"This stuff, this hacked up meat, is easier to eat than the gunk they fed us yesterday," he said. "A pan of salmon’s not my idea of chow in the desert." "Yeah, it was lousy," Dennison agreed. "I’m gettin’ me more of this hash, when I’m done." "Sure ... there’s plenty." "Raub got here plenty early..." "Great logistics ... I’ll have more hash before the flies move in," said Dennison. "Flies ... flies ... they’re everywhere when we stop ... a fine way to go to hell ... carried there by flies!" "How’s your stomach?" Dennison asked. "Any better this morning?" Yesterday, at a noon halt, Zinc had held to a tread and vomited, gasping, his face white above his beard. During the morning run he had been hurled against the stock of his machine gun. "I’m doin’ all right," Zinc said "My guts have settled into place--somehow. Maybe the muscles inside are knittin’ together again or whatever. I can breathe okay. No pain." He chuckled faintly. "It was one hell of a rotten jolt, and came near puttin’ me out of running. I think this food will stay down." "You’ll be okay," Dennison said. Zinc flaunted a hunk of bread. "As long as I can eat I can manage," he exclaimed. The fire had attracted more of the Corps; some sat on the palm tree; two perched on a bed roll; others squatted on the sand; several sat on oil drums; some ate with their backs to the flames; others loafed about the kitchen. When Raub waved a mess kit and yelled, Dennison got up and crossed the sand to the wagon. "More hash ... more coffee," he said, offering his pan. "Sure man," said Raub. Dennison stared at him while he spooned hash, sliced bread, and poured coffee: he was a far off guy, slow, sloppy, small, with black rimmed spectacles and a black wad of a moustache, the image of a grubby Parisian painter though he had never painted or been outside of Georgia until the war. "Did you have a tough time, bringing the kitchen forward?" Dennison shouted. "Yeah ... bad findin’ you guys in the black ... bad truck ... but weah heah." To Dennison he sounded unreal: where the hell was Georgia? Where was the US? All these men ... here ... how had they gotten here? The dune became real but the conflict was unreal. Settling his cup on the kit he asked himself whether he should eat more? What about being wounded on a full belly? Was it worse with the belly full? Some said.... "Heah, heah," said Raub. "I’ve got some sinkahs for you. Would you all like a couple?" "Huh ... I guess so..." Raub opened a cupboard door--a stainless steel door in the side of his kitchen--and pulled out a cellophane bag and passed doughnuts to Dennison, one at a time, hooked over a finger. Dennison grinned. "Good boy, Raub." "Mum’s da word. Quick, hide’em, while we’re alone." Raub frowned, imagining GI’s storming over the sand, howling for doughnuts across the counter. "Jus’ remember, when your folks sends you all some stuff, jus’ remember me again." "I’ll remember."