"Who the hell's dickering with that light? What's the matter! This is no blackout! Gotta check!"
He stumbled across sand ruts, his flash poking the sand and rocks. In a matter of seconds the mechanic's light snapped on. Dennison had climbed on top of their tank when Landel returned. Landel grabbed his leg and yelled:
"Dennison, you and Zinc carry our quota of 75 mms and all the stuff you can lug. Snap into it! We've got to get out of here; we've a hell of a lot to do before we can pull out. Millard," he screamed: "MILLARD, Milla-ard. Grab yourself! Go with Zinc. Go with Dennison. Bring mms to our tank. I'll be inside ... you can feed it to me."
The three walked away, avoided a blown-up tree and its branches. Tricky, bombed sand sent Zinc pitching on his belly. He got up with a grunt, not a word. Their bearded faces leered at each other in the winking light; a halftrack blocked their way; the wind was coming up and slapped dust at them as they snaked along one behind the other.
"A rotten place to lug supplies," Millard snapped. "Why not move our bus and then pick up the shells?"
Shadowy light remained on Millard's face: how old he had become: Millard Evans, twenty-six, now a middle-aged farm hand, face seamed, ugly. His mouth was too big, flabby, because he had lost several front teeth. Only the eyes were young, kind, normal.
"Here ... over here, here's the dump," Dennison said. His flash yellowed boxes of ammunition and supplies spread on a giant tarpaulin.
"Let's not drag the stuff ... gotta keep sand off those boxes ... you know what that could mean!"
"Had sand in my gun yesterday," Zinc said. "Couldn't swivel it for awhile."
Working fast, they lugged mm, cannon shells, gasoline, water tins, cans of grease and oil. Someone got the idea of ripping tarpaulin and wiping off the machine gun cartridges before lugging them. The path to the tanks became crowded; the sand got very loose; lights stabbed the junked sand, scraped the dune's side and seemed to drag down more sand, more dust, more darkness.