Have the goddamn Nazis got me?
When the ambulance stopped, Dennison was able to distinguish a cross in the window glass: the red cross was pale, old. Did German ambulances have red crosses? Voices sounded outside: German, French, English? Men were snoring in the bunks around him. Pushing himself to the side, he peered down angrily.
"Where are we?" he demanded.
No answer.
A bandaged foot protruded across the feebly lit aisle; the bulbous white mass shook, as if trying to reply.
"Hey, down there! Whose ambulance is this?" he yelled. He tried English, French, German.
As though on a crane, the foot lifted, swung onto the litter: a pool of blood trembled on the floor as the ambulance moved on. Dennison beat against the wall and then the ceiling. He was soaked with sweat. The exertion made him shake but he continued beating until his fist stung and his head and arm ached. As he lay there, breathing hard, breathing fast, someone asked:
"What can I do for you?"
"Man, talk to me ... where am I?"
The fellow had spoken French: did that mean anything?