Slipping on his leather jacket, yanking the zipper, he wormed about the blankets for his mess kit and stepped out into the open, feeling sand drop off his clothes.
Outdoors, his cigarette tasted better and he inhaled deeply to help wake up. The chilly air nipped his face and hands, as he stood motionless urinating.
Behind the shack rose a tangle of rusty machinery from an irrigation pump, the machinery snarled over a cannon-sized conduit, the pipe's mouth toward the sky. The stars seemed closer because of the junked pipes and gears: the sky, utterly cloudless, was defiant: in a few hours its sun would be hammering, leading on and on, sand gobbling sand, dunes blurring into hills: heat and flies would move it together, thirst would be everywhere.
A G.I. scuffed by, coughing and spitting.
"Raub's here," he called, noticing Dennison and his cigarette. "We're ready to eat!" He coughed again.
Dennison wet his lips with his tongue and swallowed.
"I'm right behind you," he said. "Wait a second ... I've got my flashlight. Here, Millard!"
He pulled his flash from his jacket pocket and walked behind his crewmate--the sand deep, their boots scuffing, the flashlight wobbling as if asleep.
"Gonna get hot today," Millard hollered.
"Can't hear you," Dennison hollered.