Designed to highlight several traditions from members of the Fleet Strike amalgam, the uniform also called on futuristic styling. A long mag-sealed tunic of Navy blue, worn flapped open, was lined with the branch color of the wearer, in Mike’s case Infantry sky blue. Around the middle was worn a full sash cummerbund of “Redcoat” red (the identical shade was used by, variously, the American Marines, American artillery, French paratroopers and the Red Army) looped with gold. The shoulders and sleeves were again covered in gold loops, the number of loops denoting rank. The pants were piped with red. It was topped by a simple Americanized beret in the color of the different branches of Fleet Strike. This gave the unfortunate impression that all members of the Infantry were on a UN Peacekeeping mission, but that impression would pass with time.
This admittedly flashy uniform was, in Captain O’Neal’s case, further highlighted by a frightening set of medals. In the case of most persons with multiple layers of “fruit-salad” the weight was on the lower end, the various commendation medals and other bits of colorful “I Was There” ribbons that say that the wearer has been a good boy and gone where a soldier was supposed to go. In Mike’s case, the weight was uncomfortably skewed in the other direction.
Besides the Medal, specifically awarded for single-handedly taking out a Posleen command ship at the Main Line of Resistance on Diess, he had been separately awarded for three other actions during that forty-eight hours of madness that saw victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. There was a Bronze Star for organizing the demolition of Qualtren, despite the accidental consequences, a Bronze Star for organizing the survivors under the rubble left from the explosion and a Silver Star for the relief of the Tenth Panzergrenadiers at the Boulevard of Death. He had not wanted any of them and argued that, by tradition, they should all have been lumped into one award. But they came piecemeal instead.
Along with those awards, and two Purple Hearts, there was a mass of foreign decorations from countries as widely varied as England and mainland China (almost three companies of the regiment China had sent survived due to O’Neal’s platoon). A single Army commendation medal, a good conduct medal and an I-Was-There medal for Desert Storm huddled at the bottom.
In any other company the combination of uniform and fruit-salad would have looked maniacal, but that was in any other company.
The cluster of officers around Géneral Crenaus included the American High Commander in Ground Force Mess Dress, a veteran of Just Cause, Desert Storm and Monsoon Thunder along with so many odd little out-of-the-way missions he had long ago stopped trying to remember them all. His “fruit-salad” was also impressively high protein, low fat. General Horner, in Mess Dress, had managed to be involved instrumentally in all three operations and although he was light on “Forgot To Duck” Purple Hearts, his commendations were all about being out front leading troops.
And it turned out that Géneral Crenaus, in French Mess Dress, tails, stovepipe hat and all, had apparently been involved in every action the French had been able to think up over the last couple of decades. And, apparently, a few they were not quite willing to admit to as well.
Between the Mess Dress on all the senior officers and the medals on every chest, Mike was wondering when the Valkyries were supposed to show up and go violently mezzo-soprano.
“I like that one,” said General Taylor rather thickly as he pointed to an unrecognized decoration on Captain O’Neal’s chest. He had managed to ingest better than a quart and a half of scotch during the course of the evening. “I didn’t think there were any Japs with you on Diess.” The decoration worn just above the Combat Infantryman’s Badge looked somewhat like a golden rising sun.
Géneral Crenaus laughed grimly. “That’s not for saving Nip ass, bon homme. That is simply an award for being there. I have one as well.” He pointed to the same medal on his own chest.
“That’s not the Diess medal,” pointed out General Horner, peering at O’Neal’s chest. “That’s our Diess Expeditionary Force medal,” he continued, pointing at a normal-sized medal of tan and red.
“Not for being on Diess, mon Général,” corrected Géneral Crenaus’s senior aide from the periphery where the aides danced attendance. “It is a Federation recognition device for being in the effect zone of a nuclear blast.”
“Oui, this one is entirely our young friend’s fault,” laughed the boisterous French general, thumbing in the direction of the captain. “However, on reflection, I can hardly fault him.”
“Fine, great,” said Mike, feeling the bourbons the senior officers had been pressing on him. “Next time I’ll leave your Frog ass swinging in the breeze.”
Géneral Crenaus laughed uproariously to the apparent relief of the officers in the outer ring. “I sincerely desire that there is never another such incident, my young capitaine.”
Mike, in the meantime, was rather drunkenly looking at his Star Burst medal upside down. “You know the bastard part of it, sir?” he asked as he swayed forward and back; trying to maintain balance with his head down was getting harder and harder.
“What?” asked General Horner, knocking back his Absolut and picking another off a passing tray.
“I don’t remember a bit of it. I mean, some of the guys got to really groove with the experience. Some of the platoon couldn’t find bolt holes in time and they were on the roofs when it went. Now that would be a rush.”
“A rush?” gasped one of the colonels in the periphery.
Mike rounded on the officer, with a look of disbelief on his face. “Sure, sir, can’t you just see it? That wall of flame coming right at you and all you can do is duck and cover? I mean, like, what a rush!” He smiled ferally as the generals laughed. Most of the American aides, none less than a major in rank, were remarkably short on medals indicating combat time. They obviously were not sure to what extent the aggressive captain was joking.
Crenaus’s aide, wearing the same medal, snorted and shook his head. Having met the junior officer at his best, and worst, he had no doubt of the little firecracker’s sincerity. Deuxieme Armore called him “The Little Shrew” and spoke it in hushed tones. Not for any spitefulness, but because, weight for ferocity, shrews were the most deadly thing on earth. And quite utterly fearless.
“Oui, in a suit perhaps,” interjected Géneral Crenaus, genially. “But most of us were not in suits. It was quite unpleasant from my point of view.”
“Sure, sir,” slurred Mike. “That’s why I gave you thirty — hic — seconds warning.”
“Twenty. You said thirty and detonated at twenty. Merci beaucoup, by the way, and what a surprise that was!”
“C’est la guerre. Vingt, trente, who’s counting.”
“We were, certainment. With our, how do you say it? ‘pedal to the metal’ we were. ‘Dix-neuf…’ Wham! Zee Camera of God!” the general continued, mock angrily.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Mike snorted and took another slug.
Géneral Crenaus laughed again, hard, as at another thought. “Your Private Buckley did not think it was, as you say, a ‘roosh.’ ”
“Heh, yeah, I heard that one afterwards. Hah! And I thought I was havin’ a bad day.”
“Would you care to let the rest of us in on the joke?” asked General Taylor, settling rather heavily on the head table.
“Oui, it is a good one,” said Géneral Crenaus, gesturing at Mike.