Flashlights bloomed and died. Lanterns blinked.
Seated men, men standing in groups, became death figures.
Dennison walked slowly, head bent; Zinc followed him; Millard followed.
Their tank was parked among other machines behind the shack where they had slept, almost at the base of the great dune. The bulk of each tank was something cut out of the night. As Dennison popped on his flash, rocks and gravel mixed with the deep sand ruts left by the treads.
A mechanic's spotlight had been trained on their M4 Sherman: she was a dusty blob twenty-four feet long, nine feet wide and eleven feet high. Paint had been chipped off innumerable places. Her starboard side had sunk down where the sand had given way under her weight. She weighed thirty-five tons, and carried three machine guns, a 75 mm turret cannon. Walking up to her, Dennison kicked sand off his shoes against the armor plating.
"Where in Christ's name have you been?" Landel screamed, appearing out of the dark, flashlight in hand.
"Just finished eating," Dennison yelled.
"Here's your helmet," Landel yelled. "I found it lyin' on the floor of the bus. My god, man, can't you keep anything! You bastards always lose our stuff."
"I'm wearing my helmet," Dennison yelled. "That's Zinc's helmet."
Landel's flashlight winked out; the mechanic's vivid spotlight went out; the darkness seemed to alter the tone of the captain's voice, make it more irritable: