“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.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

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.