Field Commission 10

Parvana looks at me oddly, "decided you're a dyke?"
I groan, "you are sooo outa date. This goes great with Brit helmet, take a look."
"Holy dying sheep sh**, I just don't believe it. Not only can't tell it's you. Can't even tell race or gender, you're that obscure." Awkward pause, "is there some problem I don't know about?"
I tell her.
She sums up, "tricky moral position. See if you downcheck, none of us goes, we're all royally pi**ed off. Yet if you go, get recognized, our platoon becomes a target. So what you gonna do?"
"Only one fair way. You simply cannot expect people to take risks unknowingly. I tell them the entire story, show how completely different I look and they vote."
And they did. Long as I agree to always stay with helmet and visor, never opt for beret, they'll buy it.
The CO looks at me, "don't you think that's going a little overboard? Surely it'd be better to stay with American gear?"
"People will know I'm American ma'am, the badges and uniform. My option to switch."
"Dear, I mean no offence, but you look horrible, with or without the helmet, look deathly ill. No wonder those silly Brits always look so pale and unhealthy. Still, your choice, if you feel it's the best way to protect your platoon."
As it turns out, I get support. Parvana does the measurement, it yields several inches more of protection and the entire group opts for Brit.
It isn't my imagination, they change when that gear goes on. Add in the fact the Brits have generously provided cigs during the pre-training period. You see in the British Army, no such thing as a draftee. Once that gear goes on, they stand straighter, speak with more confidence, smoke more and use thrice as much profanity.
I now hafta get used to some people wrapping the F word into a single sentence two or three times. Oh well, they like me, I like them, it'll all work out.
"Enjoy it while you can," I'll grin, "at VCP's we don't swear at civilians."
Well here we are. Somehow all the angst seems meaningless. Hasn't stopped raining since we got here, except for a few minutes. Clouds seem the height of a two storey building. My helmet and visor, which comes to the bottom of my nose, render me as utterly invisible as the other 15,000 troops rumbling around Belfast.
Only one thing distinguishes me, being American. The civvies can't even see me, but they are very polite. It's amazing how many tell us they like us, we do a fair impartial job. I don't bother correcting anyone who calls me Yank. It doesn't offend me anymore. In this context, it's actually a friendly greeting. They go on their way telling us to come back next Christmas.
It's now December 24, the IRA has just declared the traditional Christmas truce. But they politely phone every American contingent with a warning, "you realize we only speak for the Official IRA. There are others - splinter groups - bad people - that don't honor the truce. So stay alert."