Dennison drank from his bottle--cool, cool.
He explained that the Corpsmen were deaf; then, as Dennison handed back the bottle, the boy began to shout and point: he indicated the roof of one of the buildings across the square.
"Look, Monsieur ... look, on the roof ... the roof of the mayor's house! See! There's machine gun ... it's pointed this way! Maybe somebody can ... see, the gun is moving ... they're getting ready."
Dennison had difficulty understanding the boy's jargon; when he got it straight he yelled at the nearest crewmen. The warning spread. Someone at the fountain, a skinny guy in oily jeans, raced across the square and lobbed a grenade.
It fell short. At once the gunmen fired.
A bullet chipped Dennison's arm, and the waterboy dropped, Millard fell, slumping heavily against the basin of the fountain; the cat scampered for shelter, leaves fell from the olive trees.
Seconds later, another grenade wiped out the roof gun and gunners ... planes roared overhead ... Millard was dead; the water-boy lay motionless ... Zinc began bandaging Dennison's arm.
Two minutes, or was it three? Or five?
"It's nothing," Dennison objected. "I'm okay. We'd better see about the kid."
"I know it's not bad ... a nick. Hold still!" Zinc yelled.