She wanted to repeat: but what happened? She knew better than repeat that question; she knew, from those hospitalized victims, from their bitterness, their profanity, their cruelty, their shrivelled minds and bodies, something of what it was that was obsessing Orville. She picked up a shirt, placed it over the back of a chair. "Let me fold your things ... let me help." "I’m putting things away ... in my chest-of-drawers ... hanging up things, as they were." She was hopeful he might return; she began to sob; life was being ripped away; her fingers trembled as she laid a folded shirt in a drawer: he was leaving his home, leaving his birthplace, leaving his Ermenonville; she tried to include herself in the picture. Throwing her arms around him she kissed him again and again. "I’ll try to write to you," he said, each word coming out hard. "Letters," she whispered, "letters ... we’re not much good at letters ... how can you reach me ... how can I reach you?" Was the fishing line on the two reels still damp? When was it they had gone fishing together--years ago? Crossing France was going to be difficult, contacting the Corps was going to be difficult. His arm around Jeannette, facing the window, he gazed down on the lawn: Annette was entering the house, carrying Lena’s angora, René. A door banged, and Claude’s voice echoed. * * * *5* Dennison rejoined his Corps. Their third offensive started during a heavy fog ... the tanks rolled forward slowly ... Something red appeared and then faded almost at once; a rumbling sound was connected with the color and there was something else, some kind of motion. Dennison tried to turn over on his side but pain knocked him out, and then the red flopped on again, floating, jelly-fishing. He tried to speak. Something prevented him. What was happening? Then, the red shaped itself into something, a wedge, a fuzzy glow, then became glass in a stained glass window. Now he realized that he was lying in an ambulance; the window was swaying as the ambulance swayed. He recognized the sound of tires, the sound of a heavy duty motor. Presently, the ambulance came to a stop and a man’s voice droned, words confused with other sounds, motors, shouts. Was this a convoy? Were they caught in a stream of traffic? Were they in a town? What caused the light through the window? Was it daylight? He broke into a sweat. How long had he been riding? Inching to one side, he peered at a tiny light bulb, its filament a hairpin of orange between litter-bunks. A man just below had his arm flung out: someone must be fastened to that arm. The ambulance began to creep forward and the wounded man’s fingers began to clench ... then pain galled Dennison. He longed for a drink of water more than anything. He was sure that a drink would check the pain and ease the ride. God, he worried, where’s my dog tag? Is this a German rig?