Dennison bent forward in his seat and wet his lips with his tongue, and felt the blood flow from his head: he thought: going to conk out. Must have canteen, soak my handkerchief, sop my face. Better tell him, better tell him ... "Side street ... go side street." Dennison obeyed automatically. Zinc and Chuck bawled at each other. "Get shells ready ... ready, Chuck..." Swinging roundabout, they caught the pillbox from an angle: its cannon was futile, just a rod of steel: methodically, Chuck trained his 75; his first shell overshot but the second crushed the concrete dome; the third shell, aimed low, burst open a side. Machinegun triggered, visors wide opened, Landel accounted for the crew, his blood boiling: He was yelling, whistling, screaming. Barbed wire fenced the box and Dennison smashed it, treads burying the spirals, the port tread crushing remains of the pill box. Thinking of the canteen, he got it and sopped his handkerchief: water, face, water, the turret flung open, now he could breathe. Water, a little more water ... there was plenty of water! As they sped onto a highway the surface seemed annoyingly, deceptively smooth: probably mined. Watch it, boy! "Mined?" he asked Landel. "Safe," Landel reported, doubting their luck. He had sopped his head and underneath the open turret, his face shone like an Inca ceremonial head: a scratch under one eye was bleeding; his naked shoulders were soaked; he leaned against the side of his seat, mouth gaping ... He hated the day, hated the bad luck, hated losing Millard. He called himself a fool for permitting his men to crowd about the fountain. Should have known, should have. It was Dennison’s fault for not reconnoitering. Give him hell tonight. Tonight ... well, they’d be midway to Ghat. The swaying tank, the roaring treads made him clamp his eyes. Someone was yapping on the radio. On the road, beside a bombed truck, lay a crippled GI. The fellow raised his arms--appeared to see the oncoming tank--but Dennison could not avoid him without crashing off the highway. He had no chance to diminish his speed and zoom aside since they were clocking forty. Dennison’s nerves buckled, his spine stiffened, his throat contracted painfully, his hands shook: the Sherman raced over the man in a flash and yet Dennison saw him die--could see him underneath the treads--felt him gasp, heard him scream. "Jesus Christ ... I killed him ... I killed one of our guys ... Jesus Christ..." Sun was beating through the turret, stabbing the desert. Desert heat swirled with engine heat. If the highway is mined! Landel was using his periscope. The viewer showed an even expanse. Souped-up, they were hitting sixty. Was it riskier to cross a mine at top speed? What would the explosion do, heel then over, crumble a tread, stove in the floor, belch out the walls? ... In the white walled house, the Arab, in the yellow-blue turban, was opening the shutters to his windows ... did he sell dates?