Some bastard should bob up with a flame thrower, he told himself. Here he comes from behind that hedge. Look at those infantrymen retreating ... now we’ll cross that plowed field ... other M4’s ... cross together ... what did they raise here, wheat? Isn’t that a horse over there, across the field? As they advanced it was curious how the smoke trapped them and then exposed them. Several houses appeared out of the smoke trap; riflemen fronted one of the houses; others rushed into a small barn; a geyser of earth and smoke replaced the barn. Dennison grinned when the barn disappeared. He observed a grove of elm trees: are we lost? No grove was indicated on the maps! He tried to signal Landel but a plunge of the machine almost pitched him out of his seat. Shellfire sprayed white, like flung salt, over the line of vision. Not on any map! Up front someone was signalling: standing in the path of their tank he waved both arms. An officer? Some Nazi trick, Dennison thought. Then he saw another GI and identified them as Americans. The nearest GI had his helmet squashed over his eyes; stooping, he pointed to the ground. Hands upraised, he signalled stop. Without hesitating he rushed to their bus and beat on a forward port. Landel let him inside. "Minefields," the GI screamed. "What?" Landel yelled. "Can’t hear!" "Minefield!" the sergeant yelled. "Louder."’ The fellow grabbed at Landel’s leg pad and scribbled on it: TURN AROUND. STOP OTHERS. USE RADIO. MINEFIELD. SIGNAL OTHERS. "No use turning our bus around," Landel shouted. "Radio ... the radio," the sergeant shouted. "Ok," Landel yelled, reading his lips. Dennison took over the transmitter. They had stopped near a woodland; other tanks grouped around them; the barrage had lifted. It was chilly: the autumn air nipped their nakedness: they huddled behind their machines, talking, urinating, smoking: as soon as they could they donned shirts and jackets: the earth, they discovered, was peppered with apples, exploded from nearby trees--part of the woodland. Zinc picked up a red-yellow apple, bit it, and smiled. Dennison grinned as he bit one. "Come on, Captain, have one!" Zinc said. "Worms." But he picked up an apple and found it delicious. A crewman from their Corps, a corporal named Jim Moore, ran up, flopping his hands and jerking his head crazily. "What the hell’s the matter with you?" Dennison shouted. Moore could not hear him, and yelled: "Mine!" "What?" "Mine ... minefield." "Yeah ... sure ... we know. That’s why we’re here, Jim. Have an apple!" Jim shuffled over, flopping his arms, coughing, lurching, eyes glazed. "He’s nuts!" Landel said. His apple was wormy and he threw it down and tried another. Apples ... apples ... we stand around eating apples ... there’s some way out of this ...