It is January 4th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller, member of the Werwolfgruppe Rheinland-Köln. Our leader is Hermann Müller - the single most cliché name I ever heard.

My friends and comrades laugh at me whenever they see me kneel here in the dirt, writing down what has occured. But I believe that it is necessary and right to write down what has happened. The frontlines in the east collapsed and most of Germany had been abandoned for the sake of a national redoubt in the Alps. The Sirussian armies are advancing at an ever increasing speed and will reach Cologne in roughly a month if they keep up their pace.

It is January 19th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. I will not run away. Preparations are underway.

They advance faster than the Wochenschau can report - word is Berlin has fallen, word is they crossed the Elbe already. Our group numbers about 750 men, women and young boys all over Cologne. We are making preparations for the inevitable.

Most of the civilian populace here is preparing to travel further west, some trying to reach Frankreich and then further into Spain, Portugal, and over the Ocean.

Others attempt to flee to England, although I doubt the safety of that path as the Sirussian front has touched the North Sea already.

What do we do, you ask? We have created a sizeable network of tunnels all over Cologne so far; we've connected the less noticeable bunkers with one another. Due to its central nature, we have also made a tunnel leading into the catacombs of the Kölner Dom. This ancient cathedral has withstood the millstone of time, I worry not that it will now withstand the Sirussian plague.


It is February 2nd of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. I am ready.

The preparations for their arrival have finished today, no small thanks to a generous Feldwebel who had left us with a large amount of ammunition and weapons he could not have taken along in the retreat.
Cologne, now, feels like it has more tunnels than it does streets - and that may very well be true. We have artillery pieces hidden away in almost every house, behind almost every window on this side of the Rhine.

The bridges in and around Cologne have been booby-trapped. Roads have been mined.

Let them come, I say. Let those bastards come. They may have beaten the Wehrmacht, but they have not beaten Deutschland!


It is February 8th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. They are here.

Today, they made their first attempt to cross the Rhine. They never saw it coming until they were right on top of it - all it took was to light the fuse. I know not what it feels like to kill a man, but I now know what it feels like to kill a monster.
They went down into the waters of this sacred stream that runs through our homeland and I saw only a very small amount of them return to the surface.

Those who had managed to cross the bridge before it collapsed seemed to panic - they were driven into disarray and ran straight into our minefields and anti tank guns.

Those who attempted to reach the banks of the river got a taste of true German marksmanship.

And those who remained east of the Rhine hid.

It was a good day.


It is February 15th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. The air smells of gunpowder, fire and dust.

Two weeks. For almost two weeks have they remained on the other side of the Rhine. For almost two weeks they have used artillery on this ancient city in their attempts to destroy us. The fire has ceased today and we could finally visit the surface again.

The Kölner Dom stood defiantly against their remorseless assault. Its walls were littered with holes and the stained glass windows were no more, but the church stood firmly against the alien as if to defy their attempts to assert authority over the world.

Hermann says they will attempt to cross the Rhine again any day now. I believe he is right; one of the other groups reports that they have almost finished a bridge across the Rhine - one made of the same material they use for their own vehicles.

It matters not. We have shown them numerous times that their steel can be broken, too.


It is February 18th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. They have made it across the river.

The Sirussians have passed the river now and are moving on into France. Hermann says to lay low until the brunt of their forces has passed through or we will be discovered.

We noticed a number of rather large, clumsy-looking machines that seem to be unarmed. We suspect them to be supply transports. We are likely going to target them.


It is March 22nd of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. I can finally move my arms again.

After the largest part of the Sirussian forces had passed through, we waited for the first supply train.

None of us are certain whether we were smart or fools to attack it. We were lying in wait with our guns and opened fire on the first transport we saw. The first shot ruptured its hull and...god, some sort of heavy, ground-lingering gas shot out of the opening.
From what I have been told, I had barely escaped that doombringing cloud, unlike others more unfortunate than me.

I have been told that my arms had been caught in the jet of gas and this foul, vile chemical caused my skin to...what has Erika called it...ah, 'break down'. She said my skin had simply begun to break down, or rather, dissolve...I wish she hadn't described it as a block of sugar submerged in tea. I will never be able to consume either if I survive this.


It is April 3rd of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. The fog has come.

The black fog that obscures most of the Sirussian-controlled territory has reached the city and enveloped it in its dark clutches. Breathing has become more difficult and we have this constant stale taste in our mouths. Gas masks are effective in fighting the adverse effects of the fog, but we have too few of them. Hermann decided we should give most of our masks to the women. I'm inclined to agree; if this fog has any long-term effects, at least they will be spared the worst of it. Us men have resorted to covering our mouths and noses with cloth.

It is April 7th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Our supplies are running thin.

We all knew this situation couldn't last forever. Our food supplies are at their limit and it won't be long until they are exhausted completely. A solution must be found soon. Crops don't grow around here anymore and all animals flee this hell.


It is April 13th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Sirussian tastes like shit.

Whoever is reading this will quite possibly consider me, us, insane. Don't worry, I'll agree with you. Erika made an off-hand comment about food passing through here daily earlier this morning. Hermann, a few others and me headed out to intercept a Sirussian convoy. They didn't expect anything; probably thought we were all dead after that disaster back in early March. I'm not entirely sure just what we hit, but the transports contained a large amount of various metals, liquids that may be fuel, strange weapons none of us can hold properly, gunpowder, the usual.

Well, for the most part. One of the transports seemed like it was made to transport what these beasts consider to be 'people'. Dear reader, have you ever seen a Sirussian cower in front of a human? I have - and we killed them. Dozens of them. All of them.

Hermann said to bring the bodies along. I believe we kept them over the fire for an hour and a half before the first one even tried it. I do not know how we do it or how we considered it, but I guarantee you that it is better than starving to death - or defiling our own dead.


It is April 25th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. They are searching for us.

Today, they flooded a section of the northern tunnels with this abominable gas I made contact with in March. We don't know if anyone made it out, but we're not having any hopes. Hermann said to relocate our quarters into the Kölner Dom's clock tower. We'll be safe from the gas there.


It is May 4th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. They are in for a nasty surprise.

Hermann had us all take a closer look at the aliens' weapons today. We figured out how they work and luckily, no one was hurt in the process. With this achievement, we no longer have to worry about running out of ammo for our weapons.

It is June 9th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Routine has set in.

We have been fighting those bastards for four months now. They pay minimal attention to us, which is concerning. It is almost as though they regard us as not worth their time. Every now and then one of their purge units moves through, but we have learned how to avoid them. Once they are spotted, we evacuate the tunnels and hide aboveground. The ruins offer plenty of opportunities for that.


It is July 19th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Saw a bird today.

For the first time in months, I saw a bird flying across the sky. Erika says it's a good sign, says something good is happening. I'm inclined to say it's just a bird that got lost.


It is August 1st of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Sirussian activity is increasing.

Alien activity has picked up; we see more troops moving through here towards France now. Something big must be going on if they are in such a hurry. Hermann theorizes they are planning on jumping across the Atlantic to crush America.


It is September 22nd of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Large amount of Sirussians moving east.

Over the last few days, an extremely large number of Sirussians has passed through Cologne - most of them appear to be badly injured. Heinrich suspects they're headed for some sort of treatment facility in Moscow or Mars or god knows where those freaks hail from.

We were all in agreement to intercept and kill as many of those bastards as possible. The tide of wounded appears to be endless, so the next weeks will likely be busy. But I wonder what is going on over there.


It is October 26 of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Still alive.

We've been hitting their convoys pretty hard lately and they're struggling to react. Whatever is going on requires most if not all of their attention.


It is November 14th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Hopeful news.

Hermann told us some people stationed in the southern parts of the city swore they saw an American plane. I'm not sure whether to believe it or not.


It is December 23th of 1947.
My name is Franz Schaller. Merry f-cking Christmas.

We've survived until Christmas. To celebrate the occasion Hermann has decided that we'll give those Sirussians a very special treat.

Tomorrow, their beautiful little bridge will disappear. Some people insist it's a hasty decision, rushed and suicidal. Others argue that it's a perfect occasion, the transport of supplies to and from the west is picking up in intensity.

It is December 24th of 1947.
My name no longer matters. It all went to hell.

Those bastards found us after we had placed the explosives under the bridge. We made a run for it, but the bastards stuck to us like ticks.

They picked us off one by one. I don't know when, but at one point, we had split apart. Once I was sure I had lost the aliens, I headed back to our hideout.

Hermann had made a run straight for it. He'd led them right there. No one of our group's left. Hermann gone. Erika gone. Everyone else...gone.


It is December 31st of 1947.
My name is irrelevant. The last preparations are complete.

Over the last days, I have been burying what remained of my brothers in arms down here in the catacombs. I will leave this log, this diary on the altar in the Dom to make it serve as a memory of the Werwolfgruppe Rheinland-Köln.

Today is the day on which I will complete our last mission. For humanity.