The retreat from East Prussia was over.
But the war had not slowed down.
It had simply allowed men a brief moment to breathe.
Skoropadskyi's division remained in the rear for replenishment.
The camps were filled with new recruits.
New horses arrived almost daily.
New weapons.
New officers.
New faces.
And almost none of them understood how quickly war destroyed illusions.
Veterans of East Prussia looked older than they had a month earlier.
Some physically.
Some mentally.
Some both.
Skoropadskyi watched new units train.
One young officer was confidently explaining how a cavalry charge should be executed.
Skoropadskyi observed in silence for a moment before calling him over.
—"When was the last time you were under machine-gun fire?"
The officer hesitated.
—"Never, General."
Skoropadskyi watched the formation for a few more seconds.
—"That explains why your horses are lined up like they're preparing for a parade instead of machine-gun fire."
The young officer flushed with embarrassment.
Skoropadskyi's tone became calmer.
—"Your instructions belong in a war from twenty years ago. German machine guns will not wait while you arrange men into beautiful formations. Teach them how to dismount faster, use terrain properly, and survive longer."
The officer nodded immediately.
—"Yes, General."
Skoropadskyi moved on.
Conversations like that were becoming more common.
The old army was slowly colliding with a new kind of war.
Omelianovych-Pavlenko was rebuilding his officer corps.
One captain asked him:
—"How long do you think they'll let us rest?"
Omelianovych-Pavlenko gave a short laugh.
—"After East Prussia, I stopped treating rest as something guaranteed. The moment Stavka sees a hole on a map, they'll send us there before we finish training replacements."
The captain sighed heavily.
—"You could have lied."
Omelianovych shrugged.
—"That responsibility belongs to politicians and newspapers."
Bolbochan had finally returned to training.
His arm still hurt.
That did not stop him from ignoring medical advice.
During one exercise, he nearly reopened his stitches.
When the military doctor saw it, he barely controlled his anger.
—"You are either a very brave man or the most stubborn officer I have met in my entire career, and I still haven't decided which explanation is worse."
Bolbochan smirked.
—"You forgot a third possibility."
The doctor looked exhausted.
—"And what would that be?"
Bolbochan adjusted his bandages.
—"If I sit still too long, I begin volunteering for conversations with staff officers."
The doctor stared at him.
—"That may be the first symptom that genuinely concerns me."
The doctor shook his head.
—"Men like you usually return to me missing an arm."
For once, Bolbochan had no answer.
Bezruchko was fighting an endless paper war.
He brought new documents to Skoropadskyi.
—"According to these reports, our replacements should cover most of our losses."
Skoropadskyi reviewed the list carefully.
—"Too many of these officers are barely out of military school."
Bezruchko gave him a tired look.
—"Too many experienced officers are already buried in East Prussia, Pavlo Petrovich. The army is replacing losses faster than it can create competence."
Skoropadskyi nodded slowly.
—"And the horses?"
Bezruchko looked at another report.
—"The horses complain less."
Skoropadskyi looked at him.
—"That may be because they're smarter."
For the first time in the conversation, Skoropadskyi smiled.
—"That is an incredibly grim assessment."
—"But an honest one."
Several days later, a courier from Stavka arrived.
The order was brief.
General Skoropadskyi was to report to high command immediately.
Bolbochan broke the silence first.
—"Is this a promotion, or are they looking for someone to blame?"
Bezruchko shrugged.
—"In our army, those two things occasionally become the same conversation."
Even Omelianovych-Pavlenko allowed himself a quiet laugh.
Skoropadskyi folded the order carefully.
Outwardly, he remained calm.
His thoughts were far more complicated.
Every new connection mattered.
Every conversation mattered.
Every general mattered.
Every politician mattered.
If the empire survived the war, he would need allies inside it. If the empire collapsed, he would need people for a future Ukraine.
Somewhere between those two possibilities lay his real future.
The next morning, he left for Stavka.
The train carried Skoropadskyi south for nearly two days.
The farther he moved from his division, the more often he saw the consequences of war.
Hospital trains stood at stations.
Platforms were crowded with wounded men.
Columns of recruits marched in every direction.
Officers with bandaged arms and faces waited for transport.
At nearly every stop, people spoke about either the defeat in East Prussia or the victories in Galicia.
Russia was celebrating and burying its soldiers at the same time.
That contradiction was beginning to feel normal.
When his train arrived at Stavka, the atmosphere felt different immediately.
There was less battlefield chaos.
More politics.
More tension hidden behind formal uniforms and controlled expressions.
Officers moved quickly through hallways.
Adjutants carried stacks of documents.
Generals argued not over individual villages or hills anymore.
They argued over entire fronts.
Skoropadskyi quickly realized he had not been summoned alone.
Inside the building, he saw a familiar face.
Yakiv Handziuk.
The general looked exhausted.
But still as direct as ever.
—"Pavlo Petrovich."
—"Yakiv Hryhorovych."
They shook hands.
Handziuk studied him carefully.
—"People speak about you more often now than half the generals who haven't lost a single man because they stayed far from the front. Many officers owe their lives to your actions during the retreat from East Prussia, but Stavka has always had a habit of rewarding men who write elegant reports."
Skoropadskyi allowed himself a faint smile.
—"You always know how to inspire confidence before important meetings."
Handziuk laughed quietly.
—"I'm simply too old to pretend our high command isn't addicted to illusions. Germany turned out stronger than expected, Austria weaker than expected, and this war will last far longer than people promised during the summer. Some men here are beginning to understand that. Others will keep pretending until the very end."
Skoropadskyi watched him carefully.
—"And how many men in this building understand that?"
Handziuk paused briefly.
—"The group that wants there to be something left to save when this war ends."
Silence lingered between them for several seconds.
Skoropadskyi understood far more than he showed.
Men like Handziuk could become extremely valuable in the future.
Later that evening, another familiar voice called out to him in the officers' club.
Pyotr Krasnov.
Much younger than Handziuk.
Far more ambitious.
And significantly less careful with his words.
—"I heard your retreat from East Prussia is already becoming one of those heroic stories people tell far from the front."
Skoropadskyi looked at him calmly.
—"The men who were actually there would describe it differently."
Krasnov smirked and poured himself a drink.
—"That's always the problem with capitals. People far from the front turn slaughter into legends, then act surprised when frontline officers begin despising men in comfortable offices."
Skoropadskyi noticed how easily Krasnov spoke about authority with visible resentment.
Far too easily.
—"You speak as if you no longer believe in the center."
Krasnov took a slow drink.
—"I believe in strength. The center only exists as long as it can maintain it. If Petersburg ever weakens, the borderlands will remember very quickly that they know how to live without orders from above."
Krasnov slowly swirled his drink.
—"Empires rarely collapse all at once."
He looked directly at Skoropadskyi.
—"Usually the provinces begin asking whether the center still deserves obedience."
Skoropadskyi returned the polite smile.
But internally, he was already making calculations.
Handziuk.
Reliable.
Direct.
Potentially useful in future Ukrainian command.
Krasnov.
Ambitious.
Dangerous.
But potentially useful during future civil war chaos.
He had long since stopped judging people only through the present.
The next morning, the most important meeting at Stavka awaited him.
The main hall of Stavka was already full when Skoropadskyi entered the next morning.
Senior generals stood around massive tables covered with maps.
Poland.
East Prussia.
Galicia.
The entire war seemed reduced to paper, pins, and colored lines.
Nicholas II was present in person.
The Tsar looked calm.
Too calm.
Skoropadskyi quickly noticed that some generals viewed that calm as a sign of strength.
Others seemed deeply unsettled by how detached it felt.
The reports began almost immediately.
One general spoke about losses in East Prussia.
Another discussed victories against Austria.
A third pushed for a new major operation in Poland.
Before long, the discussion became far sharper.
One general spoke with visible frustration.
—"We nearly lost two armies in the north because we operated like separate machines with no coordination. Now you're proposing another major offensive while many formations are still rebuilding."
Another general responded immediately.
—"And what exactly do you suggest? Hand Germany the initiative after their victory in East Prussia? If we allow them to choose the timing, they will strike Poland on their own terms."
The first general leaned forward.
—"I suggest we stop pretending that numerical superiority automatically compensates for poor coordination."
The room became dangerously quiet.
Many officers clearly agreed.
Very few would say such things openly in front of the Tsar.
Nicholas II finally spoke.
—"Enough."
His voice remained calm.
—"The empire has survived difficult wars before. It will survive this one as well."
Some generals looked reassured.
Skoropadskyi did not.
Too many men in the room were still thinking like peacetime officers.
Then, unexpectedly, attention shifted toward him.
—"General Skoropadskyi."
One senior officer looked directly at him.
—"Your rearguard operation saved a significant portion of First Army. In your opinion, what was the primary cause of our defeat in East Prussia?"
The room noticeably quieted.
Skoropadskyi understood the danger of the question.
Too much honesty would create enemies.
Too much caution would make him useless.
He answered carefully.
—"We underestimated German coordination, their railway network, and their ability to rapidly concentrate force against separated armies. But our greatest mistake was treating good news as proof that everything was going according to plan."
Several generals visibly stiffened.
He continued.
—"After Stallupönen and Gumbinnen, many officers began acting as if East Prussia was already won. The Germans spent that same time adapting faster than we did."
One general asked coldly:
—"Are you accusing high command?"
Skoropadskyi met his stare calmly.
—"I'm saying Germany punished our mistakes faster than we were willing to admit they existed."
This time, even several senior generals gave subtle nods.
The conversation quickly shifted toward Poland.
Intelligence reports described growing German preparations.
Warsaw
Ivangorod Fortress
New operations.
New risks.
New casualties.
Skoropadskyi studied the map of Poland.
And understood one simple truth.
The next battle was already approaching.
And it would be even larger than the last one.
The return journey felt shorter.
Perhaps because Skoropadskyi already knew the answer.
The war did not allow long pauses.
His train stopped near the division's encampment.
When he arrived, his officers were already waiting.
Bolbochan noticed him first.
—"Judging by your expression, we were either promoted or sent somewhere terrible again."
Skoropadskyi removed his gloves.
—"Your first theory was far too optimistic."
Even Bezruchko allowed himself a quiet laugh.
Omelianovych-Pavlenko crossed his arms.
—"Poland?"
Skoropadskyi nodded.
—"The Germans are preparing a major operation. Stavka is responding with an offensive of its own. Warsaw and Ivangorod are becoming the center of the next campaign."
Bolbochan shook his head.
—"I'm beginning to suspect this war contains an endless number of terrible directions."
—"Based on recent experience, your suspicion appears well supported."
This time several officers laughed.
It was a rare moment of relief.
The conversation soon became more serious.
Skoropadskyi explained what he had seen in Stavka.
The arguments between generals.
The new operational plans.
How many men still failed to understand the scale of what was coming.
Omelianovych-Pavlenko listened carefully.
—"Do you believe they're ready for another campaign?"
Skoropadskyi did not answer immediately.
—"I believe Germany is bleeding too. I believe Austria is weaker than most expected. But I no longer believe in quick victories."
Bezruchko exhaled heavily.
—"That may be the most honest strategic assessment I've heard all month."
Bolbochan smirked.
—"Remarkably inspiring."
—"I prefer realism."
—"That sounds even less inspiring."
This time even Skoropadskyi laughed quietly.
The following days became preparation.
Replacements.
Ammunition.
Horses.
New officers.
Transporting wounded men farther to the rear.
Saying goodbye to those who would never return to the front.
Veterans of East Prussia looked at new recruits differently now.
Without contempt.
Without romanticism.
They simply tried to teach them how to survive.
How to dismount faster.
How to survive artillery bombardments.
How not to panic during retreats.
How not to die because of beautiful prewar theories.
Several days later, military trains began moving west again.
Autumn Poland welcomed them with rain.
Mud.
Overcrowded stations.
Endless military columns.
Hundreds of thousands of soldiers moved toward another battle.
The scale of the war kept growing.
Skoropadskyi stood near the train window and watched empty fields pass by.
Somewhere ahead, armies were gathering again.
German.
Russian.
Austrian.
Even more men were preparing to die because of decisions made far from the front.
Bolbochan approached him.
This time without jokes.
—"Do you think we'll win in Poland?"
Skoropadskyi stared out the window for a long time before answering.
—"After East Prussia, I stopped trying to predict individual battles. Now I only think about surviving the next one."
Bolbochan slowly nodded.
It was an honest answer.
And perhaps the only correct one.
The train continued west.
Toward Warsaw.
Toward Ivangorod.
Toward the next chapter of the war.