Rain had fallen all night.
By morning, the new Russian trenches had turned into muddy ditches.
Soldiers scooped water out with helmets.
Complained.
Dug deeper.
Then complained again.
On one sector, a young infantryman stared with hatred at the trench wall that had collapsed onto his boots for the third time that night.
—"If the Germans don't kill me, Polish mud will."
An older sergeant sitting nearby under a soaked cloak didn't even look up.
—"Stop complaining."
The soldier threw his shovel down in frustration.
—"Complaining?"
He pointed at the trench.
—"I'm negotiating with nature."
Several nearby soldiers laughed weakly.
The laughter died quickly.
Artillery thundered somewhere in the distance.
Everyone went silent.
One veteran slowly stood up.
—"That's closer."
Seconds later, the first German shell struck a neighboring sector.
The ground shook.
Then another.
Then a third.
Within a minute, the entire sector became hell again.
Skoropadskyi was on forward positions when the German bombardment intensified.
Mud flew in every direction.
A messenger practically fell into the trench beside him.
—"Report from the left flank!"
Skoropadskyi wiped mud from his face.
—"Speak."
—"The neighboring division is taking heavy losses. Their right sector is beginning to withdraw."
Bezruchko turned sharply toward the map.
—"If they pull back now, the Germans will push directly into the gap."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko looked grimly toward the artillery fire.
—"We haven't even finished fortifying this position."
Bolbochan, soaked to the bone, smirked.
—"Very considerate of the Germans not to wait."
Skoropadskyi stood up.
—"Where is their main assault?"
The messenger answered while trying to catch his breath.
—"North of the village."
—"Have they broken through the first defensive positions?"
—"Not yet."
Bolbochan checked his revolver.
—"Then we still have time to ruin their morning."
Skoropadskyi looked at him.
—"Do you ever speak like a normal officer?"
Bolbochan smirked.
—"Only during peacetime."
Skoropadskyi turned toward the officers.
—"Move reserves to the second defensive line. Do not withdraw artillery until the infantry begins pulling back. And tell our neighbors that if they retreat, they should warn us before Germans start appearing in our rear."
Officers immediately rushed to carry out the orders.
German infantry advanced through rain and smoke.
Russian machine guns opened fire.
The first German assault formations fell.
The second kept moving.
Engineers cut through wire.
Artillery shifted fire closer to Russian reserves.
One Russian machine gunner kept firing until a heavy shell exploded nearby.
When the smoke cleared, the machine gun was gone.
On the right flank, Bolbochan personally led a counterattack with several cavalry squadrons and dismounted cavalrymen.
They struck German units that had already begun securing captured trenches.
The battle quickly turned into chaos.
Mud.
Bayonets.
Point-blank gunfire.
The screams of the wounded.
One German officer shot a Russian cavalryman at close range.
A second later, Bolbochan struck him across the shoulder with his saber and knocked him into the mud.
—"Next!"
One of his officers shouted:
—"They're bringing up machine guns!"
Bolbochan looked forward.
German reserves were approaching.
Too fast.
—"Withdraw."
The officer looked at him in disbelief.
—"But we almost pushed them out!"
Bolbochan grabbed him by the collar.
—"If you want to die for ten meters of mud, do it without my soldiers."
By evening, Russian forces held part of their positions.
But farther north, the front began collapsing again.
A new order arrived.
Withdraw.
Again.
The soldiers read the order in silence.
Nobody cursed anymore.
That was worse.
An older non-commissioned officer folded the paper.
—"One day we're going to run out of directions to retreat."
Nobody answered.
Because nobody was certain he was wrong.
Within weeks, the retreat brought the Russian army to something that had seemed unthinkable only months earlier.
The abandonment of Poland.
Rumors had circulated for weeks.
Now they became official orders.
Warsaw existed in a strange state.
The city had not fallen.
But it could already feel the end of Russian control approaching.
More military patrols appeared in the streets.
Officials evacuated archives.
Banks closed earlier than usual.
Rail stations descended into chaos.
Trains were overcrowded.
Some families tried to flee the city at any cost.
Others refused to believe the Russian army would actually leave.
One shop owner argued with a government official.
—"You told us the front had stabilized."
The official looked like he hadn't slept in days.
—"A week ago, that was true."
—"And now?"
The official looked toward the overcrowded station.
—"Now I advise you to leave."
Skoropadskyi moved through one of the evacuation routes north of the city.
He saw endless civilian columns.
Some carried icons.
Some dragged furniture.
Some simply walked with whatever they had managed to grab.
One woman tried leading two children and her elderly mother at the same time.
Her wagon became stuck in the mud.
Russian soldiers helped push it free.
She looked at them through tears.
—"Will you come back?"
One soldier wiped mud from his face.
—"First we should probably make sure we come back ourselves."
Even Skoropadskyi couldn't help smirking.
The army's dark humor was becoming darker.
At a railway junction, Bezruchko argued with civilian officials.
—"Administrative archives have evacuation priority."
Bezruchko looked at endless trains filled with wounded soldiers.
—"Wonderful."
He pointed toward a medical train.
—"Go explain that to men missing their legs."
The official turned red.
—"Those are state documents."
—"Russia is retreating faster than those trains."
Silence filled the station for several seconds.
Bezruchko spoke more calmly.
—"Take what fits on one train. Burn the rest."
—"You do not have the authority—"
—"At the moment, none of us have much authority left."
The official said nothing.
Russian military units began leaving Warsaw.
Bridges were mined.
Warehouses were prepared for destruction.
Some officers looked at the city with open anger.
One young staff officer spoke quietly.
—"We're abandoning the largest city on Russia's western frontier."
An older general answered coldly.
—"No."
The younger officer looked confused.
—"We're abandoning a city. If we preserve the army, we can retake it."
He paused.
—"If we destroy the army for dramatic gestures, we lose everything."
On Warsaw's streets, some residents silently watched the Russian withdrawal.
Others openly celebrated.
Some simply hid inside their homes.
Russia had never truly made these territories its own.
Now that reality was becoming painfully obvious.
Late that night, Skoropadskyi stood on a bridge and watched the final units withdraw across the river.
Artillery.
Infantry.
Supply wagons.
The wounded.
The final engineering units waited for orders.
Bolbochan walked up beside him.
For once, without jokes.
—"When I was younger, I thought armies lost wars in grand battles."
He looked at the endless columns.
—"Turns out sometimes they just keep walking farther and farther away until people stop recognizing the map."
Skoropadskyi stared at the city in silence.
—"Armies can be rebuilt."
Bolbochan looked at him.
—"What about trust?"
Skoropadskyi didn't answer.
Minutes later, engineers blew the bridge.
The night horizon lit up in flames.
Warsaw was left behind.
While armies continued retreating, Stavka searched for someone to blame.
With every new defeat, the conversations became more poisonous.
Headquarters increasingly resembled a political battlefield rather than a military command center.
Generals argued over maps.
Ministers argued with generals.
Courtiers searched for scapegoats.
Nobody wanted responsibility for the disaster.
One general slammed his hand against the table.
—"We didn't lose Poland in a single month."
He looked around the room.
—"We've been moving toward this since the first months of the war, when we kept pretending the supply crisis was temporary."
Another general immediately responded:
—"Supply shortages do not explain everything. Front commanders repeatedly reacted too slowly."
The Minister of War intervened.
—"Both of you are ignoring industry. We are fighting a modern war with prewar stockpiles."
A third general added coldly:
—"And with prewar levels of competence in certain headquarters."
The room exploded into arguments again.
Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich listened with an increasingly heavy expression.
A year earlier, he had been a symbol of hope.
Now he was becoming a convenient target.
One adviser carefully spoke.
—"Your Highness, pressure in the capital is growing."
Nikolai Nikolaevich gave a humorless smile.
—"The capital loves victories and is always shocked by defeats."
—"People are beginning to discuss your position."
The Grand Duke remained silent for a long time.
He understood exactly where this was heading.
—"They want a new face for old problems."
Nobody answered.
Because he was right.
Meanwhile, Nicholas II faced growing political pressure.
Some urged him to personally take command of the army.
They spoke of duty.
Symbolism.
Strength.
Others considered the idea madness.
One minister spoke almost openly.
—"If the army begins winning, it strengthens the throne."
Another answered more harshly.
—"And if the army continues losing, Your Majesty will become personally tied to every future defeat."
Nicholas II remained silent for a long time.
He looked exhausted.
Older than he had a year earlier.
—"If the army continues retreating while I remain in the capital..."
He slowly looked around the room.
—"Then what is the purpose of an emperor?"
Nobody answered immediately.
The decision was made.
Nicholas II would personally assume supreme command.
The news spread through the army quickly.
And reactions varied wildly.
Some officers sincerely supported the decision.
Others considered it political suicide.
Others were simply too exhausted to care.
At the front, Skoropadskyi received the news late that evening.
Officers gathered inside an improvised headquarters.
Bolbochan broke the silence first.
—"Well."
He poured himself tea.
—"We have a new Supreme Commander."
Bezruchko answered dryly.
—"Technically, we have an old emperor."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko shook his head.
—"The title isn't the issue."
He looked at the map.
—"The real question is whether this stops the retreat."
Bolbochan took a sip.
—"And?"
Omelianovych-Pavlenko shrugged.
—"German artillery is unlikely to fear a new portrait in headquarters."
For the first time that day, Bolbochan genuinely laughed.
Even Skoropadskyi smirked.
Then he looked back at the map.
He knew this decision would eventually become one of Nicholas II's greatest mistakes.
But history was still moving exactly where it always had.
A change in supreme command did not stop the war.
But something else began changing at the front.
For the first time, the German advance started slowing.
Not because of sudden Russian brilliance.
Not because of political decisions at Stavka.
But because even the German army was beginning to feel the cost of its own offensive.
Overstretched supply lines.
Exhausted formations.
Massive distances.
Destroyed infrastructure.
And a Russian army that was still retreating—but no longer collapsing as quickly as it had at the beginning of summer.
At dawn, Skoropadskyi stood on an observation position.
Russian artillery prepared for a limited counterattack.
Not a major offensive.
Not an attempt to reverse the war.
Just a limited strike to push German forces off a critical height.
Bezruchko finished reviewing reconnaissance reports.
—"They've fortified faster than expected."
Bolbochan adjusted his gloves.
—"Then we'll have to be rude faster than planned."
Omelianovych-Pavlenko sighed.
—"Will you ever grow up?"
—"If the Germans allow it."
Even now, Bolbochan still found energy for dark humor.
Russian artillery opened fire at dawn.
Not as powerful as German artillery.
But more accurate than it had been earlier in the summer.
Shells slammed into German defensive positions on the hill.
Russian infantry moved forward.
Cavalry units maneuvered around the flanks where terrain allowed.
Skoropadskyi watched officers use whistles to push soldiers from cover.
One young lieutenant climbed out first.
A German machine gun killed him seconds later.
The soldiers kept advancing anyway.
On the right flank, Bolbochan once again found himself in the center of the fighting.
His detachment broke into the first German trench.
The battle became brutally close.
Pistols.
Bayonets.
Shovels.
Grenades.
One Russian soldier and a German infantryman fell into the same crater and continued choking each other in muddy water.
Bolbochan dragged a wounded officer out from under fire.
—"If you die, I'll kill you myself."
The wounded officer coughed blood.
—"Very inspiring speech."
—"I try."
By noon, Russian forces managed to retake the height.
German units withdrew to reserve positions.
For the first time in a long time, soldiers shouted not from panic—
but from victory.
Small.
Local.
But real.
By evening, new reports arrived.
The front had stabilized only partially.
Heavy fighting continued in the south.
German pressure remained strong in the north.
Huge territories had already been lost.
Casualties remained catastrophic.
This was not victory.
It was simply the end of freefall.
That night, Skoropadskyi stood over a map.
Russia had lost Poland.
Hundreds of thousands of soldiers.
Massive territories.
Trust in command.
The illusion of quick victory.
Bolbochan entered headquarters late at night.
For once, without jokes.
—"At least the front stopped rolling backward."
Skoropadskyi slowly nodded.
—"Yes."
—"Is that supposed to be good news?"
Skoropadskyi remained silent for a long time.
Then looked at the map of Europe.
—"For 1915—yes."
He remembered everything still waiting ahead.
1916
Revolution.
Collapse.
Civil war.