All tanks had halted: tankmen sat and lay on the freeway or on the shoulder: the sun was ugly in a salve-like cloud: in a woodland a B-29 hung in some trees, strips of wing metal flashing.
Harold Stragoni, in one of the last tanks to pull up, hurried to Dennison and Zinc.
"Is that your tank ... did you lose your tank?"
"No."
"67 turned over ... burned."
"Hit by a shell?"
"Turned over."
PM came up.
"I looked inside ... with my flash ... they're incinerated to nuthin' ... clothes all burned ... It's too hot to climb inside..."
Zinc inspected the machine: walking around it, he noticed the yellow paint, flaked grease, dented armor, damaged cannon, a broken grouser. In Akron there had been a truck crash, the cab catching fire--this same incineration. In spite of that vivid Ohio memory he wanted a glimpse of Arthur--no matter how charred. Arthur was a man ... but Zinc could not identify anyone: just reddish stuff, a leather helmet, a hand, guns. Sadly, he rejoined Dennison and they lit cigarettes.