Landel transferred them to another Sherman--number 58. 58 started easily, warmed easily, and they rolled out of the gully, rolled across a flat of sand and sandstone that could have served as an airport, the full moon its beacon.
Everything about the new tank pleased Dennison: it was a pleasure to get away from the old bus.
Little by little, he coaxed 58 into top speed, glancing at his watch, leaning back against the seat, the cushion solid. A shaft of light came in. The periscope was excellent. The viewer clean. He leaned forward and wet his lips with his tongue, something like a smile on his face.
Landel was occupied with his map, his phone wobbling against his Adam's apple, black, cancerous: his bald skull teetered stiffly, pencil between his fingers.
Directly in front of 58, a tank rolled along, another M4, grey, lobbing up dust.
Dennison contrasted its size with the immensity of the desert.
The M4 climbed out of a bomb crater, flicked its fantail, ducked, disappeared.
Dennison realized that the men inside were as lonely as he: men riding inside nothingness, gaping at dunes and flats of sand.
Wasn't that a knock in the motor?
What was that strange vibration in the port tread?