The soldiers around him, however, showed little reaction. They went on eating and drinking as they pleased.
"How boring."
The old soldier also felt terribly bored. He gave a sheepish chuckle, then lowered his head and began wolfing down his food. After all, to these soldiers, death was hardly a major matter.
In fact, even when there was no war, people often starved to death, were flogged to death by drunken officers, got caught in machinery or ropes, or fell into the water and drowned.
In short, their lives were worthless.
Out at sea, a British fleet was slowly cleaving through the waves. The sailors idly scrubbed the decks, while the naval guns and powder barrels were covered with canvas to keep them from taking on too much moisture.
"What kind of damned weather is this? With fog this thick, do we really need to keep patrolling?" First Mate Billy hated this place. His endless complaints were making everyone else irritable as well.
Still, everyone thought he had a point. The Russians could easily slip out of the fjord under cover of night, and they could not possibly stand guard here forever.
Strong winds, thunderstorms—there were countless chances for the Russians to break through the blockade. What they were doing was completely pointless.
But most British sailors did not particularly care. They were only being paid to do a job, after all. They would rather there be no fighting at all.
However, the sailors had still underestimated those high-and-mighty officials. A new rule of the British Mediterranean Fleet stipulated that they would only be paid wartime wages if they actually engaged the enemy. What they were doing now was called patrolling.
Naturally, this caused dissatisfaction among the sailors. But they had all signed three-year contracts. If they threw down their