23.07.2026 21:00 CE(S)T
Malawi, August 3rd, 2017
The smell of cordite and rotting garbage has settled into our uniforms, and I can’t remember the last time my boots were dry. We’re sixty-eight days into this hell, and the jungle training we all aced means absolutely nothing here. Today, my platoon spent four hours just trying to cross a single, debris-strewn alley in Sector 1. A sniper has us pinned down behind a collapsed bakery, and every time we try to push, RPG fire rains from the upper floors. I’ve already lost three good men this week to booby-trapped doorways. There is no grand strategy down here in the dust—just concrete dust in our teeth, the endless rattle of machine guns, and the hope that we make it to the next wall alive.

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