Zinc's face, because of his beard, appeared round and oriental; a hint of satire, of his good humor, was apparent as he chewed and watched the fire, the coming and going men. His hair, badly cut, trimmed by a madman, was greasy, in contrast to his scrubbed whiskers. He was built like a jockey--small boned, and lightly muscled. Staring at Dennison, he rolled his chocolate eyes expressively.
"This stuff, this hacked up meat, is easier to eat than the gunk they fed us yesterday," he said. "A pan of salmon's not my idea of chow in the desert."
"Yeah, it was lousy," Dennison agreed.
"I'm gettin' me more of this hash, when I'm done."
"Sure ... there's plenty."
"Raub got here plenty early..."
"Great logistics ... I'll have more hash before the flies move in," said Dennison.
"Flies ... flies ... they're everywhere when we stop ... a fine way to go to hell ... carried there by flies!"
"How's your stomach?" Dennison asked. "Any better this morning?"
Yesterday, at a noon halt, Zinc had held to a tread and vomited, gasping, his face white above his beard. During the morning run he had been hurled against the stock of his machine gun.