Dennison peered at a tousled head, a pair of dirty glasses on a beaked nose, a stubbled, dirty face. The dirty face grinned pleasantly. Dennison liked the mottled teeth and purple lips.
"You're okay. Take it easy, huh? Did you think we was Nazis? Nah! Lie back! Rest. I'll bring you dope ... we'll soon be at the Fournier Hospital, in Rethel ... soon ... do you hear? It's Catholic. Clean. Be there soon. Lie down..."
Reassured, Dennison lay back.
"Just some water ... just some water..."
"Okay."
Things blurred.
"Now, here, swallow the dope..."
"Sure ... a little more water ... gotta have water..."
"Okay."
Pain wormed in his arm and shoulder, and he wondered what had occurred. What had become of the tank? What had happened to Zinc and Landel? The last thing he remembered ... pain was burning closer, closer, closer ... Fingering his bandages, he poked at several wooden splints and tried to gauge the extent of his injury. Thinking to push back his hair, he felt a skull bandage; a sling was looped around his neck. His fingers traced the folds of the sling.