We suffer a charleyhorse. While our compatriots storm into a hail of miniballs, we make ourselves at home at the minibar back at the Blue and Grey Inn. We can hear the cannonade as we polish off the little bottles of vodka and tear into a package of smoked almonds. Out there in the wheat field our friends and neighbors are getting their asses shot off. It is enough to make a man heartily sick for humanity. We pick up the phone, to call room service. This is goddamned war, and we require hookers.