Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 661 Crossing the Danube Again (Part 2)
Alexei, a soldier in the Imperial Guard, could feel the ground rumbling beneath his feet—his own artillery fire clearing a path for them. The smell of gunpowder and dust stung his eyes, but he dared not stop, and could only follow closely behind the tall figure in front of him.

Their Guards Division maintained the perfect formation of a parade, but in the midst of gunfire, this was tantamount to suicide. Bullets whizzed past their ears, and men fell silently every now and then, their ornate bearskin hats rolling to the ground and instantly trampled into the mud.

"For the Tsar! For Russia!" The slogans rang out around him, initially clear and resounding, but gradually thinning and becoming hoarse as the casualties increased. Alexei's heart pounded like a drum, and he almost unconsciously joined in the shouts, as if that could dispel the fear within him. He saw a familiar fellow countryman, a burst of blood suddenly erupting from his chest, falling straight to the ground. Alexei wanted to stop, but the flow of people behind him pushed him forward.

They charged up a hillside riddled with artillery fire, their feet sinking into soft mud and broken limbs. Suddenly, the long-silent Ottoman positions ahead erupted in deadly fire! The rattling of machine guns became the dominant sound of the battlefield, dense bullets sweeping across the Guards ranks like scythes.

"Scatter! Take cover!" Sergeant Vasily roared hoarsely, but his voice was barely audible in the hellish noise. Alexei instinctively lunged towards a shell crater, where the body of an Ottoman soldier already lay. He huddled in the cold mud, listening to the bullets thudding into the crater's edge, feeling the chill of death brush past him. He looked up and saw Sergeant Vasily brandishing his rifle, trying to organize an attack. The next second, a bullet struck him precisely in the forehead. The sergeant's tall body swayed, then collapsed to the ground like a fallen log.

Alexei's mind went blank; a mixture of fear, anger, and despair overwhelmed him. He stopped thinking, mechanically crawling out of the crater, picking up his rifle, and joining the other survivors, howling as they charged towards the flame-spitting position. He didn't know how he got there; he only remembered the agonizing resistance of bayonets piercing bodies, the sticky feeling of warm blood splattering on his face, and the curses and screams in various languages ​​that filled his ears.

But it wasn't just them who were suffering; the defenders were also reaching their limit. Hassan crouched in the trench, gripping his Mauser rifle tightly, his knuckles white from the force. The shelling outside seemed endless; dirt and gravel rained down, pounding against his helmet. His company had been holding this line on the flank of Hill 107 for four days, suffering over half its men killed or wounded.

"Hold on! Hold on! Wait until they get close before you attack!" The old sergeant crouched and ran along the trench, his hoarse voice encouraging the mostly new recruits. Hassan was Bosnian, and the story and sacrifice of the Battle of Senica were branded into the hearts of every Bosnian soldier. They came here not only to obey the Sultan, but also to avenge the Serbs and their accomplices.

The shelling finally extended. Hassan cautiously peeked out, and through the billowing smoke, he saw a sight he would never forget.

Countless Russian soldiers, wearing tall bearskin hats, like ghosts crawling out of hell, pressed silently and resolutely towards their positions in dense formations. The oppressive atmosphere was almost suffocating.

"Fire!" At the old sergeant's command, Hassan and his comrades leaned forward and pulled the trigger. The machine gun roared furiously. Russian soldiers at the forefront fell in droves, but those behind them stepped over their fallen comrades without hesitation and continued their charge!
Hassan saw a huge Russian soldier, his face covered in blood, charging at him with a bayonet. He frantically raised his rifle to parry, and the clang of the gunshot made his hand go numb. The two engaged in a fierce battle in the narrow, muddy trench.

Hassan was smaller in stature but more agile. He dodged a fatal thrust and seized the opportunity to smash his opponent's cheek with the butt of his rifle. The Russian soldier grunted, his movements faltering. Hassan seized the chance and plunged his bayonet into his chest. Looking into the enemy's wide-open, lifeless blue eyes, Hassan felt a wave of nausea, but he had no time to vomit, as another enemy charged at him with a howl. The trenches had become a bloody arena, with soldiers from both sides fighting with bayonets, entrenching tools, fists, and even teeth.

This brutal hand-to-hand combat between elite soldiers lasted from afternoon until dusk. The afterglow of the setting sun pierced through the smoke, casting a poignant crimson hue over this battlefield. On the ridge, corpses piled up like mountains, many of them Russian Guardsmen wearing ornate bearskin hats.

The Russian Guards Division's offensive ultimately crumbled like waves crashing against hard rocks. They displayed unparalleled courage, even nearly breaching the ridge at one point, but the desperate resistance of the Ottoman defenders and the timely counterattacks of the Iranian reinforcements exhausted their last ounce of strength. The surviving Guards soldiers, leaving behind numerous corpses and wounded comrades, were forced to retreat to the northern slope of Hill 107.

The Ottoman-Iranian coalition also suffered extremely heavy losses, especially its core Bosnian regiment, which was almost wiped out. Ammunition reserves were depleted, and all reserves had been committed. They were also unable to launch a large-scale counterattack to drive the Russian army across the Danube.

As night finally fell and the gunfire subsided, the surviving soldiers, regardless of which side they were on, collapsed in pools of blood and mud, too exhausted to even move a finger. General Tatishev's final, crucial strike had once again ended in a devastating defeat. After suffering over 100,000 casualties, the Danube River was once again locked in a stalemate.

Both sides shifted to defense, engaging in endless artillery battles, sniping, and small-scale assaults and counter-attacks around the blood-soaked, fragmented positions. The Danube, the dream waterway, remained firmly in the hands of the Ottoman army. The Russian army had only gained a few isolated, precarious bridgeheads on the south bank, requiring constant reinforcements, far from achieving its strategic objectives.

By early May, the arrival of spring rains had made the roads muddy and difficult, further complicating the Russian offensive and resupply efforts. St. Petersburg finally had to face reality: a decisive breakthrough on the Danube front was no longer possible in the short term. Tatishev received orders from the High Command to halt large-scale offensive operations, shift to a defensive posture, consolidate strength, and await news from other fronts or changes in the international situation.

(End of this chapter)