“A phone call, Mr. Fuller. From a Mr. Sorrell at the Pentagon.” “Thanks.” Hawkins headed for one of the telephone cabins, thinking how much easier it would be to focus for a moment or two on Skippy’s future instead of his own. He understood from a letter he’d seen on Mary’s desk that there still might be time to affect a decision about Private Laughlin’s AIT, even if his Fort Dix days with the Fighting Sixty-ninth—there was nomenclatural combination!—would be over in a couple of weeks. He knew someone, of course. He’d left the message with Sorrell just an hour ago. “Andy,” he said, taking the
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