Hi, everyone. So a few things before I get into this week's journal. First: I didn't see the first (work got out at 4 ET) or fourth quarters, and I was mentally checked out pretty much by the beginning of the third, so while I have a general understanding of the key points of the game, I didn't really see most of it. I'm glad I didn't. Second, I'm also glad that I'm not taking the loss too hard. I woke up remembering that Ohio State had just gotten bludgeoned by a vastly inferior team (because let's not split hairs, Iowa is, despite yesterday's performance, still on paper and in practice much, much less talented), but other than that bitter twinge and lingering sense of disbelief, I was pretty okay. I'm still pretty okay. Maybe watching the US National Soccer team choke in qualifying against the worst team in the Hex last month inoculated me to bitter disappointment in sports, or maybe I've just come to understand that if the worst thing in your life is that your favorite team gets beaten, you have a pretty good life.

Anyway, here's the journal.

Fifth of November, Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Seventeen

Dearest Shelley,

I don't know when this letter will reach you. If it will reach you. I can only hope you are warm and happy where you are now, for I am not. Along with the broken remnants of my forces I am seeking shelter in the dried husk of a fallow cornfield. The cold rain is falling, and while it soaks our clothes, makes limp our tattered banners, and soaks down all the way to our bones, it at least has washed away our trail, preserving us from the keen snouts of the hounds with which the patrols of Iowan soldiers attempt to suss us out.

Perhaps a third of my original forces now survive, and many more I fear will succumb to injury and disease before the dawn after next. We have no facilities or supplies with which to treat them. I myself am uninjured, but this is pale consolation measured against the staggering suffering of my fighting men. I can only blame myself for this catastrophic failure, this ignominious and crushing defeat.

We arrived yesterday on the outskirts of Iowa City in good spirit. It was a fine cool day for a battle, and more importantly clear. Having just defeated the forces of Pennsylvania, we were certain of our victory today against what seemed an overmatched opponent. We were wrong. We were all wrong.

Captain Barrett, hero of the last battle, fell into an ambush in his first foray against enemy lines, and though he survived, he lost many of his men, and his confidence was never fully restored. Sergeant Bosa was lost early in the fight, and though I cannot say for sure that he was killed or captured, I have not seen him since. The men of Iowa fought with a fervor I have never seen, and never hope to see again. By the middle of the battle, we were already all but beaten, our ranks in disarray, numerous fighting men killed or captured. We who now hide like rats in the cornfields are still alive and free, but for how long shall this remain the case?

It is perhaps true that we came to Iowa less than fully disciplined. It is perhaps true that we came to Iowa more than a little overconfident. It is perhaps true that we came to Iowa with less than a complete plan, less than adequate supplies, and with no idea what we were walking into. And yet none of that explains or excuses what happened. Every man lost in that battle, every hope shattered, every dream of glory tarnished--the weight of all this rests upon my soul. And should I survive another day, should I make it back to Columbus with some particle of my forces intact, this will be my shame to bear.

Should we regather our forces, we might yet defeat the armies of Michigan, and we might yet win this War of Fourteen Armies. But I fear the larger war, the war to shape the destiny of this continent, has been lost forever.

Yours forever,

General Urban Francis Meyer