For the first time in weeks, Skoropadskyi's division could no longer hear artillery.
For many soldiers, the silence felt unnatural.
Some woke in the middle of the night expecting shell explosions.
Only after several seconds did they realize they were far from the front.
The division had been pulled into the rear for replenishment.
It still existed as a combat-capable formation.
But the losses had been severe.
From the sixteen thousand men Skoropadskyi had taken into Masurian Lakes, only ten thousand remained combat-ready.
Another four thousand were in hospitals.
Two thousand were dead.
From the three attached regiments, only around three thousand men had returned.
Replacement camps were overflowing with recruits.
Most looked too young.
And far too calm.
They had not seen real war yet.
Veterans watched them in silence.
Some with pity.
Some with irritation.
At dinner, one recruit confidently began explaining how quickly Russia would eventually crush Germany.
An older non-commissioned officer slowly put down his spoon.
—"I entered East Prussia on the first day of this campaign. I watched men speak about marching into Berlin, and a week later they were searching for their brothers among piles of bodies. So either eat quietly—or survive at least one offensive before you begin making predictions."
The entire table went silent.
The recruit said nothing else.
Omelianovych-Pavlenko was rebuilding his regiment almost by hand.
There were not enough officers.
Not enough sergeants.
He personally reviewed replacement lists.
Sometimes he looked up at young officers standing in front of him.
Uniforms too clean.
Eyes too confident.
One of them finally asked:
—"Colonel, do you believe we'll be sent into another offensive soon?"
Omelianovych-Pavlenko remained silent for several seconds before setting the papers aside.
—"Young man, over the past month I watched officers discuss parades in Berlin over breakfast and die in the mud under German artillery before sunset. If you are fortunate, you'll have several weeks to prepare. If you are not, you may be sent back to the front before you learn the names of your own soldiers."
The young officer visibly paled.
—"Understood, Colonel."
—"No, you don't. But you will."
Bolbochan was recovering from his arm wound and openly hated being in the rear.
He could move normally again.
Which meant he had begun irritating doctors.
A military doctor examined his bandages.
—"If you tear these stitches open again, I will personally order you tied to that bed."
Bolbochan smirked.
—"Doctor, this is the third time you've threatened me with that. The warning sounds less convincing every time."
The doctor looked exhausted.
—"And every day you sound more like a man who genuinely believes he is immortal. Men like that are usually disappointed very quickly."
For a moment, Bolbochan stopped smiling.
—"Too many of my men died in East Prussia. As long as I'm alive, I still have work to do."
The doctor answered far more quietly.
—"Then allow your arm to heal properly. Otherwise next time you may not be able to hold a weapon."
Bezruchko was drowning in paperwork.
Replacements.
Reports.
Casualty lists.
Supply requests.
Requests for new horses.
Requests for new officers.
He looked at Skoropadskyi.
—"Sometimes I think Russian bureaucracy is more dangerous than German artillery."
For the first time in a long while, Skoropadskyi smiled.
—"At least German artillery tries to kill you quickly."
Several days later, completely different reports began reaching Stavka.
And they shocked everyone.
The northern front:
disaster.
East Prussia lost.
Massive casualties.
Second Army effectively destroyed.
First Army forced out of the campaign.
But in the south—Russia was winning.
Austria-Hungary was suffering heavy defeats.
Russian forces were advancing through Galicia.
Lviv was under threat.
Inside one headquarters chamber, a general angrily threw a report onto the table.
—"Explain to me how we can nearly lose two armies in the north while simultaneously crushing Austria in the south."
Another general answered after a long pause.
—"Perhaps because Germany is Germany, and Austria is Austria. And if you say that out loud in front of the Tsar, I strongly recommend writing your will first."
Several officers laughed nervously.
Nicholas II listened to the reports in silence.
The longer the war continued—the clearer it became:
it would be far worse than anyone had imagined that summer.
The atmosphere inside Austro-Hungarian headquarters was very different from Stavka.
In Russian headquarters, officers argued over contradictory results.
In the Austrian command, they argued about how to stop a collapse.
Conrad von Hötzendorf stared at the map of Galicia with barely restrained fury.
Red markers showing Russian advances kept moving deeper.
Retreating corps.
Lost cities.
Fresh requests for reinforcements.
One general began his report carefully.
—"Fourth Army continues retreating. Casualties are significantly higher than expected. We've also received reports of discipline issues in several multinational formations."
Conrad slowly raised his eyes.
—"Discipline issues?"
The general chose his words carefully.
—"Several formations lost large numbers of officers. In some units, soldiers of different nationalities are refusing orders from officers they blame for pointless attacks."
The room went silent.
Another general stepped in.
—"We may still stabilize the front if Germany provides immediate support."
Conrad slammed his hand against the table.
—"We began this campaign to demonstrate the strength of the empire, and now you want me to ask Berlin to save us after only a few weeks of war?"
No one answered.
Because everyone knew the answer.
On one sector of the front, an Austrian officer personally watched his division retreat.
Soldiers marched down muddy roads in silence.
Some no longer carried weapons.
Others supported wounded comrades.
Some simply stared at the ground.
Russian artillery occasionally struck the roads.
The retreat was becoming a nightmare.
Amid the chaos, one report stood out.
The volunteer formation Ukrainian Sich Riflemen had successfully held positions in one Carpathian sector and repelled several Russian attacks.
The officer stared at the report for several seconds.
Then let out a bitter laugh.
—"Volunteer units are holding better than parts of our regular army. If anyone repeats that in Vienna, I'll probably be forced into retirement."
His adjutant answered tiredly.
—"If things continue like this, they'll send us back to the front before they send us into retirement."
Even the officer allowed himself a brief smile.
It was a rare moment of dark humor in the middle of collapse.
On the southern front, Russian forces were experiencing a completely different war.
The offensive continued.
Austrian forces kept retreating.
Russian troops pushed deeper into Galicia.
But victory was not easy.
Roads were filled with wounded soldiers.
Supplies lagged behind.
Entire regiments were losing thousands of men.
One Russian general stared at the map of captured territory.
—"Everyone in Petrograd will celebrate these victories. No one will see the fields where our soldiers are buried."
Another officer answered after a long silence.
—"That's still better than those fields being near Warsaw or Kyiv."
The first general slowly nodded.
—"Yes. But the families of the dead probably won't care about the difference."
When Russian troops entered Lviv, many soldiers celebrated.
Church bells rang.
Officers sent victory reports.
Newspapers were already preparing dramatic headlines.
But beyond the cities, the war continued consuming lives.
Austria-Hungary retreated.
Russia celebrated.
And no one yet understood how long this war would become.
News of the victories in Galicia reached Skoropadskyi's camp several days later.
At first, many soldiers didn't believe it.
After East Prussia, men had stopped trusting the first reports they heard.
Too many good headlines had turned into disasters.
But the reports kept coming.
Lviv captured.
Austrian forces retreating.
Russian armies advancing deeper into Galicia.
That evening, officers gathered in the mess hall and discussed the news.
Some had already begun openly suggesting that Austria-Hungary might collapse faster than expected.
One staff captain spoke with visible confidence.
—"If the Austrians continue retreating at this pace, we may force them out of the war before winter. Germany would be left standing alone."
Bolbochan gave a faint smile, though there was little optimism behind it.
—"I heard nearly identical speeches before Gumbinnen. Back then people were discussing Berlin."
The captain looked irritated.
—"So your solution is what? Never celebrate victories?"
Bolbochan leaned back in his chair.
—"My solution is remembering that Germany destroyed one of our armies and nearly destroyed another less than a month ago."
The captain was about to respond when Skoropadskyi interrupted.
—"The greatest mistake of this war is believing one battle will decide everything. That battle may not come for years."
The table grew noticeably quieter.
No one argued after that.
Later that evening, Skoropadskyi, Bolbochan, Omelianovych-Pavlenko, and Bezruchko gathered privately.
For the first time in a long while, there was no map showing an immediate battlefield disaster.
Only reports.
Replacement requests.
New appointments.
And news from the south.
Bolbochan looked at Skoropadskyi.
—"What do you think, Pavlo Petrovich? Could Austria actually collapse before Germany?"
Bezruchko answered before Skoropadskyi could.
—"If war were that simple, we wouldn't have lost East Prussia. Germany has already shown how quickly it adapts."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko calmly added:
—"Austria is weaker than Germany. But a weak ally is still an ally. As long as Berlin remains standing, this war will not end quickly."
Skoropadskyi remained silent for a moment.
Then he finally spoke.
—"This summer people promised the war would end by Christmas. Then came Tannenberg. Then Masurian Lakes. Now Austria-Hungary is losing Galicia. Everyone keeps searching for a simple explanation because the truth is too unpleasant."
He looked at each of them.
Skoropadskyi remained silent for a long moment.
—"This war is destroying professional armies faster than governments can replace them."
He looked at each officer.
—"Soon they'll begin replacing experience with numbers."
Another pause.
—"And empires built on old assumptions rarely survive wars like that."
The room fell silent.
Even Bolbochan had no answer.
Several days later, new orders arrived.
The division continued rebuilding.
New horses.
New officers.
New recruits.
But the rest was ending faster than anyone wanted.
German command was already planning new operations in Poland.
Stavka was preparing its own redeployments.
The front was moving again.
Skoropadskyi studied a map of Poland for a long time.
Far longer than he would have months earlier.
Without his former confidence.
But with far more experience.
Bolbochan approached the table.
—"Where do you think they'll send us next?"
Skoropadskyi allowed himself a small smile.
—"Somewhere bad enough that Stavka decides cavalry is the answer."
Bolbochan unexpectedly laughed.
Even Bezruchko smiled.
It was a rare moment of relief.
It passed quickly.
Because a new campaign was already approaching.
And the war was only beginning to reveal its true face.