“All right,” he said. “That pretty much wraps up the old business for now. Are there any questions or comments before I move on to new business?”
“Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Armstrong was on his feet, face rigid, in the classic position of attention. The captain noticed that several of the Legionnaires were grinning and nudging each other, but dismissed it as their normal amusement at Armstrong’s Regular Army practices.
“Yes, Lieutenant? What is it?”
Instead of replying, the lieutenant literally marched to the front of the room, squaring his corners with parade-ground precision. Coming to a halt directly in front of the commander, he drew himself up with a crisp salute, which he held until Phule, puzzled by his antics, returned.
“Sir! The company has asked me to speak for them in voicing a complaint … sir!”
As he spoke, all the Legionnaires in attendance rose silently to their feet and assumed stances approximating Armstrong’s textbook pose.
The commander avoided looking at them directly, but was both aware of and taken aback by their actions. Whatever was coming, it seemed to be unanimous. What the hell could it be?
“At ease, Lieutenant … and the rest of you, too. These are supposed to be informal meetings. Now then, what seems to be the problem?”
“Well, sir … the company is unhappy with the uniforms you’ve provided them with.”
“I see. Which uniform specifically?”
“All of them, sir. We feel they lack color.”
“Color?”
Phule couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the assemblage. To a man, they were grinning at him.