1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 229 Pasha's Crazy Gamble

The plains of Thessaly had been transformed into a vast, muddy slaughterhouse.

The first wave of the charge, like murky seawater crashing against rocks, was shattered and retreated in disarray. The fleeing soldiers abandoned their rifles, flags, and even their wounded comrades, scrambling back to their starting positions. All they brought back were mud-covered bodies, deep-seated fear, and the deafening sound of machine gun fire from the opposite position, like the heartbeat of death.

In front of the position, an open area of ​​nearly 10,000 square meters was covered with mutilated bodies. The earthy brown of the Ottoman uniforms was stained with large patches of dark red. The air was thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and burnt human flesh, creating a nauseating atmosphere.

Edhem Pasha stood on his command post, witnessing this hellish scene firsthand. His body was stiff, his knuckles white from gripping the binoculars. Through the binoculars, the death zone he had created was both so clear and so alien.

He couldn't understand it.

He couldn't understand why his proud imperial elite, those invincible warriors who had fought countless Balkan conflicts, couldn't even get close to the enemy's trenches.

That wasn't a battle, that was a harvest.

"Cowards! A bunch of cowards!"

The old general's roar was like that of a wounded beast. He slammed the German-made Zeiss telescope in his hand to the ground, the brass body striking the hard rock with a crisp cracking sound.

The shock, after a brief period, quickly escalated into an uncontrollable rage.

He refused to admit that his tactics were flawed. In his military philosophy, which had been in place for half a century, courage and numbers could crush everything. How many troops could tiny Greece possibly have? As long as they broke through the trenches, everything would be fine. If one charge didn't work, they'd try again! The only reason for failure was that the soldiers weren't brave enough!

"Sir Pasha!" The voice of German military advisor Major von Riedel rang out behind him, filled with barely suppressed anxiety. "We must halt the attack immediately! The enemy's firepower is far greater than we imagined! They have constructed a sophisticated network of crossfire and a deep defensive system! Our men are simply throwing their lives away!"

Edheim Pasha turned around abruptly, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the Prussian.

"Shut up, Riedel! This is the Ottoman army, not your Prussian military academy!" He pointed a finger, almost poking von Riedel's nose. "I don't need you to teach me how to fight!"

The old general's anger found an outlet. He stopped looking at von Riedel and roared at the messenger beside him.

"Pass on my orders! Send my supervisory team up! Behind the second trench!"

"Tell all soldiers! The second wave of attack begins immediately! Anyone who dares to retreat even one step will be executed on the spot! No matter who they are!"

The order was executed without hesitation.

A task force composed of Pasha guards quickly moved to the front lines. They set up machine guns, the dark muzzles pointed at their own men.

The threat of death came from two directions simultaneously.

Under the officers' shouts and the cold muzzles of the supervising soldiers' guns, the retreating soldiers had no time to catch their breath before being forced to reorganize their formation. Their faces were filled with numbness and despair.

The sharp bugle call to charge sounded once again.

"Charge!"

The second and third waves of attacks, like herded livestock, numbly surged towards that land of death, wave after wave. This time, there were no more frenzied shouts, only heavy breathing and suppressed sobs.

Meanwhile, on the Greek front, the highly efficient killing machine was activated once again.

Larissa, the Greek frontline command headquarters.

In stark contrast to the deafening artillery fire and screams from the front lines, the silence here was almost oppressive. The air was filled with the rich aroma of coffee and the crisp ticking of a telegraph machine.

Constantine stood calmly before the enormous sand table, his hands behind his back.

The telephone behind him rang. An operations staff officer answered the phone, listened for a few moments, and then handed him the receiver, his hand trembling slightly with excitement.

"Your Highness, it is Colonel Vasilyos, the commander of the Third Division."

Constantine took the receiver.

"I am Constantine."

"Your Highness! We've repelled the enemy's third charge!" On the other end of the phone, Colonel Vasilyos's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement and a slight tremor. "They're collapsing! My God, you didn't see it! It was like harvesting wheat! We've wiped out at least one of their brigades! Request permission to launch an attack! One counter-charge from us will utterly crush them!"

In the command post, all the young staff officers who heard these words showed excited expressions.

Constantine's face, however, remained expressionless.

Instead of responding to Colonel Vasilios's request for permission to fight, he asked a series of cold and precise questions.

"Colonel Vasilyos, what is your ammunition consumption rate? Especially machine gun bullets."

"What about the artillery position report? Has the temperature of the gun barrels exceeded the warning threshold?"

"Have the rotation and rest arrangements for the soldiers at the front lines been made? Are the evacuation routes for the wounded clear?"

A barrage of questions, like ice water, instantly extinguished the fervor in Colonel Vasilyos's mind. He paused, then felt a wave of shame. He had only seen the results, while His Highness the Crown Prince was concerned with whether every single part of this war machine was still functioning properly.

"Your Highness..." Vasilios's voice quickly calmed down, and he began to report the various data in a clear and organized manner.

After listening to the report, Constantine's voice remained calm.

"Your request to counter-attack is rejected. Our mission is defense, to wear down the enemy to the maximum extent possible, not to exchange positions with them."

"I authorize you and your staff to determine the firepower density and defensive pace independently, based on the actual battlefield situation. You don't need to consult me ​​on everything."

"Remember, Vasilyos, what I want is a sustainable victory, not a one-off triumph. Protect your soldiers; they are Greece's most valuable asset."

"...Yes, Your Highness!" Vasilyos's voice, standing at attention, was loud and firm on the other end of the phone.

Hanging up the phone, Constantine's gaze returned to the sand table. In his eyes, this war was more like an industrial production. He was investing in steel, gunpowder, and training, producing enemy casualties and his own victory. His task was to control costs, improve efficiency, and ensure this "production line" could continue operating uninterrupted.