Journal #3

November 5th, 2989

It's been a week since I've had time to write a journal, and its making me insane. This is the only thing that lets me get my thoughts down and maintains my sanity.

We succeeded at our mission, thank God, managed to take out the weapons lab that was supplying this region with biologically degenerative payloads. Unfortunately our intel was wrong. We were informed by our spies that the payloads were safely sealed and posed no threat, but as soon as we destroyed the facility there was a pressure wave carrying hell-knows-what. We lost five men to it, and six tanks are too contaminated to even go near.

We spent the following days slowly heading back toward our main base for this region, positioned far up north. We're still on our way there now. We get to stop at night to make repairs to the tanks and sleep, but it's pretty restless. Everyone is hungry as we didn't bring enough provisions for an extended operation, and there's still no contact on the radio.

The entire platoon is paranoid now; we've been ambushed twice, and can't take much more. At this rate they're going to find us in the night and carpet bomb us. Our CO says there's no threat of that since we're so far north that a carpet bombing would create havoc on the coastal Brenodi cities. Since when do the Imperials give a shit about their igloo-dwelling population?

Why did I sign up for this shit? Oh, wait, I didn't. When I get back home, I'm putting a bullet into my draft officers' head.

Private Jacob Allen,
Jekotian 83rd Airborne Armoured Division