The Gestapo, the man said at breakfast ... the Gestapo ... they did their best to get information from the Maquis ... they were trying to round up the Maquis ... they were ... Fritzes ... that’s what the guy at breakfast called them ... said he had fought in North Africa ... said ... ... Okay, send us back to Olpe; at least there is something to eat there ... what was that radio message? ... Slow, slow, now pass, shift into second, watch that fool, he doesn’t know how to drive ... funny, Zinc squatting there, asleep maybe ... Landel looks bad ... too much rain, German rain. When the tanks reached Morb, at 9 kilometers, military cops, outside a battered school, flagged them past an artillery battery: 88’s, 102’s and 4.2 mortars were snorting over. General Jake Marlin had his trailer in the field--a zigzag gash in its gleaming aluminum side, his flag soggy. Why had they been directed to Morb? Obviously, there were no Nazis here. Low-flying bombers were passing. The radio was sputtering misinformation. On a side street the crews had a chance to oil and gas up, time to urinate, time to drink, time for a chew of gum, time to smoke and talk. Dennison wandered into a wrecked cottage: plaster crunched underfoot; he straightened a picture on the wall; he listened to the punch of shells; fragments fell from the ceiling as percussions went on. A door opened. That was a school, had been a school: Today we’ll confine our lessen to Siberia. Do any of you know anything special about Siberia? Can you give us an idea of its size? How about you, Hermann? What good was it, sending kids to school? They have been attending school since the Romans, or was it before the Romans? Have schools stopped war? Nobody through all those centuries has had a peace class. He grinned, as he leaned against the battered doorframe of the little cottage. Again he listened to the constant shellfire. _Tanks into action_, somebody signalled. Action! "Get going!" "Okay." "Okay." Dennison turned over the driving controls to PM and PM smirked his pleasure like a kid: he settled into the driving seat, checked the controls, thinking fast, confident. Landel gave him a wigwag. Then 248 hunched forward, the tracks working evenly; the motor revved smoothly. Dennison punched PM, and they swung left. A latch of his mind was fastened to the periscope. Starboard sank into a pothole; they floundered through other potholes, now following the side of a small river, other tanks in front. Smoke gnarled the sky. They were in a section of Morb, streets, houses. Port side a shell exploded. Something clanged against 248, clanged like a bell. The bus rocked, and Dennison stared anxiously at PM. PM grunted. The tanks moved through smoke walls down a street: as if propelled through a tube, through a tunnel, Nazis rushed toward 248. They bunched. They fell. Some retreated down a cul-de-sac. Scrambling across barbed wire and fencing, PM followed.