Soldiers were already awake, moving between tents and wagons. Some cleaned their rifles, others watered horses or heated tea over small fires.
Life in the camp had become calmer after the last battles. The men were tired, and everyone understood that the war could not continue much longer.
Near one wagon several soldiers were talking quietly.
— "First they said negotiations might begin."
— "They've said that before."
— "Maybe. But after Mukden… who knows."
One of them shrugged.
— "As long as they don't send us back to the front."
At that moment a rider appeared on the road leading to the camp.
He was moving fast.
The horse was breathing heavily from the long ride.
A soldier standing near the road watched him pass.
— "Courier."
The rider did not slow down. He rode directly toward the headquarters tents.
Officers soon began gathering there.
Several minutes later an officer stepped outside the headquarters.
He looked across the camp.
— "Soldiers."
Men nearby turned toward him.
The officer paused for a moment.
— "The war is over."
For a few seconds no one reacted.
The words seemed too simple.
Too quiet.
One soldier finally asked slowly.
— "You mean… that's it?"
The officer nodded.
— "Yes. Peace negotiations have begun."
Someone whispered:
— "Home…"
Another soldier sat down slowly on a crate.
One man crossed himself.
No one shouted.
No one cheered.
Men simply looked at each other.
Finally a soldier spoke quietly.
— "So many stayed behind there."
Another answered calmly.
— "But the rest of us are going home."
The camp slowly came back to life.
But the mood had changed.
The war was finally ending.
Inside the headquarters tent officers were already discussing the new orders.
Skoropadskyi stood beside a table where a map of Manchuria lay spread out.
Krasnov stood nearby together with several other officers.
A signal officer finished reading a telegram.
— "Peace negotiations have begun."
— "Units will prepare for withdrawal."
Krasnov let out a quiet breath.
— "Well… looks like we survived."
Skoropadskyi rolled up the map slowly.
— "How many divisions are still covering the line?"
— "A few remain behind the main force."
Krasnov looked out toward the valley where long columns of soldiers were already moving along the road.
— "After everything we've seen… this feels strange."
Skoropadskyi followed his gaze.
— "At least the men are going home."
Several days later the army began its long withdrawal toward the railway.
The roads were filled with marching columns.
Infantry moved slowly along the dusty road. Wagons carrying wounded soldiers rolled beside them. Cavalry units rode along the flanks.
The soldiers looked exhausted, but their faces were calmer now.
The endless steppe stretched around them.
For months it had been filled with battle.
Now it was quiet.
Conversations among the soldiers had changed.
— "They say it will take weeks to reach the railway."
— "Then trains."
— "And then home."
Some men already argued about who would reach his village first.
Others walked silently.
Many simply watched the road ahead.
Skoropadskyi stopped his horse on a low hill overlooking the valley.
From there he could see the road stretching far across the fields.
Long columns moved slowly through the landscape.
Krasnov rode up beside him.
— "Looking at the battlefield?"
Skoropadskyi nodded.
— "A lot happened here."
Krasnov gave a small smile.
— "And now it's over."
They remained silent for a moment.
Then Skoropadskyi turned his horse.
— "Let's go."
Saint Petersburg welcomed returning officers with cold wind and crowded streets.
The city had changed during the war.
People spoke about the defeats, about the peace, and about the future of the empire.
But among officers the stories of the campaign were already spreading.
Several days after his arrival Skoropadskyi was summoned to the Winter Palace.
A small ceremony was held in one of the halls.
Several officers stood in line as the emperor slowly walked along the row.
An adjutant read the names and citations.
One officer received the Order of Saint Vladimir with swords.
Another received the Order of Saint Anna with swords.
When Skoropadskyi's name was called, the adjutant stepped forward.
— "Colonel Pavlo Skoropadskyi."
The hall became quiet.
— "For actions during the Manchurian campaign and for covering the withdrawal of Russian divisions, he is awarded the Order of Saint George, Fourth Class."
The emperor stepped closer.
Nicholas II handed him the cross.
— "Where were you serving during that battle?"
Skoropadskyi answered calmly.
— "With the Transbaikal Cossack regiment, Your Majesty."
The emperor nodded.
— "You served well."
— "Thank you, Your Majesty."
Skoropadskyi stepped back into the line.
Several officers nearby noticed the black and orange ribbon of the Order of Saint George on his chest.
It was a rare award.
Everyone in the room understood what it meant.
Later, in the courtyard of the palace, several officers approached him.
One of them smiled slightly.
— "Congratulations on the George, Colonel."
Skoropadskyi nodded.
— "Thank you."
Another officer said:
— "Not many receive that cross."
Skoropadskyi looked toward the street beyond the palace gates.
— "The war was still lost."
The officer shrugged.
— "But you saved lives."
Skoropadskyi did not answer.
That evening he sat at his desk once more.
A sheet of paper lay before him.
He began writing to his family.
This letter was shorter than the last.
He wrote that the war had ended.
That he had returned to the capital.
And that he hoped to come home very soon.
When the letter was finished he folded it carefully.
For a moment he remained seated in silence.
Home was no longer a distant dream.
It was finally close.