The sudden, jarring arrival of the 1915 United States military was met not with resistance, but with a terrifying, silent curiosity from the inhabitants of Evil Land. Brigadier General "Black Jack" Pershing, in command of the expeditionary force, ordered the immediate establishment of a fortified camp. He was prepared for guerrilla fighters, not for a land that actively sought to destroy him.
The first contact was with the Galactic Empire. An Imperial scouting party, a handful of Stormtroopers and a single AT-ST walker, encountered an American cavalry squadron. The US cavalry, believing they had found some form of futuristic German armor, charged. Their Springfield rifles and Colt pistols were utterly useless. The rounds simply ricocheted off the Stormtroopers' armor, while the Imperial blasters sliced through men and horses with effortless precision. The AT-ST's chin-mounted blasters disintegrated entire ranks of soldiers.
General Pershing, observing from a distance, saw not a defeat, but an unacceptable technological gap. His engineers and ordnance experts, brought in to study the fallen Imperial gear, were baffled. They couldn't reverse-engineer the blasters, and the Stormtrooper armor was found to be a composite material of impossible strength. The Empire, for its part, was annoyed, but not threatened. They viewed the Americans as primitives and their weapons as curiosities. The conflict was not a war, but a demonstration of power.
The American forces next pushed east, seeking a source of fresh water, and stumbled into the territory of the Sorcerer-Kings. They were met by a slave legion, a horrifying tide of mutated, shambling beings wielding primitive bone and stone clubs. The Americans' machine guns, their pride and joy, opened up with a deafening roar. Thousands of rounds tore through the enemy ranks, but the Sorcerer-Kings had a terrifying advantage. With every American casualty, the land around them became more fertile for the Kings' unholy magic. A Sorcerer-King, standing on a nearby dune, simply raised a hand, and the bodies of the fallen American soldiers rose, their corrupted forms wielding the very rifles that had killed them.
The American soldiers' resolve, already strained by the despair of Evil Land, shattered. They were not fighting men; they were fighting a force of nature that fed on their deaths. This was not a battle for ground, but a macabre war of attrition where every inch gained was paid for with lives that would soon be turned against them.
The Zeon forces, operating from a mobile fortress, viewed the Americans as a tactical nuisance, but one that was worth engaging for the sake of resources. A pitched battle took place in the ruins of an ancient city. The Americans brought all their artillery to bear, firing barrage after barrage at a single Mobile Suit. The shells, designed to obliterate trenches, exploded harmlessly against the Mobile Suit's armor. It stood, impassive, before delivering a single, devastating blast from its beam rifle that obliterated a city block and all the American artillery within it.
The US's belief in its own military superiority was completely undone. Their tanks and cannons were toys in the face of this new, terrifying technology. The Zeon pilots, for their part, felt only a grim satisfaction. They had not been challenged, only confirmed in their belief that their mobile suits were the ultimate weapon.
The American military's direct, physical invasions proved futile, but the truly horrifying encounters were those against factions that did not fight with brute force.
Jon Irenicus did not need to confront the Americans; he simply needed to harvest them. Scouts and patrols went missing, not in a bloody ambush, but in a silent, supernatural theft. Soldiers would vanish from their posts, their souls siphoned away for Irenicus's dark experiments. The American high command tried to stop the disappearances, but their conventional military tactics had no answer for a monster who could steal a man's very soul.
Lemuria's defense was even more subtle. When American patrols approached their psionic-guarded territories, their minds began to unravel. Their radios filled with silent screams, their compasses spun erratically, and their sense of reality frayed. Soldiers would wander in circles for days, only to find themselves back where they started, their sanity broken by a silent, invisible foe. Lemuria did not need to kill; it simply needed to break.
The Borg, in its cold, logical pursuit of perfection, saw the Americans not as an enemy, but as a trove of biological data. The US's rifles, once a symbol of power, were useless against the Borg's force fields and impenetrable armor. When the Borg advanced, they did not attack. They extended their nanite-infused appendages, and American soldiers were assimilated, their courage, their defiance, and their knowledge of 1915 military tactics added to the collective. The horror was not death, but the loss of self, a complete and total obliteration of all that they were.
In the end, all of the major invasions failed. The remnants of the US Army retreated to a central redoubt, only to face the final, true enemy of Evil Land: The Savagery of Evil.
This was not an army of men or machines, but a unified, malevolent will. The cursed rain fell, corroding their rifles and sickening their men. The despair in the air turned commanders to hollow shells. The undead wildlife and skeletal plant life, driven by a unified malice, began to close in. The American soldiers, once so proud and confident, fired their last bullets at an enemy that did not bleed, did not feel, and did not stop. Their great invasion was not a glorious campaign but a prolonged, agonizing funeral. Their forces were not defeated but consumed, their brave souls a new source of fuel for the relentless, unmaking will of Evil Land.