Marine Calendar 1506, April 15.
May 7, 200, State Religion World Gregorian Calendar.
5:23 a.m., London time.
Turbulent waves crashed back and forth against the morning shore and beach.
This was Portpatrick, located at the westernmost edge of the southern Scottish Highlands.
Within the Dumfries administrative region.
At this moment.
Britain's Scottish Military District had concentrated over twenty thousand troops from four infantry brigades here.
Forty self-propelled artillery pieces and eighty main battle tanks.
One hundred and sixty infantry fighting vehicles and over two hundred mortars.
Near Port Logan and Port William, which served as the rear first-line command post.
They had deployed nearly a hundred surface-to-air missile systems, more than twenty littoral combat ships, and two air regiments totaling eighty fighter jets.
It could be said that every breath of air and every sea breeze here faintly carried an atmosphere of tension.
British Army infantrymen clutched their L85A1 assault rifles tightly as they leaned uneasily against the freshly dug trenches, feeling the war drawing nearer.
Yes.
They had hastily dug two defensive lines, one long and one short.
This was the foremost front line, with another Kennedy Fort defensive line behind it.
The soldiers had never imagined that a war on this scale could still break out in the year 200.
And during their own service, no less. What terrible luck!
Those damned, idiotic politicians—who knew whether they had suddenly caught mad cow disease and become brave!
The Navy's trump-card Home Fleet had already been wiped out, and they even knew where the World Government came from.
Where the hell had they found the nerve to decide to resist?
Wouldn't it have been better to surrender before France and fight for first place?
Stephen, of the 3rd Light Infantry Battalion, 7th Infantry Brigade.
Kept taking deep breaths, cursing Britain's