If one were to observe Warrant Officer Jackson P. DuBois in his natural habitat, one might notice first the thick layer of grime coating the majority of his uniform, or perhaps the slight sulfury smell of molten metal and burnt slag that hung in his cloths might make the first impression. Regardless, nothing about him was less inviting than the sound of his voice. Slow, almost monotonous, the word that rolled off of his tong were articulated and to the point, "It's about damn time."
As a man who had spent the last eight years in the Eastern Bloc, Jack could honestly say that the was was no surprise. In fact, he was almost happy that the conflict had gone hot. Only the thought his comrades facing death could sober his thoughts. 
In due time, the Warrant Officer made his way to the Patton for briefing, as were his orders. Seeing Captain Locks nearby, Jack tendered a short but respectful salute.
"Are you ready for the big one, Captain?" He asked grimly. "This won't be any Afghanistan or Syria. No hearts and minds idealist crap is going to do us any favors. This is the real deal." The Warrant Officer, waiting for reply, reached into a pouch on his vest with the swagger that only a true Frenchman could manage and retrieved the nickle plated cigarette case which lived there. Placing the end of one loosely in his mouth, he offered a second smoke to the Captain.