With the last bomber gone, the crewmen came to life, swatting off sand and dust, huddling, at first in little groups. In twos and threes they began checking, climbing on their machines, crawling inside. Out of nowhere supply trucks arrived. "Gas," the men said. "Gas." Zinc pointed to some butterflies, flying close to the sand, headed past the Shermans. Dennison rubbed his face: they can really fly: yellow butterflies ... beyond them, in the face of the sun, the heat puffed and writhed; a slight wind kicked up dust. A section of the wadi cliff had toppled and sand had buried snouts and sides of several machines and both half-tracks: the sand had acted as a cushion protecting treads and armor plate. Men began to dig ... gas tanks got filled ... motors started ... tanks pulled away ... Dennison led Chuck by the arm, Chuck moaning and trembling. They both fell into a sand hollow. Directly in front of Dennison lay a pair of arms, intact from finger to shoulders, the dog tag visible on the wrist, above the greasy fingers. _Lawrence_, Dennison saw: Lawrence Robinson, from California. Dennison jumped away, shrank back, dragging Chuck, almost hurling him down, bumping into Landel. "What’s wrong with you?" Landel scoffed. "Watch where you’re going! A pair of kooky arms scare ya!" Without hesitating, Dennison whirled on Landel, and knocked him down: he tried to jump on him but Chuck clung to him, moaning, saying "no ... no..." "Jeez, man!" Landel gulped. "Are you nuts again?" "That was Lawrence Robinson," Dennison yelled. "Larry Robinson ... it could have been me!" "Fuck you," said Landel, picking himself up, remembering a corner of the Argonne, where men’s bodies had been blown about like chips. Glaring at Chuck’s bloody eyes he felt no pity for him: he felt they should save themselves for their machines and the job of fighting: let scabs go to hell! But remembering his job as captain he ordered Dennison to take Chuck to Corporal Willits ... "He’s over there ... he’s Red Cross ... take him, then let’s get our bus rolling. He’s not been hit. Not bad!" "Not bad," Dennison said to himself, angrily. He saw himself returning to Base Camp with Chuck; he would see him hospitalized; on leave, he would rest by the ocean; ships would be unloading; the surf would be warm; he’d have good chow. Assisting Chuck, Dennison sat down by him as Willets examined the lidless eyes: in the sun the imbedded sand glistened like glass; blood glistened like glass. Chuck was trembling, his hands quivering on his lap, fingers wholly uncoordinated. Willets was talking kindly to Chuck. "Can you hear?" Dennison asked, bending close. "No." "Willits is looking after you ... he’s from the Medical Corps..." "Who?" "Willits." "He a doctor?" "Medical Corps." "Where am I?" "By a half-track ... there are wounded here ... Willits and Cobb are helping the men ... we’ll be moving out of this gully..." "Don’t go, Dennison."