British Army commander Baron Raglan was savoring a glass of crimson wine, utterly unconcerned with the slaughter at the heart of the battlefield.
In truth, the slaughter itself was utterly meaningless. The Russians were testing the British Army's firepower, while the British were testing the Russians' endurance.
Yet the adjutant beside him still did not quite understand.
"Commander, should we equip the Ottomans with some weapons?"
Baron Raglan smiled and asked in return.
"Haven't we already given them weapons?"
"But the weapons in their hands are no different from wooden sticks."
"They're just a bunch of monkeys. Wooden sticks suit them perfectly."
Baron Raglan said this without a care, leaving the adjutant momentarily speechless.
"Look on the bright side. We're helping the Ottomans fight their war. It's only right that they put in some effort for us."
"But—"
"No buts. Giving them guns would be nothing but a waste of money. Do you know how the newspapers and politicians back home evaluate us?"
The adjutant shook his head. Baron Raglan snatched up the copy of The Times in his hand and tossed it over.
"See for yourself."
The adjutant unfolded the newspaper. Its front-page headline read: "The British Government Intends to Let the Army BOY Spend Every penny of British Taxpayers' Money."
The subheading read: "Where Should a Cabinet That Likes Rolling in the Mud Go From Here?"
The British Army held an extremely low status in Britain, the kind neither father cherished nor mother loved. Not only did the gentlemen of Parliament treat it as third-class citizens, even the Duke of Wellington, commander of the army, called it "the scum of the earth."
Only then did the adjutant finally understand Baron Raglan's painstaking intentions. It could not be helped—the gentlemen of Parliament wanted a pretty war, but if it