No matter the country, there are almost no armies in the world where the navy and the army get along warmly, holding hands and politely preserving each other's dignity.
This was especially true in a place like the British Empire, where the gap in prestige between the navy and the army was unmistakable.
Still, in this war, the army's role was just as critical as the navy's.
Though their numbers did not even reach a third of the French forces, it was the British army that would be fighting bloody, direct engagements against the Russians.
From that perspective, it was only natural that Florence Nightingale had been assigned to the army.
After all, not only battlefield injuries but also deaths from disease were far more likely on their side.
If she had gone with the navy, I would have been able to observe her work closely—but with the chains of command divided, there was little I could do about it.
In any case, thanks to how brilliantly the cholera outbreak had been contained almost immediately after establishing our position at Gallipoli, Field Marshal FitzRoy remained in high spirits throughout the meeting.
Even when Admiral William Parker prodded him here and there, he simply laughed it off with good humor.
Well, it was understandable.
In the past, if cholera broke out in a military camp, it would turn into a living hell.
In severe cases, it was destructive enough to force an army to consider withdrawing entirely.
And yet now, it had been contained to a mere handful of cases.
Of course he would be pleased.
A few broken doors and smashed locks? Those were things one could laugh off.
Still, since such incidents might happen again, I made sure to give him a quiet warning in advance.
Fortunately, my medical team already had a strong reputation even before the war began, and FitzRoy readily accepted my suggestions.
"Regarding the requisition of medical supplies, we'll allow action first and reports afterward. Officially approving it outright may be difficult, but we'll turn a blind eye."
"That alone is more than enough. Ah, and…"
Knowing better than anyone how many lives Nightingale would save in this war, I had no intention of holding back my support.
This was a war I had personally chosen to join.
Not just victory—I needed a victory so overwhelming that every citizen of the British Empire would celebrate it.
And for that, the number of casualties had to be significantly lower than those of other nations.
No matter how thoroughly we crushed Russia, if casualties reached into the hundreds of thousands, there would inevitably be backlash.
A victory built on the blood of the people—such words must never be spoken.
If there was any way to reduce the soldiers' losses, then we would implement it without hesitation.
After concluding my discussion with FitzRoy, I summoned John Snow and Florence Nightingale before leaving Gallipoli.
But somehow, an uninvited guest had tagged along.
"Your Highness! It is an honor to meet you here at Gallipoli!"
"Well, strictly speaking, you weren't the one I summoned—but it's good to see you."
"Field Marshal FitzRoy has assigned personnel to assist the medical staff, and I've been given the honor of leading them!"
In truth, it was little more than a support role—running errands for the medical corps—but to our ever-enthusiastic Robert, even that seemed to bring immense joy.
It was only natural.
No general in his right mind would send the heir of the Marquess of Salisbury—likely a future Prime Minister—into real danger.
If something happened to him, it could spark a lifelong feud with his powerful family.
Besides, Robert looked as though he might die of happiness just being here.
In a way, it was the perfect arrangement for everyone.
"…Florence. Are you uncomfortable with this arrangement?"
Of course, the opinion of the person involved mattered most—but she glanced briefly at Robert, who was smiling like a fool, and shook her head.
"It's fine. He's been very considerate."
"…Well, that's a relief."
"Your Highness! Worry not! If Miss Nightingale desires it, I shall personally smash through even the thickest iron doors from now on!"
"There's no need for that. FitzRoy has already given permission—just take the supplies directly. Leave the doors and locks intact."
After all, we couldn't have the Lady with the Lamp gaining a reputation as the Lady with the Hammer.
"Did you speak to him personally?"
"Those who produce results deserve authority. And I emphasized your earlier points to him as well—you should see approval soon."
"Thank you. Truly, thank you."
Before even arriving at the battlefield, Nightingale had been working tirelessly to improve military hygiene.
Using data I had arranged for her, she analyzed records of military deaths and quickly identified sanitation as the leading cause of mortality.
Now, having resolved the cholera outbreak, her credibility within the army had only grown stronger.
With the Field Marshal's approval secured, implementing her proposals would not be difficult.
"Though… I heard the budget is rather limited. I did send a request for government support, but…"
"FitzRoy mentioned that. So I told him I would personally cover your expenses. Saving soldiers' lives is no place for a royal to be stingy."
I had already sent a telegram instructing newspapers back home to publicize this widely.
Soon, London would be flooded with headlines.
A royal witnessing the appalling state of battlefield hygiene and personally funding reforms—no paper would pass that up.
The cost of hospital improvements was nothing.
"What I expect from you, you already know. Ensure that no British soldier loses his life to anything other than battle. Spare no expense, use my name if you must—just deliver results."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"I will do my utmost to assist Miss Nightingale and Professor Snow!"
Good. Very good.
There was not a shred of doubt in my mind—these people would save countless lives.
Unlike in the original timeline, we had established optimal conditions even before the fighting truly began.
Naturally, casualties would be far lower.
Which left only one thing.
Victory on the battlefield.
Meanwhile, the commander of the Greek forces, Konstantinos Zervas, let out a weary sigh as he watched his subordinates intoxicated by their string of victories.
Originally, the Greek volunteer corps had been formed in the Danubian Principalities with Russian approval.
But as King Otto pursued the restoration of Greece's former territories, the force had gradually transformed into an official Greek army.
From a mere 800 men, it had grown into nearly 2,000.
Yet a force that had never fought a proper battle could hardly be considered disciplined.
"Where are we attacking today? Macedonia?"
"Macedonia? Do you even know where that is? Our target is Thessaloniki."
"Ah, right. That's it."
Idiots who couldn't even read a map.
Some of these men were company commanders.
It was enough to make one question the very foundation of the army.
Some companies didn't even have proper officers.
There was no need to explain how disorganized this force truly was.
The problem was—
they kept winning.
The Ottomans had concentrated their forces against Russia, and local populations, expecting liberation, often rose in revolt and welcomed the Greeks.
So all it took was a few volleys and some cannon fire—and the path would open.
Familiarity was a terrifying thing.
Men who had once trembled at the thought of facing the Ottoman army now treated them like beggars.
Some even believed themselves as strong as the Russians.
But an army without substance would inevitably be exposed.
Zervas, still one of the few maintaining his sanity, believed it was time to withdraw.
But the higher command thought otherwise.
"Do not retreat until Thessaloniki is secured—and Crete taken? Have they lost their minds?"
"Sir! What's there to worry about? The Ottomans can't even fight back!"
"…That's not what I meant. Damn it. Fine. A soldier follows orders."
Surely the king knew more than he did.
Surely there was a reason.
Hadn't they been winning all along?
Maybe… maybe it was possible.
Maybe the king had calculated everything.
The very next day—
the Royal Navy appeared off the coast of the Balkans.
And King Otto—
who had been expected to have some kind of plan—
had, of course,
prepared nothing.
"Your Majesty! British warships have entered the waters off Piraeus!"
"What are our defenses doing?! How can enemy ships reach the capital's doorstep?!"
Piraeus—Athens' harbor since ancient times.
If the British fleet had reached here, it was as good as a blade pressed against their throat.
"Your Majesty! The Royal Navy is the strongest fleet in the world! We cannot stop them!"
"Then man the coastal batteries! Fire at once!"
"…You're suggesting we fire first at British ships?"
"Should we simply let them sit in our waters?!"
Having already sided with Russia and declared war on the Ottomans, war with Britain was inevitable.
If they did not fire first, the British would.
"Recall the northern forces immediately! What are those useless fools doing?!"
They were marching on Thessaloniki—because you ordered them to!
Behind the shouting king, the council chairman quietly turned to the others.
"…We're finished, aren't we?"
No one answered.
But sometimes, silence is the clearest answer of all.
"…Prepare a letter of apology."
As the king continued to rant about calling for Russian reinforcements, the councilors had already begun thinking about how to survive.
Eighteen years after gaining independence—
the Kingdom of Greece faced its greatest crisis.