"Bogged down ... our bus..." "No battery power," said Dennison. "Gas?" "Yeah, we lost two tanks ... nearby ... hey, Walt, get a battery ... get Mack to help you ... bring a battery ... we’ll put this bus back in action..." "Captain went for help, hours ago," Dennison said. "What about the machine gun emplacement?" Zinc asked. "My guys wiped it out ... crew’s dead," said Kernie. "Good." "There’s timber ... logs ... by the woods ... We’ll put your bus on rollers ... have her out in no time." Zinc unwired a shovel. "We’re in luck," said Dennison mournfully. Light crept over Kernie’s face, then face and light went. His men placed scraps, logs, branches, replaced the battery, the engine fired. Cab light went on. Zinc reloaded his gun--sleep at his elbows. 9 backfired, rocked, rolled, apple cores bobbed on the floor, floated toward the rear. Easing the bus forward, on a rise, the water began to drain. Someone in Kernie’s gang banged on the driving port. Dennison worked her to the starboard, slipping, slipping; but she began to climb, stuck, climbed. With a wild teetering the treads grabbed and rolled away, rolled steadily downhill, to solid ground. Kernie and his crewmen had melted away. Zinc stood beside Dennison. He mopped the periscope with a rag. In the cab light, dial light, they smiled at each other. The down terrain held tough: the land had been tilled but was sodded: 9 rolled through a maze of vineyards and truck gardens. When a hedgerow blocked their way, Dennison sliced through it, slewing. He followed the remains of a paved road. Smoke mushroomed. Instinctively, he wobbled the tank. A shell hole gaped. Then another. A shell careened, spraying shrapnel. The cushion crushed against Dennison’s testicles and pain tore through his body and magnified the roar of the engine and the treads. Nauseated, he could not see: blobs shook in his brain. Bending over, he closed the ignition. A shell threw dirt and rocks onto 9. Mouth open, both waited, clinging to their seats. Another shell whined, then became a rumble. His will drained from him: the nerves in his arms and hands ached: he tried to talk to himself as earth spouted over the port side, another shell at the rear. Something rattled and clanged. Light spat: every aperture admitted flame: it glazed their hands, their faces, the walls, the instruments. Shrapnel pounded blows. Recoiling, Zinc’s brain slid in on itself, whimpering, grimacing like a monkey, something Neanderthalic: he doubled up on the floor by the engine, head on his arms, legs jerking: death was here! Dennison jabbed his hands into his stomach: Christ, not to vomit. Opening his mouth over and over, he tried to lessen the concussions.