Realizing that the men were trapped, Dennison fired slowly: he tried to account for each man, firing PM’s gun: he shouted and fired, shouted and fired: this was the same, knocking out wooden ducks at the fair. Three down, four to go. So, the tank was an improvement on the Trojan horse! Smoke closed in. Frames flitted by, image after image, scenes without continuity, a sciamachy of trees, people, Greeks, Russians, a cloud, a room, Jeannette, children’s face, a cactus in a steamy conservatory, a swan, a wounded boy. On the walls of a latrine he read: THE LAST SEVEN WORDS. PM was circling, circling. A shell shook 248. Dennison ducked to avoid the concussion: he rapped his shoulder on the gun butt: he was angry and fired blindly, and wet his lips with his tongue. Men were escaping, dozens of them. Dennison fired in rage, fired at the windows of an apartment: he riddled a closed door: he chipped off stucco: he fired into a pine tree: his shooting jag was warming his belly. 248 swung around a corner. "Watch out for that concrete slab!" Dennison warned. PM did not hear. One of the tracks grazed it. Dennison signalled again. His eyes were watering from the heat and smoke. PM was hit by bullet splash and stopped the tank: fumes and heat almost overwhelmed the crew as they worked over him, Zinc swabbing. Dennison was remembering Al, remembering.... PM waved them off: No, I’m not down for a count of ten! No, let me get back at the controls! "Where?" he asked Landel. "How much gas have we?" "Quarter." Landel briefed his map, fingers uncertain, eyes uncertain, wanting to stall, to call a halt. The radio had conked. _Turn back_ he scribbled. Back? Where? Near the guns, near the trailer, by the school ... men had camouflaged Jake Marlin’s trailer with a huge camouflage net ... Dennison and Zinc found a patch of grass in front of the school and settled down, cross-legged, like Ojibways, the grass uncut and weedy. Zinc chewed a grass blade. "PM does all right," he said. "Huh?" "PM does all right." "He’s good," said Dennison. "He’s gone to see a medic." "Scratch ... not bad." "Good." "Good." "Tired," Zinc admitted, unlacing his shoes to ease his feet, cigarette creasing his mouth: he was no longer in Morb but was tacking along Lake Erie, on his boat, Millie snuggled down among cushions. Dennison felt that hate was moving closer, was controlling his hands and arms: grubbing his jackknife out of his pocket he scraped grease from his nails, from his fingers: who was that freckled guy, with dirty beard, sunken eyes? Was that Landel, over there jawing with men? Why hadn’t he been killed?