"Can you move your head ... to the side? ... I want to put medication in your eyes," said Willits. "Okay." "The stuff won’t hurt." "Okay." "Hold still." "Light me a cigarette, Dennison." "Sure..." Dennison began fumbling through his clothes, expecting his cigarettes to be shredded; the pack was badly squashed but he straightened a cigarette, lit it, and put it in Chuck’s mouth. Chuck drew a puff or two and then pain doubled him up as smoke trailed across his eyes; the cigarette dropped to the sand; rolling his head from side to side, he groaned, and flailed his arms. "My eyes ... my eyes!" "Keep your hands off them!" Willits ordered. "Are they so bad?" "Yeah ... they’re bad--keep your hands down..." The wind shook a dwarf thorn tree behind him. "Lift your head up ... higher ... I’m using more medication ... soothing..." "Can ya gimmie a drink?" "I will," said Dennison. Willits was a dark skinned man, very Italian, with greying moustache and grey animal-kind eyes. When Dennison returned with water, he nodded at him, jerked his head toward Chuck, then shrugged his shoulders: hopeless. "Now you keep your hands off your eyes ... I’m gonna put cool antiseptic salve on a bandage, real loose ... gonna put that around your head ... over your eyes ... we’ll get you to a doctor soon as we can ... I’ll use the transmitter ... others ... other guys ... you know ... get help ... they need help..." Groggily, he went on repeating, talking to himself. Chuck was still shaking as Dennison walked away--back to his machine. He and Zinc removed shovels from the rear of the tank: it was slow digging but they released a tread, cleaned the hatches, freed the guns: Landel had a shovel: there was no Al, no Millard, no Chuck: climbing inside Dennison switched on lights, checked dials, checked the intercom and radio: something about the white interior helped. Switching on the transmitter he shouted: "Dennison calling ... Lieutenant Dennison calling ... calling X2B ... calling X2B ... Dennison reporting for Fred Landel ... M4-221 reporting ... bombers caught us at point L-T ... place we call "The Dam" ... tanks badly damaged ... several wounded ... one man dead ... can you send medics? Dennison calling ... can you hear me?..." A little of the horror abated: there was promise in the lights around him, in the transmitter, the old seat cushion, the thermos on the floor, the gleam of dials: with the earphones over his ears he waited. The radio spluttered: "X2B ... we read you ... roger ... we’ve got you on the maps ... news has been coming in ... we know your conditions ... medical help enroute ... tanks moving forward ... medical help coming ... tanks coming ... pass on the word ... over..."