Their third offensive started during a heavy fog ... the tanks rolled forward slowly ...
Something red appeared and then faded almost at once; a rumbling sound was connected with the color and there was something else, some kind of motion.
Dennison tried to turn over on his side but pain knocked him out, and then the red flopped on again, floating, jelly-fishing. He tried to speak. Something prevented him. What was happening? Then, the red shaped itself into something, a wedge, a fuzzy glow, then became glass in a stained glass window.
Now he realized that he was lying in an ambulance; the window was swaying as the ambulance swayed. He recognized the sound of tires, the sound of a heavy duty motor.
Presently, the ambulance came to a stop and a man's voice droned, words confused with other sounds, motors, shouts.
Was this a convoy? Were they caught in a stream of traffic? Were they in a town? What caused the light through the window? Was it daylight? He broke into a sweat. How long had he been riding?
Inching to one side, he peered at a tiny light bulb, its filament a hairpin of orange between litter-bunks. A man just below had his arm flung out: someone must be fastened to that arm. The ambulance began to creep forward and the wounded man's fingers began to clench ... then pain galled Dennison.
He longed for a drink of water more than anything. He was sure that a drink would check the pain and ease the ride.
God, he worried, where's my dog tag?
Is this a German rig?