Have the goddamn Nazis got me? When the ambulance stopped, Dennison was able to distinguish a cross in the window glass: the red cross was pale, old. Did German ambulances have red crosses? Voices sounded outside: German, French, English? Men were snoring in the bunks around him. Pushing himself to the side, he peered down angrily. "Where are we?" he demanded. No answer. A bandaged foot protruded across the feebly lit aisle; the bulbous white mass shook, as if trying to reply. "Hey, down there! Whose ambulance is this?" he yelled. He tried English, French, German. As though on a crane, the foot lifted, swung onto the litter: a pool of blood trembled on the floor as the ambulance moved on. Dennison beat against the wall and then the ceiling. He was soaked with sweat. The exertion made him shake but he continued beating until his fist stung and his head and arm ached. As he lay there, breathing hard, breathing fast, someone asked: "What can I do for you?" "Man, talk to me ... where am I?" The fellow had spoken French: did that mean anything? Dennison peered at a tousled head, a pair of dirty glasses on a beaked nose, a stubbled, dirty face. The dirty face grinned pleasantly. Dennison liked the mottled teeth and purple lips. "You’re okay. Take it easy, huh? Did you think we was Nazis? Nah! Lie back! Rest. I’ll bring you dope ... we’ll soon be at the Fournier Hospital, in Rethel ... soon ... do you hear? It’s Catholic. Clean. Be there soon. Lie down..." Reassured, Dennison lay back. "Just some water ... just some water..." "Okay." Things blurred. "Now, here, swallow the dope..." "Sure ... a little more water ... gotta have water..." "Okay." Pain wormed in his arm and shoulder, and he wondered what had occurred. What had become of the tank? What had happened to Zinc and Landel? The last thing he remembered ... pain was burning closer, closer, closer ... Fingering his bandages, he poked at several wooden splints and tried to gauge the extent of his injury. Thinking to push back his hair, he felt a skull bandage; a sling was looped around his neck. His fingers traced the folds of the sling. What the hell did that mean? Both head and arm! So I got hit two ways! God ... dammit! The ambulance was swaying. Huddled under his blankets, Dennison recalled a face, a blonde face, a blonde face beside a chest-of-drawers ... that, that was Ermenonville ... that was ... In London, Jeannette had said ... Zinc had told him that ... and the fog, the heavy river fog and the heavy shelling ... somebody was ... With the ambulance door open, he caught a whiff of fresh air, the air entering like something solid; leaning over, toward the edge of the bunk, he listened: A snarling voice was saying something about the railroad: the railroad had been bombed ... no way to transfer wounded ... trucks were being used ... ambulances ...