They had a new crewman, a fellow from Chicago, a swarthy, husky outfielder, smart, good-natured, with a shock of black hair and black eyes: Paul Murphy; PM, the guys called him.
PM was hanging onto Dennison's driving seat as the freeway peeled by: he was reading the speedometer, tickled by Dennison's skill and recklessness. His eyes glistened; there was a silly grin on his face; he wanted to be able to drive a tank like this. As the bus rocked along smoothly, approaching fifty, he waved his arm at Zinc.
But Landel was squirming, resentful of such speed: he could think of a dozen reasons for disaster: his neck ached and he did not look forward to a ghastly jolt. For several weeks he had been sneaking off, drinking heavily, talking little: he was involved in the art of deception--the alcoholic's art. He bellowed through the phone, "cut your speed," then slumped against the armor plate, mouthing a small flask.
He bellowed again, this time at PM, signalling him to his machine gun.
God, Dennison thought, he doesn't leave anybody alone.
Dennison had requested a transfer--any unit: after his injury at the Roer River, Landel was often violent, word and action. He often fell asleep on duty. During some of his binges he went homo.
"Maybe he figured I was someone else," Dennison told Zinc. "Did he come at you?"
"Sure ... sure! But, lord, I haven't cracked up yet! We'll wrangle transfers, you and I. Have to..."
The driver in front of Dennison was losing speed: he was far to the right, too close to the shoulder.
"Steady, steady," Dennison mumbled to himself. "If you go slower, make it steady ... watch yourself."