Dennison was amazed to see a flock of sparrows in a hedgerow. At the top of a slope he saw Jeannette’s face. What are you doing there? 9 was working toward the port side. He braked. Dead Nazis lay in front, their bodies in a clot of equipment: they were sprawled in a maw of bicycles, smashed machine guns, duffle, rifles, coils of telephone wire, helmets. Dennison remembered that their infantry had fought here yesterday. Last night’s rain had soaked the dead men ... their bodies were sinking into the ground, into weeds and grass. They blurred as he jazzed 9. A saddle sloped below the tank and he nosed the bus along it seeing a machine gun emplacement on the next crest, its sandbagged front standing out. Dennison signalled Landel and Landel loaded his gun, swaying, grabbing for handholds, helmet slipping. For a dozen yards the slope was easy going: it seemed to be sod all the way: then the ground leveled to a sort of pasture, oddly green, brilliantly green: vaguely, Dennison tried to figure out why the green was different: his brain was too tired to register. Green snagged at the treads and then he caught the flash of water; before he could swerve, before he could brake, he felt 9 sink. No amount of power budged her. Cleverness at the controls meant nothing: he reversed both treads, tried the port tread, tried the starboard tread, 9 bogged deeper and deeper. They were trapped in a runoff, a swampy catch basin--mud and water under tractionless treads. Sweat poured down Dennison’s face and he wiped it from his eyes, scrutinizing Landel, aware now that Landel had been yelling at him as he struggled to extricate 9. "God," he groaned, "we’re stuck, sure as hell." _Stop_, Landel signalled. Grabbing a note, Dennison wrote: _Motor overheated_ Landel scribbled: _Don’t leave tank. Intercom out_. As he read the scrawl, Dennison thought he would rush outside: Landel’s grey face and jittery scrawl maddened him; he thought angrily: we can’t crawl out of here--we’ll die in this hole. Then he recalled the machine gun emplacement above them. He wiped his face--waited. Bullets ripped across 9’s cab: they crawled and re-crawled over the armor plating. Battening their ports they checked their ammunition, checked the fan, checked the turret bolts. In a short time Landel returned their gunfire, using all of his skill: he lobbed four single shots, waited. Dennison stumbled to the rear to urinate. He bumped against Zinc who was clinging to his gun, blacked out: their half-naked bodies slapped. Locating their canteen, Dennison passed it to Zinc who drank, canteen tipped up, his eyes shut. Shoving Zinc into the driving seat, he took over his gun. How good to stand up. Yet he had to fight off sleep. Swaying against the machine gun butt he drowsed, trusting Landel, Captain Fred Landel. If the bastards unlimbered an anti-tank gun or hurled grenades or mounted a flame thrower! If! Probably the Nazis were trapped in their own emplacement.