"Let’s not drag the stuff ... gotta keep sand off those boxes ... you know what that could mean!" "Had sand in my gun yesterday," Zinc said. "Couldn’t swivel it for awhile." Working fast, they lugged mm, cannon shells, gasoline, water tins, cans of grease and oil. Someone got the idea of ripping tarpaulin and wiping off the machine gun cartridges before lugging them. The path to the tanks became crowded; the sand got very loose; lights stabbed the junked sand, scraped the dune’s side and seemed to drag down more sand, more dust, more darkness. The three greased their stauffers and rollers and cleaned the cab. Dennison filled transmission grease cups, the cups of the stuffing box, and those of the bevel-gear case. He checked fuel lines for leakage. Starting the motor, revving it, he glanced at his wristwatch again and again: the radium dial obsessed him, tension mounting with the jerk-jerk of the second hand, the thudding of the motor ... Outside, he bumped into Chuck Hitchcock, his hulky body coming out of the night, his helmet yanked low: Chuck was the youngest crewmate. "Here, help me," he exclaimed, handing Dennison a wrench. "Okay, where?" Chuck’s handsome blond features expressed great pain: he resented the war, he hated Libya; he hated the tanks; the old happy days had been his boyhood days in Wisconsin, on his dad’s farm. Agilely, he jumped onto a sand layered tread, motioning Dennison to come. He had found a cracked plate and together they fought to remove it or replace it. Everything they touched was sandy; sand spat at them, rasped their hands, got into their mouths, abraded their knees as they knelt on the steel. A sliver of steel jabbed Dennison’s hand; he smashed savagely at a bolt with his wrench; a shell boomed among the machines; there was an enormous rattle of steel as gravel and rocks struck steel; men shouted; sand ripped from the great dune; smoke shut off the sky. "They’ve got a line on us," Chuck yelled. "Lights out ... lights out!" We’re in for it now, Dennison thought. Something went wrong: we’re always blundering, blundering ... the Nazis are supposed to be miles away from here: "Climb inside, Chuck ... we can go!" Dennison tightened the bolt, checked another. Stripping off his jacket, wiping his hands on it, he climbed inside, the chill interior amazingly dark and foul with gasoline. Another shell struck, banging furiously. Darkness meshed with silence! Someone flipped on the cab lights; Dennison jazzed the motor, Landel dove inside; Millard was okay; Zinc was bolting the turret; the cab light went out, leaving behind the pure black of steel. Shellfire was constant now, rocking the tank: the steel walls became paper partitions, likely to bend inward, collapse at any moment. In his driver’s seat, Dennison adjusted his driving slits, Landel beside him, unfolding his map, spreading it across his legs by flashlight.