Memory's belt began in Dennison's brain:
The Gestapo, the man said at breakfast ... the Gestapo ... they did their best to get information from the Maquis ... they were trying to round up the Maquis ... they were ... Fritzes ... that's what the guy at breakfast called them ... said he had fought in North Africa ... said ...
... Okay, send us back to Olpe; at least there is something to eat there ... what was that radio message?
... Slow, slow, now pass, shift into second, watch that fool, he doesn't know how to drive ... funny, Zinc squatting there, asleep maybe ... Landel looks bad ... too much rain, German rain.
When the tanks reached Morb, at 9 kilometers, military cops, outside a battered school, flagged them past an artillery battery: 88's, 102's and 4.2 mortars were snorting over. General Jake Marlin had his trailer in the field--a zigzag gash in its gleaming aluminum side, his flag soggy.
Why had they been directed to Morb?
Obviously, there were no Nazis here.
Low-flying bombers were passing.
The radio was sputtering misinformation.
On a side street the crews had a chance to oil and gas up, time to urinate, time to drink, time for a chew of gum, time to smoke and talk.