"Side street ... go side street."
Dennison obeyed automatically.
Zinc and Chuck bawled at each other.
"Get shells ready ... ready, Chuck..."
Swinging roundabout, they caught the pillbox from an angle: its cannon was futile, just a rod of steel: methodically, Chuck trained his 75; his first shell overshot but the second crushed the concrete dome; the third shell, aimed low, burst open a side.
Machinegun triggered, visors wide opened, Landel accounted for the crew, his blood boiling:
He was yelling, whistling, screaming.
Barbed wire fenced the box and Dennison smashed it, treads burying the spirals, the port tread crushing remains of the pill box.
Thinking of the canteen, he got it and sopped his handkerchief: water, face, water, the turret flung open, now he could breathe. Water, a little more water ... there was plenty of water!
As they sped onto a highway the surface seemed annoyingly, deceptively smooth: probably mined.