They were crouched alongside the fountain, Zinc's first aid kit on the rim. Millard faced the olive trees and the many ripped off leaves around him. Dennison thought that his face had become years older: oil had spattered his chin. His lowered lip sagged, exposing his missing teeth. Landel was bending over him, checking for his ID, his dog tag. Landel's greasy bald head filled Dennison with great bitterness: it said:
Here we are, who cares! In Africa, who cares!
Who will bury us?
The waterboy was moving.
"Hold still," Zinc commanded.
"Now there are only four of us to crew our tank," Dennison yelled.
"So what!" Zinc yelled.
"Four of us," Dennison repeated.
"We can manage, Chuck is good."
Dennison wondered what Millard's wife was like: had she loved the guy or was the beneficiary sum worth far more? His hands trembled: death was such a crappy business. In Ohio death wasn't like this! In Ohio, there were preachers, graves with names and dates on them.