25 March 1997, Scotland border, Gretna.
The rain was coming down hard.
Like a prostate that couldn't hold it in.
The remnants of 1st Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, huddled in a hastily dug trench, boots sunk in mud, ground mats long since turned into waterlogged sponges. No one spoke; there was only the sound of raindrops hammering on helmets, and the distant occasional thud you couldn't tell was thunder or artillery.
Sergeant Patrick Reed licked the rainwater running to the corner of his mouth. Salty, with a metallic tang. Might've been blood.
Three days ago, battalion HQ had passed down an order: withdraw five kilometres across the line, to "create a conducive atmosphere for negotiations."
Which basically meant admitting they couldn't hold this godforsaken spot. They'd been ambushed twice during the retreat, lost seventeen brothers, and they hadn't even managed to recover six of the bodies.
"Boss,"
