"Jeez, man!" Landel gulped. "Are you nuts again?"
"That was Lawrence Robinson," Dennison yelled. "Larry Robinson ... it could have been me!"
"Fuck you," said Landel, picking himself up, remembering a corner of the Argonne, where men's bodies had been blown about like chips. Glaring at Chuck's bloody eyes he felt no pity for him: he felt they should save themselves for their machines and the job of fighting: let scabs go to hell!
But remembering his job as captain he ordered Dennison to take Chuck to Corporal Willits ...
"He's over there ... he's Red Cross ... take him, then let's get our bus rolling. He's not been hit. Not bad!"
"Not bad," Dennison said to himself, angrily.
He saw himself returning to Base Camp with Chuck; he would see him hospitalized; on leave, he would rest by the ocean; ships would be unloading; the surf would be warm; he'd have good chow.
Assisting Chuck, Dennison sat down by him as Willets examined the lidless eyes: in the sun the imbedded sand glistened like glass; blood glistened like glass. Chuck was trembling, his hands quivering on his lap, fingers wholly uncoordinated.
Willets was talking kindly to Chuck.
"Can you hear?" Dennison asked, bending close.