"I'm doin' all right," Zinc said "My guts have settled into place--somehow. Maybe the muscles inside are knittin' together again or whatever. I can breathe okay. No pain."
He chuckled faintly. "It was one hell of a rotten jolt, and came near puttin' me out of running. I think this food will stay down."
"You'll be okay," Dennison said.
Zinc flaunted a hunk of bread.
"As long as I can eat I can manage," he exclaimed.
The fire had attracted more of the Corps; some sat on the palm tree; two perched on a bed roll; others squatted on the sand; several sat on oil drums; some ate with their backs to the flames; others loafed about the kitchen. When Raub waved a mess kit and yelled, Dennison got up and crossed the sand to the wagon.
"More hash ... more coffee," he said, offering his pan.
"Sure man," said Raub.
Dennison stared at him while he spooned hash, sliced bread, and poured coffee: he was a far off guy, slow, sloppy, small, with black rimmed spectacles and a black wad of a moustache, the image of a grubby Parisian painter though he had never painted or been outside of Georgia until the war.
"Did you have a tough time, bringing the kitchen forward?" Dennison shouted.