The summer of 1917 was becoming a time when the fate of the revolution increasingly depended on the army.
After months of crisis, political conflict, and the gradual collapse of discipline, Petrograd desperately needed a victory.
That was why preparations for a new major offensive on the Southwestern Front were slowly turning into more than just a military operation. It was becoming an attempt to prove that revolutionary Russia was still capable of continuing the war.
Meetings inside Stavka continued almost without interruption.
Telegrams, maps, front reports, supply requests, reserve transfers — all of it merged into one enormous stream of work that now consumed nearly the entire army.
The main blow was once again planned for the Southwestern Front.
It was here that the Russian Army still retained relatively stable command structures, significant numerical superiority, and the most favorable conditions for an offensive against Austro-Hungarian forces.
Nearly the entire strength of the Southwestern Front was now preparing for the operation.
Additional corps were transferred by rail from other sectors of the front. Ammunition stockpiles grew in the rear. Artillery was gradually moved toward the breakthrough sectors.
The total strength of the forces prepared for the offensive approached nearly one million men.
Opposing them, the Central Powers possessed far smaller forces on the critical sectors of the front — roughly three hundred thousand soldiers, mostly Austro-Hungarian formations with limited German support.
On paper, the balance of forces looked extremely favorable for Russia.
During one of the meetings at Stavka, several generals discussed exactly that advantage.
One staff officer confidently moved his hand across the map.
—"With such superiority, the Austrian front should be broken within the first days."
Another general answered far more cautiously:
—"If the troops move forward the way the plans expect them to."
The room briefly fell silent.
Doubts like these appeared more and more often.
After the February Revolution, the army still existed, but the old system of command was gradually collapsing in the middle of the war itself.
Committees interfered with orders. Soldiers increasingly discussed commands before obeying them. In some units, political meetings already consumed more time than proper combat training.
Yet despite all of this, Kerensky continued demanding an offensive.
For him, the operation had become a matter of survival for the Provisional Government, a question of maintaining Allied confidence, and an attempt to prove that the revolution had not destroyed Russia's ability to fight.
During another conference, he spoke far more emotionally than most of the generals around him.
—"The army must prove that revolutionary Russia is capable not only of arguing at meetings, but of winning."
Some officers remained silent.
Others supported him.
But many already understood the condition of the front too well to fully share his optimism.
Red and blue lines marked the directions of the main attacks across the maps spread before the command staff.
The operation called for massive artillery preparation, simultaneous breakthroughs against Austro-Hungarian positions across several sectors, rapid forward movement, and exploitation of success through reserves before German reinforcements could arrive.
The Galician direction was considered especially important.
The Russian command hoped to break the Austro-Hungarian front once again, inflict another major defeat on Austria-Hungary, and force the Central Powers to shift troops away from other fronts.
The military plans appeared enormous in scale.
The railways operated almost without pause.
Day and night, trains moved toward the front carrying artillery, ammunition, food supplies, reserves, and engineering units.
Rail stations filled with endless columns of wagons, horses, field kitchens, and trucks.
The preparations still resembled the giant machine of the old Imperial Russian Army.
But inside that machine, the crisis of the revolution was becoming increasingly visible.
During one discussion about supply operations, a general irritably remarked:
—"We can move a million men and thousands of guns to the front. But if half the army refuses to attack, no map will save us."
One younger staff officer attempted to object:
—"Once the offensive begins, the mood of the army may change. Victory always affects soldiers."
An older general looked at him wearily.
—"If we achieve victory first."
Silence once again settled across the room.
Too many officers already understood that the main problem of the army no longer lay in numbers, artillery, or even supplies.
The main problem was gradually growing inside the army itself.
And no one inside Stavka could say with certainty how much longer such an enormous front could remain under control if the offensive failed to go according to plan.
Several days before the beginning of the offensive, the headquarters of the Southwestern Front barely stopped working either day or night.
Telegraph аппараты transmitted messages almost continuously, liaison officers carried reports between army and corps headquarters, and rear railway stations were overflowing with trains loaded with reserves, artillery, and supplies.
The command was trying to prepare an operation on a scale the Russian Army had not attempted since the Brusilov Offensive of 1916.
During one of the conferences at Southwestern Front headquarters, Brusilov, together with Kerensky and the army commanders, once again discussed the directions of the main attacks.
Across the enormous front map were marked the Lviv direction, the sectors near Zboriv, the regions south of Berezhany, the Austro-Hungarian defensive positions in Galicia, and the planned reserve deployment sectors after the breakthrough.
Brusilov slowly moved his hand along the map.
—"The main strike will be carried out by the Eleventh and Seventh Armies. We must break through the front between Zboriv and Berezhany, then begin a rapid advance toward Lviv."
One of the generals immediately added:
—"If the Austrians begin retreating, their entire Galician front may start collapsing."
Kerensky listened carefully to the discussion.
For him, the operation had long ceased being merely a military question.
A successful offensive was supposed to strengthen the position of the Provisional Government, raise morale inside the army, calm the Allies, and prove that the revolution had not destroyed Russia's ability to wage war.
But among the generals themselves, confidence was fading more and more.
During a discussion of troop morale, one corps commander gloomily remarked:
—"Even if the artillery performs exactly as planned, success will still depend on the infantry."
Several officers exchanged silent glances.
Everyone understood that this had now become the greatest uncertainty.
The Russian Army still remained an enormous force.
Millions of soldiers, thousands of guns, and hundreds of supply trains still stretched across the front.
But the revolution was gradually destroying the very thing every army depended upon — the system of obedience.
In some formations, officers still retained authority.
In others, every serious decision already had to be effectively discussed with committees.
Sometimes orders were carried out only after long meetings.
In some units, soldiers even demanded explanations of operational objectives before agreeing to attack.
During another discussion about the condition of the army, one general irritably declared:
—"The army is turning into a political club with rifles."
Some officers gave tired smiles, but the humor felt exhausted rather than genuine.
Too many understood there was already too much truth in those words.
Kerensky nevertheless continued insisting on the operation.
He traveled across the front, spoke before soldiers, and talked about the revolution, freedom, and the need to defend the new Russia against Germany.
Some units greeted him enthusiastically.
Others listened in silence and increasingly asked the same question:
—"How much longer will this war continue?"
But Petrograd no longer wanted to retreat.
Too much now depended on the success of the operation.
Failure would not simply mean military defeat.
It could completely destroy confidence in the Provisional Government, strengthen the radicals, and accelerate the collapse of the entire army.
That was why preparations continued regardless of everything else.
Artillery continued moving toward the front.
Heavy batteries slowly occupied positions behind the trenches.
Engineering units built new roads, reinforced crossings, and prepared ammunition depots.
Above the front, reconnaissance aircraft operated almost continuously.
Even many officers who doubted the success of the operation admitted that the preparations themselves were being carried out with maximum seriousness.
On one sector of the front, a Russian artillery officer watched soldiers unloading another train filled with shells.
Long rows of ammunition crates already stood beside the railway tracks.
Nearby, heavy guns remained carefully concealed among trees and earthen fortifications.
A young lieutenant quietly said to his commander:
—"With this much artillery, we should simply sweep the Austrians away."
The older colonel watched the soldiers working for several seconds.
—"And then the infantry will have to move forward."
After that, he slowly lit a cigarette.
—"Only now I am no longer certain that all our infantry still wants to move forward."
Heavy tension gradually spread across the front.
An enormous army was preparing for the offensive.
But the closer the day of attack approached, the more even officers themselves began feeling that together with this operation, Russia was approaching some dangerous limit beyond which the old army might never be preserved again.
The night before the offensive was unusually quiet.
Along many sectors of the front, artillery barely fired at all, as though both sides sensed that something enormous was approaching and were preparing themselves for the inevitable blow.
Only occasionally was the silence interrupted by isolated rifle shots, the distant rumble of heavy guns still being moved into position, or the sound of trains arriving somewhere behind the lines.
Columns moved almost continuously along the rear roads.
Infantry, artillery crews, wagons loaded with shells, medical detachments, engineers, and field kitchens slowly stretched across the muddy Galician roads.
In many places, movement was already beginning to descend into chaos.
Horses became stuck in the mud.
Wagons broke apart on shattered roads.
Liaison officers struggled through the endless columns while carrying the final orders between headquarters.
Yet despite the exhaustion and nervous tension, the enormous machine of the offensive continued moving forward.
Inside one headquarters, officers once again checked watches, maps, and the exact timing of the artillery preparation.
Spread across the tables were diagrams of Austro-Hungarian fortifications, reconnaissance reports, artillery fire schedules, and reserve movement timetables.
One staff captain tiredly rubbed his eyes.
—"If communications collapse again once the offensive begins, half these plans will become meaningless within hours."
Another officer quietly answered:
—"First the infantry actually has to leave the trenches."
After those words, nobody smiled anymore.
Fears like these now existed inside nearly every headquarters.
The command still hoped that the scale of the artillery preparation, the numerical superiority, and the experience of part of the officer corps would allow the Austro-Hungarian defenses to be broken.
But nobody could say with certainty how the army would react once the first heavy losses began.
Along the front line, soldiers prepared for the offensive in their own ways.
Some silently cleaned rifles.
Others wrote final letters home beneath the light of small candles.
A few tried joking beside campfires, but the conversations quickly faded.
Too many had already survived 1914, the Great Retreat, the Carpathians, and the Brusilov Offensive.
Too many understood that every major offensive usually meant thousands of dead within the first days alone.
Inside one trench, a young soldier quietly asked an older sergeant:
—"Do you think we'll break through?"
The sergeant remained silent for several seconds while staring toward the Austrian positions.
—"We have plenty of artillery."
After a short pause, he added much more quietly:
—"But wars are not won by artillery alone."
Predawn fog slowly thickened above the front.
Behind the Russian trenches, heavy batteries already stood ready to open fire.
Artillery crews checked sights and shells one final time.
Telegraph operators and signal personnel waited for the order from headquarters.
Liaison officers checked their watches again and again.
Field communication lines stretched from the headquarters toward the artillery positions and front trenches.
In the rear, reserves continued moving forward.
An enormous army prepared itself for a blow that was supposed either to restore Russia's initiative in the war or finally shatter what remained of the old army.
Shortly before dawn, the headquarters began receiving the final confirmations of readiness from the front-line formations.
Telegraph operators rapidly received messages, liaison officers delivered new orders, and artillery commanders checked the exact timing for the opening barrage.
Everything was ready.
On one sector of the front, an elderly Russian officer stepped outside his headquarters and silently stared toward the dark horizon for several seconds.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the fog and rolling hills, lay the Austro-Hungarian positions.
He understood too well that within a few hours, thousands of men would rise into attack, and after that moment the front itself might never again remain the same.
In the distance, the first signal flares slowly appeared.
Then, across the entire front, the first salvo of Russian artillery thundered into the darkness.