Late March 1915.
News of the fall of Przemyśl spread across the Russian Empire with incredible speed.
Newspapers in Petrograd printed massive headlines.
"Great Victory for the Russian Army!"
"Przemyśl Falls!"
"Austria Loses Galicia!"
"The Road to Hungary Is Open!"
Newspaper boys shouted with such enthusiasm that it sounded as if the war had already been won.
In Petrograd, aristocrats discussed the coming collapse of Austria-Hungary at private receptions.
In Moscow, industrialists talked about future markets in Central Europe.
In Kyiv, nationalists, liberals, and monarchists all viewed the future differently.
But nearly all of them agreed on one thing.
The fall of such a fortress looked like a massive victory.
People raised toasts in restaurants.
Churches held thanksgiving services.
Even some members of the Duma once again began discussing the future capture of Constantinople.
An elderly diplomat in Petrograd smirked while reading one of the newspapers.
—"We haven't taken Berlin yet, and we're already dividing the straits."
His companion laughed.
—"After Przemyśl, anything feels possible."
The old man simply shook his head.
He had watched wars for far too long to trust newspapers.
On one military train, wounded soldiers read the same headlines.
Some smiled.
Some remained silent.
One soldier missing an arm stared at the article for a long time.
—"They write about it as if it was easy."
Beside him sat an infantryman with his face wrapped in bandages.
—"People in the capital need good news."
The first soldier gave a bitter smile.
—"Then let them try climbing that damned pass themselves."
Several wounded soldiers laughed quietly.
Even the officer inside the railcar said nothing.
He had fought in the Carpathians too.
And he understood their reaction perfectly.
At Stavka, morale had also improved noticeably.
The map looked better than it had a month earlier.
Przemyśl had fallen.
The Austro-Hungarian army had suffered severe losses.
Some generals began speaking far more confidently.
One general declared:
—"If we maintain pressure through the summer, the Hungarian Plain will be open."
Another nodded.
—"Austria is holding on by its fingertips."
A third added:
—"Germany is too occupied in the west."
Officers were already discussing possible routes for future offensives.
Through the Carpathians.
Toward Budapest.
Deep into Hungary.
Some officers even began discussing the possibility of Austria-Hungary leaving the war entirely.
On paper, everything looked beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Skoropadskyi was reading one of the capital newspapers inside his headquarters.
Bolbochan sat across from him.
Bezruchko studied fresh reports.
Omelianovych-Pavlenko silently drank tea.
Bolbochan smirked while reading one headline.
—"The road to Hungary is open."
Bezruchko answered dryly.
—"I wonder which road they're talking about."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko calmly added:
—"Probably the one covered in corpses, snow, and destroyed wagons."
Bolbochan laughed quietly.
Skoropadskyi continued reading in silence.
He remembered too well what would happen next.
His eyes stopped on one sentence.
"The Austro-Hungarian Army Is Near Collapse."
He slowly folded the newspaper.
—"They're right."
The officers looked at him.
Skoropadskyi continued:
—"The problem is that Germany knows how to read maps too."
The room became quiet.
Nobody fully understood what he meant.
But there wasn't a trace of optimism in his voice.
Far to the west, German trains had already begun moving.
In Berlin, news of the fall of Przemyśl created a very different reaction.
No celebrations.
No triumphant headlines.
No public optimism.
The German High Command viewed the situation far more coldly.
For them, the fall of the fortress did not represent a Russian triumph.
It meant Austria-Hungary was approaching the limits of its military endurance.
Inside Erich von Falkenhayn's headquarters, a massive map of the Eastern Front covered nearly an entire wall.
Galicia.
The Carpathians.
Poland.
East Prussia.
Every new report only increased the tension.
One officer spoke in a dry voice.
—"Austro-Hungarian losses in the Carpathian campaign continue rising."
Another added:
—"Przemyśl has been lost."
A third placed another report on the table.
—"Morale among our allies continues deteriorating."
Falkenhayn remained silent for several moments.
Then looked at the Austrian representative.
—"How much longer can your army hold without direct support?"
The Austrian officer looked exhausted.
—"If the Russians launch a major summer offensive through the Carpathians..."
He stopped speaking.
Falkenhayn finished the sentence for him.
—"Your army may collapse."
The Austrian officer said nothing.
The answer was obvious.
Several hours later, a full operational conference began.
Inside the room were:
German General Staff officers
artillery specialists
railway officers
Austro-Hungarian representatives
And General August von Mackensen.
One sector on the map had been marked heavily.
Gorlice–Tarnów.
Falkenhayn stepped toward the map.
—"The Russians expect continued fighting in the Carpathians."
He pointed farther south.
—"And a future offensive into Hungary."
Then his finger moved north.
—"So we strike here."
The officers listened carefully.
Falkenhayn continued:
—"The breakthrough sector is roughly thirty-five kilometers."
He pointed toward Russian positions.
A staff officer began his report.
—"Russian forces in the sector are overstretched, their trenches are poorly prepared, reserves are limited, and their artillery shell shortages are becoming critical."
Another officer added:
—"Many of their formations are already exhausted after the Carpathian campaign."
Mackensen carefully studied the map.
—"Our forces?"
An officer immediately answered:
—"German Eleventh Army."
He began listing:
elite infantry corps
Austro-Hungarian supporting formations
heavy artillery
siege guns
hundreds of heavy and field guns
massive ammunition reserves
Falkenhayn continued:
—"We are creating local artillery superiority the Russians cannot match."
One officer asked:
—"Objective?"
Falkenhayn answered immediately.
—"Break the Russian Third Army."
His finger moved farther across the map.
—"Then move into the rear of Russian forces in Galicia."
Farther still.
—"Force them out of the Carpathians."
And farther.
—"Stabilize Austria-Hungary."
Mackensen spoke calmly.
—"And if things go better than expected?"
The room became silent.
Falkenhayn looked toward Poland.
—"Then the entire Russian front in Poland collapses."
Even the German officers went silent for several seconds.
They understood the scale of what was being planned.
A railway officer began explaining logistics.
—"The redeployment will require hundreds of trains, complete secrecy must be maintained, and moving the heavy artillery will be the most difficult part of the operation."
Mackensen asked:
—"How long?"
—"Several weeks."
Falkenhayn looked around the room.
—"Then use every minute."
He paused briefly.
—"The Russians are celebrating Przemyśl."
A cold smile appeared on his face.
—"Let them celebrate."
Far to the east, Russian newspapers continued writing about Hungary.
Germany was preparing a very different future.
Over the following weeks, the Eastern Front began changing.
But most Russian officers failed to understand the scale of what was happening.
German troop trains moved day and night.
Through Silesia.
Through Kraków.
Through Austro-Hungarian railway hubs.
Eastward.
Many soldiers inside those railcars had no idea where they were going.
Some were told:
the Carpathians.
Others heard:
supporting our allies.
Only senior officers understood the true scale of the operation.
At one railway station, a German soldier watched workers unload a massive artillery gun.
It was enormous.
Unusually large even by the standards of 1915.
He quietly asked an older artilleryman:
—"Against a fortress?"
The artilleryman smirked.
—"No."
The soldier frowned.
—"Then against who?"
The artilleryman looked east.
—"The Russian army."
The soldier fell silent.
He began understanding that something enormous was coming.
Near Gorlice, German forces began systematically building up strength.
New divisions occupied positions at night.
Artillery was camouflaged.
Ammunition was hidden in forests.
Engineers reinforced roads.
Mackensen's headquarters operated with almost no sleep.
Officers constantly reviewed details on massive maps.
Breakthrough sectors.
Artillery fire zones.
Timetables.
Routes for exploitation after the breakthrough.
Mackensen listened silently.
One officer reported:
—"We're creating overwhelming artillery superiority in the breakthrough sector."
Another added:
—"The Russians still believe the Carpathians remain the primary front."
A third officer spoke:
—"Intelligence reports that some Russian generals are still discussing a summer offensive into Hungary."
Quiet laughter spread through the room.
Mackensen did not smile.
—"The most dangerous enemy is one who underestimates the threat only until the first strike."
He looked at the map.
—"We destroy them before they adapt."
On the Russian side, the first warning signs did appear.
Scouts reported increasing railway traffic.
Growing German activity.
The arrival of new units.
But the information remained fragmented.
At Stavka, some officers dismissed it as normal rotation.
Others assumed Germany was simply reinforcing Austria.
One intelligence officer tried to insist:
—"The scale of these movements is too large."
A general waved his hand dismissively.
—"The Germans are always moving something."
—"But the heavy artillery—"
—"They use heavy artillery against fortresses."
The intelligence officer tried again.
—"The number of guns—"
The general interrupted him.
—"The main direction of the war remains in the Carpathians."
The meeting quickly moved on.
The intelligence officer sat back down.
And realized almost nobody had listened.
Skoropadskyi was receiving troubling reports as well.
Bezruchko brought fresh intelligence updates.
—"German activity is increasing."
Bolbochan frowned.
—"The Carpathians?"
Bezruchko shook his head.
—"Farther north."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko slowly looked at the map.
Skoropadskyi already understood.
The pattern felt too familiar.
Railways.
Concentration.
Heavy artillery.
He spoke quietly.
—"They're not trying to save Austria."
The officers looked at him.
—"They're trying to break the entire front."
The room became silent.
Bolbochan broke the silence.
—"We can warn Stavka."
Skoropadskyi gave a bitter smile.
—"And tell them exactly what?"
Nobody answered.
Because they had no concrete proof.
Only bad instincts.
And bad instincts were rarely respected inside massive headquarters.
By late April, Russian newspapers were still writing about future offensives.
Budapest.
Vienna.
Austria's weakness.
Future victory.
That same night, German heavy artillery occupied its final positions near Gorlice.
Gun crews received final orders.
Shells were stacked beside batteries.
Officers synchronized watches.
Only days remained before the offensive began.
The Russian Empire was still celebrating its last victory.
And failed to see the catastrophe approaching.