Ye be soldiers, har har! I be laughin at the likes of you. Ye be having boys tellin' ye what to do. No sense of yer own, no will to do as ye please. Bound by chains of command, ye be no soldiers, but lowly scally wags who be on yer bellies beggin' fer scraps left by yer kings. I be awaitin' ya in the Sea, which be mine. Me rusty blade be havin' yer scent as well.