303 rounds hitting a coolant line.
The Heinkel 111’s glazed greenhouse nose was extremely fragile under ground fire. All three aircraft types conducted ground attacks at 50 to 500 ft, well within Lewis gun effective range. Four Lewis guns firing simultaneously could generate substantial volume of fire against a low predictable strafing run. The weapons were obsolete.
The platform was absurd, but the physics worked. After the invasion threat receded, the railway found a second wartime role that proved its value beyond any disputed air combat claim. The Department of Petroleum Warfare designated New Romney Station for manufacturing 140-cm diameter pipe sections for Operation Pluto, the pipeline under the ocean.
This was the secret cross-channel fuel pipeline built to supply Allied forces after D-Day. Pipe sections were loaded onto flat wagons and transported by rail to Dungeness for assembly. The Dungeness to Boulogne line, code-named Dumbo, ran approximately 30 mi underwater. By October 1944, the pipeline was operational, eventually delivering an estimated to the Allied advance across France.
The military grew impatient with the railway’s limited capacity during construction. Bulldozers began dragging pipe lengths along the track bed, causing such severe damage that the New Romney to Dungeness section was permanently reduced from double track to single track. A toy railway built by a racing driver helped fuel the liberation of Europe.
The track damage was the price. The war left the railway battered. Locomotives needed major overhauls. The armored wagon frames were stripped of their plate. One was crudely converted into a passenger carriage with its ends cut off and reattached upside down to gain a few extra inches of length. Hercules went to Ashford for rebuilding and returned with a new large-capacity tender.
The Hythe to New Romney section reopened in 1946. The full line to Dungeness was formally reopened on March 21st, 1947 by Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. Hardy struggled to squeeze in and out of the miniature carriages. At New Romney, he pretended to wrestle with a locked door blocking the tunnel entrance. Laurel simply stepped up and opened it with one hand. The crowd roared.
Newsreel footage survives. In 1990, the railway built a replica armored wagon by cladding Hercules and a wagon frame in plywood. It deteriorated badly. In 2025, the RH&DR Supporters Association received National Lottery Heritage Fund approval to recreate the armored wagon in metal. The engineering firm was translating original drawings into CAD designs before cutting steel.
The railway itself continues to operate, carrying over 150,000 passengers per year. That Guinness World Record for smallest armored train will almost certainly never be broken. No military force will ever again need to armor a 1/3 scale steam locomotive and send seven men to patrol a coastline with World War I machine guns.
But in the summer of 1940, Britain armed itself with whatever was available. The conventional equipment was sitting at the bottom of the channel after Dunkirk. The invasion beaches needed defending, and on Romney Marsh, the only railway covering those miles of exposed coast belonged to a dead racing driver who had named his cars Chitty Bang Bang.
So the British did what they always did. They improvised. They bolted armor plate to a toy train, handed four obsolete Lewis guns to seven soldiers from Somerset, and told them to hold the line. According to at least one credible account, those seven men balanced a machine gun on a comrade’s shoulders, fired at a German bomber screaming overhead, and brought it down onto the marsh.
The weapons were old. The platform was absurd. The engineering worked. That is the British war weapons promise. Innovation under pressure, producing results when it mattered most, even when the innovation was a toy train and the pressure was the entire German Air Force.
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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