"Are they so bad?"
"Yeah ... they're bad--keep your hands down..."
The wind shook a dwarf thorn tree behind him.
"Lift your head up ... higher ... I'm using more medication ... soothing..."
"Can ya gimmie a drink?"
"I will," said Dennison.
Willits was a dark skinned man, very Italian, with greying moustache and grey animal-kind eyes. When Dennison returned with water, he nodded at him, jerked his head toward Chuck, then shrugged his shoulders: hopeless.
"Now you keep your hands off your eyes ... I'm gonna put cool antiseptic salve on a bandage, real loose ... gonna put that around your head ... over your eyes ... we'll get you to a doctor soon as we can ... I'll use the transmitter ... others ... other guys ... you know ... get help ... they need help..." Groggily, he went on repeating, talking to himself.
Chuck was still shaking as Dennison walked away--back to his machine.
He and Zinc removed shovels from the rear of the tank: it was slow digging but they released a tread, cleaned the hatches, freed the guns: Landel had a shovel: there was no Al, no Millard, no Chuck: climbing inside Dennison switched on lights, checked dials, checked the intercom and radio: something about the white interior helped.