Dennison returned to Zinc and munched a doughnut underneath his nose--sitting down beside him.
"See how it's done!"
"How'd you rate that?"
"Reach in my jacket ... there's another sinkah ... you all likes 'em."
Zinc appreciated Dennison's fake accent, fished for the doughnut, and bit into it.
"Perfect."
Hunkered on the tree, they finished their food and drank more coffee. They stopped talking. Dennison lit a cigarette and offered his pack to Zinc, who accepted one. They had stopped talking because of fear. Fear was in the cigarette. In the sand.
"Landel was nervous as hell yesterday," Dennison began. "He acted as if the whole Africa Korps was on him!" He remembered Landel bellowing over the tank intercom, storming about supplies. Using the radio he screamed at officers, berating them when they answered.
"Operation haywire," Zinc commented, recalling the outburst.
"Colonel Morris says he'll report Landel ... Landel was drunk on Monday ... well, hell, we need a break," he said, wanting a leave, a week, two weeks, a month away from the assaults. Let some other guy knife his way through the Anadi pocket. Let some other crew hammer at the men entrenched at Anadi. Anadi was nothing. Never could mean anything.