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There
's
a
shipment
of
frozen
parts
come
Tin
downstairs
--
hearts
and
kidneys
and
brains
and
the
like
.
I
can
hear
them
rumble
into
cold
storage
down
the
coal
chute
.
A
guy
sitting
in
the
room
someplace
I
ca
n't
see
is
talking
about
a
guy
up
on
Disturbed
killing
himself
.
Old
Rawler
.
Cut
both
nuts
off
and
bled
to
death
,
sitting
right
on
the
can
in
the
latrine
,
half
a
dozen
people
in
there
with
him
did
n't
know
it
till
he
fell
off
to
the
floor
,
dead
.
What
makes
people
so
impatient
is
what
I
ca
n't
figure
;
all
the
guy
had
to
do
was
wait
.
I
know
how
they
work
it
,
the
fog
machine
.
We
had
a
whole
platoon
used
to
operate
fog
machines
around
airfields
overseas
.
Whenever
intelligence
figured
there
might
be
a
bombing
attack
,
or
if
the
generals
had
something
secret
they
wanted
to
pull-out
of
sight
,
hid
so
good
that
even
the
spies
on
the
base
could
n't
see
what
went
on
--
they
fogged
the
field
.
It
's
a
simple
rig
:
you
got
an
ordinary
compressor
sucks
water
out
of
one
tank
and
a
special
oil
out
of
another
tank
,
and
compresses
them
together
,
and
from
the
black
stem
at
the
end
of
the
machine
blooms
a
white
cloud
of
fog
that
can
cover
a
whole
airfield
in
ninety
seconds
.
The
first
thing
I
saw
when
I
landed
in
Europe
was
the
fog
those
machines
make
.
There
were
some
interceptors
close
after
our
transport
,
and
soon
as
it
hit
ground
the
fog
crew
started
up
the
machines
.
We
could
look
out
the
transport
's
round
,
scratched
windows
and
watch
the
jeeps
draw
the
machines
up
close
to
the
plane
and
watch
the
fog
boil
out
till
it
rolled
across
the
field
and
stuck
against
the
windows
like
wet
cotton
.
You
found
your
way
off
the
plane
by
following
a
little
referees
'
horn
the
lieutenant
kept
blowing
,
sounded
like
a
goose
honking
.
Soon
as
you
were
out
of
the
hatch
you
could
n't
see
no
more
than
maybe
three
feet
in
any
direction
.
You
felt
like
you
were
out
on
that
airfield
all
by
yourself
.
You
were
safe
from
the
enemy
,
but
you
were
awfully
alone
.
Sounds
died
and
dissolved
after
a
few
yards
,
and
you
could
n't
hear
any
of
the
rest
of
your
crew
,
nothing
but
that
little
horn
squeaking
and
honking
out
of
a
soft
furry
whiteness
so
thick
that
your
body
just
faded
into
white
below
the
belt
;
other
than
that
brown
shirt
and
brass
buckle
,
you
could
n't
see
nothing
but
white
,
like
from
the
waist
down
you
were
being
dissolved
by
the
fog
too
.
And
then
some
guy
wandering
as
lost
as
you
would
all
of
a
sudden
be
right
before
your
eyes
,
his
face
bigger
and
clearer
than
you
ever
saw
a
man
's
face
before
in
your
life
.
Your
eyes
were
working
so
hard
to
see
in
that
fog
that
when
something
did
come
in
sight
every
detail
was
ten
times
as
clear
as
usual
,
so
clear
both
of
you
had
to
look
away
.
When
a
man
showed
up
you
did
n't
want
to
look
at
his
face
and
he
did
n't
want
to
look
at
yours
,
because
it
's
painful
to
see
somebody
so
clear
that
it
's
like
looking
inside
him
,
but
then
neither
did
you
want
to
look
away
and
lose
him
completely
.
You
had
a
choice
:
you
could
either
strain
and
look
at
things
that
appeared
in
front
of
you
in
the
fog
,
painful
as
it
might
be
,
or
you
could
relax
and
lose
yourself
.
When
they
first
used
that
fog
machine
on
the
ward
,
one
they
bought
from
Army
Surplus
and
hid
in
the
vents
in
the
new
place
before
we
moved
in
,
I
kept
looking
at
anything
that
appeared
out
of
the
fog
as
long
and
hard
as
I
could
,
to
keep
track
of
it
,
just
like
I
used
to
do
when
they
fogged
the
airfields
in
Europe
.
Nobody
'd
be
blowing
a
horn
to
show
the
way
,
there
was
no
rope
to
hold
to
,
so
fixing
my
eyes
on
something
was
the
only
way
I
kept
from
getting
lost
.
Sometimes
I
got
lost
in
it
anyway
,
got
in
too
deep
,
trying
to
hide
,
and
every
time
I
did
,
it
seemed
like
I
always
turned
up
at
that
same
place
,
at
that
same
metal
door
with
the
row
of
rivets
like
eyes
and
no
number
,
just
like
the
room
behind
that
door
drew
me
to
it
,
no
matter
how
hard
I
tried
to
stay
away
,
just
like
the
current
generated
by
the
fiends
in
that
room
was
conducted
in
a
beam
along
the
fog
and
pulled
me
back
along
it
like
a
robot
.
I
'd
wander
for
days
in
the
fog
,
scared
I
'd
never
see
another
thing
,
then
there
'd
be
that
door
,
opening
to
show
me
the
mattress
padding
on
the
other
side
to
stop
out
the
sounds
,
the
men
standing
in
a
line
like
zombies
among
shiny
copper
wires
and
tubes
pulsing
light
,
and
the
bright
scrape
of
arcing
electricity
.
I
'd
take
my
place
in
the
line
and
wait
my
turn
at
the
table
.
The
table
shaped
like
À
cross
,
with
shadows
of
a
thousand
murdered
men
printed
on
it
,
silhouette
wrists
and
ankles
running
under
leather
straps
sweated
green
with
use
,
a
silhouette
neck
and
head
running
up
to
a
silver
band
goes
across
the
forehead
.
And
a
technician
at
the
controls
beside
the
table
looking
up
from
his
dials
and
down
the
line
and
pointing
at
me
with
a
rubber
glove
.
"
Wait
,
I
know
that
big
bastard
there
--
better
rabbit-punch
him
or
call
for
some
more
help
or
something
.
He
's
an
awful
case
for
thrashing
around
.
"
So
I
used
to
try
not
to
get
in
too
deep
,
for
fear
I
'd
get
lost
and
turn
up
at
the
Shock
Shop
door
.
I
looked
hard
at
anything
that
came
into
sight
and
hung
on
like
a
man
in
a
blizzard
hangs
on
a
fence
rail
.
But
they
kept
making
the
fog
thicker
and
thicker
,
and
it
seemed
to
me
that
,
no
matter
how
hard
I
tried
,
two
or
three
times
a
month
I
found
myself
with
that
door
opening
in
front
of
me
to
the
acid
smell
of
sparks
and
ozone
.
In
spite
of
all
I
could
do
,
it
was
getting
tough
to
keep
from
getting
lost
.
