Spring mud season had finally turned the front-line positions into an endless sea of mud.
The snow had mostly melted away, but cold rain continued falling for days without pause. Water streamed down the walls of the trenches, collected inside deep shell craters, and soaked through greatcoats completely. Heavy gray fog hung above the lines, mixed with the smell of wet earth, smoke, and rotting wood.
The front continued living its familiar life.
Occasional artillery exchanges still erupted almost every day. Sometimes German aircraft appeared above the positions, while at night both sides launched signal flares over no man's land.
But even the war itself already felt different here than before.
Near a half-destroyed dugout, several soldiers sat around a small metal bucket filled with burning coal, trying to warm themselves after night duty.
One infantryman carefully unfolded a damp newspaper.
—"More demonstrations in Petrograd again."
Another soldier gave a tired smirk.
—"These days there are demonstrations there every day."
Several men quietly laughed.
The laughter faded quickly.
Exhaustion could be felt in almost every conversation.
Most of these men had already spent three years at war. Many had fought through Galicia, Poland, the Carpathians, the Brusilov Offensive, and the Romanian campaign. Some regiments had nearly completely changed composition several times over during the war.
Now, instead of talking about victory, soldiers more and more often discussed: land, peace, returning home, the revolution, and rumors that the war might soon end.
One older soldier silently smoked while staring across the gray field beyond the trenches.
Finally he quietly muttered:
—"How much longer is all this supposed to continue…"
Nobody answered immediately.
Because nearly everyone around him was asking the same question.
A younger soldier beside him adjusted his greatcoat carefully.
—"They say the new government wants to continue the war."
—"And do the Germans want to continue too?" someone asked darkly from deeper inside the dugout.
Short laughter was heard again.
But without any real humor.
Nearby, heavy artillery suddenly fired.
Several shells exploded farther down the line near the forward trenches. The ground trembled while wet dirt fell from the dugout ceiling.
Nobody even stood up.
Men here had grown used to bombardments long ago.
One soldier continued reading the newspaper aloud:
—"It says soldiers now have more rights."
—"Rights are good," an older front-line veteran answered tiredly. —"But they still are not sending us home."
The dugout fell silent again.
Outside, the changing guard slowly moved through the mud. Distant voices of officers and occasional rifle shots echoed somewhere along the line.
The front still held.
Millions of men still stood inside trenches stretching from the Baltic to Romania.
But gradually the army was beginning to lose the one thing that had held it together for so many years:
the belief that this war would someday end in a victory worth enduring everything for.
During the second half of the day, tension inside the regiment grew once again.
After the morning bombardment, the officers attempted to restore the usual routine of service: roll call was held, orders were distributed, and the forward positions were inspected. But now almost every instruction was followed by arguments, questions, or dissatisfied conversations among the soldiers.
Near the battalion headquarters, a soldiers' committee had already gathered.
Several elected representatives sat around a long wooden table inside a former peasant barn that had been converted into a temporary meeting room. Spread across the table were: crumpled newspapers, notebooks filled with notes, and several handwritten copies of recent orders.
The room smelled of wet wood, tobacco, and soaked greatcoats.
The young captain commanding the battalion looked increasingly irritated.
—"I will repeat this once again: the company must begin reinforcing the forward positions before evening."
One of the committee representatives immediately answered:
—"The soldiers demand an explanation first. Why strengthen the trenches again if everyone keeps talking about peace?"
The captain sharply raised his eyes.
—"Because the war is not over."
—"But the government promised change."
—"Change does not stop German artillery."
Several soldiers quietly smirked.
The conversation became increasingly tense.
Only a month earlier, an argument like this between an officer and enlisted men would have been almost impossible.
Now the committee already felt far more confident.
One of the front-line veterans slowly said:
—"The men are tired, Captain."
The officer tiredly rubbed his face.
He was not an old man, but the last three years of war had visibly aged him.
—"I am tired too," he answered more calmly. —"Everyone is tired."
For several seconds, the room became quieter.
Because nobody disagreed with that.
One soldier cautiously asked:
—"Then why does all this continue?"
The captain did not answer immediately.
Outside the barn came the sound of rain, distant artillery strikes, and voices near the trenches.
Finally the officer quietly said:
—"Because if the front collapses now, what comes after will be even worse."
Several men exchanged glances.
But the old certainty behind such words was already beginning to disappear.
More and more often, soldiers now thought about: home, land, their families, returning alive, and simply surviving the chaos around them.
Not about offensives or victory.
One member of the committee looked at the captain again.
—"The men still want to understand what they are fighting for."
The sentence hung heavily inside the room.
Because now even officers themselves were finding it increasingly difficult to answer.
Later that evening, the captain stepped outside and stopped beside a trench half-flooded with rainwater.
In the distance, signal flares once again lit up the sky above the front.
The front still existed. Orders were still given. Attacks and bombardments still continued.
But inside the army itself, something was slowly disappearing — something that for years had held millions of men together far more strongly than any order:
the belief that the war still had a clear purpose and that the old order was still capable of leading the country toward victory.
After the February Revolution, conditions inside the army began changing almost every week.
Reports of firefights, artillery duels, and local attacks still arrived from the front. Millions of soldiers continued standing in trenches stretching from the Baltic Sea to Romania, while the railways of the Empire still operated for the needs of the war.
But inside the army itself, entirely different processes had already begun.
Soldiers increasingly discussed: the revolution, land, peace, committees, new rights, and returning home.
In many units, officers had already begun noticing that the old obedience was weakening. Orders were now openly debated, while political conversations gradually spread even into the front lines.
At the same time, the Ukrainian movement was rapidly growing throughout the country.
After decades of restrictions, Ukrainian organizations, newspapers, student circles, and political societies had finally gained the ability to operate almost openly. These changes were especially visible in Kyiv, which was gradually becoming the main center of new Ukrainian political life.
It was against this background that delegates of the First Ukrainian Military Congress began arriving in the city during May 1917.
Kyiv looked completely different in those days compared to only a few months earlier.
The streets filled with more and more soldiers wearing the greatcoats of different regiments and fronts. New delegates arrived at the railway station almost every day — soldiers, officers, representatives of garrisons, and rear units from across the former Southwestern Front.
Ukrainian speech echoed constantly around the station.
Some had arrived from Volhynia. Others from near Riga. Others came after the Romanian front or long months in the Carpathians.
For many, it was the first time in years of war they had seen so many Ukrainians from different parts of the army gathered together in one place.
Blue-and-yellow ribbons, Ukrainian banners, new leaflets, and announcements of meetings and speeches appeared more frequently throughout the city.
Kyiv rapidly filled with the feeling of enormous change.
From early morning, hundreds of people gathered outside the building where the congress was held. Delegates smoked outside while arguing about politics, the front, the Provisional Government, soldiers' committees, and the future of the army.
—"If we do not begin forming our own units now, later it will already be too late."
—"The important thing is preventing the front from collapsing completely."
—"After February, everything is already moving toward that."
—"At least now we can finally speak openly."
The mood among the delegates varied greatly.
Some still hoped for the preservation of a common democratic Russia with broad Ukrainian autonomy.
Others increasingly doubted that the old Empire could survive at all.
But nearly all agreed on one thing: Ukrainian soldiers and officers needed their own organization inside the army.
Inside the building, the atmosphere felt even more tense.
The large hall was overcrowded. Delegates sat in the aisles, stood beside the walls, and even gathered near the open windows. The air quickly filled with tobacco smoke, loud voices, and the smell of wet greatcoats brought in from the rainy streets outside.
Yet nobody left.
Too many people understood that what was happening in Kyiv was becoming one of the most important events for the Ukrainian movement after February.
One after another, officers, front-line veterans, representatives of Ukrainian organizations, and political activists stepped onto the podium.
Many speeches were interrupted by loud applause.
Especially when speakers discussed: the rights of Ukrainians inside the army, the creation of Ukrainian units, and the future of Ukraine after the revolution.
One front-line officer sharply declared:
—"While Petrograd argues over power, the army is gradually losing control. If Ukrainian units do not begin organizing themselves, chaos will eventually reach here as well."
Voices of approval immediately spread across the hall.
But there were opposing opinions too.
Several socialist delegates warned that excessive emphasis on national military units could weaken the front even further.
—"The main task now is preserving the revolution and preventing counterrevolution."
—"Without an army, no revolution will survive either," voices immediately answered from the hall.
The arguments became increasingly heated.
Some delegates demanded accelerated Ukrainization of military units and the creation of a full Ukrainian command structure.
Others feared that overly radical steps could provoke conflict with Petrograd and the front-line command.
One older officer irritably declared:
—"If we begin dividing the army along national lines now, the front will collapse completely."
Almost immediately, someone answered from the back rows:
—"It is already beginning to collapse."
Noise once again filled the hall.
Several delegates attempted to shout over one another while the secretaries struggled to record resolutions and proposals.
Toward evening, Symon Petliura stepped onto the podium.
Unlike many professors and politicians, his speech sounded far simpler and harsher. He spoke the language of the army and war itself, something the front-line soldiers immediately recognized.
—"The revolution gave Ukraine the opportunity to speak openly," he began. —"But words alone are no longer enough."
The hall gradually became quieter.
—"While we argue, the old army is losing control. The front weakens more every month. Chaos continues growing."
Several officers nodded in agreement.
Many here had already seen with their own eyes how quickly the army was changing after February.
Petliura continued:
—"If Ukrainian soldiers do not begin organizing themselves, nobody will do it for us."
This time the applause became noticeably louder.
Especially among the military delegates.
Petliura still did not speak about independence or a complete break with Russia. Like most participants of the congress, he still viewed the future of Ukraine inside a new federal system.
At the same time, however, more and more people were beginning to understand: events were moving too quickly, while the Provisional Government was gradually losing control over both the country and the army.
By late evening, after hours of discussions, one thing had become completely clear: the majority of delegates supported the creation of Ukrainian units and the expansion of Ukrainian influence inside the army.
Even many front-line officers, who previously treated such ideas cautiously, were beginning to see them as a way to preserve at least some degree of order inside the rapidly changing army.
As the delegates slowly dispersed into the dark streets of Kyiv, discussions about the front, the revolution, committees, and the future of Ukraine continued long into the night.
But now, throughout all those conversations, the same thought appeared more and more often:
Ukraine was gradually ceasing to be merely a cultural movement inside the Empire.
It was beginning to transform into an independent political and military force.
Late at night, another military train slowly passed through one of Kyiv's railway stations.
The locomotive released heavy clouds of steam into the cold spring air while the dim station lamps barely illuminated the long rows of freight cars covered in mud and soot after days of travel.
Even at such a late hour, the platform remained noisy.
Railway workers shouted beside the wagons, soldiers stretched their legs after hours inside cramped cars, some stood in line for hot water, while others smoked near the tracks discussing the latest news.
Most had already heard about: the revolution, the Provisional Government, soldiers' committees, the Ukrainian congresses, and unrest spreading through the army.
Now conversations like these could be heard inside almost every train.
Near one of the wagons, several front-line veterans sat directly on supply crates.
One soldier silently pulled out a crumpled letter and reread several lines beneath the weak station lights.
—"They write from home that people are already preparing to divide the landlord's land."
Another soldier gave a tired smirk.
—"Right now something is being divided everywhere across the Empire."
Several men quietly laughed.
But the conversation quickly became serious again.
An older sergeant slowly lit a cigarette.
—"As long as everything does not completely fall apart."
A younger soldier beside him shrugged.
—"Maybe it already is."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Farther down the tracks, a locomotive whistle echoed heavily through the darkness.
On the neighboring line, a hospital train slowly moved past carrying wounded soldiers. Through the dirty windows, faint lamps and shadows of people inside could barely be seen.
The war continued.
The front still existed.
But now more and more soldiers thought not about victory, but about returning home.
About land. About family. About surviving everything that was happening around them.
One of the veterans quietly said:
—"Three years already…"
Nobody answered.
Because after all those years, exhaustion had become too deep.
Too many men had died. Too many hopes had disappeared together with the war.
A railway worker suddenly shouted from farther down the platform:
—"Back into the wagons! Departure in five minutes!"
The soldiers slowly stood up.
One crushed his cigarette against the rail. Another tucked his letter back beneath his coat. Others silently climbed back into the freight cars.
The train slowly disappeared into the darkness.
And with it, across the enormous and rapidly changing country, the old Imperial army continued moving forward.
Still enormous. Still armed. Still holding the front.
But growing more exhausted with the war, the revolution, and its own future, which was becoming less understandable with every passing month for the millions of men inside it.