Zinc was tightening bolts on the hedge blades: large knives the crew had fixed across the front: without them it was impossible to buck the hedges. The blades gleamed in the bombed sun. Zinc’s face shone, clean and fresh: after several days of good food and sleep he appeared rested. The length and toughness of the blades were in contrast to his jockey-built body and boyish face. Helmet on the ground, the wind whipped his hair. Lord, Lord, he said to himself, they’re sure as hell wipin’ out that pretty town ... listen ... listen. Ah, there goes a rough one. There’s another! Jesus! Yet he did not pause to watch. Bolts tight, he opened the tank turret and dropped inside, started the engine and began dickering with the carburetor, adjusting it to a faster, more dependable idle. Swiftly, expertly, he dumped in two quarts of oil--tossing away the empties. Good engine, good V-8, good horses, good wiring. They had twenty-two machines ready for this attack, most of them parked in a ruined dockyard along the Roer: tumbled bricks, fallen beams, smashed glass everywhere: four-by-fours, bent girders, bent pipes, and mauled boats around: a life preserver dangled from a post near Zinc: HEINRICH VARNA was lettered in red. Orville, Zinc and Landel had tank 9: a fifteen ton Lee, measuring twenty by eight, nine feet high at the turret. 9 was tough, battered, lame on the port side. Rough terrain had knocked off some of her grousers. Zinc knew how to nurse the Chrysler engine but it drank excess water and extra oil. Her armament was first rate: her machine guns had been reconditioned and a new 78 cannon had been installed--for Landel. Zinc lit a cigarette under the open turret, feet dangling from the driver’s seat. Jesus, god, we ought to be on our way--they don’t know how to coordinate nuthin’--them brass. Peeling a stick of gum he chewed it quickly, spitting on the floor, longing for his 18-footer, slipped on the Vermillion River. As neat a boat as any! She could tack round like a frog. With Millie they had sailed across Lake Erie, good ole windy Erie ... sunny weather, lie back, drink beer, toss the cans over ... Millie crawlin’ over me, unzipping my zipper ... ah, Millie ... Millie ... good Buckeye kid ... Suppose she’s moved away by now: she said she was gonna move ... in her last letter ... job with the county welfare ... what a screwy kid ... beer and more beer ... but she wasn’t fat ... now, now do you want to make me pregnant! She liked it when we went to the synagogue ... Isaac, when you get back, sure ... you’ll see, it was better to wait till after the war. She’ll have my letter pretty soon. Okay, okay ... there’s the signal: now, we’ll move forward, we’ll settle that dumb town, clean it up proper ... okay, I got the signal ... yeah, I’ve bolted the turret ... okay, Dennison, you okay? Okay, Captain? Okay ...