Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 457 The Akmechte Conflict (Part 1)

The eastern bank of the Syr Darya was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder before dawn. Pashinyan inspected the newly established bridgehead position, trudging through the muddy riverbed. Soldiers were digging trenches with their entrenching tools, their uniforms soaked with damp mud and morning dew.

The outline of the Pelovsk fortress in the distance appeared particularly somber in the gradually brightening sky, and the occasional flashes of metallic reflection on the walls reminded everyone that Russian snipers were keeping a watchful eye on this newly captured position.

"Set up the guns behind that hill." Pashinyan pointed to a slightly raised hill on the riverbank, and several soldiers immediately dragged the heavy machine guns to the designated location.

The dark gun barrels gleamed coldly in the morning light. Suddenly, a sharp whistling sound ripped through the sky, and Pashinyan instinctively threw himself to the ground. "Artillery fire!" His warning had barely left his lips when a shell exploded thirty paces away, sending splattered dirt raining down on the soldiers' backs.

The Russian counterattack came faster and fiercer than expected. The artillery positions of the Perovsk fortress spewed forth a continuous barrage of fire, shells raining down on the Iranian army's makeshift positions. One shell struck a machine gun emplacement being set up, instantly killing two soldiers and scattering expensive machine gun parts across the ground. Pashinyan spat out the sand in his mouth and saw Mousavi running towards him, crouching low. The chief of staff's cap was missing, and blood smeared his forehead.

The well-trained Iranian soldiers quickly jumped into the newly dug foxholes, but more than twenty sappers who couldn't get out of the way were torn to pieces by shrapnel. Pashinyan observed the situation and realized that the Russians had clearly used at least two artillery batteries of 12-pound Napoleon cannons. Although these smoothbore cannons were old, they were still deadly against beachheads lacking strong fortifications.

"General! Scouts report that Russian infantry are assembling!" Musavi's voice was almost drowned out by the continuous explosions. "At least two battalions, plus cavalry!"

Pashinyan wiped his face and turned to look at the river. The crossing of subsequent reinforcements had been completely halted by artillery fire; a dozen small boats were spinning in the middle of the river, some burning. He gritted his teeth and drew his gilded saber from his waist: "Order all companies to prepare for hand-to-hand combat. Tell the soldiers that Shah is waiting for our message in Tehran."

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the morning mist, the Russian army launched its charge. Clad in dark green uniforms, the Russian infantry advanced in neat horizontal ranks, their gleaming bayonets flashing a dazzling silver in the sunlight. On either side, fierce Cossack cavalry had already begun to accelerate, their sabers drawing deadly arcs through the air. Suddenly, the few remaining machine guns on the Iranian positions spewed fire, and the leading Russian soldiers fell like wheat being harvested, but the ranks behind them immediately dispersed and continued their advance.

"Hold on! Wait until they're fifty paces away before firing!" Pashinyan ran along the trenches, boosting morale. When the Russians closed to a dangerous distance, he swung his saber sharply: "Fire!" The roar of hundreds of rifles firing simultaneously shook the ground, and thick smoke instantly obscured the entire front line. But the Russians were simply too close; after the first volley, a tidal wave of enemy troops had already reached the edge of the trenches.

A bloody melee ensued. Pashinyan personally charged into the enemy ranks, wielding his saber. The sharp blade pierced the shoulder of a Russian officer, splattering warm blood across his face. To his left, an Iranian soldier parried a Cossack cavalryman's saber with his rifle, splitting the wooden stock in two. The next second, the cavalryman was slashed from his horse by an Iranian soldier charging from the side. The battle quickly devolved into a chaotic close-quarters fight, with figures grappling everywhere, screams and the clash of weapons filling the air. Suddenly, a steam horn sounded from the Syr Darya. Pashinyan turned his head during a lull in the fighting and saw two armed steamships billowing black smoke, sailing upstream, their twelve-pound cannons spitting out dazzling flashes of fire. The shells landed precisely in the ranks of the Russian reinforcements, instantly disrupting the enemy's offensive rhythm. The rapid-fire cannons on the sides of the ships also opened fire, a barrage of bullets sweeping down Cossack cavalry in droves.

"It's our gunboat!" Musawi shouted excitedly, covered in blood. It turned out that after Salami learned of the advance troops' predicament, he immediately ordered the river defense fleet stationed upstream to rush to their aid. This time, the telegram from the Transoxiana region proved useful, allowing the fleet to break through Russian harassment and arrive here.

This timely support completely turned the tide of the battle. The Russian troops began a hasty retreat, leaving behind a trail of corpses and wounded. The Iranian soldiers cheered in victory, but Pashinyan knew this was only a temporary respite. He immediately organized men to fortify the positions and sent signalmen back to the west bank by small boat to request more artillery and engineering troops.

At midday, as the Russian artillery fire temporarily ceased, an exhilarating sight appeared on the river: dozens of ferries laden with soldiers and supplies, sailing in a long line under the cover of gunboats. Most striking were several specially made flat-bottomed boats in the middle, with disassembled field guns fixed to them. Pashinyan breathed a sigh of relief; with these heavy weapons, they could truly gain a foothold. Engineers quickly erected pontoon bridges on the riverbanks, and wave after wave of fresh troops marched into the bridgehead positions, accompanied by medical teams and ammunition supplies.

Several exhausted wounded soldiers leaned against the outside of a makeshift medical tent, where a medic was bandaging them with blood-stained bandages. In the distance, the occasional flash of metal reflecting off the battlements of the Perovsk fortress served as a constant reminder that a Russian counterattack could come at any moment.

“Collect all the captured Cossack sabers.” Pashinyan kicked at the body of a Russian soldier at his feet. The bearded cavalryman had gripped his silver-inlaid Chashik saber until his death. “They will be fine gifts for His Majesty the Shah when we send them back to Tehran.”

"General!" Mousavi ran up, covered in soot, clutching a telegram. "Urgent telegram from General Salami! Reinforcements have been dispatched from the nearest Russian position; at least two infantry regiments and an artillery battalion are on their way!"

Pashinyan looked towards the northeastern horizon, where a long line of flickering torches could be faintly seen. He wiped the blood from his knife, his voice terribly hoarse: "Order the engineers to reinforce the pontoon bridge tonight, and send the seriously wounded back first. Then send a telegram to Tehran—" The general paused, his gaze sweeping over the exhausted soldiers on the battlefield, "tell them that the Syr Darya bridgehead can be held, but we need more cannons, the more the better."

A sudden gust of night wind, carrying the fishy smell of water, swept across the river, dispersing the heavy stench of gunpowder. Pashinyan looked up at the starry sky and saw that the eastern horizon was already turning a pale white. This bloody tug-of-war was destined to continue for many more days and nights like this.

(End of this chapter)