Let somebody else wipe them out! Anyhow, 9’s beat. Battery weak. Maybe another tank could drag her free. Maybe ... a requiem of shells! Tonight ... what time was it? Tonight was a long way off. He shivered and drowsed. Sleepily, he fingered his automatic, and found its steel warm. ... Bretten’s bombardment seemed to be going on and on. ... The clock tower was still exploding. ... His world shifted, perception by perception. ... Christ, it had been a tussle, piloting the tank to the Roer River: debris: men and trucks: fog along the river: mental fog: like London fog: walked and walked in the fog: that was in Tunbridge (or was it Tunbridge?): that was the night he had slept with Raymonde: the hearth in her room had a Solomon’s seal on each tile: they had talked and talked: warm: warmth of her body: nice little breasts: nice and warm: warm covers: Raymonde very tired: warm ... ... Strange--that hammering sound: mortar shells? ... Strange, Zinc asleep. ... Strange, to be an Ithacan! He woke when a shell rocked the tank. He shouted. He felt inside the stomach of death. When could they crawl out? Another shell whined. His throat tightened. He felt cold and buttoned his shirt and zippered his jacket and licked his lips and listened: was Landel shouting? Was it dark outside? It seemed to him that 9’s motor was running. Bending over Zinc, he tested the switches. No, the motor was not running. Zinc was asleep. Fumbling about, reaching for Dennison, Landel pulled him close and yelled: "No ... they’ll shoot you down." "You stay ... try the radio ... I get nothing ... stay." The flesh under Landel’s eyes was quivering. He realized he could not weather out their rescue: frantically, he clawed at the jacket: an hour, another hour. "I’ll make it ... get help. Fire my gun!" "Hell, they’ll cut you down." "No ... they don’t return my gunfire ... when I fire ... nothin!" "A trick," Dennison warned. "No," Landel said "Hell," Dennison yelled. Landel was gone. Dennison lined up the emplacement, arching and depressing the gun accurately: there was no return fire when he fired. He fired again. Five minutes. Ten. No return fire. Perhaps Landel had made it by now. Dennison eased into the seat, wondering about Zinc. He was still asleep; his sleeping face was repulsive; his warped body, his jockey body, was repulsive. Eyes on the emplacement, he studied its arrangement of sandbags, ripped off branches, wilted and shredded leaves: he estimated that four or five men had done the job: why had they selected this location? The emplacement looked old, a week, a month. Some sort of rear guard. They could have depleted their stock of ammunition. They could have retreated. He slept. Zinc woke.