The tank’s swastika burned in Dennison’s brain: he spun his bus to the left, increased speed, shot ahead, cut to the right; he yelled through the intercom to Chuck, ordering him to open fire. Chuck’s 75-pounder boomed. Dennison tried to signal Landel but grew confused. Why was the Nazi tank motionless? Was it some sort of trick? Again he swung his tank to one side and then spurted forward as fast as she would roll. If the commander of the German bus was stalling, what the hell was he figuring? Chuck steadied his gun--his body a part of it: steady boy, steady. Look, the Nazi turret is revolving. Wait, Chuck heard Landel’s command to let go. As Dennison pivoted the Sherman, he pulled the trigger. The 75 pounder hit the Nazi prow and threw the tank to one side. Millard fed another shell to Chuck. The Nazi dropped a shell behind the Sherman: it exploded so close its force threw Landel to the floor. Smoke drenched the ports. Chuck’s gunfire tore open the Panther’s armor plate and ripped off a tread and port gun--gapping the machine. The infantrymen, with their Brens, froze: they still expected help from their smashed tank: they signalled each other and began to fan out as Dennison stared, his bus motionless. The sun was beating down: the smoke was clearing: dust was rolling up from somewhere: pigeons flew low: like a Hollywood prop the antenna mast on the Panther bent, and then collapsed onto the cobbles. Landel was first to come to: He whirled his machine gun on the half petrified infantrymen: he was too fast and depressed the barrel and bullets clattered across cobbles and rubble. Some of the soldiers crouched behind the tank. Others ran. A man fell. Then no soldiers: they had melted away. Dennison tried to follow them and then returned to the square where other M4’s were parked, near a small stone fountain and several olive trees. Now, he thought ... I can rest ... get outside ... some water ... wet my face ... walk ... eat ... Egging himself outside, he stumbled to the fountain where GI’s were standing, and splashed water on his face; removing his helmet, he splashed his head, staring into the shallow white tiled pool. A single fish was swimming: or was it a trick of the mind? Alive? Or coloration? And that bubble: were there still bubbles in the world? He splashed his face again, the tank forgotten. Water, air, trees, a grey-grey something, a gnarled something! A lizard scuttled up a branch, stopped, flicked its tail, puffed its body, and stared inquisitively. A cat slunk out of a bombed house and crossed the square and brushed against a GI, meowing, wobbling. "I’ll be damned ... a mangy cat," croaked Zinc, his hands in the fountain: he flopped water over his face and soaked his shirt. Dennison heard Zinc’s words faintly: it would be hours before the tank deafness wore off.