Yenigent had not slept a wink for several days. Whether day or night, Ottomans would always pop up from time to time, and the sounds of gunfire and cannon fire never ceased.
His face was caked with a mixture of dust, blood, and sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot. Yenigent even found himself missing the days aboard the ship. Though it had been rough and stinking, at least he had been able to sleep soundly.
Supplies were dwindling as well. What had begun as canned salted beef with vodka had now become nothing but rye bread soaked in hot water and rakı looted from the locals.
"How could Ottomans like liquor that tastes like this? Can this even be called liquor?"
The comrade beside him had clearly been nearly choked to death by the taste of anise. Yenigent, meanwhile, began explaining.
"Ottoman doctrine forbids drinking, so they call this stuff lion's milk, or fermented fruit juice."
The men beside him all burst into laughter.
"As expected of a bunch of evil heathens. They even deceive their own god. They have no shame at all."
"Yeah! Those Ottoman women are loose too."
The soldiers began cursing the Ottomans, and it helped them relax somewhat.
"But why has this rotation taken so long? We've been holding the front line for three days already, and no one's come to relieve us."
Yenigent complained. He and his men had all reached their limits. If this kept up, the Ottomans would not even need to attack—they would exhaust themselves to death.
"Yeah! Why haven't those bastards come to relieve us yet? Did they bribe someone? We should too—"
"Don't talk nonsense! Who would dare mess around with something like that? And the rotation used to be fixed at two days."
"Then why hasn't anyone come