By the summer of 1917, the army was increasingly becoming the main source of anxiety for the Provisional Government.
Almost daily, Stavka received new reports describing collapsing discipline, conflicts between officers and soldiers' committees, refusals to obey orders, and growing chaos inside frontline units.
Formally, the front still held.
Millions of soldiers continued occupying the enormous line stretching from the Baltic to Romania. Headquarters still functioned, trains continued carrying ammunition and reserves toward the front, and for several weeks Stavka had been preparing a new large offensive which the government in Petrograd hoped would become both a political and military success for the revolution.
But inside the army itself, the feeling spread more and more often that the old system of command was beginning to disintegrate faster than the government could react to the crisis.
That was why the question of Ukrainization was now discussed not only in Kyiv, but also in Petrograd, inside Stavka, and among frontline commanders.
After the Second Universal, it had become impossible to simply ignore the Ukrainian question any longer.
Inside one of the halls of the War Ministry in Petrograd, several generals and government representatives discussed the latest reports from the front.
Maps, telegrams, commanders' reports, and summaries describing the mood inside different units lay scattered across the long table.
The atmosphere in the room remained heavy.
One general irritably threw another document onto the table.
—"In some units, commanders can no longer even move regiments into position without negotiating with committees first."
Another officer answered gloomily:
—"And some committees now demand that orders be discussed before they are carried out."
Several men exchanged exhausted glances.
Reports like these arrived more and more frequently.
Kerensky stood beside the window, listening to yet another briefing on the condition of the front.
For the past several weeks, both the government and Stavka had discussed preparations for the coming June Offensive almost without interruption.
The Provisional Government still hoped that a new major operation would stabilize the front, raise morale inside the army, strengthen the position of the revolutionary authorities, and prove to the Allies that Russia remained in the war.
But even among the generals, more and more men doubted that the army in its current condition could endure a large offensive at all.
Gradually, the discussion shifted toward Ukrainization.
One representative of the command immediately frowned.
—"If we begin creating national formations on a massive scale now, the army will finally cease to be unified."
Another general almost immediately answered him:
—"The army is already ceasing to be unified."
He looked tiredly toward the reports lying before him.
—"The real question now is which units still remain manageable."
The room briefly fell silent.
Because that had become the central problem of recent months.
Not ideology. Not politics. But whether the army itself could still be controlled.
Kerensky finally turned away from the window.
—"What about Skoropadskyi's corps?"
One of the officers opened a folder containing the latest reports.
—"After its transfer to the front, the corps has maintained order considerably better than neighboring formations. Discipline remains relatively stable. Requests from Ukrainian officers and soldiers asking for transfer there continue increasing."
Skoropadskyi's name had appeared more and more often in conversations among frontline commanders during recent months.
After the Brusilov Offensive, his reputation as one of the most reliable and capable commanders had only grown stronger.
Calm, organized, capable of keeping units together even in difficult situations — generals like that were becoming increasingly valuable.
But at the same time, this caused growing concern.
—"If we begin reorganizing Skoropadskyi's corps into a Ukrainian one," one of the generals slowly said, —"tomorrow people will begin talking about a Ukrainian army."
Kerensky remained silent for several seconds.
After the Second Universal and the negotiations with the Central Rada, the Ukrainian question could no longer simply be postponed.
And most importantly, Ukrainian soldiers and officers were already beginning to gather together regardless of what the government decided.
Finally, Kerensky spoke calmly:
—"If the process cannot be stopped, then it must at least remain under control."
Heavy silence once again settled across the room.
Because almost everyone present understood: this was no longer merely an internal military reform.
It was gradually becoming the emergence of a new military force inside the rapidly changing former Empire.
The decision to begin the Ukrainization of Skoropadskyi's corps was not approved immediately.
Arguments between Stavka, the War Ministry, and representatives of the front command continued for several more days.
For part of the senior command, the very idea of reorganizing a large corps along national lines still appeared dangerous.
Especially while preparations for the coming offensive continued.
—"The army needs a unified command structure now, not new political experiments," one senior officer irritably declared during another meeting.
A representative of the Southwestern Front answered him calmly:
—"Political experiments are already taking place across the entire army. The real question now is which formations are still capable of carrying out orders."
After the revolution, conversations like these had become increasingly common.
Some generals still hoped that the crisis could be stopped through harsher discipline and the restoration of authority.
Others already understood: the army had changed too deeply for the old system to simply be restored.
That was exactly why Skoropadskyi's corps was increasingly used as an example of a relatively stable formation.
Not perfect.
Not immune to revolutionary moods.
But still preserving officer authority, internal organization, functioning штаб work, and the ability to execute orders without constant conflict with committees.
In the end, Stavka agreed to begin the gradual Ukrainization of the corps.
Officially, the decision was explained purely as a military necessity.
The plan called for transferring Ukrainian soldiers and officers from other units into the corps, gradually replacing unreliable formations while preserving the overall structure of the corps itself, and using the national factor to strengthen discipline.
On paper, it all appeared to be a temporary measure meant to stabilize the army.
But even among part of the command, many already understood: the consequences of this decision might become far more serious.
Several days later, Skoropadskyi arrived at a meeting of frontline commanders.
The headquarters occupied an old building near the railway line, where trains loaded with troops, supplies, artillery, and reserve units moved almost continuously through the station.
Inside, the atmosphere remained familiar for the final years of the war: tobacco smoke, maps, telegrams, constant discussions about the front, the coming offensive, and the condition of different units.
When Skoropadskyi entered the room, several officers immediately rose from their seats.
During recent years, his reputation among the front command had noticeably strengthened.
Especially after the Brusilov Offensive and his later appointment to corps command.
One of the generals immediately moved to the central issue.
—"Pavlo Petrovych, do you understand what kind of reaction the Ukrainization of the corps may cause?"
Skoropadskyi calmly removed his gloves and placed them on the table.
—"The reaction is already happening regardless of our decisions."
He spoke evenly, without unnecessary emotion.
—"Ukrainian soldiers are gathering together anyway. Officers are already searching for transfer into Ukrainian formations. The question now is no longer whether this process will happen."
For a brief moment, he looked toward the map of the front spread across the table.
—"The question is whether it remains controllable."
The room became noticeably quieter.
One of the staff officers frowned.
—"And you believe national formations will help preserve the army?"
Skoropadskyi answered almost immediately:
—"I believe the army has already changed too much after the revolution for us to continue pretending that nothing is happening."
He spoke as a military commander, not as a politician.
—"If a soldier trusts an officer who speaks his language and understands his mood, then the chances of preserving discipline already become higher."
Several officers exchanged silent glances.
Because many of them had already witnessed similar things at the front with their own eyes.
Skoropadskyi continued more calmly:
—"I am not proposing the destruction of the army. I am proposing the preservation of at least those formations that can still be kept in order."
After those words, the arguments inside the room sounded far less confident.
Too many men already understood: the crisis inside the army had gone much further than most generals had been willing to admit only a few months earlier.
During the following weeks, the flow of transfers only continued growing.
From different sectors of the front, Ukrainian officers, non-commissioned officers, and entire groups of soldiers gradually arrived in Skoropadskyi's corps after being reassigned through army and front headquarters.
Sometimes the process remained organized.
At other times, it descended almost into chaos.
Some commanders refused to release experienced soldiers. Certain committees interfered directly in the transfers. In some sectors, reassignment orders became delayed for weeks because of railway problems, staff confusion, and endless paperwork.
But the process itself could no longer be stopped.
Too many Ukrainian soldiers now sought transfer specifically into Skoropadskyi's corps.
For some, it was a matter of the national movement.
For others, it was simply an attempt to escape units that were already collapsing into disorder.
And some believed that inside Skoropadskyi's corps, real order still existed.
Inside corps headquarters, work continued almost without interruption.
Transfer lists, appointment papers, supply requests, arguments with committees, railway schedules, and endless telegrams now merged into one continuous stream of paperwork.
Marko Bezruchko, who was increasingly handling organizational issues inside the corps, tiredly reviewed another stack of documents beneath the dim light of a field lamp.
He finally pushed one folder aside with visible irritation.
—"I had only just started thinking that after forming the corps I was finally free from this paper war."
Several officers quietly laughed.
One штаб captain answered:
—"Now, Marko Mykhailovych, we are forming the corps for the second time."
Even Bezruchko allowed himself a tired smile.
But the exhaustion inside headquarters had already become impossible to ignore.
Staff officers slept little, trains constantly arrived with reassigned personnel, and every new day brought fresh problems with supplies, missing officers, committee interference, or contradictory orders from above.
And all of this was happening while the army simultaneously prepared for the coming offensive.
From neighboring formations, increasingly alarming reports continued arriving about rallies, conflicts with committees, refusals by soldiers to attack, and constant arguments between officers and revolutionary agitators.
Against that background, Skoropadskyi's corps increasingly began to look like an exception.
Not because revolutionary moods did not exist there.
They did.
But the corps still preserved the most important thing — control.
That was exactly what both Stavka and the front command increasingly noticed.
One evening, Skoropadskyi, accompanied by Bezruchko and several staff officers, inspected the positions of one of the corps regiments.
Summer heat mixed with the smell of dust, smoke, damp earth, and freshly reinforced trenches.
Soldiers along the roadside carefully watched the штаб column passing by.
Now Ukrainian speech could be heard among the men far more often than even several months earlier.
Near one of the trench lines, Skoropadskyi stopped for several minutes.
Nearby, soldiers unloaded ammunition crates, repaired firing positions, and strengthened trenches in preparation for the offensive everyone knew was approaching.
Beside a field kitchen, several soldiers quietly argued about politics while another group cleaned rifles beneath a torn canvas shelter.
The revolution had followed the army even here.
Bezruсhko quietly remarked:
—"The men are beginning to see the corps as their own."
For several seconds, Skoropadskyi silently observed the camp.
He understood too well how quickly the situation was beginning to change.
In the history he remembered, the Ukrainization of the army had moved more slowly, more chaotically, and had begun too late.
Now everything was happening earlier.
That meant time.
Perhaps still too little time.
But more than he had once expected.
If the officer core could be preserved, if discipline survived, if the corps avoided dissolving into revolutionary chaos, then by the time the old army finally collapsed, Ukraine might already possess the foundation of its own organized military force.
That was what he had been preparing for during all these years.
Not declarations. Not rallies. But the moment when power across the former Empire would belong to those who still possessed an army.
Outwardly, however, Skoropadskyi still remained the same calm front-line general.
Officially, he was still only a corps commander of the Russian Army.
And for now, most people around him still preferred pretending that the old system could somehow survive.