A different discussion was taking place that evening inside a command railcar standing on a siding near Kyiv.
A large map of Ukraine covered most of the table.
Beside it lay the latest intelligence reports.
Skoropadskyi listened attentively as Bezruchko delivered his briefing.
—"The number of reports coming from Kharkiv has increased noticeably over the past week."
Bezruchko opened a folder.
—"And we're not talking only about Bolshevik organizations. We're seeing the arrival of new agitators, delegates, and representatives from various soviets."
Slyvynskyi looked up from his documents.
—"After the failure of the corps, they're looking for a different way to achieve the same objective."
—"Most likely."
Bezruchko nodded.
—"According to our sources, the defeat left a strong impression. They are no longer counting on a rapid march to Kyiv."
Bolbochan, who had been quietly studying the railway map, allowed himself a faint smile.
—"To do that, they would first need to assemble another corps."
—"Not necessarily."
Slyvynskyi spoke calmly.
The others turned toward him.
The chief of staff picked up a pencil and traced a line from Kharkiv toward Kyiv.
—"The operation involving the Second Guards Corps was military in nature. The next one may be political."
Silence settled over the railcar.
Pavlenko was the first to speak.
—"Explain."
—"If I were in their position, I would draw conclusions."
Slyvynskyi tapped the map thoughtfully.
—"We've demonstrated that a large military formation cannot be moved toward Kyiv without attracting attention. Therefore they will look for other methods. A new government. A new congress. New institutions. Anything that allows them to declare the Central Rada illegitimate without marching on the capital."
Bezruchko nodded immediately.
—"Our agents are reporting similar discussions."
Bolbochan frowned.
—"So they've decided to replace rifles with paperwork?"
—"Never underestimate paperwork."
The voice belonged to Skoropadskyi.
It was the first time he had spoken during the meeting.
—"Over the past year, Russia did not collapse because it lacked soldiers. It collapsed because millions of people stopped considering the lawful authorities legitimate."
No one argued.
All of them had witnessed the events of the previous months.
All of them understood how dangerous politics could become when it began dismantling a state faster than any army.
Gradually the conversation shifted from the Bolsheviks to problems much closer to home.
Those problems had been troubling Skoropadskyi more and more in recent weeks.
He understood the Bolsheviks.
They were predictable.
They sought power.
They adapted after setbacks.
They would continue looking for new opportunities.
There was nothing surprising about that.
What concerned him far more were the actions of his supposed allies.
After several moments he looked toward Slyvynskyi.
—"If you were ordered to reduce the army now, what would the consequences be?"
The question caught several officers by surprise.
Bolbochan raised his head.
Bezruchko frowned.
Pavlenko remained silent.
Slyvynskyi took a moment before answering.
—"That depends on the scale of the reductions."
—"Assume a serious demobilization."
The chief of staff placed his pencil on the table.
—"Then within a few months we would lose a large portion of our trained cadre."
—"Continue."
—"First and foremost, officers and non-commissioned officers. A soldier can be recruited relatively quickly. A competent commander cannot. Training one takes years."
Bolbochan nodded in agreement.
—"Especially now. Most experienced officers remained with us because they believed there was an opportunity to build a Ukrainian army. If that army begins to disappear, many of them will simply leave."
Pavlenko added his own assessment.
—"People often think an army consists of rifles and soldiers. In reality it rests on command structures, logistics, communications, and trained officers."
Bezruchko opened another folder.
—"That's precisely why the Bolsheviks targeted the command system of the corps rather than the trains themselves."
Skoropadskyi listened quietly.
The answers were exactly what he expected.
Finally Bolbochan broke the silence.
—"Pavlo Petrovych, are they talking about reducing the army again in the Rada?"
Skoropadskyi looked at him.
The colonel was perceptive enough to understand where such questions came from.
—"For now, they are only discussions, but with every meeting there seem to be more of them, and what concerns me is not the question itself but how many people are beginning to take it seriously."
No one replied immediately.
After a moment Pavlenko let out a slow breath.
—"The most frustrating part is that these discussions are happening after a victory."
Several officers looked toward him.
—"Had the army suffered a defeat, at least the criticism would be understandable. There are always people who become brilliant strategists after a lost battle."
A brief smile crossed Bolbochan's face.
—"Every country has those."
—"But this time the opposite happened."
Pavlenko continued.
—"The army succeeded. It accomplished its mission better than many expected. And immediately afterward people began discussing whether the army had become too large."
Slyvynskyi closed the folder before him.
—"Because the problem is no longer military."
Everyone looked at him.
—"Explain."
—"Some politicians are no longer afraid of military failure."
He paused briefly.
—"They're beginning to fear military success."
The railcar fell silent once again.
Skoropadskyi could not help noticing how accurately the chief of staff had summarized the situation.
The argument was gradually moving beyond military affairs.
It was becoming a question of power.
Who would shape the future of the state?
The politicians.
Or the people capable of defending that state.
For Skoropadskyi, the question itself had always seemed flawed.
A state needed both.
One could not exist without the other.
Yet revolutions rarely left much room for balance.
They demanded choices.
And that was what worried him most.
Because judging by recent events in Kyiv, some people had already begun making theirs.
The meeting gradually came to an end.
Bezruchko gathered his reports.
Bolbochan and Pavlenko exchanged a few final remarks regarding troop matters.
Slyvynskyi returned to the map.
Skoropadskyi watched them in silence.
The army they had spent months building was finally beginning to resemble a real instrument of state power.
Only a short time ago that had seemed nearly impossible.
Too much effort had been spent fighting chaos, the collapse of the old army, and endless political disputes.
Now some people in Kyiv were already speaking of reducing it.
He recalled the little he knew about this period from his former life.
The broad outcome was familiar.
The Central Rada had indeed followed that path.
The army had been reduced.
Then another war had come.
And it turned out that the state had to rebuild what it had already possessed.
Skoropadskyi slowly shifted his gaze back to the map.
Perhaps history could still be changed.
That was why he continued trying to persuade the politicians.
That was why he continued working with the Rada.
But with every new meeting, that hope seemed a little weaker.
Because it is impossible to force people to abandon mistakes they sincerely believe are the correct course of action.
A knock sounded at the door.
An aide stepped inside.
—"Dmytro Doroshenko has arrived."
The officers exchanged glances.
Skoropadskyi nodded.
—"Show him in."
And only then began the conversation that would continue long into the night.
A few moments later, Doroshenko entered the railcar.
Most of the officers had already departed.
Only a handful of staff officers remained at work, sorting reports and telegrams.
—"It seems both of us have spent the entire day in meetings."
A tired smile appeared on Doroshenko's face.
—"I'm afraid that has become a permanent condition of public service."
Skoropadskyi gestured toward an empty chair.
—"Judging by your expression, the session of the Rada did not go particularly well."
—"That depends on whom you ask."
Doroshenko removed his gloves and placed them on the table.
—"For those who enjoy endless debates, it was a remarkably productive day."
This time Skoropadskyi smiled faintly.
—"That bad?"
—"That predictable."
For several moments neither man spoke.
Doroshenko studied the map spread across the table.
The markings from the recent operation against the Second Guards Corps were still visible.
—"An unpleasant thought has been troubling me lately."
—"Which one?"
—"We are no longer arguing about how to win. We are arguing about what comes after victory."
Skoropadskyi set aside the reports he had been reading.
—"Explain."
—"Most of today's discussion revolved around the future of the army. Not the current threats. Not the Bolsheviks. Not the situation in the east. The future of the army."
He shook his head.
—"At times it feels as though many people already believe the crisis is over."
—"People have always preferred discussing peace."
—"Even when peace has not yet arrived?"
—"Especially when peace has not yet arrived."
Doroshenko continued examining the map.
—"What concerns me most is not the discussion itself."
—"Then what?"
—"The fact that more and more people are beginning to look at the army as a problem."
The railcar fell silent.
Skoropadskyi understood exactly what he meant.
He had noticed the same tendency himself.
—"An army becomes a problem only for those who no longer understand why it exists."
—"Or for those who believe war is merely a temporary misunderstanding."
Doroshenko replied quietly.
—"Yes."
The Foreign Minister rubbed his eyes.
—"Sometimes I feel that part of our political class is still living in the first months of the Revolution. They genuinely believe that if the proper principles are proclaimed, the remaining difficulties will somehow resolve themselves."
—"History is rarely that accommodating."
—"Unfortunately."
Outside, a railway worker carrying a lantern passed by.
The yellow light briefly swept across the window before disappearing into the darkness.
—"How do you assess the situation?"
Doroshenko suddenly asked.
Skoropadskyi did not answer immediately.
—"Which situation?"
—"All of it."
The question lingered between them.
Doroshenko was one of the very few people whom Skoropadskyi genuinely trusted.
One of the few who viewed events through the lens of statecraft rather than party politics.
—"The army is stronger than it was a year ago."
He finally spoke.
—"The state institutions are stronger as well."
—"But?"
A faint smile crossed Skoropadskyi's face.
—"You know me too well."
Doroshenko waited.
—"But we have less time than most people believe."
The minister watched him carefully.
—"Because of the Bolsheviks?"
—"Not only because of them."
Skoropadskyi rose and walked toward the map.
—"Every state passes through a period of formation. During that period, mistakes are unusually expensive because the state has not yet developed any real margin for error."
His finger moved along the railway lines stretching eastward.
—"We have finally built an army."
Then toward Kyiv.
—"We have begun building an administration."
Finally he turned back toward Doroshenko.
—"The most dangerous thing we can do now is begin dismantling functioning institutions before they have had time to mature."
The minister remained silent for several seconds.
Then he slowly nodded.
—"So you see it as well."
—"I do."
Silence settled over the railcar once more.
Both men were occupied with their own thoughts.
At last Doroshenko stood.
—"I hope we can still convince them."
Skoropadskyi looked at him.
—"So do I."
The answer came calmly.
Yet both men understood that the issue had already grown beyond a simple disagreement within the government.
The decisions made over the coming weeks would determine far more than the future of a single army.
They could determine the future of the republic itself.
The following morning began with another series of meetings inside the Central Rada.
This time the discussion was no longer limited to general reflections about the future of the army.
The first draft proposals had begun appearing on desks.
Memoranda.
Working papers.
Recommendations from various factions.
This was precisely the moment many military officers had feared.
As long as the debate remained theoretical, it could still be dismissed as another political argument.
Now ideas were slowly becoming documents.
And documents had an unpleasant tendency to become policy.
Volodymyr Vynnychenko carefully reviewed one of the proposals before him.
Several representatives of the socialist factions had gathered in a smaller committee room.
The atmosphere was calmer than during the full sessions of the Rada.
There was no need for speeches intended for hundreds of listeners.
People could speak more openly.
—"No one is suggesting that the republic should be left without protection."
One of the deputies leaned forward as he spoke.
—"But we must also recognize reality. The state cannot maintain its present military establishment indefinitely."
Several people nodded.
—"And there is another issue."
A second deputy joined the discussion.
—"We are trying to build a new Ukraine, yet a large portion of the officer corps was educated under the old imperial system."
Vynnychenko looked up from the document.
—"The origin of the officers is not the central question."
The room grew quiet.
Several deputies exchanged surprised glances.
—"Then what is?"
—"The fact that we still have not decided what kind of army Ukraine should possess a year from now."
He set the papers aside.
—"Some advocate a regular European-style army. Others support a people's militia. Still others propose various compromises between the two. Until that question is answered, every other discussion is secondary."
The conversation continued for quite some time.
Most of those present genuinely believed in the ideas they were defending.
They did not see themselves as enemies of the army.
They did not see themselves as undermining the state.
On the contrary.
Most were convinced that they were acting in the republic's best interests.
That was what made the situation so complicated.
People rarely make their greatest mistakes knowingly.
More often, they make them while firmly believing they are doing the right thing.
Later that day, Petliura held a meeting with several representatives of the Military Secretariat.
The atmosphere there was considerably less optimistic.
The same proposals lay on the table.
They were simply being viewed through very different eyes.
One officer finished reading a draft and let out a slow breath.
—"If this is adopted, we'll have to redesign the entire system of recruitment."
Another officer shook his head.
—"That isn't even the most difficult part."
He tapped one of the paragraphs.
—"Look at this. The entire proposal is based on the assumption that there will be no major war in the foreseeable future."
Petliura listened in silence.
In recent weeks he increasingly felt like a man standing between two worlds.
One was political.
The other military.
And with every passing month, the two seemed to understand each other less.
At last he broke the silence.
—"No one disputes that the army requires reform."
Several officers immediately looked up.
—"But reform and dismantlement are not the same thing."
The room fell silent once more.
Because that distinction was rapidly becoming the central issue.
Where exactly was the line between changing the army and weakening it?
No one present could offer a simple answer.
And yet it was becoming increasingly clear that the question would soon move beyond discussions and committees.
Before long, it would become a matter of policy.
Late that evening, Kyiv gradually grew quiet.
Lights disappeared one by one behind the windows of houses across the city.
The streets emptied.
Only government offices and headquarters remained active long after nightfall.
Skoropadskyi returned home much later than usual.
The previous weeks had left little time for rest.
Military affairs.
Political affairs.
Endless meetings.
Reports.
Negotiations.
It seemed that every new day brought several new crises with it.
Another stack of documents awaited him on his desk.
Some concerned the army.
Others dealt with the political situation.
Several contained draft proposals and memoranda that were being discussed with increasing frequency inside the Central Rada.
Skoropadskyi removed his gloves and sat down.
For a while he simply reviewed the papers.
Many of the arguments were familiar.
Far too familiar.
Reduction of the army.
Military reform.
A people's militia.
Transfer of certain responsibilities to local authorities.
At first glance, many of the proposals appeared reasonable.
At least to someone who believed the most dangerous days were already behind them.
That, however, was precisely the problem.
Skoropadskyi set another document aside.
He understood the logic of his opponents.
Most of them were not traitors.
They were not Bolsheviks.
They did not wish harm upon Ukraine.
On the contrary.
They sincerely believed they were acting in the republic's best interests.
That was exactly why persuading them was becoming increasingly difficult.
Facts can change a person's opinion.
But people rarely abandon convictions they regard as morally correct.
He rose from his chair and walked toward the map of Ukraine hanging on the wall.
The map had been there for years.
Long before the Revolution.
Long before any of the current institutions existed.
Back when much of this had been little more than a distant plan.
His eyes moved slowly across familiar names.
Kyiv.
Poltava.
Kremenchuk.
Yelysavetgrad.
Kryvyi Rih.
Places connected to years of preparation.
People.
Factories.
Officers.
Future administrators.
Networks that most of those around him never even noticed.
For several minutes he stood in silence.
Then he returned to his desk.
The Central Rada was indeed moving toward military reductions.
The discussions were no longer theoretical.
Drafts were appearing.
Committees were debating them.
Support for such ideas was gradually spreading.
When he had first received the memories of his former life, these events had seemed distant and abstract.
Now they were slowly taking shape before his eyes.
Yet Skoropadskyi felt neither anger nor disappointment.
Only a quiet understanding.
He had done everything he could.
He had helped create Ukrainian military formations when many considered the idea impossible.
He had preserved discipline through the Revolution.
He had prevented the Bolshevik corps from reaching Kyiv.
He had worked with the Central Rada whenever cooperation remained possible.
He had argued.
He had persuaded.
He had compromised.
He had tried to avoid a split.
But there comes a point when persuasion ceases to matter.
No one can force another person to abandon convictions they sincerely believe will save the country.
Skoropadskyi slowly closed the folder lying before him.
For the first time in many months, he allowed himself to acknowledge what he had long suspected.
His primary plan was beginning to fail.
Not because it had been flawed.
Not because Ukraine lacked a chance of success.
The reason was much simpler.
Its success required the republic's political leadership and its army to move in the same direction.
That common direction was becoming harder to find with every passing week.
His gaze returned to the map.
This time it lingered on the central provinces.
Those lands contained people he had spent years preparing.
Officers.
Administrators.
Industrialists.
Men who believed in the future of a Ukrainian state.
The contingency plan had never been a secret, even to himself.
It had existed for years.
For the day events followed the worst possible path.
For the day state institutions proved incapable of defending the state.
For the day everything had to be rebuilt once again.
Until this evening, Skoropadskyi had continued to hope that such preparations would never be needed.
Now he was no longer certain.
He was not preparing to resign.
He was not preparing for an open conflict with the Central Rada.
Nor was he abandoning his efforts to change the situation.
But for the first time in a very long while, he began preparing himself for the possibility that a choice might eventually have to be made.
Between loyalty to the existing government.
And loyalty to the Ukrainian idea itself.