Flashlights bloomed and died. Lanterns blinked. Seated men, men standing in groups, became death figures. Dennison walked slowly, head bent; Zinc followed him; Millard followed. Their tank was parked among other machines behind the shack where they had slept, almost at the base of the great dune. The bulk of each tank was something cut out of the night. As Dennison popped on his flash, rocks and gravel mixed with the deep sand ruts left by the treads. A mechanic’s spotlight had been trained on their M4 Sherman: she was a dusty blob twenty-four feet long, nine feet wide and eleven feet high. Paint had been chipped off innumerable places. Her starboard side had sunk down where the sand had given way under her weight. She weighed thirty-five tons, and carried three machine guns, a 75 mm turret cannon. Walking up to her, Dennison kicked sand off his shoes against the armor plating. "Where in Christ’s name have you been?" Landel screamed, appearing out of the dark, flashlight in hand. "Just finished eating," Dennison yelled. "Here’s your helmet," Landel yelled. "I found it lyin’ on the floor of the bus. My god, man, can’t you keep anything! You bastards always lose our stuff." "I’m wearing my helmet," Dennison yelled. "That’s Zinc’s helmet." Landel’s flashlight winked out; the mechanic’s vivid spotlight went out; the darkness seemed to alter the tone of the captain’s voice, make it more irritable: "Who the hell’s dickering with that light? What’s the matter! This is no blackout! Gotta check!" He stumbled across sand ruts, his flash poking the sand and rocks. In a matter of seconds the mechanic’s light snapped on. Dennison had climbed on top of their tank when Landel returned. Landel grabbed his leg and yelled: "Dennison, you and Zinc carry our quota of 75 mms and all the stuff you can lug. Snap into it! We’ve got to get out of here; we’ve a hell of a lot to do before we can pull out. Millard," he screamed: "MILLARD, Milla-ard. Grab yourself! Go with Zinc. Go with Dennison. Bring mms to our tank. I’ll be inside ... you can feed it to me." The three walked away, avoided a blown-up tree and its branches. Tricky, bombed sand sent Zinc pitching on his belly. He got up with a grunt, not a word. Their bearded faces leered at each other in the winking light; a halftrack blocked their way; the wind was coming up and slapped dust at them as they snaked along one behind the other. "A rotten place to lug supplies," Millard snapped. "Why not move our bus and then pick up the shells?" Shadowy light remained on Millard’s face: how old he had become: Millard Evans, twenty-six, now a middle-aged farm hand, face seamed, ugly. His mouth was too big, flabby, because he had lost several front teeth. Only the eyes were young, kind, normal. "Here ... over here, here’s the dump," Dennison said. His flash yellowed boxes of ammunition and supplies spread on a giant tarpaulin.