After Major Comstock finishes his cigarette, he resumes his search. Some of the papers on his clipboard specify certain magic numbers that ought to be stenciled on the outside of the crates in question; at least, that’s what he’s been assuming since he started this search at daybreak, and if he’s wrong, he’ll have to go back and search every crate in Sydney Harbor again. Actually getting a look at each crates’ numbers means squeezing his body through narrow channels between crate piles and rubbing away the grease and grime that obscures the crucial data. The major is now as filthy as any combat grunt.