"I'm leavin' ... I'm goin'," he cried.
"I'll be along in a minute," Dennison said, yawning and propping himself against the wall, legs and shoulders feeling stiff.
Landel reappeared.
"Go on ... I'm awake!" he shouted. "See you at the chuck wagon."
"We've got to eat quick ... we've a hell of a lot to do," Landel screamed, his head in the doorway. He zoomed his flashlight into Dennison's eyes, like a warning, and walked off.
Angry, Dennison rubbed his hands over his bearded face, slumped down onto the floor again.
Through the doorway he caught glimpses of the flashlights and lanterns of men headed for the kitchen: legs and lights passed with metronome jerkiness across the sand: dust came up from beneath boots. Shellfire rumbled in the distance, a sound that had in it all the vacuity of the African desert.
A jab of wind dribbled sand through the doorway and shook sand from the make-shift roof of the shelter where only yesterday gunners had been trapped emplacing a gun.
Dennison smelled the stench of gasoline and grease from the tanks and a tank dump nearby; he could smell the gas and grease on his clothes; it seemed to swirl around him.
The incoming air was chilly.