When Zinc had taped his arm they carried the waterboy, carried him into a house across the square, banging on a door, shoving him inside when two women opened. A bullet had smashed his leg. The kid moaned and flopped his arms. He was bleeding badly. Dennison liked his bright face, his gaunt, nomadic build. He respected his courage: that business with the water bottle, the spotting of the roof gunners. Kneeling and sitting on the tiled floor of someone’s living room he and Zinc did their best to bandage the boy’s leg. Dennison tried to talk to him but he couldn’t come to. People crowded around, yapping, yapping: he saw their mouths going. Speaking French he yelled at a woman: "Try to locate a Red Cross man!" The veiled figure hovered over the boy, her blue boubous was flecked with something white. "Médecin," she mumbled. Dennison and Zinc risked a third of their stock of bandages: they rebound the break, padding it. "Good boy, good boy," Dennison said to himself. "Nice kid, nice kid!" Zinc said. According to Landel, the Anadi mess was a mere delaying action, a hinge in the Nazi retreat. Millard was left, to be trucked to a base. The tanks gulped water. A supply tank furnished gas and oil. Landel, Zinc and Chuck and Dennison worked steadily, with a few minutes for food. Where’s the thermos? Where’s the coffee? Cigarettes? God, thought Dennison, where now? A radio screamed: _Advance to Beramet_. A merchant, with a yellow and blue turban on his head, was opening a double door, a pack of dates lay on his table, a girl was prostrate on a cot, two camels appeared, a pigeon flew. There was no opportunity to remember the olive trees: Dennison shut his eyes: he belched and swayed in his seat: the hatch banged shut, was bolted shut: he shifted his controls ... Remember? His arm stung where the bullet had nicked him; he minded the heat; already the roaring of the tank had lost some of its noise: he was growing deafer. Over the intercom--far away--he heard Landel: "There’s a concrete pillbox ahead!" Why the hell should we knock it out! Whose pillbox was it? Why was it there? Where was the damn artillery? Asleep! Must be some other M4’s around! Or an M18! Maybe the rest of the Corps was lost on the desert--in some hellish place. Thoroughly angry, swiping sweat from his face, he decelerated to 5 mph. Let some other bastard wipe out the pillbox! Landel indicated starboard and they swung close to a brick wall, snailed along it, rounded a corner, and there, near a chapel, was the pillbox, white, dirty, plastered with faded movie posters. Before Dennison could shift gears the crew in the box let go and a shell blew bricks out of the wall and shrapnel crashed against their armor plate. Landel signalled.