"Give me a cup of coffee," Dennison said to Raub, at the kitchen: Raub had his coffee pot raised for pouring, his face smudged, his eyes puttied with sleep; cups were scattered along the kitchen counter in front of him, some of them clean. "Howdy, any news from you guys?" Raub asked, tilting the pot, arm extended across the counter, the pot steaming. He smiled at Dennison, liking him: Dennison reminded him of a fellow back home, in Atlanta, a boy he’d grown up with. "You ought to know the news," Dennison said, "you just came in with your outfit, so what’s the news? What’s up?" "Not a damn thing! Here, hold still, have some hash. Hungry? It’s not bad stuff." "Sure," Dennison said. "Fill’er up," Millard said, behind Dennison. "I could eat anything!" The Corpsmen wore regulation uniforms or the coveralls of the mechanic; there were a number in fatigues; some men wore helmets; they were an unshaven lot. Their khaki did not count for much: they were all of a piece: their greasy, oily, gasoline messed clothes stuck to their greasy, oily bodies; they had not washed in days. No water, no inclination. They appeared strangely alike in the firelight, each with a bush on his face, each with a crew cut or helmet, each with his mess kit or cup of coffee. A shell thudded behind the great dune. "Hell, I hope they don’t lay a line on this fire," Millard said, moving a few yards away from the kitchen to allow others to queue up. His pan filled, Dennison stepped out of line and pushed his way through the crewmen. "Captain Meyers had guys pull some of the wood out of the blaze," a fat sergeant told Dennison. "They’re not near enough for a hit," Dennison belched cheerfully, spooning some hash. "Christ, there’s a village burning up over there, beyond that dune," somebody yelled. "What’s a piddling campfire alongside a village! We’ll be out of here in an hour. It’ll be our turn to let them have it!" Dennison found a hollow and sat down on a dead tree, a palm, a frondless bole; shoes sliding into the sand, he resumed eating, spooning and chewing slowly, listening to the men talk, noticing the stars now and then. The pan burned pleasantly in his hand and he shifted it about and spooned another spoonful of hash, his mouth sticking out, his nose in the steam. On one side of him, Millard was shouting: " ... Why, you know the drag of those cylinders, the lousy combustion; why, man alive, the Panzer tanks withstand the desert heat a hell of a lot better than our machines. Why..." Somebody was yelling for more hash. Somebody beefed: "We’ve got fifteen Sherman tanks in reserve ... I’ll bet we never use them!" Dennison was familiar with some of the voices and the familiarity helped: the fire was encouraging: the hash was really hot: there was more at the chuck wagon. Coffee too.