The Keystone Division after WW3
Phoenix Camp after the attack


Here’s the approx run-down on Wiz’s load. Note that bulk is greater than weight:

Wiz's scoped SKS - 30 rnd mag plus 26 spare rnds (5)
Wiz’s Beretta - 15 r mag, spare 15 r mag plus 29 spare rnds (1.5)
Wu's stainless steel 12 gauge - 8 rnds in internal mag, plus 5 on a nylon shell holder on stock (4)
Garand M1 rifle, 8 rnd en-bloc clip, plus 6 more 8 rnd clips in bandolier. (5.8)
survival knife(.5)
straight razor (.2)
KABAR fighting tanto, (.5)
.22 snub revolver (9shot), box of 25 add'l .22 LR rnds (1.2)
9mm Glock 17 (17 rnd mag, 2- add'l 17 rnd mags, and a pouch with 33 rnds 9mm(2.3)
Taurus .357 magnum revolver, (6 rnds in cylinder), 3 speedloaders 21 add'l rounds of .357, (2.1)

2- satchel charge (20)
4- M26 grenades, (4)
4- other grenades (Spanish) labelled "INCEND", (4)
2- "other" grenades -- homemade jobs, by the look. (3)


Just for clarity, the radio area is only 5 meters from Wiz and Raven's sleeping areas. Reminder: there's just a blanket dividing that area from the rest of the room, and another dividing Raven's area from Wiz's.

That stuff puts Wiz's load up around 53 kg with everything listed here. He also has a Kevlar vest, helmet, and the laptop which I didn't bother to add up.

Raven and Robbo just switched the M2HB from the 1st HUMVEE onto the M1064. Ammo belts were switched, giving a full 105 rnder on the weapon, with an 80 rnder in reserve. Robbo is on the gun, with Raven at the helm. 2 rifle-armed militia are in the back of the mortar carrier.

The guy Robbo checked over could be mistaken for just being asleep. Only two small holes in him, but oddly not much blood. Pump action shotgun, 8 rounds. 25 rounds in a hunter's-type pouch at his side. Hunting knife and sheath. Half a pack of crushed Marlboros and a home made lighter. Cheap plastic flashlight (works, tho). Half a Hershey bar, a little bloody.

Upon moving him, Robbo realized the man landed on a satchel that was on his left side. He had lain on it, and it contained something, or several somethings, but it was soaked with blood.

Grabbed the Shotgun and ammo, and had a quick look in the other pouch. He took whatever contents, blood and all...


08 MAY 2003 / 2217 hours
Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
RB Winter State Park

The ex-State Trooper and militiaman Hackenburg crawled up the stairs, hoping to foil the attempts of any other raiders from storming the Aid Station. Both men peered over the lip of the stairs which were cut into the bank north of the Aid Station. What they saw was as close to a vision of Hell as either wanted to see.

A huge fire had broken out all too near to the NE corner of the Aid Station. The acrid smoke assailed their nostrils -- WP, probably a grenade. Apparently, several men were caught in the foul conflagration, and screamed and writhed in pain. Sherman and Hackenburg surveyed the scene, and eyed each other, communicating much while saying very little. "Raiders..." If people were out there, chances were they were raiders. All of the 3/103 people were either dead, wounded, or hunkered down under cover, like Hackenburg and Sherman were.

And yet the gunfire continued further north of the ghastly scene. Was Sherman getting some of his hearing back?... It may have been, yet his eyes were still working, and they detected muzzle flashes, seperated by a few scant meters. Hell, if he opened up with his M16, he could get them all. But at this range, it might be hard to tell friendly militiaman from malign raider. Both men lowered their rifles for the moment, and continued watching.

Sherman wrinkled his nose. A familiar smell was in the air one that he had not smelt since his days in Philly. In order to control the outbreak of disease the dead were piled in huge pyres and if enough gasoline could be found they were set alight. The bodies consumed in a raging inferno, then just buried in a big hole. That same smell....


As the raider and Sean rounded the corner, both increased their momentum at the realization that neither were alone. Sean steadied himself, and gritted his teeth through the pain emanating from his broken ankle. Chances were he'd be hurting from additional parts of his anatomy very soon. Sean closed on the man, and thrust the heel of the stock forward in a perfect line with the man's jaw, hoping to buttstroke him a good shot.

The man was quite quick, and popped his head and torso backward out of the way of Sean's rifle as he mashed the trigger on his SMG. The range was less than a meter, and he scattered his burst into the south side of the Aid Station.

Although his aim was great and his momentum was forceful, it all went to hell when the guy expertly ducked Sean's swing. The guy was fast as shit, and Sean spun around, doing a 360 on his bad ankle, as he went down. "Damn this rifle for close-in work..." He had but one one-hundreth of a second to ignore the gut-wrenching pain, maintain the momentum of his spin, and do something to save his life.

The move wasn't pretty. It was far from elegant in a Baryishnikov sort of way. Unless Baryishnikov could summon the spirit of a Rus Viking berserker from somewhere within...

Sean bellowed a mighty scream, and kept his spin going, even as he felt his ankle snapping and cracking. As he fell to his knees clumsily, he thrust the rifle out once again, trying to bring the muzzle of the weapon to where it could do some good. Perhaps he didn't have a bayonet, but why should that stop him from stabbing the man...

Another, longer burst from the SMG, and this time a bullet found it's home in his right leg. The pain shot through Sean's entire leg as though it were electricfied. He yelled and moved almost in slow motion. "FAAHHKK!!!", quite loudly, staggered to his knees, and jammed the rifle outward toward the man, impacting him in the shins. Then Sean tipped the muzzle up, jammed it into guts, and pulled the trigger. "YOOOUUUU!!!". The bullet ripped up the man's abdomen, and blew the top of his head off. Things better left undescribed covered Sean and the south wall of the Aid Station. And Sean was alone, barely able to move, bleeding to death in back of the Aid Station, having been shot all too many times this month, let alone this lifetime...

Sean administered first aid to himself as much as possible... then he tried to cover his side of the aid station with his rifle, all the while cursing the fact that he wasn't mobile…

While keeping an eye on the new threat of the vehicle to the East, and keeping his .30-06 pointed that general direction, Sean worked the Gerber Multitool out of his pocket, and cut a large hunk of cloth from the man's clothes. He had been dressed in civilian clothes, but had a heavy poncho-type outer garment that Sean had seen on some of the other raiders. It looked like it had been pieced together from scraps of other clothes, all sewn together. The ultimate in recycling. Well, Sean would recycle it once further, by using it as a bandage... Cursing COL Stryfe and his two-pence flunkies, Sean wondered, "Where the Hell are me farkin' crutches..."


John could see that Hackenburg was alerted. Something behind the Aid Station. Very close. Sherman heard (thank God) the shooting too, just barely. A couple of bursts, and then a louder single shot. Sherman knew Sean was around the side or back of the building, and that he had that boltgun Berger had brought him from Scranton.

someone tapping, gently rapping, rapping on the Aid Station Wall...

08 MAY 2003 / 2218 hours
Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
RB Winter State Park

He had to do something, Cunningham might need some help. As no one was shooting at the entrance to the aid post at the moment. Sherman spoke to Hackenburg not quite needing to shout anymore. "I'll go around the side and see what is happening. You cover me." He gave the man a thumbs up "Don't worry everything will be okay." he added to re assure the militia man. With that Sherman got up peered around the sandbags making sure it was clear and quickly dashed off around the corner, keeping close to the aid post. Looking for Cunningham.

The M113 was 150 meters East of Aid Station. It was still dark and drizzling, but tapering off.

You both look at the vehicle. Sean is hurting somewhat (6 on a scale of 1-10), and can't make out much more than the outline of the vehicle. Does apparently have something up top at the gunner's position. Sherman thought he saw something as far as insignia, but at this range and in these conditions, it would be wishful thinking.

“Is it one of ours?...”

"No it's not. Ours is out of action.... someone put sand in the gas tank." He added as way of explanation. Sherman helped Cunningham up. "Put your arm around me." Looking over in the direction of the APC, he had hoped to see a red flag flying from the aerial with "KISS MY ASS" emblazoned on it, Pete Slade's unofficial company motto. No such flag was seen.

It was barrelling right for the two guys, though...

"Sherman... go clear out the aid station... quick!" Sean started hopping or hobbling on an angle towards and to the opposite side of the track than the aid station (i.e. tank coming straight at me I am moving in a 45 degree angle to it's right.) He was grunting and cursing against the pain. "Maybe if I can snipe the gunner or something I can distract them and give Sherman time to evac the aid station."

If I read you correctly that would be NORTHEAST. Tremendous Willpower aside, your brain tells you it will take you several seconds even to reach the SE corner of the building. But you proceed…

Sean couldn’t remember where the hell Raven was but in the dark, booze-soaked recesses of his brain he thought the MAJ was off somewhere with the track... “…try to get close enough to be able to see the insignia, to see if friend or foe... If foe, and someone has their head sticking up... I'll ventilate it... maybe the crew will switch directions away from the Aid Station... I can't move fast enough… ultimately to get away from the track... hope on a little Irish luck, and maybe a ditch or big tree to get behind…. Aw, who am I kidding – this is a beach… there’s no better cover other than the building, and I can’t do what I want to from here…”

“No, you c’mon. You can make it. Let’s go!”

The big Irishman remained on course.

In disbelief, “Sean, LET’S GO!!!”

Ignoring Sherman's insistence to go with him Sean hobbled toward the tank. Over his shoulder he shouted, "Go man, don't hem and haw... those wounded need to be moved... go get 'em out of harm’s way. Especially Yates and Hannah, we'll need their medical expertise to get through this." Sean continued forward with a growling "F**K" with every step. Mentally calculating his speed of movement, vs. the speed of the track, Sean looked for a place he could get into trees or something to offer a slim chance of escape after firing. Sean took a deep breath and slowly released it. Sean looked for a head sticking out of the track. “Come on you bastards, give me something to shoot at.”

Sherman tried to help Sean back inside the Aid Station.

Not stopping his forward motion, for fear he could not start it again, Sean said, "Damn it man... one life does not out weigh many. What do you think will happen to those people in the Aid Station if this thing rolls through there? I can't get there quick enough to do any good, but I may be able to slow this hunk of tin down enough to allow you to. Now go will ya! Besides… haven't you ever heard of the luck of the Irish?"

In desperation, or more accurately, frustration, Sherman grabbed, Sean and then tried to manhandle him in an attempt to carry him back to the Aid Station.

[OOC] What we have here is a failure to communicate :)

And they calls ME Pig headed! HA! Sean decided to end this conversation by opening fire.


"ME, Stubborn!"

[ooc from Chuck]

OK... so I just got done reading BB from the beginning (can you tell I am not "working" at work! HA!) Two comments... first, what a truly good story we have going there.. I think you should work it up to send it to try and get it published.

[ooc – Eric Thanks you and will note your unabashed praise by effectively doubling all of your attributes and skill levels effective immediately, plus I am giving you a full auto version of the 20mm Storm gun from Dark Conspiracy with an electric feed device a la Jessie Ventura’s Chain Gun from the Predator movie…

Ok, how about just my thanks to everyone for playing and putting up with frequent delays in the game]

The second thing as OOC [from Chuck, GM included here for other player’s benefit]

*I* am thinking that track Sean is facing has Robbo in the cupola. That being said, he would still shoot Robbo if he didn't realize it was him... in his exhausted, hurting, stressed out, frustrated, and just damn pissed-off state... I think it is very likely he would open up.

After reading all this I also think our spy (or a least one of them) may be Petey the Mechanic guy. A little coincidental, with the wanted poster, the engine being dismantled just prior to the attack, all very suspicious. Once things are settled down, if things are settled down, Sean is going to investigate Petey Slade as originally planned.

[GM—interesting, but you have little proof of any wrongdoing on his part, just conjecture, and coincidence]

08 MAY 2003 / 2219 hours
Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
RB Winter State Park

[GM] See attached map. After the action described below, I have Sherman is at the Red A, Sean at the red B. M113 about 90 meters EAST I'm just going to keep going with stuff. Both characters are very stubborn in their own lovable ways, and have stated what they intend to do. In the interest of keeping this moving and resolving everything ASAP, I'm going to keep plugging away between you 2 until someone wins or you both are cut to ribbons by the M113 gunner. If either of you decide to bag it, just say so, and we'll fix it later.

The M113 has approached some more, but at this scale it's still not on the map. Currently it is at 90 meters range. Nothing new detected as far as markings, flags with insults lettered on them, etc.

Sherman was forced to manhandle Sean. Fool of a cripple, he'd get himself killed and for what?...

Sean might've had a few holes in his fenders, and a few dings on his body, but he was big, stubborn, ornery, and still heading toward the SE corner of the Aid Station, by damn. He shrugged off Sherman's attempt to manhandle and control him with very little effort. Fool of a cop...

Again, Sherman tried to grab the man who was his tentmate as well as his erstwhile friendly adversary. There was a lot of blood on the Irishman, and Sherman's grip was not firm, although he did slow Sean down. The M113? Still approaching...

While Sherman didn't have control of Sean per se, he had managed to slow him down somewhat. And still the @#$% M113 kept coming...

08 MAY 2003 / 2219 hours
Area in and Surrounding Aid Station
Camp Phoenix / RB Winter State Park
Light drizzle, clouds alternating with clear night.

John Sherman and Sean Cunningham had been at odds before, at least on the verbal front. In that arena, they could hold their own with each other.

Cunningham's caustic verbal assaults were common knowledge to anyone who had heard his booze- and dope-influenced broadcasts of a few weeks ago. Sherman, on the other hand, was fairly rational in his speech, even to the point of being logical, in a somewhat android-like manner.

Physically, both men were also an interesting comparison. Sherman was quite tall, and well-muscled. Before TSHTF he had spent quite a lot of time concerned with fitness -- running, lifting weights, eating right. The training that the State Police and National Guards had given him had molded him into a solid enforcer of the law, as well as a good soldier. Sherman's recent encounter with residual Thorium in the Philly area had left him somewhat weak, but he was still a force with which to be reckoned.

Sean, on the other hand, was bigger yet, heavier, if a bit slower. His dietary regimen ran the gamut between Guinness Stout, pizza, hot wings, and far too many plates of refried beans during his stint in Mexico. He had undoubtedly studied the arts of skull crushing and knee busting on the streets of Londonderry, and the backstreets of Cuidad Juarez. Certainly the recent stay in the Freeland "Hilton" Prison and the several bullet wounds he had accumulated had done little for his physical prowess.

Personality-wise both men were not flat, two-dimensional sketches on paper, either. Sherman was a by-the-book cop, through and through. He was rigid and unbending. Things were black or white. Period. Except that now ATSHTF, nothing was really black and white. Sherman was a law man, but was also wanted by the law. He still dreamt of his wife and daughter, killed in a car accident what seemed so long ago now, but then there was Hannah, who through no fault of Sherman's, carried his child. This, and the looming thoughts of the effects of the radiation that both Sherman and Hannah (and thus, their child) were exposed to were now on his mind at least on an hourly basis.

Sean had recently undergone some life changes. He had been the sloppy, seat-of-his-pants reporter, somehow right on the scene when the story broke, and just a step ahead of the gun-toting baddies who were making the news. The additional hole in his leg, and the experiences in the "Freeland Hilton" had made him a changed man, or at least he had confided to Berger. Well, that was just a few short days ago. Only time would tell.

The two men were perhaps the most even match in Camp. While saying that they were not exactly cut from the same cloth would be a huge understatement, they had been cooperating fairly well, and in fact, they complimented each other rather well. This was an interesting point, now that both men, fellow soldiers charged with the defense of Camp Phoenix, were rolling around, pummeling, arm locking, kicking, kneeing, and applying Vulcan death grips to each other amidst an attack by an unknown hostile force.

Sean was convinced the approaching track was hostile. Sherman wasn't sure it wasn't either, but wanted to err on the side of caution. So the two grown men, mature, and generally ration human beings, continued scrapping around on the ground like overgrown schoolboys. All in all it was a clean fight. They didn't want to hurt each other, just get their own stubborn way. And all the while the AFV approached...

Sean wasn't screwing around anymore. He had taken a nasty wound just seconds earlier, and wasn't going to take another soon if he could help it. He tried aiming for the M113-style AFV main weapon, while Sherman variously tried to control the weapon, and reason with him. Note well -- a multiply-wounded Irishman is not a very reasonable animal. Sean got the shot off as the AFV was perhaps 75 meters out, and both men heard the SPANG! of bullet on hull armor. At least Sherman was more certain that his hearing was returning following the close encounter with a concussion grenade. Not the closeness of the .30-06 to Sherman's ear was a treat when it went off.

Sherman tried the "dead leg" on Sean, hoping to drop him for good, or at least control him. This proved to be the thing that put a series of other more deadly events into play.

Sherman had done the technique maybe a hundred times before, if not 1000. It was simple, yet effective – an attack against the peroneal nerve. The problem was, when Sean buckled from his kneeling position, he landed badly on his twice-damaged right leg, the one with the shattered ankle and the recent bullethole in the thigh. The yowling that resulted was neither human nor beast -- it was demonic. Out of sheer reaction and no malice whatsoever, Sean swatted Sherman, and connected with a single blow as memorable as anything Muhammad Ali ever dealt to any would-be title snatchers. Sean's paw caught Sherman square in the throat, and catapulted him a meter and a half through the air, slamming him against the log wall of the Aid Station. Sherman was down.

Working quickly, Sean fondled the action of his .30-06. It was some sort of Model 70 clone, and was well worn. The bolt stroked as smooth as oiled glass, and he rapidly emptied the weapon at the AFV...



08 MAY 2003 / 2214:00 hours
M1064 (w/ M2HB)
WEST of Parking Area #3
Camp Phoenix
Light rain tapering off

Robbo had grabbed up the Shotgun and ammo, and had a quick look in the other pouch. The pouch, having absorbed most of the militiaman's blood, was sopping wet, warm, and sticky. Despite the potential gross-out of the mess, Robbo was in a hurry, and knew what he needed to do. He was hoping for some grenades, and, found 2 of Wiz's cobbled-up frags, along with one of the Camp's own bandage kits, wrapped in an old Wal-Mart bag. Not the most sterile thing, but at least it was intact and dry...

Robbo managed a small smile, Frags might be just what the doctor ordered shortly. Hopefully the Bandage wouldn't be needed, but that was likely to be asking too much of the guardian angel that seemed to be looking over him.

The recon ... Raven knew time was of the essence here, so Raven would take a quick look from the vehicle. He knew that the proper procedure would be to get out and check the area on foot, but Raven was starting to go out of his tree with worry at this point in time. There just wasn't time. And there never was...

As a famous general once said, "Get there fastest with the mostest!" Raven gunned the engine on their boxy armored steed, maneuvered through some trees, knocking a few of the smaller ones flat, and pulled into a position at the edge of the forest, in order to view down the length of the beach toward the Aid Station. Damn bumpy ride, and noisy for any guests in the area as well...

Both men peered through NVG at the Aid Station, while the 2 militia kept a watch on a more local level. A bright, smoky fire was visible at the NE corner of the Aid Station, and the burning area extended into the woods NORTH of the Aid Station, as well as EAST of the Aid Station, along the trail through was Robbo described as the playground and picnic area NORTH of the beach. Damn, the Aid Station is on fire!

Robbo was quick to also point out a firefight a few meters beyond (less than 15-20) that blaze, roughly 3-4 infantry shooting it out from the looks of it.

"Crap, that looks bad. Hopefully we can get there in time to save someone, but I'm worried about friendly fire. Especially with the Ma Deuce"

Raven took this all in, and scanned around the Aid Station, only to see another altercation -- muzzle flash from an automatic weapon, and real close to the Aid Station. Practically against it, in fact.

08 MAY 2003 / 2218 hours
Beach / Woods
160 m EAST of Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
RB Winter State Park

Raven stared in horror as he took in the scene before him. The Aid Station wasn't just under attack, it was on fire. Firefights were going on all through the Camp. It was even worse than he had feared. His command was teetering on the brink of disaster, and his actions in the next few minutes would determine whether or not any of his people would still be alive when the sun came up tomorrow. But where to start?

The Aid Station, he decided. The enemy had to be close by, and any wounded in there would be little more than sitting ducks. Pvt. Thomas was in there, that brave kid who had trusted him, and who had done so well at Freeland, and had almost died in his first engagement. And there plenty of others there that were in the same boat.

He turned to Robinson, "Corporal, we're headed for the Aid Station, it looks like they're in trouble. Man the .50, and take out any targets of opportunity. And caution the militia to be damned careful of who they're shooting at, in all this chaos we're just begging for a friendly fire incident." He didn't bother to add that it went both ways, he was painfully aware that the M113 was sporting Stryfe's symbol big as life on it's boxy side.

Robbo checked over the big .50 once more, still trying to remember the firing drills and worried about who would be firing at the mortar carrier when they arrived. The last thing he wanted to do was to brass up his militia compatriots. But he turned back to the big round Hatch and yelled over the noise of the Engine

"Watch who you're shooting at you guys, we don't need to kill our mates."

Raven crawled back inside the driver's compartment, and as soon as Robinson and the others were ready, he gunned the track forward, aiming for the Aid Station. Silently, he prayed to any of the old spirits that might be in this place, to aid them in their hour of need.

Hanging onto the spade grips grimly, Robbo traversed the MG left and right, waiting for the firefight to start. He keeps the Browning pointed where his eyes go as best he can, and his nerves are on edge.

08 MAY 2003 / 2218 hours
M1064 (w/ M2HB)
Beach/woods area
150 meters East of Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
Light rain tapering off

At this point, some more detail becomes evident. Refer to the attached pic. All persons listed are easily picked up with NVG. Life, or absence of life has to be inferred or tested! Additionally, there are a few specks of light in the woods 100 meters +/- NORTH of the Aid Station that are difficult, if not impossible to localize from your current position...

A&B are crouching near each other, moving slightly. C is facing toward you, small weapon in hands glowing brightly. D&E are very bright, and represent the fire at the NE part of the building, NOT necessarily people. The fire actually extends from there, due NORTH up to the trail, and then EAST to F. Best guess would be a WP grenade or 2 did this... G is a single person heavily weighted down, trotting toward the skirmish line (or beyond), rapid firing a semi auto.

H-L is a skirmish line of sorts. There are particles of WP burning in the midst of these men, some of them are firing to the NORTH. Due to the distances/times involved G will reach the skirmish line and/or beyond, by next turn if allowed to do so. He's practically on top of them as it is. Note well, the attached picture is mis-labeled; Pavillion #2 is a mere 90 meters to the NORTH, not 300 meters as is listed. Parking Area #2 (civilian vehicles)is about 160 meters WEST of the Aid Station. The CP / Nature Center would be about 180 meters NE of the Aid Station. I can't say where the 300 meter figure came from...

The skirmish line appears to be firing NORTH, away from the Aid Station....

08 MAY 2003 / 2218 hours
M1064 (w/ M2HB)
Beach/woods area
150 meters East of Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
Light rain tapering off

Raven surveyed the chaotic scene in front of him. From this distance, it was impossible to tell friendly from enemy. That meant they had to get closer, a lot closer. They were almost guaranteeing a friendly fire incident now, but they couldn't just sit on the sidelines. He looked closer at the skirmish line. They were concentrating their fire to the north, away from the Aid station. Raven reasoned if they were the enemy, they would be aiming in the other direction. That meant they should be friendly. Or so he hoped anyway.

He called back to Robinson, "Corporal, I think that skirmish line is our guys trying to defend the Aid Station. We'll come up behind them, give them some supporting fire, and try to find someone who can tell us what the hell is going on. Just be damned careful who you shoot at." He shoved the steering levers forward, and set the beast in motion.

"That 's as good a guess as any Sir. And with this beast bucking around, I'll be lucky to hit anyone I aim at." Robbo sets himself in the hatch once more, and keeps scanning the area for hostiles with AT weapons, taking care not to aim at the Aid post. His doubts about the coming action chewed away at him silently, but he put on a brave face, and kept going with his job, the only way he knew how. After all, the Militia were undoubtedly more scared than he was, and even more worried about friendly fire, incoming or outgoing.

[GM and Ed work out particulars]
How fast are you traveling there -- it's about 150 m from your current position.

Say about 25-30 MPH, fast enough to get there, but slow enough to not panic the defenders.

How close behind the skirmish line do you want to end up, and how close to the Aid Station as well.

Basically splitting the difference between the Aid Station and the trail immediately to the East, roughly 6m east of the Aid Station and 6m South of the Skirmish line.

08 MAY 2003 / 2219 hours
Aid Station
Camp Phoenix
RB Winter State Park

There is a great deal of shooting and a few small explosions along the skirmish line NORTH of the Aid Station.

The M1064 is hesitant, as well as those operating it. Perhaps the impure fuel available in 2003 or a host of other variables including shitty maint, the odd bullethole you haven't found, so the acceleration isn't what it would be at FT Knox Armor School or anything...

You are currently 90 meters EAST of the Aid Station.

Two figures south of the Aid Station, A and B, have moved to the new locations I marked on the map. They appear to be in melee with each other.

The figures in the skirmish line are all lying still in the places marked.

11 MAY 2003 / 0230 hours
Phoenix Camp,
R.B. Winter State Park

It would be a gross understatement to say that the attack on Phoenix Camp at R. B. Winter State Park was a confused action. Many defenders literally fired on anything that moved, and in the process, they wounded their comrades of the 3/103rd Armored or the accompanying militia unit, expending ammunition or grenades wastefully when they could be put to better use elsewhere. Wounded men, women, children, and animals screamed in pain, and with so little help available, they either endured their trauma for long moments, or expired.

The loss in precious equipment and structures was even more critical in light of the desperate situation of Spring 2003. Simply put, there was not much equipment in functioning condition, and now much of that was destroyed or nearly expended. Trucks and wagons lay burning here and there across the compound, and there was scarcely a structure in the Camp that was without pockmarks from bullet holes. The explosions, which had been the signature start-up for the recent attacks, had left people and materials severely damaged. It mattered not whether the explosions were from rocket, mortar rounds, or pre-planted bombs -- they spread confusion, and damaged the already shaky morale of the defenders. What equipment and supplies the defenders had on hand at the beginning of the attack, particularly ammunition and medical goods, had be used hard, if not expended outright, and was now considerably less effective for the many needs that were present in the Camp.

However, every combat involves at least two participants, and the effect of this heated engagement on the forces which raided the Camp was also tremendous. Bodies, both dead and near dead, were literally scattered about like cornstalks in a field in late autumn. Some were piled atop of each other. Others were contorted in angles that certainly had something to do with their injury or death, yet with others it was unclear whether the odd positions of bodies was the cause of death or the result of death. This was all lost to time. Some were so smashed or ripped apart that an accurate accounting of their numbers would be impossible. Here and there, a lifeless shell of a body would be propped upright against a tree or building, apparently having been missed by the Reaper in his Death Harvest.

Here and there, people began pulling themselves out of bunkers, shell holes, or other hiding places. Many of the Camp's defenses were less than 24 hours old. Most of them were hastily done, or poorly done. Most of the defenders who did the work, after all, were militia - citizen soldiers of varying levels of experience. Many had seen some action, recent events being what they were, but as far as training and discipline, they were, as a group, sorely lacking. The sprinkling of seasoned veterans was no greater than 10% of the complement of the garrison. No matter how skilled or experienced these veterans were, there simply weren't enough of them to go help everyone or to be everywhere. This was further complicated by the fact that several of these key people in the unit were "wearing more than one hat" - the CO was trying to be everywhere at once with a rapid reaction team, the XO was in charge of special projects, the gunsmith was also running communications, the supply SGT was directing the heavy weapons section, and so on, ad infinitum.

The rain, cold and depressing, had again picked up in it's teasing on/off exacerbation of misery. Steam rose from smoldering wreck of vehicles and buildings, as well as from the rapid drop in temperature coupled with the increased volume of rain. The defenders were at once hot and cold, keyed-up and bone-tired, angered and elated that the camp had seemingly held.

Indeed, it had held against this latest attack.

The sounds of battle had slowly been replaced with the sounds of recovery. Despite all that the inhabitants of this place had been through, something inside them willed them into pulling together and getting on with what needed to be done. The Camp had again passed the test of morale. On a practical level, the defenders had to stay, they had to stand and fight, for surely where else could they go.

Fires needed to be put out despite the rain. A truck, and the two wagons that transported the hydrogen generators for the hot air balloon burned brightly in Parking Area #3, apparently the last ditch efforts of some raiders as they left the camp. Wiz's shop nearby, while the victim of a few stray bursts from Robbo's recent firefight, seemed mostly intact.

The Aid Station, perhaps the focal point of the evening's fighting, was scarred, but intact, and was currently overflowing with trauma cases -- gunshot wounds, fragmentation and other puncture wounds, burns of varying severity, breaks, sprains, and bruises of every flavor, and oddly, a few cases of what appeared to be blisters from gas poisoning.

A few of these gas trauma cases were people that nobody in Camp could ID, at least for the moment. A group of five individuals were isolated from the rest of the patients, and were stripped of the clothing to prevent further contamination, as well as their scant equipment, and weapons. The weapons included an M16, a hunting rifle, a shotgun, and a couple of .38 revolvers. The equipment and clothing would suggest refugees, rather than COL. Stryfe's hand-picked squad of assassins. Still, the people who could not be ID'd were kept under guard. Two individuals seemed to stand out among the group. Both were Hispanics, and they spoke a few hushed words in Spanish, but it was difficult for anyone to catch the gist of what was being said. Despite being only a few meters away in the Aid Station, Sean Cunningham, someone who had lived and worked with Federacion del Sud troops, could not be certain what the two were saying. A guard ordered them to speak English or don't speak at all.

The first was Hector, age 40, silvery grey hair ¾ the way down his back. Well built - this guy obviously is no stranger to a weight machine. He seemed to be the leader, and was the one armed with the M16 when they were picked up by the pickets at the edge of Camp. The second was Lupe, age 20, petite, but a real spitfire. Full of attitude and seemed always ready with a mouthy comment or two.

There were several prisoners taken, as well as several 3/103 soldiers, militia members, and civilians that were MIA. A more accurate count could be done in the light of morning.

The CP was a shambles -- no fewer than three bodies and several liberal handfuls of shell casings were scattered across the room. The two door guards were dead at the doorways, both from a close range gunshot wound to the head. CPL Wu's cane was propped in the corner by the radio / communications area. Wu had trouble walking without the cane. He had part of a frangible 9mm slug still in his knee, and he never went anywhere without the fancy Oriental-styled walking stick. Wu was MIA for the moment.

Scrolly was running around shirtless, his running shorts and sneakers squishing with blood and mud and rain. The man had been rounding up prisoners, and had been badly cut when one resisted. Scrolly refused medical treatment, and sprinted off into the darkness to corral a few more 'infidel sunsabitches"

It was a heartrending experience when a few militia happened on the body of Miriam Stolzfus. The elderly Amish woman who managed and ran the kitchen for the Camp had been brutally killed, and her body had been cruelly mistreated in ways best left undescribed.

Sean's last effort before passing out for a few minutes was an unexplained shot fired at Petey Slade! The round impacted Petey in the right shoulder, spun him around, and deposited him in a pool of water that had formed in the sand of the beach just south of the Aid Station. Petey was severely wounded, but would probably survive. Both men were taken into custody, Sean being more cooperative since he was unconscious. This would have to be sorted out later.

When he came to, Sean was in pain, but controlled himself adequately, and played the part of a good patient. He started to explain why he shot at Petey, but then thought better of this, and held his comments to himself for the moment. In addition to the gunshot wound to the leg that he had suffered before coming to the Camp, and the bullet wound/break in his ankle from the Freeland escapade, he had suffered yet another close range gunshot wound from a raider, in addition to the bout of fisticuffs with Sherman. Tina Yates had checked him over, and when a few of the hastily-drafted orderlies could get him prepped, she would perform surgery if it was needed.

Sherman was not in great shape either. He had basically eaten two concussion grenades at close range, and was still around to tell, and hear about it. Those inside the Aid Station would've voted him President, had he not already had an obligation to Uncle Sam, and were quick to retell the story of his valor in increasingly embellished versions. Despite the buoyant atmosphere that had overtaken the Aid Station, Sherman's head continued to pound, his balance and vision were impaired, his hearing had been damaged, but thankfully not lost.

His immediate concern had not been for himself, but for Hannah, Yates, and the others in the Aid Station. It had been evident that he prepared to die, in order to prevent or slow down any persons who would bring harm to those in the Aid Station. The two militiamen who had started out with Sherman and Sean Cunningham had given their lives, and both Sherman and Cunningham nearly had done likewise. For the moment they were both stable.

MAJ Raven and Robbo apparently were part of an unplanned but fortuitous hammer-and-anvil counterattack against the raiders. They had entered Camp with a liberated M1064 mortar carrier, and despite not firing the few rounds of ammunition that came with the tracked vehicle, they applied enough force at the right place at the right time to trap and destroy a sizable group of attackers literally on the doorstep of the Aid Station. With enough of those attackers downed, the rest were put to flight, and caught in the final three blasts of nails, washers, scrap metal, and finally rocks from Berger's reproduction M1848 12 pounder, and two other militia armed with a BAR and an M3 greasegun.

Raven and Robbo's arrival in the vicinity of the Aid Station was not expected or announced, however, and the unidentified vehicle easily took as many rounds from friendly troopers as from hostile forces. While Raven continued to push toward the Aid Station, Robbo was certain he saw Petey Slade, firing away at the darkness, and then mistakenly turn his shotgun against the M1064. Robbo felt as if he had been slapped hard in the side of the face, but thought little of it. He was a professional, and there was still work to be done.

The vehicle also took several rounds from a group of unidentified shooters south of the Aid Station. Robbo kept working the .50 for as long as he deemed prudent, finally "buttoning up", and taking cover, such as it was, behind the thin metal walls of the tracked beast. His confidence in the armor of the M1064 waned slightly when two rounds penetrated the left side of the hull, from the south. One pinged around noisily without harming persons or ordinance, but a second lodged in the leg of one of the militiamen who were riding with Raven and Robbo. Raven called back to check with the others, but kept at the helm, keeping the vehicle moving to a position of cover, roughly midway between the Aid Station and Berger's gun pit.

After Robbo hastily applied first aid, the man told Robbo he was bleeding, too, and put a pressure bandage on the side of his face, in the jaw and cheek area. Robbo could kick himself. It in fact did hurt, and here he was so keyed up he didn't realize. The whole left side of his jacket was soaked with blood, and Robbo hadn't killed anyone up close and personal this night, so it must have been his own blood. "Careless, damned careless", he chided himself.

In between checking on the militiaman and himself, Robbo thinks out aloud

"Next time I'm doing this on foot, I hate being on a big tin can with shoot me written all over it."

Shaking his head to clear it as best he can, he moves forward to the back of the Drivers position. Shouting over the roar of the Engine, passes information to the Major.

"Boss, we've managed to take a couple of rounds through the side of this bucket, and one of the guys in the back has been hit. He's not too bad though."

Major Raven shouted back to Robinson, "We'll be at the Aid Station in a couple of minutes. Tell him to hold on."

Once the carrier bumped to a halt near the first aid station, Robbo helped the wounded Militiaman into the charnel house that is the makeshift hospital. Once the wounded man is in the triage area, Robbo headed back out, following Major Raven and awaiting the next move from his new OC. The driving rain was but a minor inconvenience, and even had the bonus of cleaning some of the blood from his face and jacket.

Raven pulled up next to the Camp's makeshift Hospital, and locked the APC's treads. He left the engine running, just in case. Just because things were quiet now didn't mean they would stay that way. Of course, "quiet" was a relative term. As he crawled out of the driver's compartment, he saw how badly Robinson had been wounded. A sudden pang of guilt hit him, Robinson hadn't said a word, but had stayed at his post despite his injury.

"I want you to get checked out, too. We can't afford to lose you, especially now." He put his hand on the Australian's shoulder, his voice softening, "You did damned good out there Robinson, I don't think I'd be standing here if it hadn't been for you. First chance you get, get rid of those Corporal stripes and tack on Sergeant's chevrons. I was going to announce your promotion at the ceremony we'd scheduled for later today, but it's been postponed," He looked around at the shambles of the Camp, and returned his gaze to the new Sergeant, "Indefinitely."

Robbo wondered just how bad he looked, with the Major so worried about his health. Pointing at the bandage jammed to his face, he replies

"Really sir, Its not much more than a flesh wound. It'll keep until daylight at least."

Robbo even managed a smile and a joke

"And do I get a pay rise with that extra rocker sir?"

Raven retrieved his M21, then turned back to Sergeant Robinson, "After you get checked out, grab Specialist Anderson and Private Wilkes. They're the two soldiers I brought with me. Take the APC and start sweeping the Camp, but don't leave the perimeter under any circumstances. Look for any wounded, and use the M113 as an ambulance if you have to. And keep your eyes peeled, there might still be bad guys out there. Keep in radio contact at all times."

"Understood Sir, I hope one of those two can drive a Carrier though. I'm a worse driver than you are. Oh, and Sir, I doubt I'd still be here if it wasn't for you. We beat the odds tonight, all of us."

Reluctantly, he turned and entered the Aid Station. He wasn't feeling too good about himself at the moment. He had just ordered a wounded man back into harm's way, when he should be staying here recuperating. But damn it, they were too short handed, and he needed every man he could get. Robinson wouldn't be the only wounded soldier that he'd have orders for, before this night was over.

Once Major Raven has headed back inside, Robbo moves over to where Anderson & Wilkes are.

"Right, the Major wants the three of us to sweep the camp for wounded and any remaining enemy. Can one of you drive that Mortar Track over there? Otherwise we're in for a bumpy ride, as I'm a light infantryman, not a horseholder."

Horseholder comes from the old Light horse. 1 in 4 lighthorsemen stayed back a bit, and looked after the horses, at least for a while. Not a common term though.

The Aid Station was a scene of utter chaos. Wounded men, women, and even children were everywhere. And there was more than one figure whose eyes were glassed over in death, patients that had died because there simply weren't enough Medical personnel or supplies to treat them. He could feel his feet trying to slide out from underneath him, as his boots slipped on the blood-soaked floor. He looked around at the mass of wounded, and spotted SSG Sherman, his S-2. He'd heard a couple of the men outside speaking in awed tones about his defense of the Aid Station when he'd arrived. Another man who'd gone above and beyond the call of duty.

He made his way over to where Sherman was standing, stepping carefully to avoid the people that crowded the floor around him. "Sergeant, from what I hear, I should be pinning a medal on your chest right about now. I wish I had one on me, but right now all I have for you is a job. We desperately need information, I have to know what's going on out there. If you're up to it, I need you to start interrogating the prisoners we've managed to capture. Anything you can find out about Stryfe; where he's at, what his plans are, where they may have taken our people, I need to know."

Raven looked down at his feet, and spotted a bloody piece of flesh lying next to his boot. He didn't want to bring this next subject up, from all accounts Sherman was a man of honor. But it had to be said.

"Sergeant, we've lost a lot of people tonight. I know what you're feeling right now, but we need information from those POW's. I want them kept alive, and their well being is your responsibility. As soon as you find out anything, let me know." He turned to leave, he needed to get out of this charnel house, partly to finish surveying the Camp, but mostly he felt that every one of the wounded men and women was staring at him with looks of accusation, because he hadn't been able to keep them safe.

He stopped short of the door, and turned back to Sherman. "I said you couldn't kill the prisoners. I didn't say anything about bending them a little. Get me that intel. No matter what." Shamefaced, he quickly exited the Aid Station, and headed into the night.

Major Raven walked through the remains of Camp Phoenix, a grim mask set on his face as he surveyed the damage of the attack. It would be impossible to know the final toll until sunrise, a mere 3 and a half hours away from now according to his watch. Inwardly, he dreaded that reckoning. The cursory examination he'd been able to make told him that the cost had been far too high. They'd lost so many people, the Aid Station was choked with dozens of wounded, and despite the rain that was falling even harder now, hampering their efforts, there were several vehicles still burning fiercely in the Parking Area. He hoped that the Camp's name was prophetic, and that this particular Phoenix would be able to rise from it's ashes.

They had won. Despite all the odds, they had beaten back the attack, and they still held the Camp. But at what cost? He remembered a quote from the Duke of Wellington, after Napolean's defeat at Waterloo, "The only thing more terrible than a battle won is a battle lost." He walked past a tangle of bodies, their wounds making them unrecognizable, and nodded in complete agreement with the English marshal. Any more victories like this one, and that bastard Stryfe would have free reign in this part of Pennsylvania.

There was so much that needed to be done, every face that he saw looked to him for reassurance. He smiled and nodded, a few words here, a pat on the shoulder there, but in his heart he felt nothing but shame. These were his people, and he had failed them. The fact that he had set up an ambush that had blunted the attack, even capturing the M113 that they had used in the succesful counterattack, meant nothing. It hadn't been enough. Every dead face, every pain-filled cry was an accusation, a pointed finger of blame.

Raven tried to shake himself out of his reverie. He still had a job to do here, the fires still had to be put out, whatever was left of his soldiers had to be organized, prisoners had to be interrogated, the list stretched for miles. Leadenly, he made his way towards the Aid Station. It had become the main collection of Camp personnel since the attack, and most of his staff would probably be found there as well, if for no other reason that most of them were also wounded. That added to his shame, he had survived the desperate battle without a scratch. Corporal Robinson, who had been with him throughout the night, had been shot in the face, a victim of friendly fire. Luckily, the wound didn't appear to be life threatening, but it contributed to the already staggering burden he carried inside him.

As he got closer to the Camp's hospital, he started to grab anyone that he could find that was still able to move under their own power. His orders were simple, gather anyone they could find and meet at the Aid Station to await further instructions. His orderly mind was already prioritizing what needed to be done. As he turned up his collar to ward off the drenching rain, he prayed to whatever gods that might be listening to help him now, because he feared that the task that had been set before him was beyond the abilities of any mortal man. What they needed was a miracle, and he had a gut feeling that they had used up their quota for the duration.

11 MAY 2003 / 0230 hours
Phoenix Camp,
R.B. Winter State Park

John Sherman was busy, like everyone else in the Aid Station. So much had to be done. All around him the situation played itself out. In one corner a woman held the bloodied hand of her husband and wept. Her grief stricken face giving no doubt that her husband was dead. A young militia woman lay quietly on a stretcher near the entrance, she looked up at him as he passed. Smiling through pain filled eyes. He called for Yates but she was lost in a sea of wounded. He turned back to the young woman but she lay still, her lifeless eyes staring up at him. He placed a hand over her face and closed her eyes. Feeling guilty that he did not know her name. There was little he could do except concentrate on the task ahead, his responsibilities were to the living.

Hannah was alright though, he had held her briefly his grip almost crushing the diminutive Israeli student. He wouldn't have known what he would have done had he lost her. But their embrace was short lived he had a job to do and so did she.

Sherman looked over Cunningham but said nothing. He was going to apoligise about what had happened 'outside'. He felt stupid about the incident and deeply embarrassed. Touching his hand to his jaw and moving it from side to side. Cunningham had sure hit him a beauty. But then he had heard that the Irishman had shot Pete Slade. At first he thought maybe it was an accident but was told 'it was no accident'. And Sean wasn't saying anything about why he did it. Typical Cunningham. Sherman couldn't figure the man out.

Apart from the wounded they also had some refugee's suffering from some kind of gas poisoning. The guard reported that some of them had been causing trouble. He pointed out a man and woman. Sherman checked them out. He didn't like what he saw. The man looked just to smooth to Sherman's cop mind and the girl. The tattoo's were a dead give away she was a ganger but it was the eyes, full of attitude. She'd definately be trouble. He had a quite word with the guard to watch them both carefully, her especially.

Ok folks, here's the updates to the NPC table, along with some notes.

This info is current as of 11 MAY 2003 / 0230 hours. Some info may change slightly after daylight enables a more complete search around camp.

Unless noted otherwise, all NPCs are in the vicinity of the Aid Station.


as far as everyone knows, Wu contacted HQ about the attack, but that was early on, and the CP / radio area might have been down for quite some time now.

No trace of LT Jackson. Last contact was with Robbo, Raven, et al. before their jaunt to the ridges south of Camp.

Probable concussion, tired like everyone else. Slash wound on l. forearm from a knife attack. Note: His son is guarding the Lake side of the Aid Station with an M1, both wife and young daughters are assisting Yates with Medical. He's just glad they're ok...

Exhaustion. Complaining about cleanliness and lack of supplies.

Gunshot wound to r. shoulder. Taunting Sean Cunningham, the person who apparently shot him. "SOB is crazy!!! Asshole opened up on me! on ME!!! Dunno what the fuck he's thinking. Fucking doper..."

Guarding Parking Area #3 with 3 militia.

Acting very protective of MAJ Raven at the moment. Will be "right up his ass" unless ordered away.

Was seen recently, apparently rounding up POWs...

Glass fragments in face and arms from enemy homemade grenade.

forming perimeter around Aid Station with 8 militia.


PVT THOMAS -- MODERATELY WOUNDED (from Freeland mission)
In the crowded Aid Station.

Guarding the door to the Aid Station, right where Sherman ate the grenades.

Fighting fires in the area of the Guest Cottages (Pregnant and Elderly quarters)

Transporting wounded to Aid Station with a horse cart with help of wife and son.

Still in the Aid Station helping Yates. Looks exhausted.

She was killed execution style near the Kitchen/Mess Area, and her body was sexually violated and then hacked up in an unspeakable manner.

Please note that his age should be closer to 50 as in his bio, and not 40s like I stated in the last post.

The "gas" that he was subjected to is unidentified as of yet. Symptoms of exposure include profuse tearing of eyes, coughing, choking. Burning sensation in eyes, nose, mouth, and lips. Patient states that he doesn't think it was mace or pepper spray. This is a lot worse. Severe nausea. Patient tried washing eyes, etc. with water but it made symptoms worse.

Exposure was about 30 minutes before they were picked up by a 3/103 patrol, or about 0145 hours. (Lupe is experiencing all of the above symptoms EXCEPT the nausea.)

Yes, this stuff is on Lupe & Hector's clothes. Yes, you are given some scrubs/pajamas to wear and a nasty old blanket for warmth. Lupe and Hector are not being restrained until someone orders it, given their condition. But there is a pair of itchy-fingered guards holding a shotgun and a rifle on them.

Hector was carrying an M16 with a 12 gauge slung underneath. Plus an M92 and some grenades. He has plenty of ammo, some military stuff (web gear, a jacket, canteens, camping gear, and about $250 on him. Lupe had a .38 revolver, a switchblade and a moderate amount of canned goods with her.

What is most interesting is that Hector Ruiz is carrying an official-looking document signed by none other than COL Stryfe himself. It is a pardon from his prison sentence. This apparently was issued in exchange for an enlistment in a local militia unit called "The Bloody Bucket".

[a pipe organ plays a few spooky diminished chords in the background -- think of the first unresolved "hold" in Bach's Toccata and Fugue]

Someday I'll figure out how to hot code music stuff into an email.... not just an attachment, but sone way of playing the music as soon as the reader would scroll over the text that goes along with it...


A few changes to MIA 3/103rd PERSONNEL:


MSGT FERGUS ROYCE variously led 1st,3rd, 4th PTNs

Apparently both of these men were E & E for several days, and were picked up by patrols, and are eager to rejoin the efforts against Stryfe. Both are slightly wounded.

LT1 Jackson added here as per above.



Total before the attack was 52, not 48 like it says on the web page. After losses were taken, militia were upgraded to a better weapon, where possible, and their old weapons are listed below as spares.

A total of 33 Militia answer roll call at 0230, and they are armed as follows:

4 .30-06 BOLT ACTION RIFLE 35 rnds each
5 12 gauge PUMP ACTION SHOTGUN 10 rnds each
6 5.56N M16A2 30 rnds each
8 M1 Garand .30-06 48 rnds each
1(+1) M60 50 rnds 7.62 NATO (linked)
1(+2) M1917 110 rnds (fabric belt)

Total Militia Losses = 19
Militia WIA = 11 (6 are too bad off to fight, 5 are gonna try, sir)
Militia KIA = 18
Militia MIA = 5 (their weapons are apparently unaccounted for)

5 BOLT ACTION RIFLE various calibers 5rnds each
4 SHOTGUN various calibers/actions 4 rnds each
10 .30-06 BOLT ACTION RIFLES -- no ammo


NPC WORKERS TOTALED 66 before the attack. Currently, 45 answered roll call at 0230.


Total Civilian Worker Losses = 16:
Civ WIA = 8 (3 are too bad off to fight, 5 are gonna try, sir)
Civ KIA = 11
Civ MIA = 2


TOTAL DEPENDANTS = 42 NUMBER before attack, now there are 39.

1 Elderly person died during the attack and 2 schoolchildren were killed.

3 INFANTS (under 1 year) ...
8 TODDLERS (1-3 years) ...
21 SCHOOLCHILDREN (up to 12 yrs) 6 of these are slightly wounded.

Thankfully losses in these areas were minimal.


WOUNDED TOTAL before attack = 7
(all militia, 5 ADULT serious, 2 ADULT critical)

Given the situation, slightly wounded persons have been cleared out of the Aid Station, and are being cared for on the hill just north of the Aid Station in order to make room for more serious cases. SLIGHT WOUNDS will no longer be counted here, since for the most part they can be treated and sent along...

Note: this category doesn't include named NPCs WIA.

5 militia ADULT SERIOUSLY WOUNDED from before
(8/2 militia /workers seriously wounded)

2 militia ADULT CRITICALLY WOUNDED from before
(5/1 militia / workers critically wounded)



TOTALS BY TYPE was 188 before attack

New totals for all types of NPCS:

"Named" NPCs 15

7 unnamed prisoners - 4 of which are slightly wounded or worse.

TOTAL = 148

By this accounting, 32 people living in the camp were killed. This might be subject to some modification once daylight allows a more accurate count.


Now for the other guys:

61 KIA were physically recovered. MAJ Raven, as a Vietnam Vet, it would be appropriate for your jaw to drop when you hear this, and say, "No, not an estimate. Not probables. Do an actual count." To which the number 61 is again the response.

There would have to have been more WIA, plus additional KIA that expired after leaving the vicinity of camp. Only the GM knows just how many.

7 POWS were taken. Of them, 4 are slightly wounded or worse.

You'll have to wait for the next email for what weapons, ammo, equipment you scrounged off enemy KIA / POWs. That should prove to be interesting. Just as a preface -- I won't be giving you every knife gun bullet and bandaid you find, just stuff that stands out. We will continue playing fast and loose with most equipment except for guns, ammo, food, and medical stuff.



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