When the plane touched down, Francis was the first one out, taking note of everyone who was on board. As he said in Fort Campbell, Tampa Airport was out of order for the exercise. The chiefs valued realism, so this was to be expected. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, it was bright! Sunshine in October, like home! Kentucky really needed to borrow some of this. When the last one of the grunts left the plane, Francis threw his kit bag over his shoulder and walked to the main building. As First Sergeant, he had administrative duties (and his service record gave him the authority) that required him to be present at the briefings for this sort of stuff. The mama birds of the Screaming Eagles were gathered in one of the departure halls, and the commander there broke the news. "[i]We're live, men. At 4 in the morning, we'll land in Cuba. Non-exercise.[/i] Boring details followed.

Francis' service record was pretty impressive. His baptism by fire was Drop Zone Able, in the early hours of June 6th, 1944. He'd seen and enjoyed Paris (he was 70% certain he had a kid in France), fought at Hell's Highway in Market Garden, fought in Bastogne, crossed into Germany and met the Red Army who brought alcohol. (He was 70% sure he had at least one child in Russia, too.) He camped out in Austria (Of progeny in Austria he is certain), and was sent stateside where he married and spawned some offspring the world could know about. In the 1950s, he had fought the Red Chinese and Koreans in Korea, barely surviving one bayonet encounter. Back with the Screaming Eagles, he was present during the Little Rock Crisis but uneventful base life was the norm. Now, he again got what he desired: Battle. He wanted to break with the usual boring semi-civilian life, but the prospect of battle still scared him. After all, he only had to be unlucky once. Again, he was asked to break the news. Time to use that motivational tone.


...[i]"at ease. Gentlemen, there has been a chance of plans. Exercise Tropic Thunder has become [u]Operation[/u] Tropic Thunder. We're NONEX, we're live, we're invading Cuba. It would appear that this morning, some flyboys took a lot of pictures of Soviet missiles on Cuba. When these missiles are activated, they could reduce every major city in the contiguous United States, save Seattle, to ashes within minutes. That is, as you may well imagine, unacceptable. It is an unprecedented provocation, and Chief Kennedy and I agree on one thing: They won't activate those missiles. We'll save them the effort. Tonight, we will jump around a town called Mariel, west of Havana. There we will secure the beaches for the 1st Armoured Division to land. 

When what I have said sinks in, there will be two types of men among y'all. There will be those who accept the tension, the sensation, and that they're frightened of first combat. There will also be those who are lying to themselves. You're going into a shooting war, you're supposed to be scared. You'll pump this thing called adrenaline around, gets your senses going. It's not something to be ashamed about." [/i]

He paused, thinking of what he would say. He continued in a more solemn, confidential, and paternal way.

[i]"You know, I've been doing some thinking. A lot of you guys are between the ages of 18 and 21. When you were sucking on your momma's tit, learning to walk or to talk, and how to eat with cutlery, I was doing my first combat jump. Drop Zone Able, as part of a trip called Operation Overlord back on D-day. You may have heard of it. And I was scared, too. I have to tell y'all, the jump was a mess. We were blown everywhere, but when we assembled we capture a few villages and looked for the Germans all night. With the eyes God gave me, I had to differentiate crawling Germans from the dark. That scared me. I was scared in Holland, during Market Garden. I was scared and frozen to my bones in Bastogne. I was scared in Korea, and I was even scared in Little Rock, Arkansas, when a violent crowd could contain someone special enough to pull a gun out on me. Boys, be scared. I'm scared too, with my service record being longer than the menu of a Chinese restaurant. The trick is to not let it rule you: rule your fear. Use it to stay sharp, stay alert, and stay alive. And don't be conscious about it, it'll come naturally. We're warriors.

I'd like to end this in a more uplifting note, so I'll get this out of the way. I'll be sending my wedding ring back home. I suggest that y'all send personal items and valuable items back to your parents or your better halves. Better than to have a Cuban, or worse, Mortuary Affairs, pick them off you.

Despite that, remember what you're a part of. We're Americans. We're soldiers. But more than that, we're screaming eagles. We're the finest fighting men of the United States. We've liberated Europe and Asia, and we'll liberate Cuba too. Because despite of what I said earlier about being sharp, I do not plan on having some upstart with a cigar in his mouth and Russian junk in his hand shoot me if the Nazis didn't! And none of y'all should! I respect the Cubans for having the brass balls to point all-killing weapons at us. But I don't respect them enough to not be a patriot, and forego grabbing them by the throat and grinding them into flour! [u]THAT[/u] is what we'll do to them! And out of that commie flour, we're gonna bake a big, delicious, and free American Apple Pie!

And before I forget, back in 1944, when we were preparing to drop into Normandy, we all got mohawk haircuts. It intimidated the Germans, and it created a sort of brotherhood. The barbers are doing that again, and I highly encourage you all to get your hair cut while you can.

Finally, anyone who has the guts to sing 'Blood on the Risers' on board of the plane will be the first one out and will take point of his unit until we've won. 

Be ready at midnight. Dismissed."
[/i]