The first ten hours at Cape Helles had been bloody, with thousands of casualties, but the landing was a success. The Entente had achieved a combined, multinational, coordinated breakthrough on the southern tip of the peninsula.

  (…) Plugge’s Plateau (…)

  Sir Ian Hamilton, the British general in overall command of the Dardanelles land invasion, stood on Plugge’s Plateau overlooking Ari Burnu, with his binoculars raised, the wind tugging at his coat, the sun now high enough to throw sharp shadows across the broken terrain. Below him, the cove was a hive of activity, with boats landing, men unloading equipment, signal flags waving, stretcher-bearers moving between medical posts. Above him, the cliffs and ridges of Sari Bair loomed like the walls of a fortress.

  Hamilton lowered the binoculars and exhaled slowly. “So far, better than expected,” he murmured.

  To his left, General Birdwood gave a short nod. “Aye, sir. No organized opposition yet. Only scattered resistance. Our lads have taken Plugge’s, the Sphinx Spur, and part of Russell’s Top.” Hamilton looked inland. The distances on the map were small, but enormous in reality. The terrain folded and twisted in ways that confounded every sense of direction. In some places, a man could climb ten meters and be hidden from battalions below. In others, a ridge rose like a wall, forcing entire units to converge into narrow funnels. “It’s cursed ground,” Hamilton said. “If the Turks are clever, they’ll use every gully and ridge against us.” “Our scouts say they’re thinly manned,” Birdwood replied. “No sign of a counterattack.”

  Hamilton frowned. “There will be one. And soon.” He returned his gaze to the inland ridges. Through the shimmering heat, he could see small figures moving. ANZAC patrols were probing forward, marking paths, and waving to reinforce positions. Some reached surprisingly far, nearing the lower approaches to Chunuk Bair. If they took that height quickly, half the peninsula would fall to the Entente. Hamilton allowed himself a moment of hope.

  Behind him, officers approached with papers listing casualties, ammunition tallies, and landing progress reports. Hamilton scanned them briefly. Losses were acceptable. Morale was high. The beachhead was secure. He lifted the binoculars once more, scanning the inland horizon. He found it weird that the Turkish response was so timid.

  His question was soon to be answered.

  9th Prussian Regiment

  The advance across the Baltic States and the battle of Mitau, April 24th, 1916

  Spread along the quiet bends of the Lielupe River, the city of Mitau was a broad and populous city of nearly 40,000 civilians. It sat roughly 25 miles southwest of Riga, positioned directly on one of the two crucial railway lines feeding the imperial fortress-city. Trains running from Kaunas and Šiauliai passed through Mitau before reaching Riga, making it a vital artery for troop movements, ammunition trains, and the logistical lifeblood of the Russian northern front. Whoever commanded Mitau could either protect Riga’s southern flank or endanger it.

  For the Russian Empire, Mitau was the southern shield of Riga’s defenses. The wide, flat plains around it, broken only by the Lielupe’s flow and the occasional birch forest, formed natural avenues for advancing armies. Control of Mitau meant securing the river crossings, controlling the rail line, and possessing the last open terrain before the deep defensive belts around Riga. Losing it would open the southern approach to the capital, allowing an attacker to deploy artillery within range of the Daugava flank and threaten encirclement of the entire Riga garrison.

  Thus, in the spring and summer of 1916, as the Eastern Front trembled under the weight of new offensives, Mitau was no longer simply a provincial city. It had become the hinge upon which the stability of the entire northern Russian defense rested, and both the Germans and the Russians knew it.

  Private Wilhelm Bruckner took a deep breath as he got his first look at the city from one of the high ridges south of the town. The place looked peaceful, its packed streets and houses quiet with their chimneys billowing wood smoke, and church bells clanging in alarm, announcing the first sight of the German troops.

  The Germans reached Mitau under a lowering sky, the morning light diffused by low Baltic clouds that hung over the flat fields like a gray curtain. It was just after sunrise when the first elements of the German 8th and 9th Armies appeared along the Šiauliai-Mitau road, their lean columns of infantry slogging forward, cyclist detachments pedaling hard along the ditches, and small cavalry patrols trotting ahead with carbines slung over their shoulders.

  The road to their final Baltic State objective (Riga) had been long and eventful since the German soldiers had crossed the Niemen River on April 4th. Twenty days later, and over ten relatively big battles and skirmishes. The Russians had been retreating, but they did make several stands along the way, executing a reasonably well-led fighting retreat. Wilhelm had seen action at Shavli, Moscheiki, and Autz, amongst others. The German advance was broad, but a large portion of the troops was bunched up along the main rail lines to facilitate resupply and capture nodes for the Central Powers' use.

  “Look, the enemy has decided to fight for this place,” said his friend, Private Eric Hoff, also one of his comrades in Section A. His finger pointed to a knot of deep gouges in the ground, unmistakably looking like trench defenses. A loud whistle thundered right above their heads. “Here we go,” continued Hoff, smiling at the passing artillery shells.

  The German artillery bombardment of Mitau had started, the artillery parks behind the army’s lead elements having already unlimbered a few miles to the south. The first blasts blossomed across the city, catapulting earth, shattering wooden houses, and spitting big fireballs across the field of view.

  (…)

  An hour after the bombardment began, the smoke still drifted over Mitau like a dirty gray shroud, hanging low among the church spires and the rows of timbered houses. The wind from the river pushed the haze northward, revealing glimpses of the shattered streets below. Private Wilhelm Bruckner wiped his eyes with the back of his glove and adjusted his helmet. His ears still rang from the roar of German 77’s and howitzers, but the order had come: infantry forward.

  “Section A, advance in staggered rushes!” Sergeant Kirchner barked. Wilhelm nodded to Hoff beside him. Eric Hoff was grinning, and Bruckner shook his head. Of course, he was; Hoff always grinned when the shells started falling. “Ready, Bruckner? Russians won’t leave this without a fight.” “Don’t remind me,” Wilhelm muttered.

  They moved down the slope at a crouch, stepping over broken wooden fences and half-splintered telegraph poles. Mitau’s southern quarter appeared ahead: wooden houses leaning at odd angles, smoke pouring from roofs struck by artillery, and, worst of all, lines of shallow trenches dug between gardens, courtyards, and the foundations of buildings. The Russians had dug into the very streets themselves.

  As Section A reached the first ruined cart path, a burst of rifle fire cracked from the left. Bullets snapped past Wilhelm’s cheek. “Down!” he shouted instinctively, hitting the mud. Hoff slid beside him. The Russians were alive and fighting.

  Their first trench lay between two houses. It was a shallow ditch reinforced with planks and sandbags. Muzzles flashed from within it. Wilhelm saw greatcoats, fur hats, and the glint of a Maxim gun barrel shifting to track them. “Machine gun!” someone shouted to Wilhelm’s right and through the haze. There was a lot of smoke from the bombardment that drifted back across the trench, since the wind seemed to have changed direction. “Maxim!”

  But Section A had already fanned out. Two riflemen fired back, while Kirchner waved forward the team with the light MG08/15. Wilhelm and Hoff sprinted for the nearest cover, a low stone wall marking a garden boundary. Splinters of stone flew as bullets punched into it.

  “On my mark!” the sergeant roared above the din. Another artillery shell crashed somewhere deeper in the city, shaking the ground beneath their boots. Smoke billowed through the street. Wilhelm steadied his rifle. “Now!” Kirchner bellowed.

  The German MG opened fire first, its chattering bursts ripping through the wooden parapet of the Russian trench. Wilhelm rose and fired twice, aiming at any movement he saw. Beside him, Hoff advanced, firing from the hip, shouting something Wilhelm couldn’t hear.

  The Russian gunner attempted to return fire, but the German section was already too close. “Grenades!” Hoff yelled. Wilhelm unclipped his stick grenade, pulled the cord, and hurled it into the trench. Three others did the same. A series of concussive blasts shook the ground, throwing planks, dirt, and bodies into the air.

  Section A surged forward with bayonets fixed. Wilhelm vaulted the trench wall, boots slipping on blood and mud. A Russian soldier rose to meet him, swinging his rifle butt. Wilhelm parried awkwardly, lunged with the bayonet, and felt it punch through cloth and bone. The man fell.

  Hoff arrived beside him, slamming his rifle into another defender. The remaining Russians abandoned the position, sprinting deeper between the houses. “Trench secure!” Kirchner shouted, climbing in behind them. “Section A, reform! Russians falling back toward the second line!”

  Wilhelm breathed hard, trying to calm the tremble in his hands. The trench stank of cordite, earth, and fear. Hoff slapped his shoulder. “You still alive, Bruckner? Told you they’d fight.” The two men had placed a wager before the battle started, as the Russians often broke these days under the slightest pressure and fighting.

  A new whistle sounded overhead. More shells (German this time) landed farther north, blasting apart the next Russian redoubt inside the city.

  “Forward!” the sergeant ordered. “We push street by street. Mitau will not hold!” Wilhelm climbed out of the trench, heart racing. Ahead of him, the battle for the city raged; Russian riflemen firing from loft windows, machine guns hidden behind overturned wagons, defenders scrambling backward from house to house.

  The assault on Mitau had only begun.

  (…)

  The battle for Mitau unfolded across a wide arc of front, with the German 8th and 9th Armies converging on the city from south, east, and west. What began as a methodical artillery barrage soon transformed into a coordinated, multi-division assault designed to crack the Russian defensive shell and seize the strategic hub that guarded the approach to Riga.

  To the west, elements of the German 8th Army, including Landwehr regiments and Bavarian infantry, crossed the marshy ground near the Lielupe. They advanced behind a rolling barrage that shattered the outer pickets of the Russian 19th Infantry Division. The defenders, unable to dig strong entrenchments in the swampy soil, were forced to fall back toward the city’s industrial quarter. German storm detachments, trained to move quickly between buildings and hedgerows, outflanked them and pressed the retreat.

  In the south, the road from Šiauliai became a conveyor belt of advancing troops: Jägers, cyclist battalions, field artillery, and the bulk of the 9th Army’s infantry brigades. These were the forces that hit the Russian trenches. Wilhelm Bruckner, amongst many others, fought through positions hastily dug inside gardens, alleys, and the outskirts of Mitau’s southern neighborhoods.

  German artillery supported them relentlessly, firing with precision into Russian fallback lines: crossroads, barns, and schoolhouses converted into makeshift strongpoints. The bombardment softened resistance, but the Russians fought stubbornly. They were defending not merely a town but the southern gate to Riga itself.

  To the east, cavalry and mounted infantry swept along the riverbank, capturing river crossings and cutting off Russian attempts to reinforce from the villages toward Kalnciems. A squadron of Uhlans even clashed with Russian dragoons on the open field east of the city, driving them back with decisive saber charges before dismounting to block the approach roads.

  Inside Mitau, street fighting erupted everywhere. Russian riflemen turned narrow lanes into kill zones, firing from windows and attic slits. Mitau’s wooden houses burned, adding thick smoke to the chaos. German pioneers (engineers) moved door to door, blasting breaches through walls with demolition charges to avoid exposed intersections. Machine gun units set up in ruined porches and conservatories, sending suppressive fire against Russian fallback positions.

  The Russians attempted a counterattack shortly after noon. Elements of the 11th Hussars (dismounted) and the 8th Siberian Regiment surged from the northern streets in a desperate attempt to retake the central square. They ran into a curtain of German artillery fire. The German 77’s, positioned behind the palace grounds, smashed the counterattack into fragments. Survivors fled toward the northern bridge, leaving the street slick with mud and littered with shattered timber.

  By mid-afternoon, Russian lines began to crack. Their officers could no longer maintain communication as German infantry infiltrated deeper into the city, splitting units apart. Ammunition grew scarce. Casualties mounted. Consequently, the already shaky Russian morale tanked to the bottom of the barrel.

  As the 8th Army secured the western districts and the 9th Army took the southern ones, the Russian defenders faced encirclement. At last, the order was given: Retreat toward Riga. Save the guns. Save the cavalry division. Keep the road open. And anyway, the order was only compounding what was already happening on the ground. The men were retreating or being routed.

  Russian formations streamed north across the Lielupe bridge and along the rail line toward the Daugava. Cavalry rear guards covered the withdrawal, firing from behind overturned carts and station platforms before galloping off again.

  By sunset, Mitau lay firmly in German hands. The city burned in places, but its streets were filled with the triumphant echo of marching boots.

  The road to Riga was open.

  Mustapha Kemal

  Ottoman 57th Regiment, late on April 24th, 1916

  “To all Turkish troops in the Peninsula: “Hold the heights. The heights are the key. Whichever army controls the ridges will control the Dardanelles.”

  Liman von Sanders

  “We were slowly being wiped out. Our firing line gradually disappeared. There were only forty to fifty riflemen left firing. The time had come to send a messenger to let command know we were all about to die here.”

  Turkish soldier during the battle of the Gallipoli Heights, before Kemal’s arrival.

  Colonel Mustapha Kemal, the commander of the Ottoman 57th Regiment, wholeheartedly agreed with Liman’s dispatch, as he crumpled the piece of paper (the message from the soldier) in his hand as a sign of resolve. It was 1030 in the morning, and he was about to send his men into battle.

  Already, Mehmet Sefik’s 27th Regiment, which had come from the southeast, had counterattacked the ANZAC landings, but the entire front was about to collapse, as they were being overwhelmed.

  “Sir,” said one of his men, a runner who had just stopped in front of him and saluted. “The units across the heights acknowledge your authority and are awaiting orders.” “Very well, soldier. Take a breath and then go back. The order is simple. I don’t order you to fight; I order you to die.”

  The Battle for the Gallipoli Heights had begun.

  (…)

  Because of the Ottoman Empire’s performance during the Balkan Wars and the general state of disrepair of its army, which had been beaten in Basra, in the Caucasus, and throughout the last ten wars of the last hundred years, the Entente generals never truly took the Turkish defenses on the Gallipoli Peninsula seriously. Surely, they were landing enough troops and would have enough battleships to smash the Ottomans to oblivion and rout them quickly. General Lord Hamilton himself expected the Turks to simply run. It was as if the Kut disaster in Mesopotamia had not happened, or else that the Turks hadn’t taken Batum in the East against the Russians. All of that was taken as accident and simple luck.

  Furthermore, no attention was paid to any of the reports stating that the Turkish troops in the Straits, in European Turkey, and the immediate approaches to Istanbul were the best the sultan had. Their supply was close (in the Empire's capital city), and they had top-of-the-line equipment, German advisors, and weapons. But most importantly, a large part of the troops were veterans of the Balkan wars of 1912-1913, where they were blooded and gained significant experience.

  Regardless of these facts and hints, and considering all the troops and ships they could bring to bear, it was the general opinion of all the Allies that the Turks stood no chance. The Entente commanders and leaders couldn’t have been more mistaken, as the basic Anatolian Turkish soldier could fight, and they would be superbly led by a man who was about to step into legend.

  (…)

  Kemal rose to his feet and swung into the saddle of his horse, scanning the broken ridgelines before him. Smoke curled from shattered gullies. On the lower slopes, scattered clumps of Turkish soldiers, who were survivors of the earlier fights, were still firing up toward the heights, though their line was dissolving. The ANZACs were pushing steadily upward. If they seized the crest, the entire peninsula would be lost.

  Behind Kemal, the 57th Regiment formed up in three battalions, dusty, breathing hard, but steady. These were the men Kemal trusted most. They had marched all morning, driven by his relentless pace. Now, just before the moment of impact, their commander sat tall in his saddle, radiating calm authority.

  Then, from the southeast, a stream of broken men staggered toward him. They were the remnants of Mehmet Şefik’s 27th Regiment, the unit that had counterattacked the landing and been overwhelmed by greatly superior numbers. Their uniforms were torn, and many had thrown away their packs. Some limped, some crawled, but all wore the hollow-eyed expression of soldiers who had done everything they could… and had been shattered anyway.

  Şefik himself rode up, pale and exhausted. “They broke us on the crest of Kocaçimen Tepe,” he reported, voice shaking. “My right flank is gone. My left is barely holding. Without fresh troops…” “You have them,” Kemal interrupted, and, lifting his hand, he shut the other man up. “Your regiment will fall in behind mine. We fight together now.”