"Goddamn the Wehrmacht!" Landel shouted.
Water wet his fingers and wrists, rolled off oil and grease.
"What hellish luck!" Dennison shouted.
"Let's go!" Landel yelled.
Switch on, the cylinders whammed into action; other tanks had raced ahead; in an instant Dennison passed 67; as they roared on a mortar shell exploded far from its target, geysering dirt.
This section of the autobahn had been shelled and Dennison kept the bus at thirty, leery of potholes, treads rolling in unison, the motor synchronizing, the highway a slant of light.
Jeez, he thought, we didn't get away any too soon!
He scrunched deeper into his seat, wanting to ease his shoulders: that crowbarring had been rough! Well, here was one up for Fred Landel, old eagle eye! The grumbling of the engine was satisfying. This bus was in order.
A sign read 8 K Olpe.
"Olpe!" Dennison muttered through the phone.