The 33rd armored division rolled in at around 1100 hours or so, nipping at the heels of a two day coordinated air assault. By the time we got to the villages purported to be chemical processing plants, wasn't much to find: mostly ruins, one of those new coca-cola vending machines, and an aged chihuahua that's become the new chaplain of Epsilon company.

There was one installation that held up under suppressed fire. RPG's, flak guns, C-12, not a damn thing dented the SOB; damned tricky question. We finally pulled out on orders at around 1230 hours. The place is toast, buttered and basted like a piggy with a nice, thick coatin' of charcoal dust.

Right now we're en route to a stats installation. Lightly fortified, minimum personnel...hell if we don't have the damned schematics for the thing, though. We're sending 223rd airborne division, Gamma Wing in for some prelim. straf runs and intel. Should be good and done by 1650 roundabouts.

Campaign is almost over. Bastards never knew what hit 'em. The boys and I are thinking about taking some leave, figure they've earned it. Hell, I've earned it.

If you lift up your nose to the wind, you can almost smell the sulfur. It's Hell's stomach out here, big holes an' all. Sky is red as blood from the phosphorous and smoke. Reminds me of those lines criss-crossing your eyeballs when you've got no sleep or have those DT's. Gases are kinda like veils: not knowing what's up ahead, having to rely on instinct.

The smell makes you feel accomplished, sortof resolved about things.

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