Off the coast of London, the brutal bloodbath continued. To stop the Allied forces from landing, the British Army unleashed every ounce of its potential.
London lay behind them. The British Army had nowhere left to retreat to. If they did not fight desperately now, the British Empire would perish.
After a century as the dominant power, British pride had long soared to towering heights. How could they possibly tolerate defeat? Even facing the entire European Continent, the British refused to admit defeat.
The British Army fought fiercely, and the Allied forces had their own reasons why they had no choice but to fight. Over the years, the British had earned far too much hatred. Now it was time to repay blood with blood and grievance with grievance; their morale was no less formidable.
The air battle raged fiercely, and planes constantly fell from the sky like dumplings. In the command center aboard the flagship Emperor, Fleet Commander Admiral Aldo von Donati stared coldly at the sea.
The Royal Navy was still on its way, and the Navy's battle had yet to arrive. For now, apart from clearing mines and dealing with submarines, there was nothing remotely challenging.
As for the battle in the sky, the Navy simply could not get involved. Even though it possessed the most advanced anti-aircraft firepower of the age, it made no difference.
Poor accuracy was only a minor issue. The real problem was that aircraft moved too fast, and the air forces were tangled together in combat. If they opened fire rashly, the odds of shooting down their own planes were just as high as shooting down enemy ones.
The Allied air force clearly held the upper hand now, so there was naturally no need for such a desperate, indiscriminate method of fighting.
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