Nicholas picked up his rifle and returned to the battlefield. By then, the field was already a scene of utter devastation. The countless mounds of earth on either side were mass graves for fallen soldiers, and the already lush weeds had grown even more luxuriant under the nourishment of blood.
The cries of crows and vultures drifted over from afar, as though they were mocking the cheapness of the soldiers' lives.
Baron Raglan raised his telescope and looked at the battered remnants on the Russian positions ahead. His reinforcements had arrived. Now was absolutely the best time for a counterattack.
"Damn those Ottomans! It's been three weeks already! What the hell have they been doing?! Do they really take us for the main force?"
Baron Raglan could not help bursting into furious curses. The cannon fodder the Ottomans had sent was poor in quality and few in number, while even the supplies they delivered had been shoddily cut. They often passed off cattle and sheep that had died of disease, along with flour mixed with sawdust, as provisions.
But aren't we?
That was what the staff officers were thinking. After all, in British eyes, even the Ottomans were unqualified to serve as cannon fodder.
"What should we do now? Continue with the plan?"
A staff officer asked.
"Continue my ass! We go up there and risk our lives while the Ottomans watch the show from behind?"
Baron Raglan roared in uncontrollable rage.
"Let those Ottomans go die. We'll only provide artillery support."
Both sides began to lie flat at the same time. The battlefield rang with thunderous cries of killing, yet somehow it did not seem bloody enough.
Prinsky sensed the subtle shift on the battlefield. He felt that the British must already be at the end of their tether;