Şefik looked at him with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Kemal wasted no more time. He swung down from his horse, strode before the men of both regiments, and raised his sword. “Soldiers!” he cried. “There is no retreat from here. Those who advance will live; those who retreat will die.” And then he repeated his famous order that skyrocketed him into legend after the battle. “I do not order you to fight; I order you to die!”

  The line trembled, then straightened. A murmur passed through the ranks. Helmets lowered. Rifles gripped tighter. A current of grim determination ran through the battered 27th and the fresh 57th alike.

  Kemal pointed up the ridge. “Forward!” The assault exploded from the scrub like a tidal wave of brown uniforms. The Turks stormed upward, rifles firing from the hip, bayonets gleaming. The ANZACs had barely begun to consolidate their positions when they were hit with the full force of Kemal’s charge.

  At Kocaçimen Tepe (400 Plateau), the hilltop changed hands in minutes, with the ANZACs driven off by furious bayonet fighting, only to counterattack moments later with their own reserve companies. Bodies rolled down the slopes. Kemal personally rallied a battalion that had been pinned behind a boulder outcrop, leading them himself in a short, vicious charge that broke the ANZAC line for a second time.

  Twenty minutes later, the Australians surged back again, supported by machine guns dragged up the ridge by brute strength. The Turks fell back in turn, only to countercharge with a company of the 27th that seemed to rise from the earth itself, screaming as they threw themselves into the fight. The hill changed hands five times in two hours.

  To the north, another fierce struggle broke out at the Sphinx Spur, where the 57th’s 2nd Battalion slammed into New Zealand troops who had almost reached the summit. The fighting here was no less savage. Hundreds of bodies locked together in a desperate struggle, knives flashing and rifle stocks cracking skulls. The ground became slippery with blood as the struggle seesawed back and forth along the narrow crest.

  On the southern slopes near Plugge’s Plateau, Kemal saw the Ottoman line beginning to waver under an Australian push. Without hesitation, he galloped to the spot, seized a handful of retreating men by the collars, and physically turned them around.

  “To the heights!” he roared. “The Empire is behind you!” They charged again. By mid-afternoon, the entire ANZAC front was under crushing pressure. Officers shouted for ammunition. Casualties mounted by the minute. The Turks fought as men possessed, and Kemal’s arrival had transformed a faltering defense into a relentless counteroffensive.

  (…)

  By nightfall, smoke settled in the folds of the hills. The cries of wounded men drifted along the slopes like ghosts. For hours, the battle had surged back and forth, with hilltops won, lost, retaken, and lost again. But as the shadows lengthened, a slow change rippled through the lines. The ANZACs no longer advanced. They were simply trying to survive.

  On the crest of Kocaçimen Tepe (400 Plateau), the tattered banner of the 57th Regiment fluttered stubbornly. Around it stood no more than two hundred men who were exhausted, bloodied, and many were wounded. However, and most importantly, they still firing down the slopes. The ridge was theirs.

  At the Sphinx Spur, Turkish soldiers crouched behind hastily built stone sangars, rifles trained on the enemy below. Their ammunition was nearly spent, but they held their ground grimly. New Zealand units had been pushed off the crest entirely.

  On Plugge’s Plateau, the last counterattack had driven the Australians back to their noon positions. The Ottoman companies defending the heights were a patchwork of the 57th, the 27th, and ad-hoc groups of stragglers united only by Kemal’s will.

  As night fell, a cold wind blew from the sea. Fires flickered across the Peninsula as stretcher-bearers searched for survivors. The slopes were covered in bodies (Turk and ANZAC alike), lying side by side in tangled rows.

  And through it all, one fact became clear to both sides: Six thousand Turkish soldiers had stopped four times their number. And they now held every height of military value. Kemal stood at the crest of the ridge, his uniform torn, his face streaked with smoke. Behind him, his officers whispered casualty reports. Before him, the darkened sea glittered faintly in the fading light. He exhaled slowly.

  “The heights are ours,” he said. And for that night, at least, the Ottoman Empire still lived.

  Fighting on Plugges Plateau (“Hain Tepe” Hill in Turkish)

  (…) Turkish 57th Regiment (…)

  Private Mehmet Celal could barely feel his hands anymore as his fingers trembled around the hot barrel of his rifle. Smoke stung his eyes, dust choked his throat, and the ground shook beneath him from the constant hammer of rifle fire and distant explosions rolling across Hain Tepe.

  He crouched in a shallow fold of earth, the southern lip of the ridge falling sharply into a maze of gullies and broken brush below. Every time he leaned out to fire, he saw them: Australians climbing upward in relentless waves, their uniforms torn, their faces streaked with sweat and dust. They kept coming even though their dead were rolling down the slope with every volley. Beside him, Private Arif Öztürk screamed over the noise that the enemy was coming up the rocks, his voice cracking. Mehmet risked a glance.

  The Australians were less than twenty meters away now, clambering over scrub and stone like men possessed. A Lewis gun fired from the shadow of a split boulder, spraying bullets across Mehmet’s position. Two soldiers to his left threw down their rifles and broke into a wild run toward the crest behind them. One was shot immediately, tumbling forward into the dirt. Arif cursed and shouted that if they lost the crest, the whole peninsula was doomed. Mehmet muttered that the heights were the key, the words sounding small in the chaos around him. A bullet snapped past his cheek. He felt the tug on his hair where it grazed him. The Turkish line was collapsing. Officers were shouting, men were stumbling backward, rifles clattering down the rock. A captain’s shouted order to fall back was almost drowned by the sound of the Australians reaching the lip of the ridge. Mehmet fired point-blank into a khaki uniform. The man fell backward, but two more took his place. Mehmet felt panic creeping into his throat as he scanned for Arif, who was firing wildly from behind a jutting rock with blood streaking his arm. Mehmet believed in that moment that this was the end. The Turks were done. And then he heard hooves.

  (…) Australian 11th Battalion, 3rd Brigade, ANZAC Corps (…)

  Private Thomas McLaren’s boots slipped on the steep clay as he climbed, grabbing at brush and roots to keep from sliding back down. Every breath scraped his throat. Sweat blinded him. But he kept climbing. They all did. The officers had told them Plugge’s Plateau was the key, that taking the heights would split the Ottoman line in two and open the road inland.

  Tom didn’t know if any of that was true, but he knew one thing: the Turks were breaking. He saw men running uphill in terror, dropping rifles, stumbling over loose stones. The Australians surged forward, bayonets fixed, rifles firing from the hip. Sergeant Harris roared at them to push harder. Tom’s heart hammered with equal parts fear and grim determination as he saw a Turkish soldier firing from a shallow depression just below the crest. The man had dark hair and a dusty uniform, furious and desperate. Tom fired at him, not knowing if he hit. The Lewis gun team dragged their weapon into place. Cooper opened fire in sharp bursts, trees splintering around the Turkish position. Tom saw the Turkish line faltering again, several soldiers bolting, one dropping to his knees in shock. The crest was so close he could taste it; twenty meters, then fifteen. He climbed with everything he had left. In his mind, he saw Melbourne, his mother hanging laundry behind their small home, his father gripping his shoulder and telling him to come back a man. He climbed harder. Sweat poured down his face. Ten meters now. The heights were almost theirs. Tom felt a surge of victory rising… then the earth trembled, and a roar echoed down the ridge, unlike anything he had ever heard.

  (…) Turkish 57th Regiment (…)

  Mehmet Celal looked up from the smoke and dust and saw him. It was his commander, Mustapha Kemal, arriving on horseback as if thrown into the battle by fate itself. Kemal’s horse skidded to a halt near the broken line. He dismounted even before the animal fully stopped, and strode toward the scattering soldiers with a furious energy that felt more powerful than gunfire. He seized two retreating men by their collars, dragged them around, and shouted that they would not retreat and would not surrender the hill.

  His voice carried with the force of a breaking storm: he ordered them to die where they stood if necessary. The soldiers froze, shocked into stillness. Something in Kemal’s eyes made retreat impossible. Mehmet felt it too, like a surge of fire racing through his exhausted limbs. The men who had been running stopped. Others turned back, almost sheepishly retrieving rifles they had dropped moments earlier. Even Arif stood straight despite the blood soaking his sleeve. Kemal raised his sword and pointed toward the Australians clawing toward the crest. Then he shouted, “Forward!” The effect was instantaneous. The 57th Regiment surged like a wave. The shattered remnants of the 27th joined them, screaming war cries that rolled across the plateau. Mehmet was swept into the charge with Arif right beside him. The multitude of Turkish soldiers, now ravening mad and yelling out their lungs, ran toward the Australians not with confidence but with raw, defiant desperation. The Australians, halfway up the slope, saw them coming and fired in frantic bursts. The Lewis gun rattled. Australian rifle bolts clattered. Men fell in both directions, but the Turks kept coming. And then the two lines collided like two storms crashing into each other.

  (…) Bayonet fight (…)

  Tom McLaren reached the crest just in time to see a wall of Turkish soldiers bearing down on him, roaring as men possessed. His stomach dropped. Sergeant Harris shouted for everyone to steady, but the command barely rose above the din. The Lewis gun opened fire again but was quickly overwhelmed. Tom fired his rifle, the bullet disappearing into the mass of charging men. He stepped back instinctively. A Turk lunged at him. Tom parried with his bayonet and narrowly avoided a thrust that would have gutted him. Dust flew everywhere. Another Turkish soldier crashed into the line, knocking two Australians off balance.

  Tom caught a glimpse of the soldier he had fired at earlier. He was the same one he’d seen fighting desperately near the crest. Their eyes met for a split second before they charged each other. Tom swung his rifle. Mehmet lunged with his bayonet. Tom twisted, but the blade sliced deep into his side. He fired a reflexive shot that grazed Mehmet’s sleeve. They crashed together, rolling down a short drop into a brush-filled gully. Rocks tore at their uniforms. Tom’s rifle-stock split in half against a stone. Mehmet regained his footing first, swinging his rifle like a club. Tom tried to crawl backward, gasping, bleeding heavily. Mehmet hesitated (only just for a heartbeat) as he realized how young his enemy was. In that moment, a tall Anatolian corporal arrived, saw an Australian soldier still struggling, and without hesitation drove his bayonet into Tom’s chest. Tom McLaren’s body jerked once, then lay still among the thorny brush. Mehmet stared, his breath ragged. Tom’s eyes remained open, fixed on the sky as though still searching for his home far across the sea. Mehmet knelt, touched the fallen soldier’s shoulder, and whispered a prayer for him and for all who had fallen on the slope.

  (…)

  By sunset, Plugge’s Plateau belonged again to the Turks. The Australians withdrew to their midday positions, carrying wounded comrades and leaving the dead scattered across gullies, rocks, and brush. Fires flickered along the ridgeline as stretcher-bearers searched the slopes. Turkish soldiers barely held the crest, but they held it. Arif sat beside Mehmet with a bandaged arm, staring blankly at the sea. The heights were littered with bodies of Turks and Australians alike, all lying side by side as though all divisions of empire and nation had vanished in death. Mustapha Kemal passed silently among the survivors, surveying the ridge his men had fought so desperately to hold. Blood smeared the earth. Smoke drifted in the cooling wind. Thousands were dead. But the heights had not fallen. Mehmet looked once more toward the brushy gully where Tom McLaren lay, half-hidden but unmistakably still. The sun dipped low behind the distant line of blue sea, and Mehmet whispered one final silent prayer as the last light faded. He prayed not for victory, or for glory, but for the souls of every man who had fought there. He didn’t make any distinction between the living and the dead; they were all heroes of the empire to him.

  Grosser Generalstab (Great General Staff Building)

  OHL meeting, Königsplatz, Berlin, April 25th, 1916

  “Things are not going well,” said Kaiser Wilhelm II, re-reading the latest bad news coming, this time, out of the Dardanelles, deeper southward. The enemy had landed near Istanbul in an attempt to knock the Turks out of the war. No one answered the sovereign’s words or tried to soothe their monarch’s discouragement, as they felt the same. Success in the overall struggle of the Great War seemed as far away as it could be on that dire morning of late April 1916.

  The OHL met once more to discuss the state of the war, as spring brought renewed major operations on both sides. First and foremost, there was the unstoppable Entente offensive in the Loire Valley, which had already smashed its way across the Savenay Line and taken most of St-Nazaire. Imperial troops were retreating northward, and half the High Seas Fleet was gone, following the sortie of Admiral Gädecke. Seven mighty modern dreadnought battleships and two older pre-dreadnoughts were now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Strategically, the war was being lost on the Western Front, and regardless of the success the Reich could achieve in Russia, the Middle East, or the Balkans, losing in France meant eventual defeat, as the Entente armies would pour across the Reich's western borders.

  For the meeting, Kronprinz Wilhelm (the Emperor’s son) was necessarily absent as he was occupied trying to organize a new line of defense north of St-Nazaire and Nantes and stop the enemy tide. Friedrich Graf von der Schulenburg, his Chief of Staff and right-hand man, was thus present to act as Wilhelm’s deputy.

  The new commander of the Kaiserliche Marine, Admiral Reinhard Scheer, was sitting at the table, along with his deputy, Rear Admiral Roman Berger. The Chief of Staff of the German Army and OHL commander, Helmuth von Moltke, sat right beside the Kaiser while General Gerhard Tappen (Chief of the Operations Division), Information Division commander Lieutenant Colonel Richard Hentsch, and the OHL’s Generalquartiermeister, Hermann von Stein, sat facing him. Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg, who had been mostly absent from the OHL meetings in the last few months, had also made the trip to Berlin for the discussions, leaving his deputy and second-in-command, Eric Ludendorff (the man had returned from his stint in Galicia for Operation Galizien Sturm) in charge of the northern front.

  Von Moltke finally spoke up. “Things are indeed not as we wish them, Your Majesty.” The rest of the men in the room stirred uncomfortably. Defeat was never a pleasant thing to discuss. The Operations Room was frozen with men feeling discouraged.

  The place was a grand hall with a vaulted ceiling and large windows draped in grey velvet. On the far wall, a massive map of Europe extended from floor to ceiling, showing unit positions with colored pins and threads. It was updated frequently to reflect the ebb and flow of the front lines.

  The French were represented in blue, the British in brown, the Americans in green, the Austro-Hungarians in light blue-gray, and the Germans in black. Ottoman pins had now been placed on the map, along with many more brown, green, and blue around them on the Gallipoli Peninsula. The leaders of the Reich were sitting in stiff-looking chairs at the large central table, crowded with charts and reports.

  “We just need to finish the war in the East, and then we can muster all our strength to fight the Entente in France.” Hindenburg’s gruff and commanding voice rose above the other. It was the tone of a victorious man. His troops were advancing across the Baltic States, had taken Vilna, and would soon threaten Minsk and, beyond that, Smolensk. Riga was only twenty miles from the frontline, and St. Petersburg was not out of reach in 1916. There were rumors to that effect, as the Kaiser liked Hindenburg very much, and was leaning toward a change in the high command.

  Moltke, who saw the old Prussian officer as a threat to his position, didn’t answer right away. The other choice for a change of command was Erich von Falkenhayn, the Minister of War, who was also absent from that day's meeting.

  After a short silence, von Moltke finally spoke. “Well, Field Marshal, that is all fine and well, but how do you propose we hold France while you are busy expanding our borders in Russia?” The meeting about to unfold concerned Moltke’s intention to recall a third of Hindenburg’s troops to beef up the Western Front, which was threatening to collapse completely in Western France.

  “You give ground until I can send you relief. Trade land for time, General,” answered Hindenburg with a sly smile. The Chief of the Operations Division, General Gerhard Tappen (who was pushing for the recall himself) couldn’t resist speaking up. “If I may, Your Majesty,” he said, addressing the German Emperor directly to get a chance to speak. The Kaiser nodded, giving him permission. “Field Marshal Hindenburg, we simply do not have the numbers needed to resist the combined forces of the French, the British, their colonial forces, and now the 700,000 rumored Americans fighting against us in France.” Information Division commander Lieutenant Colonel Richard Hentsch, also in favor of the recall option, added his own grain of salt. “The intelligence gathering we have is that the Yankees are planning to bring at least two million men to France. Since they have brought roughly 700,000 in already after a year of war and have finished gearing up their war industry, we expect the increase in troops will now happen even more rapidly.” He paused, putting both his hands on the table. “There is no getting around it, gentlemen. We will be swamped on the Western Front, the only thing we need to figure out is when.”