Standing ove3r the soup pot, brandishing her ladle, Private Susan wears a stern, authoritarian expression (suchy as mothers have worn for centuries when admonishing their sons to eat, mangia, etc.) The line of enemy soldiers filing past the steaming pot wear cowed expressions as she ladles heaping bowls of tofu, algae, sprout surprise.
As a single voice, accompanied by two halting guitar chords, sings out a plaintive song about a deep love for a tennis shoe salesman, she mutters under her breath God, I hope Spaw gets here soon. I'll make him and Cleigh all of the pad thai they can EAT if they will just get us out of here. Then louder. Young man. Don't you throw that away. Don't you know that there are children staring in. . Before she can finish, he gags down another spoon full, but she swears she can hear him mutter "Ship it to them." She turns back to her soup pot and resumes her prayer.