Here I am again, he thought. General Szilard noticed Robbins’s discomfort. “You don’t really like the general’s mess, do you, Colonel?” he asked, and jammed more steak in his mouth. “I hate it,” Robbins said, before he quite knew what was coming out of his mouth. “Sir,” he added, quickly. “Can’t say that I blame you,” Szilard said, around the beef. “The whole thing of barring non-generals from eating here is six kinds of stupid. How’s your water, by the way?” Robbins glanced down at the sweating glass in front of him. “Delightfully refreshing, sir,” he said. Szilard motioned with his fork to encompass the entire general’s mess. “This is our fault, you know,” he said. “The Special Forces, I mean.” “How so?” asked Robbins. “Special Forces generals would bring anyone in their command structure in here—not just officers, but their enlisted too. Because outside of combat situations, no one in Special Forces really gives a shit about rank. So you had all these Special Forces troops in here, eating the nice steaks and ogling Phoenix overhead.
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