Journal of CDR William Robert "Whiskey" Willis, USN (Fmr.)

[Otto Pilot]

The following entry and subsequent entries are written in a small leather bound journal with the owner's name, and former rank written on the first page in pen. This specific entry's page appears to be stained with tears near the base of the page soaking through to the next three pages.

 

04/25/2021 - A Sailors Memoir

"My name is William Robert Willis, former United States Navy Commander, attached to the United States Joint Special Operation Command via the United States Navy's Special Warfare Development Group, SEAL Team Six. I've been advised that... with what little time I most likely have on this plane of existence I should keep a journal of my thoughts to keep record of my path from here on. I don't exactly like this thought but, then again I've done a lot of things I didn't like over the last twenty five years or so of my life. These last couple months... these last couple years have been rather rough. I haven't felt this sort of pain since 2012, and I just can't adjust to it. In BUD/S they train you that all of life's difficulties are 1% physical and 99% mental, that you can't give into pain, simply adjust to it and find an excuse to win; I can safely say that, at this moment in time. There isn't an excuse for me to win.

It's been three weeks since I buried my wife and three kids behind the school in the city of Novya Petrovka, it's been three weeks since my world died with them, it's been three weeks since I've truly lost that drive to continue pushing forward, since they passed I have been experiencing near double the amount of PTSD episodes. For the last three weeks I have gotten a combined 10 hours of peaceful sleep.

Some days, days where I haven't conducted any direct action against bandits or chedaki, days where all I've done is lay in my bed and stare at the wall, I can still taste the gunpowder of the last twenty five years and still feel my plate carrier draped over my shoulders with my backpack. Sometimes if I listen real hard I can still hear distant gunfire, no matter how silent it is, and I can still hear Brad and Nick calling for help, I can still hear the alarms and alerts of a downed Seahawk. When I close my eyes, sometimes all I see is a crosshair and the faces of people I've killed over the years.

Most people don't understand what it's like to be a marksman, most think that being as we generally operate at a range that we're more removed from combat. That's not entirely the case, yes physically we are removed from the more direct action than others. However being a sniper is a much more intimate experience than what one would get in the firefight, more often than not you spend at the very least four or five seconds staring at your target, looking them in the face as you prepare to take their life. Sure, I can brush most of them off as being a "bad guy", being as they were shooting at our guys, but there's a lot that you just can't reconcile with that thought process.

Little kids told by their parents to take a fucking AK and shoot it at a patrol, with their parents knowing we'd hesitate, women wearing bomb vests beneath their burqas, local men convinced by local warlords that we were the aggressors, that we were there to kill their people only, men only wanting to protect their homes and their livelihoods. Those are the ones that keep me up at night, those are the ones that hang in the back of my head, repressed.

I've met good people here in Chernarus, while it's not home... they make it feel as so. However, with things the way they are now; I just don't know what to do. I've always known exactly what I needed to do in any given situation, I've always acted in plain instinct and intuition. But this, this I can't. I need to talk to Mary about this... thing inside me, she says we might be able to get it out but... I'm not so sure. 

 

- CDR William R. Willis, USN (Fmr)"

 

// Music video for the feels https://youtu.be/2YkkMSzY5Iw?t=15

 

[Otto Pilot]

The following entry and subsequent entries are written in a small leather bound journal with the owner's name, and former rank written on the first page in pen. This specific entry's page appears to be stained with blood in the form of finger prints across the edges of the page and droplets of blood, the writing is messy as if the writer had a exceptionally shaky hand as he wrote.

 

04/29/2021 - Regret

"It appears that, no matter how hard I push, no matter how hard I fight, my past comes back to haunt me. About a week and a half ago I set out towards Leptovograd in pursuit of rumors about a contingent of United States servicemen trapped in country, possibly US Diplomatic Security for some politician or assistant big dicking around the countryside back before the outbreak. Doesn't matter, never ran into them; instead I ran into him, Hashim Al-Fahim, a former Captain of the Takistani Armed Forces under Colonel Muhammad Aziz, the fucker that killed Brad back in 2012. As I write this, I sit in a dark cell underneath some old government building that I can only assume is an old police station. Each day brings new forms of torture at the hands of both Fahim, his men, and the RAC remnants aligned with him, today it was a metal bed frame, a pair of jumper cables, and a array of car batteries. Yesterday it was waterboarding and beatings.

I don't know how long I will last here in this manner. They keep asking where my men are, and I keep telling them I'm alone, they don't listen, rinse and repeat. I can feel myself slipping, my health deteriorating. With all the places I've been, and things I've seen, I never once thought that this is how it might end. I never pictured this, slowly dying in the dark, constantly wet from the pouring rain flooding through the barred window into my cell. My cough has worsened, and the blood is becoming more so, almost as if I've been lung shot. I'm currently suffering of hypothermia, and I'm scared... I'm scared. I never thought of it before but, would I even get into heaven? Would Saint Peter look upon me, a killer, a sinner, and grant me access past those golden gates? Or would he damn me to hell for eternity for my actions over the last twenty five years? What will happen to me when I die? Will my soul even ascend? Or will it just be darkness, an endless abyss of nothingness. Either way, it seems that I have a one way express ticket to whichever the answer is.

Throughout my career, I always saw myself as the Hero. I always saw myself as helping those oppressed by those who would otherwise take advantage of them but... at the same time. I've done things that no man should ever have to do, nobody asked me to be a hero, but in my selfish wants to be so, I've gotten not only innocent people killed, but close friends, people that I would call family. Now, I write and await my time to go, because in the end old soldiers like myself don't die.

We just wither and fade away until we're forgotten to the world we once swore to protect.

- CDR William R. Willis, USN (Fmr.)"

 

// Music video for more feels https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXhaWmiFaW0

 

[Otto Pilot]

The following entry and subsequent entries are written in a small leather bound journal with the owner's name, and former rank written on the first page in pen. This specific entry's page appears to be stained with blood in the form of finger prints across the edges of the page with a small terribly scribbled UN logo drawn on the corner with the letters "SCOD-C" underneath it.

 

05/03/2021 - The boys are back in town

"Looks like I've got a guardian angel somewhere up there because if there was anything short of divine intervention the other day; I would've been a damned dead man hanging from one of the lamp posts in Leptovograd. Sure as shit the ol' team is still out here stacking bodies without me, linked up with Jan, turns out a lil' bit before the third wave the detachment got deployed to Takistan of all places about a week after I went on vacation. Sure as shit they were looking for my old friend Hashim, that bastard, and have been on his trail since the third wave hit and fucked everything up. Followed him across the border even into Chernarus about three weeks ago and have been working with local survivors to take him out. Sure, they didn't need to being as communication with SCOC HQ was lost about two months into the outbreak, but from what the guys told me; they just felt like it was something they should do, and hell... they had the equipment to do it. 

You've got Sean in his big ol' Puma flying around, Cayden in some old Takistani T-60, it was a sight to behold while they pulled my ass out of that station. Needless to say, they got Hashim. I was critical, but... they got me to a field hospital set up with some hospital workers from Leptovograd outside the city, got me fixed up for the most part.

Now... well. I'm burying Sean and Basile. They were bringing me back to South Zagoria while the others headed up north, something about a group called NAC or something like that, afterwards they plan to head this way... but shit went south. Something brought us down, last thing I remember is waking up in the back to Sean shouting that we lost the rear stabilizer. He auto rotated us down, but the landing was a bit rough to say the least. Basile and himself were ejected through the cockpit window. It was an honor to serve with them, and I know they're in a better place now. I just can't help that if they didn't have to bring me back, that they'd still be around.

I'm roughly twelve klicks from the South Zagorian border, hopefully things haven't gotten too bad in my absence... I just need to see about getting this thing treated before it's too late. Here's to you guys... I'll see you soon enough.

- CDR William R. Willis, USN (Fmr.)"

 

// Obligatory music video for feels https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndC9Aa_kZrY