"Hit by a shell?" "Turned over." PM came up. "I looked inside ... with my flash ... they’re incinerated to nuthin’ ... clothes all burned ... It’s too hot to climb inside..." Zinc inspected the machine: walking around it, he noticed the yellow paint, flaked grease, dented armor, damaged cannon, a broken grouser. In Akron there had been a truck crash, the cab catching fire--this same incineration. In spite of that vivid Ohio memory he wanted a glimpse of Arthur--no matter how charred. Arthur was a man ... but Zinc could not identify anyone: just reddish stuff, a leather helmet, a hand, guns. Sadly, he rejoined Dennison and they lit cigarettes. "There was a broken grouser ... maybe that caused ’er to flip," said Zinc mournfully. "Maybe." Landel fished his binocular from its case; focusing it he scrutinized the woodland, the intervening fields, a remote farm, its heap of manure, haystacks. "We ought to bury our guys," someone said. "Yeah ... let’s bury them," Stragoni said, filling his pipe, shaking tobacco back into a leather pouch. "Nobody’s gonna bury them!" Landel yelled. "They’re buried already." Fools for sentiment. "We’ve got to shove out of here. We’ll be spotted ... our buses all along the highway!" Near a wire gate he caught a solitary figure: the figure reminded him of his father before they imprisoned him: the field man had the same defeated air, the same stoop. Their company commander, Colonel Fraser, bumped up in a fast jeep: he and his staff did not have much to say: his brown, middle-aged face expressed great chagrin: maps under his arm he checked 67, one of his lieutenants scribbling in a field book. "You were right behind her," he said to Landel. "Did you see her go over?" "I didn’t see her go over." "I saw her ... she seemed to travel on one tread ... drop to the shoulder ... maybe a broken tread," Dennison said. Landel grasped the Colonel’s shoulder: "Here, here ... look..." He pressed his binocular into Fraser’s hand. "See ... see that M129, dangling in those trees ... they’re readying a mortar there ... we’ve got to clear out!" He began gesturing, calling to the crewmen: "Out of here ... everybody ... into the tanks ... mortar fire!" He hustled from man to man. By the time Fraser had spotted the mortar, Landel had men bee-lining. Fraser ordered the tanks to roll. He and his staff piled into their jeep. Dennison tossed the crowbar onto the floor of their machine, swung into the bus, dropped wearily onto the driving seat. He permitted himself time for a long, long swig: water was incredible. When you’re dead you don’t drink much, he told himself. He passed the canteen to Zinc who passed it to Landel. "Goddamn the Wehrmacht!" Landel shouted. Water wet his fingers and wrists, rolled off oil and grease. "What hellish luck!" Dennison shouted. "Let’s go!" Landel yelled.