Now I haven't bullshitted you about the odds. We'll fight until the Governor throws in the towel or until we're overrun, which probably means dying. I want you to face that. Death. Think about what it means now and when the firing starts forget it. You are the Green Berets. The Royals. That means you will knock seven shades of excrement out of them before you go down. Don't get angry with whoever dropped you in the smelly stuff. You're in fathoms of it and it's too late. Get angry with the arrogant bastards who are planning to waltz in here thinking you'll just take it up the bum. Now Garry's men know this place and like it and I'm sure some of them have got local girls on their minds. Maybe even sheep. But half of us haven't even had time to find the pub. Tonight, when the time comes, we're fighting for ourselves. For what Royal stands for. For one another.
I am a Marine with the same job as your Royal Marines had in 1833. That is to take possession of these islands. All that is left is to prevent your men killing a few of mine. Whereas your job, Governor, is to prevent my men killing all your men.