The chauffeur said: we're shovin' off.
"Here ... take her pic ... her photo from my billfold ... here ... tell her I sent you ... take it ... you can find her ... send me word when I'm at Hopkins ... tell me ... find her..."
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
London, Dennison thought, as he shovelled away more sand: I'll never see London again. Perspiration made his hands slip on the shovel handle. He and Zinc were digging by lantern light, their shadows mugging each other: arms, heads, legs, shovels, machine. They were able to hear the hissing sound of sand. Nearby someone revved a motor.
In the light of a tank, Jeannette's photo showed a beautiful woman. Slipping it into his billfold he called her his pinup.
"Hell ... I'm hungry," he said to Zinc.
"There's chow," said Zinc. "I saw the truck ... yeah, there's chow," he repeated, rubbing his beard. "We gotta get some sleep ... gotta sit ... rest." He was trying to rub away intestinal pain with his right hand: he had strained muscles as he helped load wounded into the ambulances. Somebody had given him a sticky candy bar, he could still taste it; maybe it would stay down.
"Chuck's had it ... he's lost his sight ... he's..."
He went on mumbling to himself.