"We’ve got something hot to eat," he hollered. "Are you awake?" He pushed Dennison--shoved him against the floor. "Come on, get out of here!" "What time is it?" Dennison asked. "Nearly fifteen ... we’ve got to get moving," Landel crabbed. He found his helmet underneath a sandy, greasy blanket and stuck it on. "Raub’s got here with his kitchen ... so, let’s go ... okay? Now?" He was talking to himself, spitting out words, annoyed by the day’s problems, war’s problems. He rose from his knees and, stooping low to keep from cracking himself against the roof, edged, crab-fashion, toward the door. "I’m leavin’ ... I’m goin’," he cried. "I’ll be along in a minute," Dennison said, yawning and propping himself against the wall, legs and shoulders feeling stiff. Landel reappeared. "Go on ... I’m awake!" he shouted. "See you at the chuck wagon." "We’ve got to eat quick ... we’ve a hell of a lot to do," Landel screamed, his head in the doorway. He zoomed his flashlight into Dennison’s eyes, like a warning, and walked off. Angry, Dennison rubbed his hands over his bearded face, slumped down onto the floor again. Through the doorway he caught glimpses of the flashlights and lanterns of men headed for the kitchen: legs and lights passed with metronome jerkiness across the sand: dust came up from beneath boots. Shellfire rumbled in the distance, a sound that had in it all the vacuity of the African desert. A jab of wind dribbled sand through the doorway and shook sand from the make-shift roof of the shelter where only yesterday gunners had been trapped emplacing a gun. Dennison smelled the stench of gasoline and grease from the tanks and a tank dump nearby; he could smell the gas and grease on his clothes; it seemed to swirl around him. The incoming air was chilly. Shivering, he hauled a blanket around him and with his shoulders against a sandbag, lit a cigarette. As his lighter flared he noticed his squashed, grease-pocked helmet; sleepily, he reached for it and placed it across his lap, pressing it down, making it a part of him. One hand holding his pack of cigarettes, the other bringing a cigarette to his mouth, he tried to think. It seemed to him that he had dreamed during the night. The tip of the cigarette glowed encouragingly. Yes, he had dreamed about the library tower, the chimes, the sounds travelling down the hill slopes, down toward Lake Cayuga, the tower and the sounds blurring. Kids were sitting in the library, at long tables, faces, faces. There seemed to be an elm tree at the far end of the reading room, snow, lake ... He tried to remember the sound of those chimes. Huddled against sandbags, he drowsed and as he drowsed he saw a campfire in the woods somewhere, students standing around the fire, some of them singing. A guy was playing his harmonica, muting his music by cupping both hands over the instrument ... Dennison’s arms and hands had fallen asleep.