Dennison motioned Zinc inside the cab.
"I'll destroy our maps," he said.
"What? Couldn't hear you."
He could not repeat himself.
Risking interior lights, he gathered the maps, ripped them into shreds, tramped them underfoot. Thinking of clips for his automatic he shoved them into his pocket. His helmet. Jacket. Was that all? No canteen? No thermos? No apples?
"Okay," he said.
"The ammunition," Zinc yelled.
"Leave it."
"Not much ... outside."
He hurled his belts; Dennison threw out Landel's shells; the floor was a mess of sludge and they slipped as they worked.