When Zinc had taped his arm they carried the waterboy, carried him into a house across the square, banging on a door, shoving him inside when two women opened. A bullet had smashed his leg. The kid moaned and flopped his arms. He was bleeding badly.
Dennison liked his bright face, his gaunt, nomadic build. He respected his courage: that business with the water bottle, the spotting of the roof gunners. Kneeling and sitting on the tiled floor of someone's living room he and Zinc did their best to bandage the boy's leg. Dennison tried to talk to him but he couldn't come to. People crowded around, yapping, yapping: he saw their mouths going.
Speaking French he yelled at a woman:
"Try to locate a Red Cross man!"
The veiled figure hovered over the boy, her blue boubous was flecked with something white.
"Médecin," she mumbled.
Dennison and Zinc risked a third of their stock of bandages: they rebound the break, padding it.
"Good boy, good boy," Dennison said to himself. "Nice kid, nice kid!" Zinc said.
According to Landel, the Anadi mess was a mere delaying action, a hinge in the Nazi retreat. Millard was left, to be trucked to a base. The tanks gulped water. A supply tank furnished gas and oil. Landel, Zinc and Chuck and Dennison worked steadily, with a few minutes for food.
Where's the thermos? Where's the coffee? Cigarettes? God, thought Dennison, where now?