The Burly Unknown!

Utila

Day 15

1800 hours

Fear. Fear pervades our every thought. Conditions are deteriorating rapidly. The rain has forced a hasty retreat beyond our former entrenched position. The platoon remains pinned down on the south side of the island. Scenes of Iwo Jima flash across our battle scarred minds. Except for the death. And the artillery. And there are no Japanese whatsoever.

The once joyful and gay streets are now cratered and littered with the remains of once enjoyed candy bars. The carefree laughter of Honduran festivity replaced by a swampy no mans land populated only by the weakening moans of the injured.

Our repeated amphibious evac calls have gone unheeded. It seems high command has left us here to rot. Our offensives have been brutally repressed by the impenetrable aquatic defenses of the Honduran 63^rd National Socialist Paramilitary Ferry Company.

Casualties are swiftly mounting. Those that are not dead or dying are sinking slowly into a deadly cocktail of malaise and moderately priced rum.

The innocent youth of our younger years has been cruelly ravaged.

All that remain of the original 300 strong platoon are a wearied and malnourished half dozen. Our once proud fighting force has been decimated by the slow cruel attrition of disease and sporadic napping. The wrecked remnants are in a pitiable state.

Private Watson is nearing death. He remains motionless under the burden of his murder mystery novel, his chest rising and falling with the loathsome rhythm of his own impending mortality. The incessant screams of Lt. Tom are taking an emotional toll on all of us. His glazed eyes betray no remaining vestige of humanity. I fear that we must take extreme action to salvage the waning sanity of our unit.

I fear this may be my last communication. My laptop’s lifeblood is slowly and inexorably draining. Our only chance is a dawn offensive that is likely to prove suicidal. Dusk is falling, and with it, our hope of salvation.

Silence. Terrible silence. For now.