The men were dumped together between machine guns, cannon, ammunition, thermos, gasoline, wrenches, oil, heat.
Dennison was alongside the Lee.
From their firebox at the rear, he grabbed two Pyrenes: he handed one to Zinc and raced for 67, slipping on mud: he dropped the extinguisher but snatched it and squirted chemicals on the yellow paint smear, on the turret.
"Somebody get a shovel ... hunt for a crowbar ... tear open ... let them out! Smoke's choking them ... they can't see a thing!
"Here, PM, squirt this on the motor area," he shouted: he realized that PM could not hear and he shoved the extinguisher into his hands.
He began to unwire a crowbar from his own machine, his fingers awkward; he tried to steady himself; smoke was ballooning; the Pyrenes were whitening the smoke. Using all his strength he wrenched off the bar and rushed back to 67. Machinegun bullets were bursting inside. Now Landel was discharging an extinguisher.
PM had run back to his bus. Now he nosed 67 over: with a huge thud, and a great cloud of white smoke, she flopped onto her side. Another tankman attempted to beat open a driving slot, to admit air.
Handkerchief over his face, Dennison climbed onto 67, to force a hatch. Somebody might be there, ready to be dragged out. Hell, the guys couldn't see!
Raising his bar he rammed it: smoke blinded him but he struck again: the steel rebounded: there was less smoke: he struggled to breathe: probably they were dead: Carson, Ben, Townsend, Lee, Arthur. Yet there might be a chance ... must be a chance ... must be ...
Slipping, he fell off the tank and somebody helped him up, and he whirled for one of the forward ports. Sweat drenched his hands and face. He gripped the bar tighter and drove at the little door and it seemed to give and he hammered at it again, coughing.