Item #: SCP-8628
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-8628 is kept in a Secure Storage Locker at Site-17. Its contents have been transcribed onto a digital document, which can be viewed under Dossier 8628/2. Assigned researchers are to transcribe any and all new pages into this document at least once daily. An abridged version is shown below.
SCP-8628's contents prior to containment have been transcribed into an exact replica, and returned to the Massachusetts Historical Society. Historical records have been altered to indicate that all entries after June 8th, 1864 were lost due to negligence.
Description: SCP-8628 is a journal written by Thomas Whitecliff, recounting his experiences fighting for the Union during the American Civil War. From February 7th, 1862 to June 8th 1864, the journal accurately records events as seen by Whitecliff. However, from June 9th 1864, and onward, the narrative has anomalously changed.
SCP-8628 was originally the property of the Massachusetts Historical Society up until March 9th, 1927, when a clerk noticed that all entries recorded after June 9th 1864 had been rewritten to describe events which could not have happened. In addition, the journal now included many more entries than had originally been written, with the latest entry supposedly written one day prior. Foundation agents were alerted on March 11th, when SCP-8628 began to manifest new pages on a daily basis, even when locked in a safe overnight.
SCP-8628 now narrates the Civil War lasting far longer than it did historically, as well as other countries being drawn into the conflict. As of 11/21/████, the war now involves every single independent state which existed in 1864. Since containment, SCP-8628 continues to add new entries, at a rate consistent with how often Whitecliff historically wrote in his journal. As of writing, SCP-8628 now contains over fifty five thousand pages. Despite this, it has never grown in size or weight.
Addendum: Thomas Whitecliff Abridged Biography
According to historical records, Whitecliff was born in Boston, Massachusetts on February 7th 1844, to Jessica Whitecliff. His father's name is unknown. Jessica would pass away ten years later, leaving Whitecliff to be raised in an orphanage.
Whitecliff enlisted in the Union army on his eighteenth birthday, one year after the Civil War broke out. Friends and acquaintances described him as a staunch abolitionist and "a born soldier." He obtained the rank of lieutenant, before being honorably discharged after the war's end. Whitecliff would go on to marry and have several children, before dying of natural causes on October 17th, 1923. His remains were buried in a Boston cemetery, and exhumed by Foundation agents after the containment of SCP-8628. Testing revealed no anomalous phenomena linked to his corpse.
SCP-8628 was donated by his surviving family to the Massachusetts Historical Society in November, 1923.
Addendum: Notable Entries
The following is a selection of the most pertinent entries in SCP-8628, which illustrate a general summary of its contents.
February 7th, 1862. Friday. Pleasant, chilly. At long last, I have gone to the recruitment station to enlist in the army. I wished to a year ago, but good man Able said he would beat me bloody if ever I lied about my age to go on and fight. He is a good and honest man, and believes in the cause of freedom and the Union. He has leased me his room all these years, and I could not disobey him in good conscience. He and I study the paper near close as scripture, learning what we can about the state of the war. He has hope the war will be over after another year, and I pray to the Good God that it will be. Through His Almighty Love all things are possible, but if He should not deliver the foe unto our hand directly, I feel this war shall not be won for many more days hence.
Tomorrow I depart for New York, and from thence to Virginia. Able and I pray together this night, that I may receive strength.
February 19th, 1862. Wednesday. Pleasant. Last day of training today, before I go to join the volunteers. I have found much pleasure in military life. Marching, drills, firing at marks, all is quite harmonious with my soul. To think how many cowards have abandoned all of this and fled home. I fear I will never understand them.
Recd. letter from Able and his sister, Marie. My good landlord is well, but worried for my sake. Marie feels mumps coming on, but is confident in her constitution. I pray daily for her safety. Dinner was potatoes and mutton, tasted quite good.
March 13th, 1862. Thursday. Rainy. Went on picket today, quite miserable. Virginian ground is so flooded that I waded today in something like mud soup. Our camp fared somewhat better, being on higher, firmer ground. Our march towards Alexandria is delayed until this ocean of mud drains away.
How my heart aches to see some rebel troop ranging about in the wilderness! It would much greatly relieve the anxiety which I feel in my bones, at every waking hour. Wrote Able and his sister tonight, hope they are well.
March 30th, 1862. Sunday. Pleasant, but cloudy. The miserably cold weather took pity on our camp this morning. Broke fast in the sun, and felt even better. The oppressive chill and the monotony has made me feel as if I were about to die from boredom.
How can it be that near two months have passed since the day I left home, and no rebels have come near us? I hear of skirmishes, and shell thrown at our pickets, and yet I have not seen a single uniform of gray since I donned one of blue. I pray that I may soon receive the fighting which I so dearly crave.
April 4th, 1862. Friday. Stormy. Wrote Able to tell him my prayer was answered! For the first time I have fired my rifle, and seen glimpses of Confederate faces as they responded in kind. They seem no different than other men, but one must see not as a man sees but as God sees. They are treacherous devils, each one a Brutus or Cassius. Oh Lord! do thou keep the foxes at bay, and grant me unfailing courage.
I cannot remember much of the encounter. It was so rapid, and ended with hasty retreat on both sides. I can see I am not wounded, but my heart still thunders within my chest. To bed now, it is quite late.
August 2, 1862. Saturday. Pleasant. Beautiful weather. Rained last night, and was greeted by a rainbow in the morning. Broke fast while on picket. Just returned from another skirmish. I believe I have won my first kill, but I cannot be too sure. The rebel had concealed himself like a coward in a tree. My shot struck his left side, and he fell to the ground. No more shots I heard, so I moved from cover in order to see him. There was a startling amount of blood, but the man still moved. Then suddenly, shots rang out around me and I was forced to flee.
Rest of the day passed quickly. I have been anxious for some time for word from Able, but still nothing. The rest of my company recd. letters today, hope nothing has befallen him.
August 3, 1862. Sunday. Cloudy, then rainy. Letter arrived from Able. Marie is with the Lord.
My
Oh Lord, thou knowest the times and the seasons. All that transpires upon thy green Earth happens according to thy will. But Lord, can you not see the depth of my grief? The pain of mine heart? I loved Marie no better than were she my own sister. And Poor, Poor Able! I can only imagine the bitterness of the tears which he spilled upon his letter.
Oh Lord, comfort him and give him strength. In all my years, never was there such a friend as she. I do not even know the reason for her death. I pray I shall see her again, in the next life. I pray [End of Writing]
August 6th, 1862. Wednesday. Pleasant. My thoughts are still full of Marie, and the letter I wrote to Able the following day. I have focused my body on my duties, yet my mind stubbornly insists upon her. The only thing that lets me forget her kind and loving ways is the sound of rifle and mortar. Yesterday I was on picket when I thought I saw rebels sneaking through the valley. I threw three shell towards them, before I saw they were naught but some animal.
But the Lord was good to me. I have just returned from a skirmish with real rebels, and I have seen their deaths true. We shot them in the back as they fled, and they did not rise again. The night has been quiet besides, and now my thoughts turn back to Able, my dear and only friend. I must write him again. I can do aught else.
September 2nd, 1862. Tuesday. Cloudy and windy. Able writes that he is concerned for me, and that what I write in my letters has become warlike and un-Christian. He is like a brother to me, but can he not see that this war is a holy crusade? I have read and heard the stories of what these traitors do to the men they call their property. He has read as well as I. Surely they are more worthy of condemnation than the man bearing steel and shot to oppose them? The Good Lord and His Son command to love thy enemy, but at the same time, did He not d-mn Judas for his cursed treachery? To these rebels, I am that divine punishment. To question myself would be to falter in that duty. I pray Able might be able to understand. I know he loves me. I pray that shall never change.
September 18th, 1862. Thursday. No time for writing yesterday, before I collapsed from exhaustion. Awoke this morning feeling like Lazarus risen from the grave.
Yesterday, it seemed that most fighting had come to an end for the time being. The Army of the Potomac was consolidated in one great camp on Antietam Creek, and no Confederate force could even think of assaulting it. Picket duty was light, and boring. Rifles were mustered every morning at noon, and then dismissed for the day. I had thought the day quite ordinary.
Then, like a thunderous storm rolling over the hills, I heard more rebel yells than ever I heard in my life. Cannon shot rang out and I was forced to run to formation, dropping my journal some yards away from my tent. It is only by the Grace of God I found it afterwards. For hours on end, we faced the enemy again and again. I lost count of the balls I sent into that great mass of gray, the prayers on my lips as I marched forth with my bayonet fixed.
But I must not boast of any great exploit, for I felt the Hand of the Holy Spirit upon me at all times, as if protecting me from every sling and arrow. By the end of the day I was still unwounded, despite my brothers in arms suffering mangled limbs and riddled hearts. I believe I have been given a miracle this day. How I earned such a thing, I do not know. And do you know the most impossible thing? The fighting was so frantic and so sudden that I did not even know we attacked first. I suppose it is wise, to keep one's plans away from the men in the rank and file.
The end result of this day is that my soul feels refreshed, and my heart is gladdened. My first taste of true battle was glorious, and I cannot help but hunger for more. Another victory such as this, and the rebels will flee back to their cursed plantations. Oh praise God!
January 10th, 1863. My God, oh my God why hast thou
Able
My brother is dead.
January 11th, 1863. Sunday. Snowy weather. I ate nothing this morning. Stared at the snow for long. The letter from yesterday is sitting in my tent. The snow is quite beautiful. In Boston snow is gray, and soiled by thousands of little footsteps and the muck of the city. Here, the snow is pure and unbroken. Until our march begins again.
I pray and think what terrible sin I have committed that my only friend should be taken from me. Without him there is nothing, and no one. No home to return to, no family, no other friend in the world. At least he will surely be with Marie. I pray the two are buried side by side.
January 13th, 1863. Tuesday. Pleasant and warm. It feels quite strange to no longer go to mail call. This morning I have been told that I am to be made Sergeant, for my actions at Antietam. I was surprised that so many in my company were pleased at this. They are good men, and kind. Many are gentle souls. Not like mine. I am on good speaking terms with my fellow soldiers, but none of them shall ever replace Able in my heart. As Sergeant, I am now acquainting myself with my new responsibilities. I hope they will be enough to soothe this aching grief.
February 1st, 1863. Sunday. Pleasant. My men and I cleaned weapons, and reorganized camp. We held a prayer service with our chaplain, Father Michael. Broke fast with pork and biscuit bread. I feel I am regaining my stride. It has been near to a year since I left for the Army, and I must affirm again that this life is good for me. I love the life of a soldier. I love both the fighting, and the days I spend working with these men.
July 4th, 1863. Saturday. Cloudy, but pleasant. Another glorious battle! The forces of the slavers were pushed out of the free states, their charges foiled by the gallantry of Union courage! Glory, glory to God! I could not even write anything the entire three days the battle took place. When it ended, the fields were covered with the dead, and the stink of corpses reeked to heaven. Yet I alone remained unwounded.
Again, I felt the Spirit protecting me. Surely it must be a gift from God, this strength I have to be uncowed by the gruesome sights before me. If the Negro is to be free, it will not do for us to retch and turn aside every time we face the grim nature of our work. I pray to rejoin the battle again forthright! I am sure that another great victory lies in store for us. I crave to deliver damnation to the rebels. I fear that it is late, but I cannot aught but write. My heart beats too mightily to sleep.
August 17th, 1863. Monday. Stormy and rainy. Despite the miserable weather, my health has been quite good, and our disposition cheerful. I have just been promoted to lieutenant. I find my new duties easy. The strangest part of all of it is no longer having to report for picket. I pray each night for the salvation of our souls. We captured a rebel storehouse and dined on sausage and white bread this afternoon. No paper today.
June 9th, 1864. Thursday. Cloudy and damp. Awoke to loud skirmish on the camp border. I was able to bring order to the chaos, and it was soon over before it began. Broke fast on eggs and butter. A feeling of satisfaction has descended upon me. The war goes well. General Sherman ranges deep into the South, while our own army has laid siege to Petersburg. I can only picture the dismay of the southern belles as their poor negroes are liberated by the Army of God. I take satisfaction in picturing what kind of family each rebel leaves behind as my bullet finds his chest. They must be weary with this war by now, the damned treacherous bastards. I myself grow more into this militaristic character every day.
Though I am too humble to accept their praise, I must tell you that my commanders above me tell me that my company is possibly the best run in the brigade, and perhaps the entire Army of the Potomac. I respond that I am lucky, and ask them to pray for my continued success. I only hope I do not seem too obsequious. There is much I yet hope to do in this war.
Deep down, there is a part of me which wishes it would never end. After all, what awaits me at home? Boston holds no place for me, and I have no one awaiting my return. I feel happy here, the happiest I have felt since mother was alive. By the Grace of God, if I might be allowed to stay at this war, I would truly be satisfied.
Note: At this point, Whitecliff's journal begins to diverge from its original content.
August 10th, 1864. Wednesday. Rainy, then stormy. Papers contain news of great calamity. Confederate forces have driven back Sherman, and somehow took over five thousand prisoner. There is much talk in camp of how our General's fortunes could have been reversed in such a manner.
Our campaign here in Virginia still goes well. My company captured a small band of deserters. We hanged them, then dined on white bread and eggs. I thought of Marie for the first time in two years. I prayed mightily for her soul this night.
December 18th, 1864. Sunday. Heavy snows. Awoke to a chill colder than hell itself. I have been blessed that I have suffered no frostbite. Despite the deep snows, our forced march back towards Washington continues. There are many rumors that the rebels have become innumerable as the stars, and that they're already burning free northern villages. Only a few months ago, our victory seemed assured. Now we have lost two of our best generals. I must remember to pray, for all is in God's hands. He would not guide us to such crushing defeat when faced with such devilry.
It is because of our pride that this happened. Humility would've ensured our swift entry into Richmond, Atlanta, and the rest. Marched all through the day, and only stopped at dark. We have lost several men to the chill. I prayed over each of their bodies, but we had no time for a proper burial. We must keep moving, and trust in God.
December 26th, 1864. Monday. Frozen skies, scattered snow on the ground. Our Lord is Born, but we are in low spirits. Washington has fallen. Our beautiful White House, that shining symbol of freedom, is now in the hands of the slave driving rebels.
I could not begin to describe the feelings of despair I felt when I saw the photograph of the Confederate Flag flying in our beloved capital. How lucky we are that life is not a game of chess, and that by capturing our castle, they have only strengthened our resolve to fight. I will be happy when battles begin again. I have resolved to kill at least three rebels with my bayonet in the coming year. All this time, and it remains pristine. I have begun to hate the sight of it.
May 3rd, 1865. Wednesday. Beautiful. General Grant has at last retaken Washington, though not without casualties. Paper reports that the war has come to a balance, now. We are not doing near as well as we were this time a year ago, but we have regained our footing.
My own company drills like possessed men, and we have target shooting every day. We also recd. a detachment of sharpshooters, from H Company. I am quite happy with the current state of affairs. On Sunday I ordered double whiskey ration, for all those who had shot perfect marks. Spirits are high. Glory to God!
January 1, 1866. Monday. Chilly. God has granted us a New Year's Miracle! President Abraham Lincoln himself has come out to our camp to inspect us personally.
I woke to hear the news being shouted throughout the camp, and I could not get into my uniform quick enough. I quickly mustered the company and ordered them to fall in. I must confess that seeing Mr. President was something akin to seeing one of God's angels, descended in the flesh. Who else has done more for the cause of ending slavery? Who else has fought so hard to reunite our savagely divided country? A peculiar light shone from his face as him and his escort came near us, and I was quite conscious of every single miniscule error in my appearance. Our President gave us an approving nod and carried on. I swear there was a twinkle in his eye, as if his grim surroundings had not the slightest effect on him.
They ordered us to fall out and gather round the center of camp where a speech was had. Our President spoke of our gallant conduct, and great perseverance in this struggle. He urged us on to new victories, confident that we would not fail him. I could not take the kind sincerity in his words. I wept openly, tears streaming from my eyes as I beat my breast and swore that I would prove him right. This day has truly been one of the best New Years of my life.
October 2nd, 1870. Sunday. Pleasant, very windy in the afternoon. Took several rebel prisoners in a skirmish. Rest of day was relaxing. Kansan weather is quite agreeable to me. A great shame it is, to mar such wondrous terrain with artillery and war camps. Still, the rebels must be beaten back from this place, whilst our brothers fight on in Georgia.
I was able to see the place John Brown passed righteous judgment on the slavers and their families. I could feel his very spirit calling to me. I polished my bayonet on the place, letting a few specks of dried blood nurture the ground where they fell. Supped with my commanders in the evening. Much was spoken of of the death of General Lee. I pray he is in hell. It is only just after prosecuting this war for so long. I've written quite late into the night and tomorrow is drills.
May 16th, 1882. Tuesday. Pleasant. Buried Private Johnson under a tree. Poor man grew too weary of combat. I wish he could've lived to see the destruction of the south. We crossed into South Carolina this afternoon, what remains of my company. So many of them have fallen to disease, lead balls, and even old age.
It frightens me to think it has been over a score of years since this war began. I thank God for my continued strength and good health. It is surely by His grace that I feel the years only slightly.
Sergeants Cooledge and Rackham played a good joke on me today. They were fixing a wagon wheel when they suddenly gave a great cry of alarm. I, not knowing the wagon was being fixed, came to find them staggering about and moaning at their misfortune, in the manner of drunken men. They stood at attention when I came by, and I demanded to know what this was about. They showed me the wheel, and ashamedly offered me a bottle to not mention this to the battalion commander. I angrily snatched the bottle and sniffed it hard. Inside was nothing but lemonade! My sergeants immediately dropped their drunken demeanor, and we had a good laugh. It is good to have such fine men in the company.
Able would have loved them.
November 14th, 1895. Thursday. Snowy and hailing. Our camp was forced to stop just ten miles from the Mississippi border. If I could scourge wind and hail, I would. My men and I have ran a long race, and stopping just before the finish line enrages us. But there is nothing we can do. The papers even say that crossing here might end the war outright. The Confederates are so weak after years and years of fighting. They must be close to surrender.
My bayonet has grown clean again. It cries out to me, Blood! Blood! I feel tempted to give it my own, just to see its steel marred by red.
July 19th, 1907. Friday. Hot and muggy. Finally recd. more volunteers this morning, from Vermont. Several sharpshooters among them. I can still scarcely believe I am the last of the men who originally set forth in this great army. Even my commanders are all different. All the men who promoted me retired or fell asleep in the Lord. I do not even care to know how many presidents it has been since the Great Honest Abe.
I must confess, I have become worried about my own constitution. For the first time in my life, I have looked for sickness and deformity in my body hoping to find some. By God, I turned sixty three this year and I have not even a wrinkle! I can no longer remember a single day I was not in the fittest of health, marching from place to place, and killing Confederates.
By God if
Perhaps this is a blessing from the Lord. As long as a single rebel lives, I shall not die. Like the Holy Prophet Simeon, who lived to reveal the Lord's Son, I shall live to see the day we triumph over the treacherous scum!
June 1st, 1909. Tuesday. Pleasant. Arrived in Columbus. Paper reports the south has retaken Washington. Drilled the men hard today. Confident we will retake it back soon. This war cannot go on too much longer.
September 16th, 1910. Friday. Stormy. The rebels have begun using strange and nefarious new weapons. This morning they threw something like shell which instead of detonating froze everything around it. Several men were struck by it and died instantly. Our medics reported their hearts had stopped.
In the evening, we were issued weapons of our own. All manner of strange metal rifles and curious devices are now in our possession. I requested practice targets to familiarize my troops with them, but was told not to fire the weapons unless absolutely necessary. I mourn the loss of my old rifle and bayonet. But such is war. Oh Lord, have mercy!
Note: Several later entries describe further use of anomalous weaponry.
December 12th, 1935. Thursday. My God. Oh sweet merciful God. Lord, why has this war not come to an end? Paper this morning shows the White House burned to a husk, every building in Washington around it reduced to ash. We only recaptured it again a month ago! Was there ever a city that has suffered more?
The picture shocked me so, I remembered things that I was a fool to ever forget. In near three months I shall reach the age of ninety two! When I read the date of the paper I got up from my cot and looked in my pocket mirror. The face I saw was gaunt and haggard, saddened from all the years of death and killing, but was unmistakably a boy of no more than twenty.
I first wondered why no man had ever mentioned my unchanging face. But it is of course obvious. Every man I've ever befriended is long gone. Died to the shots of the rebels, or passed from disease or old age. There is not a man in my company over the age of twenty five. How could they have known?
By God, I thought again of Able and Marie! Had they not died, would I even recognize them now? Sweet mercy, surely the Union will surrender. I must be allowed to get home.
December 30th, 1935. Monday. Snowy. Great Britain. France. Germany. Russia. Japan. Spain. Mexico. It seems all the nations of the world have brought their men and boys here to continue the fight. I walk through camp and hear strange tongues. My men break bread with Chinamen, and share pictures of their strange, slanted-eyed women. I encourage fraternization with our allies, but it is still quite strange.
Surely we can now win. I will pray again tonight.
October 28th, 1943. Thursday. Spent the day traveling to the coast of Normandy. Confederate allies have taken Paris. On the boat I was all alone. I heard the voices of Able and Marie, calling me to come home. Is it truly my fate to venture out into the world, only to carry on this endless campaign? I admit, for the first time I thought of fleeing and deserting. But this war is for freedom. Far away, negro men, women and children are whipped and chained on the plantations. They have been aching for our victory for more than eighty years. We must give it to them, by any means.
February 7, 1944. Monday. I am one hundred years old. Not a hair on my head is gray. Not a muscle in my back has ever cramped. Not a single pore of my skin has wrinkled. And yet I feel completely, utterly dead. God… is there truly a God?
Have mercy on me a sinner, have mercy on me a sinner, have mercy on me a sinner [Writing repeats ad nauseam.]
Date not included. kill them damned rebels kill them dead shoot them blow them apart desecrate them desecrate all of it to hell with them to hell with all of it kill kill massacre massacre their children rape their wives defile them God damn them God damn
November 17th, 1973. Saturday. Lord, I am so afraid. I don't understand what has happened to me. I think I am going mad. Why have these pages not been filled? Why do they change and multiply? And the things I have written in them, many of which I do not even remember writing! Evil, vile things that make me weep to think that I wrote them. I must beg forgiveness from God. Whenever I am in battle I feel calm and assured, but every day in camp I feel more and more afraid until I vomit. I have grown thin and gaunt, and yet I still do not age.
I have begun to see Able and Marie everywhere. I have always had an active imagination. Oh sweet merciful God, please let them be silent! I do not know what I will do if they were to start speaking aloud to me.
Date not included. I know.
Yes, I know.
Yes, I will.
No.
He only meant-
I see.
Yes, I will.
Yes.
Of course.
No.
No, that is not true.
You-
Shut up.
SHUT UP.
April 16th, 1988. Able told me to shoot myself today. I said "alright, my friend." I picked up my rifle, and I used a stick to reach the trigger. I wrapped my lips around the barrel. The cold metal felt good. I pushed the trigger. Gun did not fire. I pushed hard enough to break the stick. The trigger would not move. Went and got a pistol. Pistol wouldn't fire either. Aimed it at the ground, fired. A shot rang out. Aimed it at myself. Trigger was stuck. Got word today that the company is moving on to Africa.
January 9th, 2004. Friday. Hot and windy. Felt saner this morning, broke fast on toast and butter. I think there must be no more civilians left in the world. Every letter at mail call comes from other army units. None come from normal addresses anymore.
I do not think I will be able to write anymore for a while, at least not anything intelligible. We are attacking Mogadishu tomorrow. Fighting always hurts my sanity. I will not be myself for a little while. I must pray for strength.
October 23rd, 2020. Friday. Hot and windy. I am defeated. I have only just come back to my mind, but I knew I could no longer take this madness. I ran from the army. I deserted the one thing I have known all my life, the thing which raised me, which gave me purpose. As I fled camp, I saw the faces of my dead comrades, I saw the faces of the men I've killed, and I saw the photographs of negros with their scars and injuries from their cruel masters. I turned away from them all. Lord have mercy, but I turned away from righteousness. I should have done so long ago.
But as I ran, I saw a strange and curious sight. I came upon a mountain, overlooking a valley. In hopes of gaining the layout of the terrain, I ascended the slope and looked down. I saw much more than that lone valley. As far as the eye could see, I saw battlefields. Entire villages and cities taken down and repurposed as war camps. In some places, the fighting raged without respite. I went on further, past the valley. I walked as far as the ocean. But every ship was outfitted with cannon, and bristling with soldiers. Every shop I passed by sold guns and field rations. Every woman and child carried shell and pistols. Everyone wore either the gray or the blue. This war has become the world, and this world has become the war. I have become the war. The war has become me.
There is nothing more to do. I went back to my camp.
Tomorrow I won't be me again.
Date not included. Monday. Dear Able. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry [Repeats excised for brevity.] I killed you, I know. I killed Marie. Please leave me alone now. I must die soon too. I am an old man, even if I don't look it. This war is my fault. Everyone dying is my fault. I'm scared and alone, and I cannot go back. Poor Boston is dead too. Damn you all, I see you standing behind me. Why do you not leave me? I can see you you bastard, I CAN SEE YOU [End of writing.]
April 2nd, 2026. Bayonet told me a good joke today. First you cut your hand on its sharp edge. But there's no blood and your hand doesn't cut. What does this mean? What does this mean? I don't get it. You need some blood, bayonet. You need blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood [Writing repeats ad nauseam.]
Note: All further entries are completely unintelligible.