They hit us again last night. God I hate this country. It was bad enough before but since they’ve shown up I know what life in Hell really is.
I’ve been less than wonderful in my life and now I, Lieutenant Victor Lincoln, US Army, am getting what I deserve. I can’t speak for the those men I’ve led that’ve died or those few of us that live still but I know I wasn’t anywhere near pristine of soul.
With that said, I arrived believing the original mission. I believed in it until forty-eight hours ago, too. We came here looking for WMD’s and instead we’ve found another word for that “W”, Werewolves of Mass Destruction.
It’s like a fucking nightmare. Goddamn werewolves – who knew? Besides the werewolves themselves and those that have died at their “hands” no one knew.
It was supposed to be a routine raid on an “alleged” insurgent stronghold but the raid was anything but routine or the suspect an insurgent.
When Sergeant Willison kicked in that door we had no idea that we were the lambs being led to the slaughter. It was like they were waiting for us. They stood there for the longest time, looking at us and we just stood there looking back. They were also smiling. I swear to God they were.
Sgt. Willison, and PFC Cicily were the first two to die. They never had a chance, never fired a shot. Those poodle bastards and their rat haired bitches ripped them apart before the first grenade was even thrown into the room. And that grenade killed only one of them. It was one of fifteen, crammed into that shit smelling, wood floored mud house.
“Fall back,” I ordered. I ordered Sgt. Simmons, Specialist Greesley and Privates Danner, Iona, and Hunt to lay covering fire for us. I sent five men to their maker with that order. They did their job to the last but the mongrels from hell kept coming.
It was a pointless order to give. Our perimeter security was dead; the men that were covering the rear of the house had been obliterated. There were thirty-eight of us at 11:15PM local time and ten minutes later there were only eleven.
We took refuge in a local butcher shop of all places and we’ve gotten our hits in. From what I can see we’ve killed six and the others are holding back. They test our resolve from time to time but they maintain their position.
I wish we could call for help. I’ve tried but there’s been no response from FOB Ironjaw since we were hit. Specialist Fleete told me that the last transmission from Ironjaw mentioned large dogs were attacking a patrol. We were ordered to assist but that wasn’t happening. Dealing with our own pack problem has left us preoccupied. Half an hour later he reported that Ironjaw had reported their own people were attacking them. Fleete says it sounds like a bad case of friendly fire. He sounds hopeful but we both have a sinking feeling that the truth is worse than that.
Up until an hour ago our vehicles sat untouched. Now they’re flaming wrecks. They were meant to entice us to make a run for them and again I gave a stupid order. I sent three more men out to die on another failed maneuver. I guess the poodles figure we’re not going to be that desperate. Sooner or later we will be though. Food, water ammunition and moral are finite resources. Morale is good as long as the ammo holds out. Like someone once said, “High spirits is a poor substitute for six hundred rounds a minute.”
Fleete just informed me that he picked up a garbled transmission from what he believes to be some inbound Apaches. Dear God, let them be on our side.
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