"I'm blind!" Chuck cried. "I'm blind! Help me!"
Another bomb geysered sand: it left a fog of sand, everyone coughing and spitting. Men tied rags or handkerchiefs or shirts over their face. So, it was sand, not flies. The heat sweated the sand into the flesh. So, it was heat, heat coming down from the cliff.
"Can't see our bus" Dennison shouted, trying to estimate damage. He snuffed and continued coughing.
Suddenly, he grinned, and began to shake: the flies are gone, the bomb's got rid of the flies! He laughed loudly, throwing back his head.
"No flies ... no flies ... the bombers killed our flies!"
"Shut up," Landel said, hitting him.
"No flies!"
Landel hit him again.
Dennison crumpled to the sand: he knew what Landel meant: he realized too, in spite of his hysteria, that he was lucky to have escaped: cradling his head on his arms he attempted to blot out Chuck's raving.
With the last bomber gone, the crewmen came to life, swatting off sand and dust, huddling, at first in little groups. In twos and threes they began checking, climbing on their machines, crawling inside. Out of nowhere supply trucks arrived.