War is Hell

                They say that war is hell and that’s the truth. The desert war, to use the Dantean model, rates a Limbo most of the time. That said, the occasionally nasty beat-up rates a stroll through one of Dis’ public parks and noontime can make you feel like Epicurus while about 3 in the morning in the middle of winter makes the desert seem more like Caïna. But, overall, I can’t think of a better place to be, given what I’ve heard of other theatres. It also seems like Jerry’s not that keen on leaving, either. The way I see it, we don’t have that many options. If Jerry wasn’t here trying to snatch anything that wasn’t secure, he’d be freezing his arse off on the Ostfront, dodging reds and zeds. If me and my mates weren’t flying around the desert trying to stop him, we’d probably be marching through Paris Radioactif, getting our genetic legacy cooked off. We rarely have to worry about gas here even if we wear the excellent new issue units, it’s just to keep the sand out. Zeds have a shelf life of about 2 days before they’re so dehydrated they can’t function. I haven’t seen one since late ’44. Jerry and us have even worked out a bit of an understanding: if a man can’t fight, he’s no longer a target. So as long as we keep doing what we have to, we’ll get to stay here where the worst thing that typically happens to you is sunburn, sunstroke and scorpions.