“It is the historian who has decided for his own reasons that Caesar's crossing of the

  Rubicon, is a fact of history, whereas the crossing of the Rubicon by millions of other

  people before or since interests nobody at all.”

  —E.H. Carr

  War is not one song, but the chorus of a million silenced voices.

  This story is dedicated to those who history deemed too unimportant to remember.

  ---

  Arctic Sea, 18th March 1942

  The Arctic fog was never a good sign.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Billy Sutton knew that it would be a particularly thick and persistent one, probably

  lasting until the afternoon of the next day. In the haze he could not even pinpoint

  anything a kilometre ahead of him, meaning he could only keep four of the merchant

  vessels in his vision. Exhaling quietly, he stood still with hands clasped on a pair of

  binoculars. Aside from the beep of the ship’s radar set in the bridge behind him and

  the erratic whistle of the gales that raced through the Arctic Sea, it was silent.

  It put him on edge.

  The taffrail of the Trinidad’s bridge was already covered in a thin sheet of ice after

  only a day of sailing, and Billy dared not touch it even with a thick layer of gloves.

  From his position he could see no submarines or commerce raiders, no potential

  danger on the clouded horizon. The slowly creeping fog made his role as the ship’s

  spotter redundant, though he knew it was one that would still have to be fulfilled. The

  ship’s bridge was only two meters behind him, ready for him to report the slightest

  hint of danger. He checked his stopwatch, the minute hand seeming to have not

  moved an inch.

  It was so cold.

  So quiet.