Low flying planes ripped the sky.
Another tank approached Dennison and Zinc.
A GI's face was scrawled with grime and sweat, his helmet had been ripped; he carried shirt and jacket over his arm--the knuckles of one hand were bloody.
"Where's the mine?" he bellowed.
"Dunno," said Zinc.
"How many tanks we lost?"
"Where's the mine?"
"Apple?"
"What?"
"Have an apple."