Biting and sucking the apple, he circled his tank, trying to get a lay of the land, looking for other GI’s who might have information, instructions. Dennison had climbed inside, and was radioing: perhaps information was being broadcast. By now six machines had lined up along the woodland, some of them using foliage for camouflage. Low flying planes ripped the sky. Another tank approached Dennison and Zinc. A GI’s face was scrawled with grime and sweat, his helmet had been ripped; he carried shirt and jacket over his arm--the knuckles of one hand were bloody. "Where’s the mine?" he bellowed. "Dunno," said Zinc. "How many tanks we lost?" "Where’s the mine?" "Apple?" "What?" "Have an apple." "Can’t hear ya." "Sit down." "Cigarette?" "Had to wait ... dangerous..." Landel appeared, mud on his clothes. Squatting by Zinc, he hollered: "Get in the bus!" "Wait?" "No, get inside!" "Hell no, let’s wait here," Zinc objected. "All of us inside ... we move!" "Where?" Nobody had a chance to hear that directive: a shell exploded: Zinc dropped his apple, picked it up, and cleaned it warily. Landel and Dennison settled onto their seats; the heat clamped around them: leaving the turret open had not cooled the bus. Dennison had stuffed apples into his pockets ... what were they expecting, a signal? Landel unfolded his map, he munched an apple carefully, read his wristwatch, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Grease streaked his jaw. He thought it must be blood till he stared at his fingernails. Sagged in his seat, Dennison saw him bite the apple, saw him dig grease from under his nails, welcoming this respite. It wasn’t so long ago Mother and I strolled about Heidelberg ... we had spent two or three weeks there, boating, climbing, sampling pastries, sight-seeing. Munching his apple he began to despise the tank, began to fling his mind: Landel ... look at him, chewing away on his apple! Damn ass! In Heidelberg they had strolled along the Neckar, boats and bridges, chinks of river between trees and houses. She had sketched a castle that had a heraldic glove chiselled above the door. A girl had waited on him in a shop, a slender girl, very blonde, very blue-eyed: a woman to lie with ... Dreams ... A GI brought Landel a message. He read it and passed it to Dennison. _Head West. No minefields_. "I hope they know what they’re doin’!" Dennison yelled. _West_ ... he consulted the compass. Dennison warmed the motor and chewed an apple and swung 9 west, west across dry ground, climbing gradually. The treads beat down a hedgerow. The cab was getting hotter so they stripped and climbed and wormed 9 and filed through a woodland and crossed a field. The battle swept around them. Battle without immediate barrage. For Dennison driving became a matter of mechanical movement, goading of muscle, endurance of heat, tolerance of gasoline stink, smell of oil and gun powder ...