"Gas," the men said.
"Gas."
Zinc pointed to some butterflies, flying close to the sand, headed past the Shermans.
Dennison rubbed his face: they can really fly: yellow butterflies ... beyond them, in the face of the sun, the heat puffed and writhed; a slight wind kicked up dust. A section of the wadi cliff had toppled and sand had buried snouts and sides of several machines and both half-tracks: the sand had acted as a cushion protecting treads and armor plate. Men began to dig ... gas tanks got filled ... motors started ... tanks pulled away ...
Dennison led Chuck by the arm, Chuck moaning and trembling. They both fell into a sand hollow. Directly in front of Dennison lay a pair of arms, intact from finger to shoulders, the dog tag visible on the wrist, above the greasy fingers.
Lawrence, Dennison saw:
Lawrence Robinson, from California.
Dennison jumped away, shrank back, dragging Chuck, almost hurling him down, bumping into Landel.
"What's wrong with you?" Landel scoffed. "Watch where you're going! A pair of kooky arms scare ya!"
Without hesitating, Dennison whirled on Landel, and knocked him down: he tried to jump on him but Chuck clung to him, moaning, saying "no ... no..."