"How did you guys make out?" Pete asked.
"We lost our bus."
"9?"
"Yeah." Dennison was biting a section of a peach.
"What's news about the minefield?" Zinc asked.
"We lost twenty-three," said Vic, squeezing himself in at the table.
"Twenty-three tanks?" yelled Dennison.
"Twenty-three men," Vic said. "Wounded ... dead ... don't know how many..." Elbows on the table he covered his face with his hands. Near him a pot of stew was puffing.
"It's been a hell of a day!" said Pete, standing behind Dennison. "They had their minefield planned ... they know they're licked but they make us fight on and on. Dumb. All that waste of life." He picked his nose mournfully, his bleary eyes on the crowded church, the milling GI's, the men at the door-table.
"Bretten's ours," said a lieutenant at the table. "We took it a couple hours ago."