Dennison rammed an empty swastika jeep. From second floors machine guns raked a GI patrol, wiping it out, the men dying in the gutters.
Telephone wires whipped around a lamppost.
It was no longer raining.
Landel began directing Zinc: their guns accounted for several SS outside a drugstore. Waiting for smoke to clear, Dennison moved along the street where machine gunners were mounting their gun in a building named Zorn: ZORN was carved on the façade in tall letters: under shellfire, Zorn crumbled as they passed.
For Dennison, the grief of other attacks was returning, muddled, violent, hobnailing his brain.
This is our last attack, he told himself: gasoline low: stop: not any more: not any more: Gex is a ruin: we'll be able to rest ... rest ... a little rest ...
Mouth open, he longed for a cool drink, remembering the apple cores floating on the floor of 9.
Who was that walking along the street?
Jeannette, get off the street!
Jean ... what are you doing here?