So Chuck Hitchcock killed himself in a Brooklyn hospital! ... poor guy! Made it to the fire escape, blind as he was! Ten floors. God, to drop ten floors. Three seconds. Right on a paved driveway. He was out of his mind. Perhaps not. Dennison had Jeannette’s note--dirty and crumpled--in his billfold. Had it for days, unable to reply. Where was he to get it mailed? In Berlin? What was there to say? What did she expect? Dear Jean: so sorry your brother bumped himself off! With those sightless eyes of his, what could he do? Not even Cyclops! Better off. With a jerk, 67 swung violently to starboard: its starboard tread left the highway, and the machine seemed to balance on one tread, race on one; then the highway shoulder crumbled and the bus spun over and over into a gravelled ditch, to stop bottom-up: the whole thing registering on Dennison, sucked inside his brain through his driving viewer. "Tank over!" he bellowed, braking his machine gradually. He yanked Landel’s arm, and shook it. "She’ll catch fire," he bellowed. "Landel ... 67’s in the ditch! Rolled over fast! Can we open her hatches?" He was yelling at himself. Landel was alert. A tread of their tank sank and Dennison yanked her straight, centered her on the road, slowed, and brought her to a halt behind 67, smoke belching from the upended machine. Sweat was running down his face and he wiped it off as he unstrapped his seatbelt. The blow must have stunned 67’s crew: Ben was there: his shoulder injury would cripple him: Carson was there ... The men were dumped together between machine guns, cannon, ammunition, thermos, gasoline, wrenches, oil, heat. Dennison was alongside the Lee. From their firebox at the rear, he grabbed two Pyrenes: he handed one to Zinc and raced for 67, slipping on mud: he dropped the extinguisher but snatched it and squirted chemicals on the yellow paint smear, on the turret. "Somebody get a shovel ... hunt for a crowbar ... tear open ... let them out! Smoke’s choking them ... they can’t see a thing! "Here, PM, squirt this on the motor area," he shouted: he realized that PM could not hear and he shoved the extinguisher into his hands. He began to unwire a crowbar from his own machine, his fingers awkward; he tried to steady himself; smoke was ballooning; the Pyrenes were whitening the smoke. Using all his strength he wrenched off the bar and rushed back to 67. Machinegun bullets were bursting inside. Now Landel was discharging an extinguisher. PM had run back to his bus. Now he nosed 67 over: with a huge thud, and a great cloud of white smoke, she flopped onto her side. Another tankman attempted to beat open a driving slot, to admit air. Handkerchief over his face, Dennison climbed onto 67, to force a hatch. Somebody might be there, ready to be dragged out. Hell, the guys couldn’t see!