Dust to Dust

By BadgerGater

E-mail: [email protected]

Category: Angst

Season: Somewhere in early season three

Spoilers: Fair Game, very small ones for The Enemy Within, Fire & Water, Politics, Spirits and A Matter of Time.

Rating: G

Warnings: Angst.

Summary: Word A Month Challenge-- Dust

Author’s note: A tribute to the men and women of the United States Armed Forces, past and present, for Veterans Day 2000

Thanks to Tanya and Rowan

Readers, let me know what you think

<><><><><>

Mostly, his dress blue uniform hung in his closet. Truth be told, he'd rarely enjoyed the times he'd had to wear it. BDUs were much more his style, but there were times he couldn't avoid formal dress. As he'd risen through the ranks, those dress-up affairs had become more numerous though not more welcome.

Sure there were good events he associated with the blue jacket. He'd worn it at his wedding to Sara, he didn't own a suit back then. Hell, he still didn't, he thought with a small smile.

He'd been so very proud, the first day he'd put on that blue jacket with the lieutenant's insignia, the day he'd been commissioned as an officer in the United States Air Force.

He'd been almost as proud that day just a few weeks ago when he'd worn the uniform for Captain, now Major, Carter's promotion ceremony. God, the look on her face. It had been fun, keeping that little secret, just him and the General.

But all too often, he'd worn this blue attire for occasions he could have lived without.

He didn't like the formal social events he couldn't always manage to avoid, making inane small talk with desk jockeys and politicians. Phony, pointless, brown nosing-- not for him, none of it. That's why he'd never make general.

He hadn't enjoyed that trip to Washington, D.C. last year, either, the one for the aborted medal ceremony. It was no fun even before that reporter died.

Then there had been that disastrous meeting with Senator Kinsey. Like Teal'c had pointed out, he really would rather go into battle, a real battle, then talk to a politician. In a real battle, at least he knew who his enemies were.

He hadn't relished wearing the dress blues for those recent treaty negotiations with the Goa'uld. Man, he hated being in the same room with any of those damn snakeheads. Especially after the Hathor thing.

Still, the worst times were the occasions like this one today. It was far from his first such ceremony. Hardest, of course, had been the ones for close friends. There had been the memorial service for Daniel Jackson, though thank God that had turned out to be a false alarm. Then there were the funerals for Charlie Kawalsky, Frank Cromwell and Henry Boyd.

He'd attended far too many memorial services, funerals and wakes, during his years in the service. Hell, he understood there'd even been one for him, once, when he'd been reported as KIA. He hoped his friends had had a better time at his wake, than he'd ever had at any one he'd attended, no matter how good the booze had been.

Colonel Jack O'Neill had put it off as long as he could. His shoes were shined to glossy black. The creases in his trousers were straight and sharp. Not a speck of lint marred the blue material of his jacket. Every medal, every service pin was polished and in place. His tie was tightened and straightened. His gold cufflinks were set. Finally, he placed the hat on his gray-flecked hair and pulled the sunglasses from his pocket.

General Hammond had sent him here, to do this. It was part of his responsiblities as second in command of the SGC base, to accompany a body home. Hammond had done the same, for the other slain member of SG-4. Days like this, he wished he wasn't a Colonel, wasn't responsible for the lives of these young men and women, hadn't been part of selecting them for the program, and ultimately, in part, responsible for sending them to their deaths.

This was a part of the job he hated most, even worse than the paper work. That, he could face alone. This, this spectacle of his failure, was too public.

Another funeral. Another good man who had died too young. Another cemetery full of grieving relatives. More somber words from a priest. Cold stone markers. Black clothes. The only bright colors were the flowers, and the flag.

He stood woodenly behind the mourners, trying not to watch a sobbing mother and the grim-faced who father attempted to comfort her.

He tried not to hear the too familiar words, spoken in hushed tones. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

That's all it came down to, in the end.

And then the trumpet tones rang out across the graveyard, echoing amid the trees and the stones. "Taps" always sent chills down his spine. He shivered with the memories, recalling far too many missing faces as the music died away.

Colonel O'Neill stepped forward, stood at attention, while the honor guard performed the flag ceremony, folding the red, white and blue cloth into a tri-cornored bundle. He knew it was only cloth, just woven strands of dyed cotton, but the symbolism of it had always touched him. He knew it represented the promise and the hope of his country, that it stood for generations of service and sacrifice, and embodied the unfailing courage of his comrades in arms.

Jack took the flag reverently, turned and placed it carefully into the waiting arms of Captain Howard's mother. "With the thanks of a grateful nation," he said softly, took a single step back, and saluted smartly, a last gesture of respect to the fallen man. Then, he turned away.

His own throat was tight, watching the stunned disbelief, the grief, on the ashen faces of those parents, a man and a woman no older than he, mourning a son lost. He understood, only too well.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, the Colonel waited a few moments while the crowd thinned. Finally, he approached the family. Words never came easily to him, even at the best of times, and now, they failed him utterly. He took the father's hand, recognized the loss and the hurt in the man's eyes. He knew words brought no comfort, but he had to say something. "I am sorry for your loss. Your son was a fine man and a good soldier. He will be missed."

So little, to thank a father for the life of his son. O'Neill knew it wasn't enough, there were not words enough. His duty done, he about-faced and walked away.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.