At dawn the following day, the operation entered its decisive phase.
By that point, most of the key railway junctions were already under the control of the Ukrainian cavalry divisions.
Communication between the separate groups of the Second Guards Corps was deteriorating rapidly.
Telegrams were delayed.
Orders arrived late.
Some units received no new instructions at all.
Yet complete success was still far from guaranteed.
Tens of thousands of armed men remained scattered along the railways.
If they understood what was happening too early, the situation could become far more dangerous.
Inside Skoropadskyi's operational headquarters, work continued day and night.
Couriers arrived almost every hour.
New markings constantly appeared on the maps.
Sliwinski carefully studied another intelligence report before raising his head.
—"They're beginning to make attempts to restore control."
Bezruchko stepped closer.
—"How?"
—"They're sending liaison officers between trains, trying to use civilian telegraph lines, and dispatching couriers. A logical response, but it comes too late. The corps is already divided into separate groups, and the distance between them continues to grow."
Bolbochan looked closely at the railway map.
—"What if one of those groups tries to break through?"
—"Break through to where?" Sliwinski asked.
The colonel smiled faintly.
The answer was obvious.
There were very few places left to break through to.
Meanwhile, aboard one of the corps' trains, the situation was gradually slipping out of control.
Committee members demanded explanations.
Officers demanded clear orders.
Soldiers demanded food and some understanding of what was happening.
No one could provide any of those things.
At one intermediate station, a train stood idle for nearly an entire day.
Eventually, a delegation from the local committee went to speak with the station master.
When they returned, they looked visibly disturbed.
—"What happened?"
—"There are Ukrainian troops ahead."
—"What Ukrainian troops?"
—"The Army of the Ukrainian People's Republic."
The railcar immediately erupted into conversation.
Some soldiers were hearing the news for the first time.
Others had already suspected something similar.
One committee member attempted to calm them.
—"Comrades, don't give in to rumors."
But there was far less confidence in his voice than before.
By now, similar conversations were taking place throughout many of the corps' trains.
Meanwhile, at the former corps headquarters, Bosch finally received confirmation of her worst fears.
A courier had delivered several reports at once.
She reviewed the documents quickly and placed them on the table.
A heavy silence filled the room.
—"The Ukrainians. This is a Ukrainian operation."
No one responded.
Everyone had already reached the same conclusion.
Another committee member slammed his fist onto the table.
—"Why didn't we know sooner?"
—"Because the operation was prepared professionally."
The answer came calmly.
Almost too calmly.
One of the delegates looked toward the map.
—"What do they want?"
Bosch raised her eyes.
—"To prevent us from reaching Kyiv."
—"Then we must gather the corps immediately."
This time she slowly shook her head.
—"And where exactly do you intend to gather it?"
No one had an answer.
That was the problem.
The corps was no longer truly a corps.
It had become a collection of scattered groups spread across the railway network.
Some units were hundreds of kilometers apart.
Others had vanished entirely from the communications system.
The room grew quieter with every passing minute.
Finally, one of the youngest activists asked:
—"Have we lost?"
Bosch remained silent for several seconds.
—"No, but the initiative no longer belongs to us."
At that very moment, preparations for the next phase of the operation were underway at Skoropadskyi's headquarters.
The text of a proclamation already lay on the table.
Not an order.
Not an ultimatum in the traditional sense.
More an official offer.
Skoropadskyi carefully reread the document and made several corrections.
Sliwinski watched silently before finally speaking.
—"Do you think they'll accept?"
—"Most of them will."
—"Why?"
Skoropadskyi set down his pencil.
—"Because most soldiers do not want to fight. The Bolsheviks believe they command a revolutionary army, but in reality they command men who have spent four years in the trenches and dream of only one thing—going home."
Bezruchko nodded in agreement.
His intelligence reports suggested exactly the same thing.
Exhaustion.
Disillusionment.
Indifference.
For many soldiers, ideology had long ceased to be the most important issue.
Skoropadskyi looked at the proclamation once more.
—"Ukrainians will be allowed to transfer into the Ukrainian Army. Everyone else will be given the opportunity to return peacefully to Russia. Those who surrender their weapons will do so without persecution."
Bolbochan studied him carefully.
—"And if some decide to resist?"
The answer came calmly.
—"Then we will disarm them."
No one said anything further.
Everyone understood that the decisive moment of the operation had arrived.
Only one question remained.
How many men in the Second Guards Corps were truly willing to die for the revolution—and how many simply wanted to go home?
By evening, the proclamation had been distributed to all Ukrainian units participating in the operation.
Skoropadskyi had specifically ordered that it be circulated as widely as possible.
Not only among commanders.
But among the soldiers of the Second Guards Corps themselves.
He understood perfectly well that the outcome of the operation would not be decided inside headquarters.
It would be decided inside railcars, at stations, and around campfires.
Where ordinary soldiers would make a simple choice: obey or not.
The following day, the first envoys began arriving at Ukrainian positions.
Usually they were committee representatives.
Sometimes officers.
Occasionally mixed delegations.
Most asked the same questions.
What would happen to the soldiers?
What would happen to the weapons?
What would happen after surrender?
Inside one occupied station building, a Ukrainian officer once again read the terms aloud.
—"Those wishing to join Ukrainian units will be accepted after verification."
He looked at the assembled delegates.
—"Those wishing to return home or travel to Russia will be allowed to do so after surrendering their weapons."
One committee member immediately asked:
—"What about arrests?"
—"Only individuals suspected of organizing armed resistance."
Another delegate frowned.
—"So we'll be put on trial?"
The officer calmly shook his head.
—"Not if you surrender your weapons."
The negotiations continued for several hours.
Similar scenes unfolded across multiple sectors.
Gradually, it became clear that Skoropadskyi's calculations had been correct.
Most soldiers had absolutely no desire to fight.
Especially now that they understood who stood opposite them.
Not Germans.
Not Austrians.
But fellow former frontline soldiers.
Only wearing Ukrainian uniforms.
Meanwhile, Bosch was making her final attempts to regain control of the situation.
The atmosphere at the former corps headquarters had become increasingly tense.
The reports grew worse with every passing hour.
Another meeting began late in the evening.
One member of the revolutionary committee immediately got to the point.
—"Two regiments are already negotiating with the Ukrainians."
Another struck the table in frustration.
—"Negotiating? After everything that's happened?"
—"They don't want to fight."
—"Then they must be forced."
Bosch immediately raised her eyes.
The room fell silent.
—"Forced?"
The man shifted uncomfortably.
—"I meant... the situation must be explained to them."
—"No. You said they must be forced."
She stared at him for several seconds.
—"And how exactly do you intend to force tens of thousands of exhausted soldiers to fight for something they no longer want?"
No one answered.
Because there was no answer.
What had seemed like a powerful revolutionary force only a week earlier was slowly becoming a vast mass of people with entirely different priorities.
Some supported the Bolsheviks.
Some supported the Soviets.
Some sympathized with the Central Rada.
Others wanted only one thing.
To go home.
Finally, one committee member spoke.
—"We underestimated Skoropadskyi."
Silence returned to the room.
Bosch disliked admitting mistakes.
But this time she did not argue.
Because it was true.
The Ukrainian command had acted quickly, professionally, and with discipline.
Exactly as a real army should.
Not a revolutionary committee.
Not a political rally.
Not a movement.
An army.
At the same time, the first serious attempt at resistance took place at one of the major railway stations.
A group of the most radical soldiers refused to surrender their weapons.
Several men occupied storage buildings near the tracks.
The first shots were fired.
When the report reached Bolbochan, he was at his divisional headquarters.
The colonel listened carefully to the liaison officer.
Then asked:
—"How many?"
—"Around sixty."
—"And the rest?"
—"Waiting."
Bolbochan thought for a moment.
Then answered calmly.
—"Tell the regimental commander not to storm the position. Have him offer surrender one more time."
The officer looked surprised.
—"And if they refuse?"
—"Then we'll solve the problem."
The liaison officer nodded and left.
Several hours later, a new report arrived.
Most of the group had surrendered.
Without a battle.
Without unnecessary bloodshed.
That was exactly the outcome the Ukrainian headquarters had hoped for.
By nightfall, the situation had become increasingly obvious.
The corps continued to disintegrate into separate groups.
Some were already surrendering their weapons.
Others were negotiating.
Still others simply waited to see what would happen.
There was no longer any organized movement toward Kyiv.
And even the most committed Bolsheviks were beginning to understand it.
By the following morning, it had become unmistakably clear that the operation had achieved its objective.
The Second Guards Corps no longer existed as a unified military formation.
On paper, headquarters still existed.
Some committees continued issuing resolutions.
A few individuals still attempted to give orders.
But those orders could no longer be enforced.
Groups of soldiers were scattered across dozens of stations and railway sidings.
Communications had collapsed.
Unified command no longer existed.
Reports flowed continuously into Skoropadskyi's operational headquarters.
Sliwinski carefully reviewed each new summary.
More and more markings appeared on the maps.
Most represented the same thing.
Surrender of weapons.
Transfer of control to Ukrainian forces.
Disbandment of units.
—"Another train has surrendered its arms."
Bezruchko handed over a fresh report.
—"Any resistance?" Skoropadskyi asked.
—"None."
Sliwinski marked another position on the map.
—"How many now?"
Bezruchko checked his notes.
—"According to the latest figures, more than half the formations have either surrendered, entered negotiations, or been placed under our control."
Skoropadskyi listened quietly.
The result did not surprise him.
The entire operation had been designed to achieve exactly this outcome.
Not to destroy the corps in battle.
But to deprive it of the ability—and the desire—to fight.
Meanwhile, at one of the major railway stations, another regiment was surrendering its weapons.
Long lines of soldiers moved past collection points.
Rifles were stacked.
Machine guns were handed over.
Crates of ammunition were inventoried.
Some men looked bitter.
Others appeared relieved.
Most simply looked tired.
A Ukrainian officer observed the process alongside the regimental commander.
—"I expected worse."
The commander gave a faint shrug.
—"They spent four years in the trenches."
He watched the line of soldiers moving toward the collection area.
—"Most of them don't want to fight for the Bolsheviks. Most of them don't want to fight for anyone."
—"What do they want?"
—"To go home."
The officer said nothing.
He had heard the same answer repeatedly over the past several days.
Elsewhere, events unfolded less peacefully.
A group of hardline Bolsheviks attempted to organize resistance.
They occupied several buildings near a station and refused to surrender.
A brief exchange of fire followed.
When Ukrainian cavalry reinforcements arrived, the resistance quickly began to collapse.
Within a few hours, it was over.
Several wounded.
A handful of dead.
Another group of prisoners.
For an operation of this scale, the casualties remained remarkably light.
That had been Skoropadskyi's goal from the beginning.
The less blood that was spilled now, the fewer enemies Ukraine would create later.
By evening, reports began arriving that some Ukrainians from within the corps had volunteered to join the Ukrainian Army.
The numbers were not especially large.
Most preferred to return home.
Yet the symbolism mattered.
It demonstrated that not everyone was willing to follow the revolutionary committees.
In one headquarters railcar, Bolbochan was reviewing reports from the commanders of his regiments.
The colonel looked exhausted.
Few officers had slept properly in days.
—"The station is fully secured."
—"Prisoners?"
—"Approximately three hundred."
—"Weapons?"
—"Inventory is still underway."
Bolbochan nodded.
—"Finish everything before nightfall. The greatest danger now isn't resistance—it's disorder."
The officers agreed.
They understood exactly what he meant.
Disarming thousands of men was often more difficult than winning a battle.
Meanwhile, Bosch received the final comprehensive report on the condition of the corps.
The document was brief.
Its meaning was not.
She sat alone for a long time, reading it.
Outside the window, the winter evening was slowly darkening.
Only days earlier, she had believed the corps would become a powerful instrument of revolution in Ukraine.
Now that instrument was collapsing before her eyes.
Not because of betrayal.
Not because of cowardice.
But because the enemy had proved better organized.
That realization was perhaps the hardest one to accept.
Because it could not be blamed on chance.
A quiet knock sounded at the door.
One of the committee members entered.
His expression revealed the news before he spoke.
—"We've received new information."
Bosch raised her eyes.
—"Go on."
—"Most of the formations have stopped moving."
He hesitated.
—"The corps has effectively ceased to exist."
Silence settled over the room.
At last Bosch slowly nodded.
No outburst.
No dramatic speech.
Only exhaustion.
—"Understood."
She looked at the map one final time.
Then toward the darkening window.
—"Prepare the people. We'll have to leave."
The committee member nodded quietly.
He understood as well as she did.
The struggle had been lost.
Late that evening, the final operational report arrived at Skoropadskyi's headquarters.
Sliwinski reviewed it carefully before passing it across the table.
Skoropadskyi read several pages in silence.
Then set the document down.
—"Summary?"
Bezruchko answered immediately.
—"The corps has ceased to exist as an organized force. Most formations have surrendered their weapons. The remainder are either under control or concluding negotiations."
—"Losses?"
—"Minimal."
A faint smile appeared on Bolbochan's face.
—"For an operation of this scale, the result exceeded expectations."
Sliwinski nodded.
—"Most importantly, we avoided a major battle."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
The operation had lasted only a matter of days.
Yet its consequences could prove far greater.
For the first time, the Ukrainian Army had independently eliminated a major internal threat.
Without assistance from Petrograd.
Without foreign intervention.
Through its own efforts.
Skoropadskyi rose and walked toward the map.
For a long moment he studied the stations marked with Ukrainian flags.
Then he spoke.
—"Today we saved Kyiv."
The officers exchanged glances.
But before anyone could answer, he continued.
—"Now we must save Ukraine."
Silence returned to the headquarters.
Because everyone present understood the same thing.
The story of the Second Guards Corps was over.
The real struggle was only beginning.
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