Raising his bar he rammed it: smoke blinded him but he struck again: the steel rebounded: there was less smoke: he struggled to breathe: probably they were dead: Carson, Ben, Townsend, Lee, Arthur. Yet there might be a chance ... must be a chance ... must be ... Slipping, he fell off the tank and somebody helped him up, and he whirled for one of the forward ports. Sweat drenched his hands and face. He gripped the bar tighter and drove at the little door and it seemed to give and he hammered at it again, coughing. I’ve got a crack ... lean forward ... hit closer to the rim ... can’t see ... His handkerchief dropped. He couldn’t stop coughing. When smoke blew away he looked about and saw that nobody was using the extinguishers: were they empty? Everyone had backed away. Goddammit ... I’ll open that starboard door ... I’ll hack it open with my bare hands! He rammed and the door yielded. He slammed at it again and it gave a hair. He hit it again with every ounce of muscle. His hands slipped and he almost toppled. He hit nearer the lock: a steel shaving gave way: hurling himself against the bar, the lock snapped; he pressed down, and the door opened. Breathing in gasps, he threw the little door wide. Smoke, black smoke, crawled out of the cab. Crewmen pushed Dennison aside and crowded close to 67. Leaning against his tank, Dennison watched them, unseeing, unmoving: glad to be away from 67. He wanted water but could not ask for it. In spite of himself he vomited green slime. Too late ... there’s nothing anybody can do ... I was too late. Nobody can crawl inside: the guys are dead: they’ve been dead for ... it’s done: it’s over: maybe that’s something: "It’s over," he yelled. Ben and his injured shoulder: Ben said he was going to get well: Ben was majoring in math ... Carson was a nice guy ... Arthur said I’m the one and future king ... Dennison coughed and blinked and walked about and wet his lips with his tongue. "You nearly got yourself killed," Landel barked at Dennison. He waved his fire extinguisher at 67. "They’re dead ... fried to a crisp ... you were a damn fool!" Dennison barely understood ... he nodded. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to lessen the sting of the smoke, the acid of burning rubber, the force of fear ... Presently, he saw Zinc beside him with a canteen of water in his hands. "Drink." He helped Dennison swab his face and sop his neck, his own hands trembling; he appeared a little idiotic without his helmet, his hair going every which way, but he smiled insanely. Grease streaked his forehead and beard and one ear was blobbed with oil. All tanks had halted: tankmen sat and lay on the freeway or on the shoulder: the sun was ugly in a salve-like cloud: in a woodland a B-29 hung in some trees, strips of wing metal flashing. Harold Stragoni, in one of the last tanks to pull up, hurried to Dennison and Zinc. "Is that your tank ... did you lose your tank?" "No." "67 turned over ... burned."