Wearing British clothes as a second-generation aristocrat

56. General, give me some cannons.

Wellesley ordered the entire army to remain in place for rest and reorganization, to gather the fleeing soldiers, treat the wounded, inventory the weapons and supplies, and bury the bodies of the fallen soldiers.

Dugan's right cheek wound had been given basic treatment by the military doctor. Rough gauze was applied diagonally to his cheek, extending from the corner of his eye to his ear, with the outline of a hideous scar hidden under the gauze.

The day after the battle ended, Dugan sent Tom out on official business, supposedly to fetch someone.

From then on, Dugan would look south from the camp entrance every day, as if waiting for someone.

All the soldiers in the regiment knew that their commander had an Indian beauty who could drive any man crazy, including Amir, who thought that Dugan had sent Tom to pick up his sister.

To everyone's surprise, on the third day, Dugan finally met the person he was waiting for.

However, the soldiers of the 108th Regiment did not see the Indian beauty who captivated their commander; instead, they saw a large, fat man.

"Who is this?"

"Is the Indian pearl in the group leader a very fat person?"

"My God, the colonel likes men?"

"This is the colonel's personal cook..." Tom, as the military police captain, would immediately kick someone in the backside whenever he heard them talking. "Also, the military police's solitary confinement cells are very clean. Do you want to sleep there for three days?"

The soldiers laughed and quickly dispersed.

"It's finally here!" Through his brother Megan and his extensive network of connections, Dugan finally managed to transfer the head chef from the Royal Navy's HMS Victory to the front lines in India.

The cook, named Carlby, recognized Dugan as soon as he saw him. He was the young officer who had bribed him to give Dugan and Wellesley special treatment.

Dugan immediately arranged for the cook to be sent directly to Wellesley’s front-line command post.

Wellesley, who had just finished a meeting to review the military achievements of his generals, was sitting in his tent rubbing his temples, looking exhausted.

After days of intense command and operations, he worked tirelessly day and night. His diet was always rough, consisting mainly of hard flatbread, salted meat, and bland soup. He had long lost his appetite and was physically and mentally exhausted.

When the tent curtain was lifted and the personal cook from the Victory respectfully saluted and reported for duty, Wellesley was taken aback at first. After learning the other party's identity, this usually calm and composed commander, who never showed his emotions, revealed a rare look of genuine surprise on his face.

"You're the head chef of the Victory?" Wellesley stood up to confirm, his eyes filled with surprise and delight.

"Yes, sir, I am Kelby," the cook replied with a bow.

The monotonous meals and tense nerves of the days of fighting had left Wellesley physically and mentally exhausted. The arrival of a great chef at this moment was undoubtedly the best comfort after the battle.

He was overjoyed, all the fatigue of the past few days vanished, and his spirits were greatly lifted.

Seeing that the time was right, Dugen, who was standing to the side, spoke cautiously.

"Alright, Kalby..." Wellesley said, "We've captured a lot of the Marathas' oxen that they use to pull cannons, and I need those egg pie and steak tarts right away."

"Yes, sir." Kalby saluted and followed Wellesley's orderly to select the cattle.

"General, I have a request that I need your approval," Dugan said respectfully with a smile.

Wellesley was in a good mood. "Tell me! I knew this steak would need to be traded for something!"

"In this battle, the 108th Infantry Regiment attacked the enemy's main force throughout the entire campaign, and successfully completed its mission of holding them back by advancing through trenches and launching infantry assaults."

Du Gen was clear and organized, first highlighting his achievements and then stating his demands, neither humble nor arrogant.

"But throughout the entire battle, the weaknesses of the 108th Regiment were also very obvious. They were equipped with light, small-caliber artillery, which had short range, weak power, and limited functionality. They were almost powerless to suppress the enemy's regular fortifications and fought extremely hard throughout the entire battle."

"We captured a large number of Marathas artillery pieces. These artillery pieces were all genuine French products, with excellent craftsmanship. They included not only conventional field cannons, but also howitzers, which were rarely equipped by our British infantry regiments. Their indirect fire and assault capabilities far exceeded those of our existing small-caliber artillery."

Dugan said with a smile, "I implore the general to allocate twelve captured French artillery pieces to be formally incorporated into my 108th Infantry Regiment, expand the regimental artillery, and make up for the firepower shortage of my unit."

Wellesley glanced at Dugan, whose eyes gleamed with greed, but whose expression was very serious.

Wellesley thought about it and ultimately agreed to Dugan's request.

"You can choose twelve cannons from the spoils and allocate them all to the 108th Infantry Regiment. However, if I find that they are not playing their proper role in the 108th Regiment, then I will withdraw all your artillery."

"Yes, General!" Dugen was overjoyed and bowed respectfully.

Having successfully completed the important task, Dugan bid farewell to Wellesley and turned to leave the command post.

The afternoon sun pierced through the smoke and fell on the camp, where a faint smell of blood and gunpowder still lingered in the air.

He walked slowly along the dirt road in the camp, preparing to return to his regimental headquarters to arrange the reorganization of the artillery.

As he passed the makeshift field hospital, a strong, pungent stench of fish, decay, and herbs suddenly hit him, abruptly stopping him in his tracks.

Dugan instinctively turned his head to look, and the scene before him made him feel somewhat distressed.

This was a standard British Army field hospital, a place that should have been used to treat the wounded and save lives, but at this moment it was shockingly dilapidated and chaotic.

Dozens of wounded soldiers were crammed into a makeshift canvas tent. The ground was just compacted soil, muddy, damp, uneven, and filthy, mixed with blood, pus, and sewage.

The wounded soldiers lay sprawled out, some with broken arms and legs, some with bullet wounds to the chest and abdomen, and some covered in knife wounds. There were no clean blankets or isolation beds, and everyone was crammed together, with most of their wounds only hastily bandaged.

Bandages stained with pus and blood were reused repeatedly, wounds were rinsed with water indiscriminately, there was no concept of disinfection, no sterile instruments, and rudimentary scalpels and tweezers were casually placed on dirty cloth.

This place doesn't look like a hospital at all! It's more like a slaughterhouse!

Dugan discovered that many soldiers in the hospital had injuries that were not fatal, but were dying from infection, inflammation, and ulceration, along with persistent high fever and edema.

The military doctors were busy running around, but their methods were limited. They could only rely on outdated experience to provide crude treatment and were helpless in the face of large-scale infections, sepsis, and suppuration.

Faint groans and painful gasps rose and fell as wounded soldiers continued to lose their breath in silent exhaustion.

Dugan raised his hand and gently stroked the rough gauze on the side of his face, feeling a mix of emotions.

If the scar on my face that survived by sheer luck were treated any later or in a less favorable environment, it would most likely become infected and fester, ending up like those wounded soldiers.

"Colonel..."

Suddenly, a few weak cries reached Dugan's ears.

Dugen followed the sound and found several soldiers who looked somewhat familiar.

"You are from the 108th Regiment!"

Dugan recognized the soldiers, who were filthy, with bloodstains on their arms, legs, chests, and abdomens.