War Diary 473
War Article Form R
Name of Security Officer: Sabah El-Ghawazzy
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Three pages are ripped out of the beginning of the leatherbound notebook. The quality of the leather and especially the quality of the paper marks this as a formerly-well-preserved pre-Collapse relic. The ink lines have a precision to them that implies a ballpoint pen, and the consistency of the ink fingers the pen as a particularly good one.
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Date: March 2075
Article: Frontline Diary
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Day 1
This is Staff Sargeant Billie Cyrus of the 3rd "Liberator" Division, "Liberty" Brigade, Squad 473. I'm writing this because I want to keep a record on these idiots, just in case we all die and nobody makes it back. There's no getting around it. I'm expecting to get this stuff all censored like those Roles would have you believe, but I'll say it anyway because someone has to. We're going up against the Victorians, and no one else has survived fighting them. God willing, we'll be the first.
Our merry band's got me, their Staff Sargeant, running herd on a couple old fogeys too damn stubborn to die and a bunch of young bucks too damn dumb to successfully kill themselves. I figure that either gives me great odds, or the worst ones possible. The way those Roles go, just about the best way to ensure that I don't make it back is to have a family waiting for me after I retire. Good thing I'm dodging both, at least until the war is over.
Our squad's supposedly set up
to try a new standard, since we're new and fresh with "talent": two fireteams of four people each, each man a rifle, and the command fireteam with me and two other poor bastards who're supposed to be picking my nose. Command fireteam's ABLE, second one's BRAVO, third one's CHARLIE, in theory. In practice, didn't work out.
With me on the ABLE fireteam is our field medic Sasha Nguyen. Used to get shit for being half-Russian with a girly name, but God Almighty can that man run. He's built like a motherfucking Devil Brigade tank and moves like one too; swear on my life he could just pick one of us up, and still be the fastest sprinter
and marathoner we have. Kid's quick on his feet and quick with his hands; field medic was a no brainer. If only he could manage to not run his mouth even faster, he'd be perfect. As is, I have to make sure he doesn't leave his damn tent most days.
Also with me is our sharpshooter and general gofer Wilma Cox. She's earned being one of the old hags, despite being nearly the youngest soldier here; she's a stickler for getting things right, constantly nags us about what we should be doing, and honestly her old-lady glasses aren't helping. We're still not sure how she got the highest marksmanship score in the squad with the scoped rifle, but it happened, so she gets the scope.
BRAVO's got the chucklefucks. We'll start with Richard "Dick" Perry. Motherfucker's not a bad shot, but he keeps on making everything about the size of his ego and how many Vics he's gonna kill and how many inches he is. Swear to God we all celebrated when Jessie knifehanded him into the ground.
Max Espina, by contrast, is nice, respectful, and makes about as many decisions as a rock does. Everything he does is done the same exact way, and he just
shuts down when there isn't someone to give him orders. Still, good kid. I hope he gets through this war, but I'm not holding out too much hope.
His friend Tomas Pinto is almost the opposite - shoots the shit, flips me the bird, and gets the fuck away with it because
goddamn can he lead a Role; if it came down to me or him in the squad I'd be booted out in a second and I'd get it. Unfortunately, his aim's a goddamn joke, so he's got the grenades.
To round these guys out so they don't all kill themselves, I put our chaplain Drexel Hopkins as the leader of their fireteam, also coincidentally getting him away from James. I forgot that Max is in the squad, though, so now Father Hopkins just tells Max to get him some booze, Max gets him the booze, and then we all have to deal with Father Hopkins trying to drunkenly convert us all night. Hell, if we fight the Victorians and he's all liquored up, he might genuinely try to convert the Vicks instead of shooting them.
CHARLIE's got everyone else. First up on our list is our dealer, James Bradley. Man deals in so much contraband I could probably put him in jail for the rest of his life, but he's got impossible amounts of the good shit and no way in hell am I going to let a guy like that go. Putting him in a fireteam with Drexel would've been a no-go, but I'm honestly not sure this is any better.
Then there's Jessie. Everything about her is short: her height, her hair, and especially her temper. Hell, even her
gun is a short-barreled shotgun, and I'm fairly sure she's got a file so that she can shorten her fuses on her grenades.
The third sap is Nick Forest. He flips between having the biggest brain on the continent and being just so unbelievably dumb it's a wonder how he survived to be seventeen - for God's sake, the first thing he did when he grabbed his service rifle was stare down the barrel, without even checking and clearing the damn thing! He's a good kid though. Really hope he makes it.
The last of these poor bastards is Shane Przybylski, squad leader. He's been pushing sixty, and even tells us that he remembers the world before the Collapse. He also has the most surviving relatives, so if anybody could tell our families in the worst case, his family probably could.
God, I'm hoping against hope that we all make it through.
My gut's telling me we won't.
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Intended Recipient: "Uncle Bill", full name "She-bil-ski" - probably Przybylski.
Address: Jefferson Park Projects, Chicago, Commonwealth of Free Cities.
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Day 36
We heard that the Victorians hit the east coast first, over by the "Freedom" Brigade in our Division. God, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I nearly cried when I found out that we weren't going to be hit first.
Then I nearly threw up.
It's real. The Victorians really are going to come after us. There's nowhere to run any more.
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Day 40
Tensions are running high.
The radio's been broadcasting nonstop that every Commonwealth soldier that falls is taking down five Victorians with them, but we noticed when the place moved from the Leamington beaches to the village of Essex. Rumor has it that the army all died on the beaches, and the radio's just lying to us; any day now, the Victorian Army will finish looting Detroit and crush us like a grape. Father Hopkins is nearly permanently drunk, and Jessie keeps sharpening knives to hide in her leather jacket. Sasha snapped at Nick when Nick fumbled a cartridge and dropped his gun; I had to tell him to cool it, but half the squad nearly drew weapons right there and then. James mellowed out, but that's probably because he's smoking his own weed.
The sticky air and the roiling thunderclouds aren't making things better; they feel like it's God's way of warning us, telling us to run.
But I can't run. If I did, nobody would help Shane run, not with his bad back. I can't leave him behind.
Right?
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Day 48
We didn't want to believe the rumors, but the radioman's telling us that our boys are giving their lives bravely on the outskirts of Windsor. If even the radio's saying they're almost at Detroit, what does that mean the real thing must be?
What does that mean for us poor bastards, huddled up under our tents as God himself drops a lake on us, day in and day out?
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Day 50
It's here. The Victorians are coming.
We're given marching orders: Kill the scouts, and harass them.
The rain hasn't stopped. God must be furious with us for staying here.
Maybe He'll think better of us if we survive this mess.
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Day 51
We met the Victorians today in the pouring rain and with mud sloshing into our boots. James saw 'em first and called it in.
The Victorians moved forward, surging through the bushes and holding their guns like they knew exactly how to use it. None of them had their hands shaking like ours did, and it felt like every last one of them was ten feet tall. They stomped their way through the mud as though it didn't affect them at all.
Then someone fired a gun, their squad leader went down, and suddenly all I could see was the smoke from my own gun and the roar of automatic fire.
All four of them went down, and none of ours were hurt.
I'm filled with a strange feeling. I think our whole squad is.
Today, we saw the Victorians bleed and die. We killed them with our own two hands.
We can beat the Victorians.
God Almighty, I'm praying that this keeps up.
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On Day 52, a different author writes the entry. Staff Sargeant Billie Cyrus' fate is yet unknown.