Of course this was played back a number of times.
In another dream a man whispered:
"Jeannette ... Jean..."
She was sitting on the grass by a lake, a picnic basket beside her, a blue scarf around her head: her eyes were marvelously blue: she was smiling: she was saying with her smile: come on, lunch is ready, let's eat.
"Darling," he said, aloud.
He awoke, shivering, angry with himself for having slept without his jacket. Putting it on, he climbed back into bed, and pulled the draperies closer, a rumble of low-flying bombers shaking the room.
... They continued to fight in Germany.
... Christmas was dead and gone.
... Time?
Eight Shermans boiled along an autobahn, the paving was excellent, one gradual curve sliding into another. Telephone lines, on stubby poles, wandered across fields into a weak sun. Villages lay upside down in a river.
As he drove, Dennison thought of shaving, recalled the whiff of Yardley soap, the rasp of his razor. Maybe, someday, somewhere, an electric shaver ... maybe after shave lotion ... maybe ...
He was doing thirty-five, thirty-seven, third in line, in the left lane. Heat boiled on its endless tread; noise rushed under the floor, rushed overhead, rushed along the walls.