He awoke, shivering, angry with himself for having slept without his jacket. Putting it on, he climbed back into bed, and pulled the draperies closer, a rumble of low-flying bombers shaking the room. ... They continued to fight in Germany. ... Christmas was dead and gone. ... Time? Eight Shermans boiled along an _autobahn_, the paving was excellent, one gradual curve sliding into another. Telephone lines, on stubby poles, wandered across fields into a weak sun. Villages lay upside down in a river. As he drove, Dennison thought of shaving, recalled the whiff of Yardley soap, the rasp of his razor. Maybe, someday, somewhere, an electric shaver ... maybe after shave lotion ... maybe ... He was doing thirty-five, thirty-seven, third in line, in the left lane. Heat boiled on its endless tread; noise rushed under the floor, rushed overhead, rushed along the walls. They had a new crewman, a fellow from Chicago, a swarthy, husky outfielder, smart, good-natured, with a shock of black hair and black eyes: Paul Murphy; PM, the guys called him. PM was hanging onto Dennison’s driving seat as the freeway peeled by: he was reading the speedometer, tickled by Dennison’s skill and recklessness. His eyes glistened; there was a silly grin on his face; he wanted to be able to drive a tank like this. As the bus rocked along smoothly, approaching fifty, he waved his arm at Zinc. But Landel was squirming, resentful of such speed: he could think of a dozen reasons for disaster: his neck ached and he did not look forward to a ghastly jolt. For several weeks he had been sneaking off, drinking heavily, talking little: he was involved in the art of deception--the alcoholic’s art. He bellowed through the phone, "cut your speed," then slumped against the armor plate, mouthing a small flask. He bellowed again, this time at PM, signalling him to his machine gun. God, Dennison thought, he doesn’t leave anybody alone. Dennison had requested a transfer--any unit: after his injury at the Roer River, Landel was often violent, word and action. He often fell asleep on duty. During some of his binges he went homo. "Maybe he figured I was someone else," Dennison told Zinc. "Did he come at you?" "Sure ... sure! But, lord, I haven’t cracked up yet! We’ll wrangle transfers, you and I. Have to..." The driver in front of Dennison was losing speed: he was far to the right, too close to the shoulder. "Steady, steady," Dennison mumbled to himself. "If you go slower, make it steady ... watch yourself." What’s the number on his turret: 6 ... 7 ... 67? Is that right? The 67 was nearly obliterated. The tank’s armor was rust colored, mud and grease smeared, but somebody, at a depot or relay point, had slapped on yellow paint across one side and it was as though the machine sported a yellow crab, its pincers toward the prow.