The Russians were not having an easy time either. Only after fighting for a day and two nights did Stepan Khrulyov realize that he had just missed the best opportunity to win the war in a single stroke.
Stepan Khrulyov felt that if he had not let his blood rise to his head and stubbornly locked horns with the Ottoman force before him, but had instead led the main force straight at Topkapi Palace, the war might already have been over.
Stepan Khrulyov was so furious he beat his chest and stamped his feet, but his thinking was truly a little too idealistic.
Even if the Russian main force had chosen the right direction from the start, such a massive army could not have deployed at once.
Not only would they have had to face Ottoman Empire reinforcements pouring in from all directions, but those Ottoman defenders would hardly have stood still. The situation the Russians faced might well have been even worse than it was now.
"Adjutant, how is the casualty count coming along?"
Stepan Khrulyov sat in the living room of a Western-style building as he spoke, still feeding firewood into the fireplace.
Clearly, the house's original owner had merely affected refined tastes. There was actually a stove inside the fireplace—nothing less than trampling Western civilization underfoot.
"General, the formations of every unit have been shattered, and some are still fighting the Ottomans. Based on the reports from each unit, we have lost roughly one-third of our strength.
"But soldiers who were separated from their units keep returning, so our actual losses should be less than one-third."
Fighting in a city was inherently chaotic. Armies could not deploy properly, and most battles were fought by companies and platoons. After all, lining up for volley fire in an alley