"Hey, you guys!" he shouted, his neck injury paining him. "What's eating you? How'd you make out?"
Zinc faced about, without a word, helmetless, his filthy face and clothes a little dirtier than most of the others.
Dennison looked at Landel scornfully.
Landel's eyes were bloodshot; he, too, was filthy, mud-spattered; he raised an arm, stopped, resentful of his crewmen, aware, by their attitudes, they had marked him off.
"Couldn't find help ... shrapnel hit me..." Why should I make excuses: can't they see? "What happened to 9?"
"Tank's done for," Dennison yelled.
"You guys just walk off and leave it?"
"Naw, we put it in mothballs!" Zinc cracked.
Landel took a long look at him.
"Shell hit us ... we lost a tread," said Dennison.