"What's that?"
The question echoed through the evening air, a dim sunset tracing purple and orange lines across the misty clouds leaving a thin coating of drizzle in their wake. A wind howled from across the Channel; the young, fresh-faced soldier braced against the chill in the air, chasing away the lingering warmth from a long, brutal summer. The scars of battle lingered still on this abandoned, dusty stockade; the beach below littered with the scraps of abandoned rifles, tanks, and jet parts. The latest detritus of this endless war, left as a monument and a warning to those who would come later.
"Looks like smoke, young man."
The officer was taller; grizzled, tired-looking, her battered rifle resting on her shoulder. She wasn't the only one in this bunker; the President himself had been seen doing the rounds, and the young soldier had heard rumours of the SAS, clad all in black, practising tactical manoeuvres in the rolling hills leading away from the gleaming white cliffs that stood as a monolith in the distance.
"The Germans attacked again. They threw everything they had into it, and the Dutch threw everything back. It wasn't enough." she said, quietly. The column of smoke towered on the horizon to their South, across the rolling sea. The battle had been fierce, violent; and yet, Holland still stood.
"But, Sir- sorry, but Ma'am, we're attacking Belgium, right? We're on the offensive, we're doing it!"
She sighed, and dipped her head, wiping a bead of chill sweat from her brow. "We won't make it far. The Belgians are tough. Our soldiers will be brave, and we'll delay the waffle eaters, but they're coming back."
The young soldier stared at the horizon, the battered assault rifle hanging from his armour catching a reflected sunbeam.
"...what can we do, Ma'am?"
She turned, hazel eyes boring into his own. She, and so many others who had fought for longer even than she had, knew what the future held. She knew how hard the last stand would be; she knew how the fight would run from the beach, to the great City a hundred miles to the North, and from there to the farthest reaches of Scotland, and of Wales. She knew the glory that awaited in fighting to the last, and the hopelessness, and inevitability, of defeat.
After what seemed like an eternity holding that stare she turned away at the sound of the microwave behind her; reaching in to take out the limp, steaming sausage roll she'd forgotten for her lunch, a smile finally gracing her otherwise stern features. And then she spoke, at last.
"We'll do what we always do, soldier.
We'll fight."