A GI appeared, wig-wagging, a walkie-talkie in his big, hairy arms, his helmet cockeyed. Reporting into his w-t he paced the Lee; as it swung onto a main street, the motor responded sluggishly, as if running out of gas, and Dennison worked the choke. As he glanced through the periscope he noticed the GI walking on the sidewalk, swinging one arm, talking as he walked. A shell exploded: the GI, his w-t, bones and flesh splattered across the walk. Another 77 blew up the paving in front of the Lee: a roof collapsed, mixing steel and concrete.Dennison reversed.Following the main street, deserted shops and stores on both sides, he saw something drop from a second floor--a mattress. It fell across the tank's prow, swayed, fell again.Dennison rammed an empty swastika jeep. From second floors machine guns raked a GI patrol, wiping it out, the men dying in the gutters.Telephone wires whipped around a lamppost.It was no longer raining.Landel began directing Zinc: their guns accounted for several SS outside a drugstore. Waiting for smoke to clear, Dennison moved along the street where machine gunners were mounting their gun in a building named Zorn: ZORN was carved on the façade in tall letters: under shellfire, Zorn crumbled as they passed.For Dennison, the grief of other attacks was returning, muddled, violent, hobnailing his brain.This is our last attack, he told himself: gasoline low: stop: not any more: not any more: Gex is a ruin: we'll be able to rest ... rest ... a little rest ...Mouth open, he longed for a cool drink, remembering the apple cores floating on the floor of 9.Who was that walking along the street?Jeannette, get off the street!Jean ... what are you doing here?Can't you hear me?Oh, Christ, my head!He bent forward and wet his lips with his tongue.Before he could stop the tank it plowed into a wall and stopped with a great shock. Landel screamed. Zinc fell. Landel grabbed hold of Dennison and beat him with his fists, the pain in his wound galloping through his body. He sobbed and babbled; Zinc had to yank him off, and restrain him."What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?" Landel shouted.Dennison could not figure out what had happened: he could not understand why the Lee was out of action: he asked Zinc if they had been hit.In spite of his deafness, he heard Landel ask:"Why did you ram the wall?""Do what?""Why did you hit the wall?"Dennison waited for several seconds."I don't know what happened.""You rammed into this wall--you fool!""I went blank.""Let 'im alone!" Zinc shouted."Shut up!" Landel yelled."I went blank .... that's all," Dennison repeated.They rested a few minutes and then began creeping along, patrolling the main street, under radio orders, their guns silent, the enemy nowhere. Stopping at a barricaded intersection, where trees had fallen under bombing, where heaps of rubble smoked, the radio announced the official take-over of Gex.They were radio-ordered to park with other machines under trees fringing a town garden: roses and shell holes, benches and crushed benches, paths that stopped suddenly: a small bronze figure was still upright under branches: the three men crawled from their cab and sat on a low stone wall, faces black, clothes grease-caked, bloody.Zinc showed Dennison a gashed hand."How did you get hit?""Oh ... I dunno.""Need some iodine?""Umm.""Open your hand.""Can't.""Open it, Isaac."Zinc grinned boyishly.Tenderly, Dennison opened Zinc's hand; he found an emergency kit in the Lee and cleaned the wound: all of the time he felt the fresh air on his face and realized he was breathing something worth breathing. He promised himself he would soon have something to eat."Shall I bandage it tighter?""No ... like it is.""Okay now?""Yeah ... but awful tired.""Me too.""Where's Landel?""Gone for water.""Ah."A little later, Zinc said:"I'm gonna marry Millie when I get back.""What?" Dennison cried."Nuthin'."Landel offered them water from a thermos."I've had some ... it's okay."Zinc drank, Dennison drank, then it went the rounds once more."I'm beat," Landel said.They nodded.That night, after grub, they slept in a handsome 17th century residence near the park, in a bedroom on the second floor, under elegant drapes, elegant table cloths, in mahogany beds: a silent place, gilded wallpaper, ormolu furniture, golden carpet. Before falling asleep, Zinc washed and scrubbed with perfumed soap in a basin painted with forget-me-nots. In his sleep he thought of his boat, an ephemeral boat, but it was his boat ... he dreamed of a wedding ceremony, people tossing rice ... his injured hand relaxed ... but his face burned and his head throbbed violently from time to time.Landel slept uneasily in his bed, a feverish night: he had gulped down aspirin from the emergency kit, then he added codeine, a double dose in the night: tomorrow, he asked himself, tomorrow? He was unsure. How could he continue?For Dennison it was a problem to relax: he floated on his mattress, under the layers of drapery: his subconscious was uncomfortable: he heard his mother say:"I think we've had more snow this year than we've had for years."Of course this was played back a number of times.In another dream a man whispered:"Jeannette ... Jean..."She was sitting on the grass by a lake, a picnic basket beside her, a blue scarf around her head: her eyes were marvelously blue: she was smiling: she was saying with her smile: come on, lunch is ready, let's eat."Darling," he said, aloud.He awoke, shivering, angry with himself for having slept without his jacket. Putting it on, he climbed back into bed, and pulled the draperies closer, a rumble of low-flying bombers shaking the room.... They continued to fight in Germany.... Christmas was dead and gone.... Time?Eight Shermans boiled along anautobahn, the paving was excellent, one gradual curve sliding into another. Telephone lines, on stubby poles, wandered across fields into a weak sun. Villages lay upside down in a river.As he drove, Dennison thought of shaving, recalled the whiff of Yardley soap, the rasp of his razor. Maybe, someday, somewhere, an electric shaver ... maybe after shave lotion ... maybe ...He was doing thirty-five, thirty-seven, third in line, in the left lane. Heat boiled on its endless tread; noise rushed under the floor, rushed overhead, rushed along the walls.They had a new crewman, a fellow from Chicago, a swarthy, husky outfielder, smart, good-natured, with a shock of black hair and black eyes: Paul Murphy; PM, the guys called him.PM was hanging onto Dennison's driving seat as the freeway peeled by: he was reading the speedometer, tickled by Dennison's skill and recklessness. His eyes glistened; there was a silly grin on his face; he wanted to be able to drive a tank like this. As the bus rocked along smoothly, approaching fifty, he waved his arm at Zinc.But Landel was squirming, resentful of such speed: he could think of a dozen reasons for disaster: his neck ached and he did not look forward to a ghastly jolt. For several weeks he had been sneaking off, drinking heavily, talking little: he was involved in the art of deception--the alcoholic's art. He bellowed through the phone, "cut your speed," then slumped against the armor plate, mouthing a small flask.He bellowed again, this time at PM, signalling him to his machine gun.God, Dennison thought, he doesn't leave anybody alone.Dennison had requested a transfer--any unit: after his injury at the Roer River, Landel was often violent, word and action. He often fell asleep on duty. During some of his binges he went homo."Maybe he figured I was someone else," Dennison told Zinc. "Did he come at you?""Sure ... sure! But, lord, I haven't cracked up yet! We'll wrangle transfers, you and I. Have to..."The driver in front of Dennison was losing speed: he was far to the right, too close to the shoulder."Steady, steady," Dennison mumbled to himself. "If you go slower, make it steady ... watch yourself."What's the number on his turret: 6 ... 7 ... 67? Is that right? The 67 was nearly obliterated. The tank's armor was rust colored, mud and grease smeared, but somebody, at a depot or relay point, had slapped on yellow paint across one side and it was as though the machine sported a yellow crab, its pincers toward the prow.So Chuck Hitchcock killed himself in a Brooklyn hospital! ... poor guy! Made it to the fire escape, blind as he was! Ten floors. God, to drop ten floors. Three seconds. Right on a paved driveway. He was out of his mind. Perhaps not. Dennison had Jeannette's note--dirty and crumpled--in his billfold. Had it for days, unable to reply. Where was he to get it mailed? In Berlin? What was there to say? What did she expect? Dear Jean: so sorry your brother bumped himself off! With those sightless eyes of his, what could he do? Not even Cyclops!Better off.With a jerk, 67 swung violently to starboard: its starboard tread left the highway, and the machine seemed to balance on one tread, race on one; then the highway shoulder crumbled and the bus spun over and over into a gravelled ditch, to stop bottom-up: the whole thing registering on Dennison, sucked inside his brain through his driving viewer."Tank over!" he bellowed, braking his machine gradually. He yanked Landel's arm, and shook it. "She'll catch fire," he bellowed. "Landel ... 67's in the ditch! Rolled over fast! Can we open her hatches?"He was yelling at himself.Landel was alert.A tread of their tank sank and Dennison yanked her straight, centered her on the road, slowed, and brought her to a halt behind 67, smoke belching from the upended machine.Sweat was running down his face and he wiped it off as he unstrapped his seatbelt.The blow must have stunned 67's crew: Ben was there: his shoulder injury would cripple him: Carson was there ...The men were dumped together between machine guns, cannon, ammunition, thermos, gasoline, wrenches, oil, heat.Dennison was alongside the Lee.From their firebox at the rear, he grabbed two Pyrenes: he handed one to Zinc and raced for 67, slipping on mud: he dropped the extinguisher but snatched it and squirted chemicals on the yellow paint smear, on the turret."Somebody get a shovel ... hunt for a crowbar ... tear open ... let them out! Smoke's choking them ... they can't see a thing!"Here, PM, squirt this on the motor area," he shouted: he realized that PM could not hear and he shoved the extinguisher into his hands.He began to unwire a crowbar from his own machine, his fingers awkward; he tried to steady himself; smoke was ballooning; the Pyrenes were whitening the smoke. Using all his strength he wrenched off the bar and rushed back to 67. Machinegun bullets were bursting inside. Now Landel was discharging an extinguisher.PM had run back to his bus. Now he nosed 67 over: with a huge thud, and a great cloud of white smoke, she flopped onto her side. Another tankman attempted to beat open a driving slot, to admit air.Handkerchief over his face, Dennison climbed onto 67, to force a hatch. Somebody might be there, ready to be dragged out. Hell, the guys couldn't see!Raising his bar he rammed it: smoke blinded him but he struck again: the steel rebounded: there was less smoke: he struggled to breathe: probably they were dead: Carson, Ben, Townsend, Lee, Arthur. Yet there might be a chance ... must be a chance ... must be ...Slipping, he fell off the tank and somebody helped him up, and he whirled for one of the forward ports. Sweat drenched his hands and face. He gripped the bar tighter and drove at the little door and it seemed to give and he hammered at it again, coughing.I've got a crack ... lean forward ... hit closer to the rim ... can't see ...His handkerchief dropped. He couldn't stop coughing. When smoke blew away he looked about and saw that nobody was using the extinguishers: were they empty? Everyone had backed away.Goddammit ... I'll open that starboard door ... I'll hack it open with my bare hands!He rammed and the door yielded. He slammed at it again and it gave a hair. He hit it again with every ounce of muscle. His hands slipped and he almost toppled.He hit nearer the lock: a steel shaving gave way: hurling himself against the bar, the lock snapped; he pressed down, and the door opened.Breathing in gasps, he threw the little door wide.Smoke, black smoke, crawled out of the cab.Crewmen pushed Dennison aside and crowded close to 67. Leaning against his tank, Dennison watched them, unseeing, unmoving: glad to be away from 67. He wanted water but could not ask for it. In spite of himself he vomited green slime.Too late ... there's nothing anybody can do ... I was too late.Nobody can crawl inside: the guys are dead: they've been dead for ... it's done: it's over: maybe that's something:"It's over," he yelled.Ben and his injured shoulder: Ben said he was going to get well: Ben was majoring in math ...Carson was a nice guy ...Arthur said I'm the one and future king ...Dennison coughed and blinked and walked about and wet his lips with his tongue."You nearly got yourself killed," Landel barked at Dennison. He waved his fire extinguisher at 67. "They're dead ... fried to a crisp ... you were a damn fool!"Dennison barely understood ... he nodded.Rubbing his eyes, he tried to lessen the sting of the smoke, the acid of burning rubber, the force of fear ... Presently, he saw Zinc beside him with a canteen of water in his hands."Drink."He helped Dennison swab his face and sop his neck, his own hands trembling; he appeared a little idiotic without his helmet, his hair going every which way, but he smiled insanely. Grease streaked his forehead and beard and one ear was blobbed with oil.All tanks had halted: tankmen sat and lay on the freeway or on the shoulder: the sun was ugly in a salve-like cloud: in a woodland a B-29 hung in some trees, strips of wing metal flashing.Harold Stragoni, in one of the last tanks to pull up, hurried to Dennison and Zinc."Is that your tank ... did you lose your tank?""No.""67 turned over ... burned.""Hit by a shell?""Turned over."PM came up."I looked inside ... with my flash ... they're incinerated to nuthin' ... clothes all burned ... It's too hot to climb inside..."Zinc inspected the machine: walking around it, he noticed the yellow paint, flaked grease, dented armor, damaged cannon, a broken grouser. In Akron there had been a truck crash, the cab catching fire--this same incineration. In spite of that vivid Ohio memory he wanted a glimpse of Arthur--no matter how charred. Arthur was a man ... but Zinc could not identify anyone: just reddish stuff, a leather helmet, a hand, guns. Sadly, he rejoined Dennison and they lit cigarettes."There was a broken grouser ... maybe that caused 'er to flip," said Zinc mournfully."Maybe."Landel fished his binocular from its case; focusing it he scrutinized the woodland, the intervening fields, a remote farm, its heap of manure, haystacks."We ought to bury our guys," someone said."Yeah ... let's bury them," Stragoni said, filling his pipe, shaking tobacco back into a leather pouch."Nobody's gonna bury them!" Landel yelled. "They're buried already." Fools for sentiment. "We've got to shove out of here. We'll be spotted ... our buses all along the highway!"Near a wire gate he caught a solitary figure: the figure reminded him of his father before they imprisoned him: the field man had the same defeated air, the same stoop.Their company commander, Colonel Fraser, bumped up in a fast jeep: he and his staff did not have much to say: his brown, middle-aged face expressed great chagrin: maps under his arm he checked 67, one of his lieutenants scribbling in a field book."You were right behind her," he said to Landel. "Did you see her go over?""I didn't see her go over.""I saw her ... she seemed to travel on one tread ... drop to the shoulder ... maybe a broken tread," Dennison said.Landel grasped the Colonel's shoulder:"Here, here ... look..."He pressed his binocular into Fraser's hand."See ... see that M129, dangling in those trees ... they're readying a mortar there ... we've got to clear out!"He began gesturing, calling to the crewmen:"Out of here ... everybody ... into the tanks ... mortar fire!"He hustled from man to man. By the time Fraser had spotted the mortar, Landel had men bee-lining.Fraser ordered the tanks to roll. He and his staff piled into their jeep.Dennison tossed the crowbar onto the floor of their machine, swung into the bus, dropped wearily onto the driving seat. He permitted himself time for a long, long swig: water was incredible. When you're dead you don't drink much, he told himself. He passed the canteen to Zinc who passed it to Landel."Goddamn the Wehrmacht!" Landel shouted.Water wet his fingers and wrists, rolled off oil and grease."What hellish luck!" Dennison shouted."Let's go!" Landel yelled.Switch on, the cylinders whammed into action; other tanks had raced ahead; in an instant Dennison passed 67; as they roared on a mortar shell exploded far from its target, geysering dirt.This section of theautobahnhad been shelled and Dennison kept the bus at thirty, leery of potholes, treads rolling in unison, the motor synchronizing, the highway a slant of light.Jeez, he thought, we didn't get away any too soon!He scrunched deeper into his seat, wanting to ease his shoulders: that crowbarring had been rough! Well, here was one up for Fred Landel, old eagle eye! The grumbling of the engine was satisfying. This bus was in order.A sign read8 K Olpe."Olpe!" Dennison muttered through the phone."What?" Zinc yelled."Olpe ... Olpe lies ahead!"He knew exactly what lay ahead because he had seen so many ruined towns: pulped houses, streets galled and scrambled, downed trees, power plant in bits, splintered telephone poles, church sheltering a crucifix.Ten dead lay on the road: he recognized their uniforms: he knew, as he drove past them, that some of the men had been riding motorcycles and bicycles. Their motorcycles had swastikas on their sidecars.The sign read7 K Olpe.World world, went the treads.Water dripping from a brown jar is white, he thought. Honey in a comb is thick. Goat's milk tastes strong. The desert is yellow in places, streaked, as though themistralhad ... yeah, and those fly-coated arms in the wadi...Robinson's arms raced ahead on theautobahn, raced the tank, very white, flecked with sand...Chuck was good at assembling an automatic rifle...How far was it he could throw a grenade?Dennison's back was paining him more acutely: he felt the drag of the crowbar, the weight and friction of it:Gonna be lame tomorrow, lame in my arms and back.Tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be back in E ... I'll stroll along the Nonette ... that book in the attic ... Chateaubriand ... she had readAtalato him, dwelling on the most melancholy passages ... Atala's burial ... that book in the attic ... I'll re-read those passages ... book bound in red leather ... memories from ...His head was throbbing as they entered Olpe, a yellow cat crouching in front of someone's empty cottage. It spat at the crewmen as they climbed out, parked to grab some air: the town was dead: alone, on a slab of masonry, Dennison rested his head on one hand. Other tanks rolled in, stopped. It would be dark in an hour or so. They would be eating soon?How he wanted the roar of the tank to seep out of his brain, wanted some of the filth to ooze from his body.He wanted a place alone. Better alone in this bombed town than never alone! Better to die in a field! A B-29 flying low, conspicuous ...In Britain there had been Spitfires and De Havilands: constantly aloft: this B-29 was a reconnaissance plane circling lower and lower: the bomber was reaching a danger point: was it out of fuel, was the crew about to bale out?Climbing a big mound of garbage he saw chutes billow; then came the twisting dive, smoke from the cockpit area as the plane went down. Five chutes were swaying, drifting. A black column headstoned the crash site. Dennison jumped from the garbage pile and informed some of the crewmen. At once several GI's took off, dog trotting through the dusk, toting small arms. Dennison was glad to run, glad to be on the go across a field--free of armor.The first chute man, tangled in his chute, lying on his side, lying behind bushes, opened fire with his submachine gun, almost killing PM. Bullets cropped weeds and grass around him."Look, you goddamn ass! We're not Nazis!" shrieked PM, flat on his belly..."How do I know who you are! Some of you bastards talk English," the airman yelled."Yeah, well, I'm from Chicago, see. I used to clean up the loop every day for eighteen bucks a week. Dee is my uncle. I'm in the 321st ... all of us are in the 321st. We just crawled into this lousy town. Put down your tommy gun: I'll show you some snapshots? Okay?""I guess so, but keep your hands up! Don't fuck around!"In a moment they were shoulder-slapping and pumping hands; within a short time the tankmen located three more flyers--one with a smashed leg. Someone hacked a willow and thin pine poles and Dennison and Zinc improvised a jacket litter.On the way into Olpe they located the other flyer, his parachute shot down. Dennison was stung by his death: he felt the tragedy of his broken body: he looked into Zinc's face: but he was looking at something else: everyone here about the same age, Dennison thought: all trapped. Another kick from death! Death, lousy death, that insatiable hellion! He wanted to defy death. He wanted to kick it in the ass. He wanted the world to know what death was doing!Smog was filtering over Olpe's dumpage: the brick and stone walls, a slate roof, the beams and plaster: nearly every structure had been shambled. Olpe had been known for its oil refinery but shelling had dug and re-dug earth, pipes, storage tanks, cracking gear.They carried the pilot into a ruined inn: somebody had already explored the town and led them there: somebody rounded up a medic: Dennison, Zinc, Landel and PM bedded down in the low T-shaped building that still had a giant elm tree in front.Debris was everywhere, broken dishes, broken window glass, dangling plaster, a disemboweled sofa, ripped out wiring, pulverized bricks and tiles: Dennison walked through the rooms as through a surrealist museum: finding burlap and a mattress he lay down and unbuttoned his trousers and scratched and then lay motionless.No food had come.One of the flyers hung a flashlight and its swaying light crawled about, expressing hate. Other crewmen bedded down. Dennison's mind had nothing to tell him so he wriggled underneath the sacking and hunger became his anesthesia. Turning his hands palm-up, he gazed at them, one at a time, dozed, and then slept.Landel was vomiting from pain, lack of food, alcohol, and fatigue. Crouched in a corner, he had an empty bottle beside him.Whiskey would help! He shrugged: who's Johnny Walker? Down in Panama, years ago, the gambling rooms of the Palacio Rivas had been fabulous: coco palms in a lush garden, macaws on perches, gardenias floating on the swimming pools ... lovely whores ...copitas. But he had gotten drunk and killed a man, shot him through the lungs and heart ...When the war ended he planned to settle in Germany and horn in on the black market graft: army supplies, PX supplies: sell, buy, swap: a sure way to stack up the dough!PM was snoring.Zinc lay on his side, watching one of the B-29 guys mess with his lighter: a nearby tankman removed his shoes and sox and massaged his feet: Zinc felt the smallness of his body: other men had something to be proud of: muscles were jerking around his mouth: he rubbed the muscles halfheartedly: closing his eyes he tried to think of home but home had not existed for a long time. Mom had been dead for four or five years ... Millie ... where was she? He turned onto his back. It seemed to him his spine was injured. Certainly something was wrong with his stomach: there were too many aches there.A cloudy moon hung above Olpe ... in the gutted inn night was eventful: food began arriving in the early hours: the old walls heard a few cheerful sounds; the smell of food roused some of the men.Sometime in the night Landel woke, chilled, afraid: he couldn't find a cigarette and woke Dennison and asked him for his pack. He tried to talk to him--wishing to talk about his past: most of all he simply wanted to talk. Drags on his Luckies helped. He found a blanket. That helped. With Dennison lying nearby he thought of admitting what a bastard he was and yet that seemed stupid: everything seemed stupid, everything was stupid, torn apart, like Olpe.Under the ribs of an adjoining building--a long shed--fifteen or twenty tankmen ate breakfast, fog around them: fog had seeped in with a yellowish thickness, a thickness that seemed related to old masonry, old walls and crumbling plaster. The eaters appreciated the hot food, untroubled by the fog; as they ate they simply stared.Go to Morb ... Panzers ... Serious.That was the morning radio directive: the Corps was dispatched onto theautobahnagain, now crammed with one-way military and civilian traffic. It began to drizzle as the Shermans and Lees grumbled forward; then the drizzle changed to a downpour that sloshed over turret, periscope and viewer. Dim-outs popped on. Olpe traffic jammed: a jeep had crashed: a truck had stalled: a civilian truck resembled an oiled animal under its flapping tarp.Memory's belt began in Dennison's brain:The Gestapo, the man said at breakfast ... the Gestapo ... they did their best to get information from the Maquis ... they were trying to round up the Maquis ... they were ... Fritzes ... that's what the guy at breakfast called them ... said he had fought in North Africa ... said ...... Okay, send us back to Olpe; at least there is something to eat there ... what was that radio message?... Slow, slow, now pass, shift into second, watch that fool, he doesn't know how to drive ... funny, Zinc squatting there, asleep maybe ... Landel looks bad ... too much rain, German rain.When the tanks reached Morb, at 9 kilometers, military cops, outside a battered school, flagged them past an artillery battery: 88's, 102's and 4.2 mortars were snorting over. General Jake Marlin had his trailer in the field--a zigzag gash in its gleaming aluminum side, his flag soggy.Why had they been directed to Morb?Obviously, there were no Nazis here.Low-flying bombers were passing.The radio was sputtering misinformation.On a side street the crews had a chance to oil and gas up, time to urinate, time to drink, time for a chew of gum, time to smoke and talk.Dennison wandered into a wrecked cottage: plaster crunched underfoot; he straightened a picture on the wall; he listened to the punch of shells; fragments fell from the ceiling as percussions went on. A door opened.That was a school, had been a school:Today we'll confine our lessen to Siberia. Do any of you know anything special about Siberia? Can you give us an idea of its size? How about you, Hermann?What good was it, sending kids to school? They have been attending school since the Romans, or was it before the Romans? Have schools stopped war? Nobody through all those centuries has had a peace class. He grinned, as he leaned against the battered doorframe of the little cottage.Again he listened to the constant shellfire.Tanks into action, somebody signalled.Action!"Get going!""Okay.""Okay."Dennison turned over the driving controls to PM and PM smirked his pleasure like a kid: he settled into the driving seat, checked the controls, thinking fast, confident. Landel gave him a wigwag. Then 248 hunched forward, the tracks working evenly; the motor revved smoothly.Dennison punched PM, and they swung left.A latch of his mind was fastened to the periscope.Starboard sank into a pothole; they floundered through other potholes, now following the side of a small river, other tanks in front. Smoke gnarled the sky. They were in a section of Morb, streets, houses. Port side a shell exploded. Something clanged against 248, clanged like a bell. The bus rocked, and Dennison stared anxiously at PM. PM grunted.The tanks moved through smoke walls down a street: as if propelled through a tube, through a tunnel, Nazis rushed toward 248. They bunched. They fell. Some retreated down a cul-de-sac. Scrambling across barbed wire and fencing, PM followed.Realizing that the men were trapped, Dennison fired slowly: he tried to account for each man, firing PM's gun: he shouted and fired, shouted and fired: this was the same, knocking out wooden ducks at the fair.Three down, four to go.So, the tank was an improvement on the Trojan horse!Smoke closed in.Frames flitted by, image after image, scenes without continuity, a sciamachy of trees, people, Greeks, Russians, a cloud, a room, Jeannette, children's face, a cactus in a steamy conservatory, a swan, a wounded boy. On the walls of a latrine he read: THE LAST SEVEN WORDS.PM was circling, circling.A shell shook 248.Dennison ducked to avoid the concussion: he rapped his shoulder on the gun butt: he was angry and fired blindly, and wet his lips with his tongue.Men were escaping, dozens of them.Dennison fired in rage, fired at the windows of an apartment: he riddled a closed door: he chipped off stucco: he fired into a pine tree: his shooting jag was warming his belly. 248 swung around a corner."Watch out for that concrete slab!" Dennison warned.PM did not hear.One of the tracks grazed it.Dennison signalled again.His eyes were watering from the heat and smoke.PM was hit by bullet splash and stopped the tank: fumes and heat almost overwhelmed the crew as they worked over him, Zinc swabbing. Dennison was remembering Al, remembering....PM waved them off: No, I'm not down for a count of ten! No, let me get back at the controls!"Where?" he asked Landel."How much gas have we?""Quarter."Landel briefed his map, fingers uncertain, eyes uncertain, wanting to stall, to call a halt.The radio had conked.Turn backhe scribbled.Back?Where?Near the guns, near the trailer, by the school ... men had camouflaged Jake Marlin's trailer with a huge camouflage net ... Dennison and Zinc found a patch of grass in front of the school and settled down, cross-legged, like Ojibways, the grass uncut and weedy.Zinc chewed a grass blade."PM does all right," he said."Huh?""PM does all right.""He's good," said Dennison."He's gone to see a medic.""Scratch ... not bad.""Good.""Good.""Tired," Zinc admitted, unlacing his shoes to ease his feet, cigarette creasing his mouth: he was no longer in Morb but was tacking along Lake Erie, on his boat, Millie snuggled down among cushions.Dennison felt that hate was moving closer, was controlling his hands and arms: grubbing his jackknife out of his pocket he scraped grease from his nails, from his fingers: who was that freckled guy, with dirty beard, sunken eyes? Was that Landel, over there jawing with men? Why hadn't he been killed?He tossed the butt of his cigarette away, lay back on the grass, fell asleep. Unopposed, they stormed along a narrow street: men with a flame thrower had gutted a tank: 248's guns destroyed the thrower in a giant swoosh of flames: on the margin of his mind, beyond the roar, he saw a wire of light, filament: his mind shut around it: he lost track of time: he clamped his jaws.North.That was Landel's scribble.Leaning forward a little, Dennison wet his lips with his tongue.
A GI appeared, wig-wagging, a walkie-talkie in his big, hairy arms, his helmet cockeyed. Reporting into his w-t he paced the Lee; as it swung onto a main street, the motor responded sluggishly, as if running out of gas, and Dennison worked the choke. As he glanced through the periscope he noticed the GI walking on the sidewalk, swinging one arm, talking as he walked. A shell exploded: the GI, his w-t, bones and flesh splattered across the walk. Another 77 blew up the paving in front of the Lee: a roof collapsed, mixing steel and concrete.
Dennison reversed.
Following the main street, deserted shops and stores on both sides, he saw something drop from a second floor--a mattress. It fell across the tank's prow, swayed, fell again.
Dennison rammed an empty swastika jeep. From second floors machine guns raked a GI patrol, wiping it out, the men dying in the gutters.
Telephone wires whipped around a lamppost.
It was no longer raining.
Landel began directing Zinc: their guns accounted for several SS outside a drugstore. Waiting for smoke to clear, Dennison moved along the street where machine gunners were mounting their gun in a building named Zorn: ZORN was carved on the façade in tall letters: under shellfire, Zorn crumbled as they passed.
For Dennison, the grief of other attacks was returning, muddled, violent, hobnailing his brain.
This is our last attack, he told himself: gasoline low: stop: not any more: not any more: Gex is a ruin: we'll be able to rest ... rest ... a little rest ...
Mouth open, he longed for a cool drink, remembering the apple cores floating on the floor of 9.
Who was that walking along the street?
Jeannette, get off the street!
Jean ... what are you doing here?
Can't you hear me?
Oh, Christ, my head!
He bent forward and wet his lips with his tongue.
Before he could stop the tank it plowed into a wall and stopped with a great shock. Landel screamed. Zinc fell. Landel grabbed hold of Dennison and beat him with his fists, the pain in his wound galloping through his body. He sobbed and babbled; Zinc had to yank him off, and restrain him.
"What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?" Landel shouted.
Dennison could not figure out what had happened: he could not understand why the Lee was out of action: he asked Zinc if they had been hit.
In spite of his deafness, he heard Landel ask:
"Why did you ram the wall?"
"Do what?"
"Why did you hit the wall?"
Dennison waited for several seconds.
"I don't know what happened."
"You rammed into this wall--you fool!"
"I went blank."
"Let 'im alone!" Zinc shouted.
"Shut up!" Landel yelled.
"I went blank .... that's all," Dennison repeated.
They rested a few minutes and then began creeping along, patrolling the main street, under radio orders, their guns silent, the enemy nowhere. Stopping at a barricaded intersection, where trees had fallen under bombing, where heaps of rubble smoked, the radio announced the official take-over of Gex.
They were radio-ordered to park with other machines under trees fringing a town garden: roses and shell holes, benches and crushed benches, paths that stopped suddenly: a small bronze figure was still upright under branches: the three men crawled from their cab and sat on a low stone wall, faces black, clothes grease-caked, bloody.
Zinc showed Dennison a gashed hand.
"How did you get hit?"
"Oh ... I dunno."
"Need some iodine?"
"Umm."
"Open your hand."
"Can't."
"Open it, Isaac."
Zinc grinned boyishly.
Tenderly, Dennison opened Zinc's hand; he found an emergency kit in the Lee and cleaned the wound: all of the time he felt the fresh air on his face and realized he was breathing something worth breathing. He promised himself he would soon have something to eat.
"Shall I bandage it tighter?"
"No ... like it is."
"Okay now?"
"Yeah ... but awful tired."
"Me too."
"Where's Landel?"
"Gone for water."
"Ah."
A little later, Zinc said:
"I'm gonna marry Millie when I get back."
"What?" Dennison cried.
"Nuthin'."
Landel offered them water from a thermos.
"I've had some ... it's okay."
Zinc drank, Dennison drank, then it went the rounds once more.
"I'm beat," Landel said.
They nodded.
That night, after grub, they slept in a handsome 17th century residence near the park, in a bedroom on the second floor, under elegant drapes, elegant table cloths, in mahogany beds: a silent place, gilded wallpaper, ormolu furniture, golden carpet. Before falling asleep, Zinc washed and scrubbed with perfumed soap in a basin painted with forget-me-nots. In his sleep he thought of his boat, an ephemeral boat, but it was his boat ... he dreamed of a wedding ceremony, people tossing rice ... his injured hand relaxed ... but his face burned and his head throbbed violently from time to time.
Landel slept uneasily in his bed, a feverish night: he had gulped down aspirin from the emergency kit, then he added codeine, a double dose in the night: tomorrow, he asked himself, tomorrow? He was unsure. How could he continue?
For Dennison it was a problem to relax: he floated on his mattress, under the layers of drapery: his subconscious was uncomfortable: he heard his mother say:
"I think we've had more snow this year than we've had for years."
Of course this was played back a number of times.
In another dream a man whispered:
"Jeannette ... Jean..."
She was sitting on the grass by a lake, a picnic basket beside her, a blue scarf around her head: her eyes were marvelously blue: she was smiling: she was saying with her smile: come on, lunch is ready, let's eat.
"Darling," he said, aloud.
He awoke, shivering, angry with himself for having slept without his jacket. Putting it on, he climbed back into bed, and pulled the draperies closer, a rumble of low-flying bombers shaking the room.
... They continued to fight in Germany.... Christmas was dead and gone.... Time?
... They continued to fight in Germany.
... They continued to fight in Germany.
... Christmas was dead and gone.
... Christmas was dead and gone.
... Time?
... Time?
Eight Shermans boiled along anautobahn, the paving was excellent, one gradual curve sliding into another. Telephone lines, on stubby poles, wandered across fields into a weak sun. Villages lay upside down in a river.
As he drove, Dennison thought of shaving, recalled the whiff of Yardley soap, the rasp of his razor. Maybe, someday, somewhere, an electric shaver ... maybe after shave lotion ... maybe ...
He was doing thirty-five, thirty-seven, third in line, in the left lane. Heat boiled on its endless tread; noise rushed under the floor, rushed overhead, rushed along the walls.
They had a new crewman, a fellow from Chicago, a swarthy, husky outfielder, smart, good-natured, with a shock of black hair and black eyes: Paul Murphy; PM, the guys called him.
PM was hanging onto Dennison's driving seat as the freeway peeled by: he was reading the speedometer, tickled by Dennison's skill and recklessness. His eyes glistened; there was a silly grin on his face; he wanted to be able to drive a tank like this. As the bus rocked along smoothly, approaching fifty, he waved his arm at Zinc.
But Landel was squirming, resentful of such speed: he could think of a dozen reasons for disaster: his neck ached and he did not look forward to a ghastly jolt. For several weeks he had been sneaking off, drinking heavily, talking little: he was involved in the art of deception--the alcoholic's art. He bellowed through the phone, "cut your speed," then slumped against the armor plate, mouthing a small flask.
He bellowed again, this time at PM, signalling him to his machine gun.
God, Dennison thought, he doesn't leave anybody alone.
Dennison had requested a transfer--any unit: after his injury at the Roer River, Landel was often violent, word and action. He often fell asleep on duty. During some of his binges he went homo.
"Maybe he figured I was someone else," Dennison told Zinc. "Did he come at you?"
"Sure ... sure! But, lord, I haven't cracked up yet! We'll wrangle transfers, you and I. Have to..."
The driver in front of Dennison was losing speed: he was far to the right, too close to the shoulder.
"Steady, steady," Dennison mumbled to himself. "If you go slower, make it steady ... watch yourself."
What's the number on his turret: 6 ... 7 ... 67? Is that right? The 67 was nearly obliterated. The tank's armor was rust colored, mud and grease smeared, but somebody, at a depot or relay point, had slapped on yellow paint across one side and it was as though the machine sported a yellow crab, its pincers toward the prow.
So Chuck Hitchcock killed himself in a Brooklyn hospital! ... poor guy! Made it to the fire escape, blind as he was! Ten floors. God, to drop ten floors. Three seconds. Right on a paved driveway. He was out of his mind. Perhaps not. Dennison had Jeannette's note--dirty and crumpled--in his billfold. Had it for days, unable to reply. Where was he to get it mailed? In Berlin? What was there to say? What did she expect? Dear Jean: so sorry your brother bumped himself off! With those sightless eyes of his, what could he do? Not even Cyclops!
Better off.
With a jerk, 67 swung violently to starboard: its starboard tread left the highway, and the machine seemed to balance on one tread, race on one; then the highway shoulder crumbled and the bus spun over and over into a gravelled ditch, to stop bottom-up: the whole thing registering on Dennison, sucked inside his brain through his driving viewer.
"Tank over!" he bellowed, braking his machine gradually. He yanked Landel's arm, and shook it. "She'll catch fire," he bellowed. "Landel ... 67's in the ditch! Rolled over fast! Can we open her hatches?"
He was yelling at himself.
Landel was alert.
A tread of their tank sank and Dennison yanked her straight, centered her on the road, slowed, and brought her to a halt behind 67, smoke belching from the upended machine.
Sweat was running down his face and he wiped it off as he unstrapped his seatbelt.
The blow must have stunned 67's crew: Ben was there: his shoulder injury would cripple him: Carson was there ...
The men were dumped together between machine guns, cannon, ammunition, thermos, gasoline, wrenches, oil, heat.
Dennison was alongside the Lee.
From their firebox at the rear, he grabbed two Pyrenes: he handed one to Zinc and raced for 67, slipping on mud: he dropped the extinguisher but snatched it and squirted chemicals on the yellow paint smear, on the turret.
"Somebody get a shovel ... hunt for a crowbar ... tear open ... let them out! Smoke's choking them ... they can't see a thing!
"Here, PM, squirt this on the motor area," he shouted: he realized that PM could not hear and he shoved the extinguisher into his hands.
He began to unwire a crowbar from his own machine, his fingers awkward; he tried to steady himself; smoke was ballooning; the Pyrenes were whitening the smoke. Using all his strength he wrenched off the bar and rushed back to 67. Machinegun bullets were bursting inside. Now Landel was discharging an extinguisher.
PM had run back to his bus. Now he nosed 67 over: with a huge thud, and a great cloud of white smoke, she flopped onto her side. Another tankman attempted to beat open a driving slot, to admit air.
Handkerchief over his face, Dennison climbed onto 67, to force a hatch. Somebody might be there, ready to be dragged out. Hell, the guys couldn't see!
Raising his bar he rammed it: smoke blinded him but he struck again: the steel rebounded: there was less smoke: he struggled to breathe: probably they were dead: Carson, Ben, Townsend, Lee, Arthur. Yet there might be a chance ... must be a chance ... must be ...
Slipping, he fell off the tank and somebody helped him up, and he whirled for one of the forward ports. Sweat drenched his hands and face. He gripped the bar tighter and drove at the little door and it seemed to give and he hammered at it again, coughing.
I've got a crack ... lean forward ... hit closer to the rim ... can't see ...
His handkerchief dropped. He couldn't stop coughing. When smoke blew away he looked about and saw that nobody was using the extinguishers: were they empty? Everyone had backed away.
Goddammit ... I'll open that starboard door ... I'll hack it open with my bare hands!
He rammed and the door yielded. He slammed at it again and it gave a hair. He hit it again with every ounce of muscle. His hands slipped and he almost toppled.
He hit nearer the lock: a steel shaving gave way: hurling himself against the bar, the lock snapped; he pressed down, and the door opened.
Breathing in gasps, he threw the little door wide.
Smoke, black smoke, crawled out of the cab.
Crewmen pushed Dennison aside and crowded close to 67. Leaning against his tank, Dennison watched them, unseeing, unmoving: glad to be away from 67. He wanted water but could not ask for it. In spite of himself he vomited green slime.
Too late ... there's nothing anybody can do ... I was too late.
Nobody can crawl inside: the guys are dead: they've been dead for ... it's done: it's over: maybe that's something:
"It's over," he yelled.
Ben and his injured shoulder: Ben said he was going to get well: Ben was majoring in math ...
Carson was a nice guy ...
Arthur said I'm the one and future king ...
Dennison coughed and blinked and walked about and wet his lips with his tongue.
"You nearly got yourself killed," Landel barked at Dennison. He waved his fire extinguisher at 67. "They're dead ... fried to a crisp ... you were a damn fool!"
Dennison barely understood ... he nodded.
Rubbing his eyes, he tried to lessen the sting of the smoke, the acid of burning rubber, the force of fear ... Presently, he saw Zinc beside him with a canteen of water in his hands.
"Drink."
He helped Dennison swab his face and sop his neck, his own hands trembling; he appeared a little idiotic without his helmet, his hair going every which way, but he smiled insanely. Grease streaked his forehead and beard and one ear was blobbed with oil.
All tanks had halted: tankmen sat and lay on the freeway or on the shoulder: the sun was ugly in a salve-like cloud: in a woodland a B-29 hung in some trees, strips of wing metal flashing.
Harold Stragoni, in one of the last tanks to pull up, hurried to Dennison and Zinc.
"Is that your tank ... did you lose your tank?"
"No."
"67 turned over ... burned."
"Hit by a shell?"
"Turned over."
PM came up.
"I looked inside ... with my flash ... they're incinerated to nuthin' ... clothes all burned ... It's too hot to climb inside..."
Zinc inspected the machine: walking around it, he noticed the yellow paint, flaked grease, dented armor, damaged cannon, a broken grouser. In Akron there had been a truck crash, the cab catching fire--this same incineration. In spite of that vivid Ohio memory he wanted a glimpse of Arthur--no matter how charred. Arthur was a man ... but Zinc could not identify anyone: just reddish stuff, a leather helmet, a hand, guns. Sadly, he rejoined Dennison and they lit cigarettes.
"There was a broken grouser ... maybe that caused 'er to flip," said Zinc mournfully.
"Maybe."
Landel fished his binocular from its case; focusing it he scrutinized the woodland, the intervening fields, a remote farm, its heap of manure, haystacks.
"We ought to bury our guys," someone said.
"Yeah ... let's bury them," Stragoni said, filling his pipe, shaking tobacco back into a leather pouch.
"Nobody's gonna bury them!" Landel yelled. "They're buried already." Fools for sentiment. "We've got to shove out of here. We'll be spotted ... our buses all along the highway!"
Near a wire gate he caught a solitary figure: the figure reminded him of his father before they imprisoned him: the field man had the same defeated air, the same stoop.
Their company commander, Colonel Fraser, bumped up in a fast jeep: he and his staff did not have much to say: his brown, middle-aged face expressed great chagrin: maps under his arm he checked 67, one of his lieutenants scribbling in a field book.
"You were right behind her," he said to Landel. "Did you see her go over?"
"I didn't see her go over."
"I saw her ... she seemed to travel on one tread ... drop to the shoulder ... maybe a broken tread," Dennison said.
Landel grasped the Colonel's shoulder:
"Here, here ... look..."
He pressed his binocular into Fraser's hand.
"See ... see that M129, dangling in those trees ... they're readying a mortar there ... we've got to clear out!"
He began gesturing, calling to the crewmen:
"Out of here ... everybody ... into the tanks ... mortar fire!"
He hustled from man to man. By the time Fraser had spotted the mortar, Landel had men bee-lining.
Fraser ordered the tanks to roll. He and his staff piled into their jeep.
Dennison tossed the crowbar onto the floor of their machine, swung into the bus, dropped wearily onto the driving seat. He permitted himself time for a long, long swig: water was incredible. When you're dead you don't drink much, he told himself. He passed the canteen to Zinc who passed it to Landel.
"Goddamn the Wehrmacht!" Landel shouted.
Water wet his fingers and wrists, rolled off oil and grease.
"What hellish luck!" Dennison shouted.
"Let's go!" Landel yelled.
Switch on, the cylinders whammed into action; other tanks had raced ahead; in an instant Dennison passed 67; as they roared on a mortar shell exploded far from its target, geysering dirt.
This section of theautobahnhad been shelled and Dennison kept the bus at thirty, leery of potholes, treads rolling in unison, the motor synchronizing, the highway a slant of light.
Jeez, he thought, we didn't get away any too soon!
He scrunched deeper into his seat, wanting to ease his shoulders: that crowbarring had been rough! Well, here was one up for Fred Landel, old eagle eye! The grumbling of the engine was satisfying. This bus was in order.
A sign read8 K Olpe.
"Olpe!" Dennison muttered through the phone.
"What?" Zinc yelled.
"Olpe ... Olpe lies ahead!"
He knew exactly what lay ahead because he had seen so many ruined towns: pulped houses, streets galled and scrambled, downed trees, power plant in bits, splintered telephone poles, church sheltering a crucifix.
Ten dead lay on the road: he recognized their uniforms: he knew, as he drove past them, that some of the men had been riding motorcycles and bicycles. Their motorcycles had swastikas on their sidecars.
The sign read7 K Olpe.
World world, went the treads.
Water dripping from a brown jar is white, he thought. Honey in a comb is thick. Goat's milk tastes strong. The desert is yellow in places, streaked, as though themistralhad ... yeah, and those fly-coated arms in the wadi...
Robinson's arms raced ahead on theautobahn, raced the tank, very white, flecked with sand...
Chuck was good at assembling an automatic rifle...
How far was it he could throw a grenade?
Dennison's back was paining him more acutely: he felt the drag of the crowbar, the weight and friction of it:
Gonna be lame tomorrow, lame in my arms and back.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be back in E ... I'll stroll along the Nonette ... that book in the attic ... Chateaubriand ... she had readAtalato him, dwelling on the most melancholy passages ... Atala's burial ... that book in the attic ... I'll re-read those passages ... book bound in red leather ... memories from ...
His head was throbbing as they entered Olpe, a yellow cat crouching in front of someone's empty cottage. It spat at the crewmen as they climbed out, parked to grab some air: the town was dead: alone, on a slab of masonry, Dennison rested his head on one hand. Other tanks rolled in, stopped. It would be dark in an hour or so. They would be eating soon?
How he wanted the roar of the tank to seep out of his brain, wanted some of the filth to ooze from his body.
He wanted a place alone. Better alone in this bombed town than never alone! Better to die in a field! A B-29 flying low, conspicuous ...
In Britain there had been Spitfires and De Havilands: constantly aloft: this B-29 was a reconnaissance plane circling lower and lower: the bomber was reaching a danger point: was it out of fuel, was the crew about to bale out?
Climbing a big mound of garbage he saw chutes billow; then came the twisting dive, smoke from the cockpit area as the plane went down. Five chutes were swaying, drifting. A black column headstoned the crash site. Dennison jumped from the garbage pile and informed some of the crewmen. At once several GI's took off, dog trotting through the dusk, toting small arms. Dennison was glad to run, glad to be on the go across a field--free of armor.
The first chute man, tangled in his chute, lying on his side, lying behind bushes, opened fire with his submachine gun, almost killing PM. Bullets cropped weeds and grass around him.
"Look, you goddamn ass! We're not Nazis!" shrieked PM, flat on his belly...
"How do I know who you are! Some of you bastards talk English," the airman yelled.
"Yeah, well, I'm from Chicago, see. I used to clean up the loop every day for eighteen bucks a week. Dee is my uncle. I'm in the 321st ... all of us are in the 321st. We just crawled into this lousy town. Put down your tommy gun: I'll show you some snapshots? Okay?"
"I guess so, but keep your hands up! Don't fuck around!"
In a moment they were shoulder-slapping and pumping hands; within a short time the tankmen located three more flyers--one with a smashed leg. Someone hacked a willow and thin pine poles and Dennison and Zinc improvised a jacket litter.
On the way into Olpe they located the other flyer, his parachute shot down. Dennison was stung by his death: he felt the tragedy of his broken body: he looked into Zinc's face: but he was looking at something else: everyone here about the same age, Dennison thought: all trapped. Another kick from death! Death, lousy death, that insatiable hellion! He wanted to defy death. He wanted to kick it in the ass. He wanted the world to know what death was doing!
Smog was filtering over Olpe's dumpage: the brick and stone walls, a slate roof, the beams and plaster: nearly every structure had been shambled. Olpe had been known for its oil refinery but shelling had dug and re-dug earth, pipes, storage tanks, cracking gear.
They carried the pilot into a ruined inn: somebody had already explored the town and led them there: somebody rounded up a medic: Dennison, Zinc, Landel and PM bedded down in the low T-shaped building that still had a giant elm tree in front.
Debris was everywhere, broken dishes, broken window glass, dangling plaster, a disemboweled sofa, ripped out wiring, pulverized bricks and tiles: Dennison walked through the rooms as through a surrealist museum: finding burlap and a mattress he lay down and unbuttoned his trousers and scratched and then lay motionless.
No food had come.
One of the flyers hung a flashlight and its swaying light crawled about, expressing hate. Other crewmen bedded down. Dennison's mind had nothing to tell him so he wriggled underneath the sacking and hunger became his anesthesia. Turning his hands palm-up, he gazed at them, one at a time, dozed, and then slept.
Landel was vomiting from pain, lack of food, alcohol, and fatigue. Crouched in a corner, he had an empty bottle beside him.
Whiskey would help! He shrugged: who's Johnny Walker? Down in Panama, years ago, the gambling rooms of the Palacio Rivas had been fabulous: coco palms in a lush garden, macaws on perches, gardenias floating on the swimming pools ... lovely whores ...copitas. But he had gotten drunk and killed a man, shot him through the lungs and heart ...
When the war ended he planned to settle in Germany and horn in on the black market graft: army supplies, PX supplies: sell, buy, swap: a sure way to stack up the dough!
PM was snoring.
Zinc lay on his side, watching one of the B-29 guys mess with his lighter: a nearby tankman removed his shoes and sox and massaged his feet: Zinc felt the smallness of his body: other men had something to be proud of: muscles were jerking around his mouth: he rubbed the muscles halfheartedly: closing his eyes he tried to think of home but home had not existed for a long time. Mom had been dead for four or five years ... Millie ... where was she? He turned onto his back. It seemed to him his spine was injured. Certainly something was wrong with his stomach: there were too many aches there.
A cloudy moon hung above Olpe ... in the gutted inn night was eventful: food began arriving in the early hours: the old walls heard a few cheerful sounds; the smell of food roused some of the men.
Sometime in the night Landel woke, chilled, afraid: he couldn't find a cigarette and woke Dennison and asked him for his pack. He tried to talk to him--wishing to talk about his past: most of all he simply wanted to talk. Drags on his Luckies helped. He found a blanket. That helped. With Dennison lying nearby he thought of admitting what a bastard he was and yet that seemed stupid: everything seemed stupid, everything was stupid, torn apart, like Olpe.
Under the ribs of an adjoining building--a long shed--fifteen or twenty tankmen ate breakfast, fog around them: fog had seeped in with a yellowish thickness, a thickness that seemed related to old masonry, old walls and crumbling plaster. The eaters appreciated the hot food, untroubled by the fog; as they ate they simply stared.
Go to Morb ... Panzers ... Serious.
That was the morning radio directive: the Corps was dispatched onto theautobahnagain, now crammed with one-way military and civilian traffic. It began to drizzle as the Shermans and Lees grumbled forward; then the drizzle changed to a downpour that sloshed over turret, periscope and viewer. Dim-outs popped on. Olpe traffic jammed: a jeep had crashed: a truck had stalled: a civilian truck resembled an oiled animal under its flapping tarp.
Memory's belt began in Dennison's brain:
The Gestapo, the man said at breakfast ... the Gestapo ... they did their best to get information from the Maquis ... they were trying to round up the Maquis ... they were ... Fritzes ... that's what the guy at breakfast called them ... said he had fought in North Africa ... said ...
... Okay, send us back to Olpe; at least there is something to eat there ... what was that radio message?
... Slow, slow, now pass, shift into second, watch that fool, he doesn't know how to drive ... funny, Zinc squatting there, asleep maybe ... Landel looks bad ... too much rain, German rain.
When the tanks reached Morb, at 9 kilometers, military cops, outside a battered school, flagged them past an artillery battery: 88's, 102's and 4.2 mortars were snorting over. General Jake Marlin had his trailer in the field--a zigzag gash in its gleaming aluminum side, his flag soggy.
Why had they been directed to Morb?
Obviously, there were no Nazis here.
Low-flying bombers were passing.
The radio was sputtering misinformation.
On a side street the crews had a chance to oil and gas up, time to urinate, time to drink, time for a chew of gum, time to smoke and talk.
Dennison wandered into a wrecked cottage: plaster crunched underfoot; he straightened a picture on the wall; he listened to the punch of shells; fragments fell from the ceiling as percussions went on. A door opened.
That was a school, had been a school:
Today we'll confine our lessen to Siberia. Do any of you know anything special about Siberia? Can you give us an idea of its size? How about you, Hermann?
What good was it, sending kids to school? They have been attending school since the Romans, or was it before the Romans? Have schools stopped war? Nobody through all those centuries has had a peace class. He grinned, as he leaned against the battered doorframe of the little cottage.
Again he listened to the constant shellfire.
Tanks into action, somebody signalled.
Action!
"Get going!"
"Okay."
"Okay."
Dennison turned over the driving controls to PM and PM smirked his pleasure like a kid: he settled into the driving seat, checked the controls, thinking fast, confident. Landel gave him a wigwag. Then 248 hunched forward, the tracks working evenly; the motor revved smoothly.
Dennison punched PM, and they swung left.
A latch of his mind was fastened to the periscope.
Starboard sank into a pothole; they floundered through other potholes, now following the side of a small river, other tanks in front. Smoke gnarled the sky. They were in a section of Morb, streets, houses. Port side a shell exploded. Something clanged against 248, clanged like a bell. The bus rocked, and Dennison stared anxiously at PM. PM grunted.
The tanks moved through smoke walls down a street: as if propelled through a tube, through a tunnel, Nazis rushed toward 248. They bunched. They fell. Some retreated down a cul-de-sac. Scrambling across barbed wire and fencing, PM followed.
Realizing that the men were trapped, Dennison fired slowly: he tried to account for each man, firing PM's gun: he shouted and fired, shouted and fired: this was the same, knocking out wooden ducks at the fair.
Three down, four to go.
So, the tank was an improvement on the Trojan horse!
Smoke closed in.
Frames flitted by, image after image, scenes without continuity, a sciamachy of trees, people, Greeks, Russians, a cloud, a room, Jeannette, children's face, a cactus in a steamy conservatory, a swan, a wounded boy. On the walls of a latrine he read: THE LAST SEVEN WORDS.
PM was circling, circling.
A shell shook 248.
Dennison ducked to avoid the concussion: he rapped his shoulder on the gun butt: he was angry and fired blindly, and wet his lips with his tongue.
Men were escaping, dozens of them.
Dennison fired in rage, fired at the windows of an apartment: he riddled a closed door: he chipped off stucco: he fired into a pine tree: his shooting jag was warming his belly. 248 swung around a corner.
"Watch out for that concrete slab!" Dennison warned.
PM did not hear.
One of the tracks grazed it.
Dennison signalled again.
His eyes were watering from the heat and smoke.
PM was hit by bullet splash and stopped the tank: fumes and heat almost overwhelmed the crew as they worked over him, Zinc swabbing. Dennison was remembering Al, remembering....
PM waved them off: No, I'm not down for a count of ten! No, let me get back at the controls!
"Where?" he asked Landel.
"How much gas have we?"
"Quarter."
Landel briefed his map, fingers uncertain, eyes uncertain, wanting to stall, to call a halt.
The radio had conked.
Turn backhe scribbled.
Back?
Where?
Near the guns, near the trailer, by the school ... men had camouflaged Jake Marlin's trailer with a huge camouflage net ... Dennison and Zinc found a patch of grass in front of the school and settled down, cross-legged, like Ojibways, the grass uncut and weedy.
Zinc chewed a grass blade.
"PM does all right," he said.
"Huh?"
"PM does all right."
"He's good," said Dennison.
"He's gone to see a medic."
"Scratch ... not bad."
"Good."
"Good."
"Tired," Zinc admitted, unlacing his shoes to ease his feet, cigarette creasing his mouth: he was no longer in Morb but was tacking along Lake Erie, on his boat, Millie snuggled down among cushions.
Dennison felt that hate was moving closer, was controlling his hands and arms: grubbing his jackknife out of his pocket he scraped grease from his nails, from his fingers: who was that freckled guy, with dirty beard, sunken eyes? Was that Landel, over there jawing with men? Why hadn't he been killed?
He tossed the butt of his cigarette away, lay back on the grass, fell asleep. Unopposed, they stormed along a narrow street: men with a flame thrower had gutted a tank: 248's guns destroyed the thrower in a giant swoosh of flames: on the margin of his mind, beyond the roar, he saw a wire of light, filament: his mind shut around it: he lost track of time: he clamped his jaws.
North.
That was Landel's scribble.
Leaning forward a little, Dennison wet his lips with his tongue.