February 1915.
While armies were dying in the Carpathians, Przemyśl continued to exist like a massive isolated island in the middle of a collapsing front.
The fortress still looked impressive.
Multiple forts.
Artillery positions.
Supply depots.
Railway connections.
Defensive lines.
On prewar maps, it had looked nearly impossible to conquer.
Now it was slowly becoming a trap for its own defenders.
The Russian army no longer rushed into frontal assaults.
After previous attempts, Russian commanders fully understood the cost of such decisions.
Too many men died for a few kilometers of land.
Too much blood had already soaked Galicia.
Now the Russians fought differently.
They strangled the fortress slowly.
Methodically.
Trench by trench.
Battery by battery.
Road by road.
A Russian artillery officer observed the outer defenses through binoculars.
Morning fog partially covered the forts.
But occasional artillery flashes still revealed defensive positions.
A staff officer stood nearby.
—"We're not storming them again?"
The artillery officer didn't even turn.
—"Do you want to run at those forts yourself?"
The officer quickly shook his head.
—"No."
—"Then you already know the answer."
Nearby, Russian soldiers continued building new siege positions.
Moving ammunition.
Digging trenches.
Engineering units worked constantly.
The siege was tightening.
A communications officer arrived with fresh reports.
—"The Austrians attempted another breakthrough in the Carpathians."
The artillery officer lowered his binoculars.
—"Successful?"
—"No."
He gave a faint smile.
—"Then they'll be eating even less inside the fortress tonight."
Inside Przemyśl, the situation looked very different.
The streets still maintained the appearance of order.
Patrols.
Officers.
Supply wagons.
Functioning headquarters.
But the longer the siege continued, the more that illusion began to crack.
A bread line stretched across several streets.
People stood in silence.
They no longer had enough energy to complain.
A woman held her child tightly by the hand.
The boy looked at the soldiers.
—"When is father coming back?"
The woman didn't answer immediately.
—"When the war ends."
The boy frowned.
—"And when does the war end?"
She stared forward for a long time.
—"Not today."
An old man standing nearby quietly laughed.
Not happily.
Just tired.
The garrison hospital was becoming worse every day.
Beds had run out long ago.
The wounded lay on floors.
In hallways.
Inside storage rooms.
A military doctor moved quickly from one patient to another.
One soldier struggled to breathe.
High fever.
Violent coughing.
The doctor looked at a medic.
—"Next."
The medic looked shocked.
—"But he's still alive."
The doctor answered tiredly.
—"For now."
He had seen too many similar cases.
Another wounded soldier quietly asked:
—"Doctor... will they rescue us soon?"
The doctor continued working.
—"I'm a doctor. Not a prophet."
—"But you must have heard something."
The doctor stopped.
He looked at the young soldier.
At his bandaged legs.
At his terrified eyes.
He didn't want to lie.
But the truth sounded worse.
—"Our job is to survive today."
The soldier slowly nodded.
As if that answer was enough.
Inside fortress headquarters, officers studied supply reports.
Food.
Ammunition.
Medicine.
Horses.
The final category was now discussed more than ever.
An Austrian officer stared at the numbers.
—"How much?"
The quartermaster answered coldly.
—"Not enough if current rations remain unchanged."
—"What if we reduce rations?"
—"We buy time."
—"How much time?"
The quartermaster paused.
—"Not enough."
Heavy silence filled the room.
Another officer finally spoke.
—"The army outside must break through."
For the first time, the quartermaster showed emotion.
—"The mountains, the Russians, and winter appear to disagree."
Nobody answered.
Everyone had already heard similar reports.
That didn't make them less terrifying.
The fortress commander slowly stood.
—"Reduce rations."
One officer immediately looked at him.
—"That could create panic."
—"Hunger will create it faster."
Nobody argued.
Late that evening, Russian artillery opened fire once again.
Shells struck the outer defenses.
Not a massive assault.
Just constant pressure.
A reminder.
We are here.
We can wait longer than you.
Inside one of the forts, an Austrian soldier sat against a wall and listened to the explosions.
Another soldier beside him ate soup.
If it could even be called soup.
—"Do you think they'll save us?"
The first soldier didn't look at him.
—"If they wanted to, they would've done it already."
After that, both men fell silent again.
Outside, Russian artillery continued firing.
And the ring around Przemyśl continued tightening.
Within days, the reduced rations became noticeable across the entire garrison.
At first, officers tried to hide it behind familiar phrases.
Temporary measures.
Optimized distribution.
Efficient use of resources.
Nobody believed any of it.
Soldiers noticed very quickly when bread became smaller.
When soup became thinner.
When meat disappeared.
Food lines grew longer.
Conversations became quieter.
An Austro-Hungarian soldier stared at his bowl.
Then looked at the cook.
—"That's all?"
The cook didn't even raise his head.
—"Today, yes."
—"What about tomorrow?"
The cook shrugged.
—"Ask the generals."
Someone behind them laughed nervously.
Most didn't.
A week later, mass slaughter of horses began.
Officially, it was called efficient redistribution of resources.
The soldiers called it what it really was.
Hunger.
The horses were brought out in groups.
Many of them had recently been pulling artillery.
Ammunition.
Food.
Wounded men.
Now they were becoming food themselves.
A military veterinarian stood near the stables.
A young officer silently watched.
The first shot rang out.
Then another.
Then dozens more.
The officer looked away.
—"I hate this war."
The veterinarian answered tiredly.
—"Then you chose the wrong profession."
By evening, the meat was already being distributed throughout the garrison.
People ate quickly.
Too quickly.
Everyone understood:
this was temporary relief.
Conditions inside the hospitals continued deteriorating.
Now they held far more than wounded soldiers.
Typhus.
Pneumonia.
Exhaustion.
Dysentery.
The military doctor had barely slept in three days.
A medic handed him a new list of the dead.
The doctor read the names.
Then simply placed the paper aside.
He no longer tried to remember names.
That was how men went insane.
In another room, a young soldier was delirious from fever.
—"Mother... I'm coming home..."
Several minutes later, he died.
The doctor didn't stop moving.
There were too many others waiting.
Civilians inside the fortress began panicking even faster than the soldiers.
The markets were nearly empty.
Prices had risen several times over.
Fights broke out over food.
One woman tried to buy the last sacks of flour.
Another man shoved her aside.
A fight began.
Military police intervened quickly.
But tension continued rising.
Later that night, several supply depots were targeted by looters.
The thieves were caught.
The next day, they were publicly executed.
The command hoped to display strength.
The result was the opposite.
People became even angrier.
At fortress headquarters, officers received another message from outside.
Another relief attempt in the Carpathians had failed.
The Russians continued applying pressure.
In some sectors, they had even launched counterattacks.
One officer slammed his fist onto the table.
—"Are they actually trying to save us?"
Another officer answered coldly.
—"They are trying."
—"Not hard enough."
The fortress commander silently stared at the map.
The front lines barely moved.
But food reserves moved far too quickly.
Toward zero.
The quartermaster handed him a new report.
The commander read it.
And for the first time during the entire siege, he turned pale.
—"Are these accurate numbers?"
—"Yes."
—"Check them again."
—"We already checked three times."
The officer slowly sat back down.
Absolute silence filled the room.
—"How long?"
one officer quietly asked.
The quartermaster answered:
—"If a miracle doesn't happen... a few weeks."
Nobody said anything after that.
Because everyone understood:
no miracle had appeared in the Carpathian passes yet.
Despite the worsening situation, fortress command continued maintaining the appearance of control.
Official orders still sounded confident.
The garrison was told:
relief forces were fighting their way through
help was coming
they only needed to hold a little longer
But more and more often, those announcements were met with silence.
Soldiers had stopped believing words.
They believed bread rations.
And empty warehouses.
At one of the outer forts, a garrison officer inspected defensive positions.
Russian artillery fired almost every day.
Sometimes heavily.
Sometimes lightly.
But always enough to remind them that the siege never truly stopped.
Soldiers sat inside fortifications with hollow faces.
One artilleryman struggled to lift a heavy shell.
His hands shook from weakness.
The shell slipped.
The officer helped him lift it again.
—"When was the last time you ate properly?"
The artilleryman gave a tired smile.
—"I honestly don't remember."
—"Can you still load shells?"
—"As long as my hands still move."
The officer looked at the rest of the gun crew.
Most looked exactly the same.
Exhausted.
Starving.
Still obeying orders.
Russian intelligence also noticed changes inside the fortress.
Observers reported:
less movement
fewer sorties
weaker artillery responses
A Russian staff officer studied the reports.
—"They're conserving strength."
An artillery officer beside him nodded.
—"Or they're simply running out of it."
The staff officer looked toward the forts through binoculars.
—"They won't last much longer."
The artillery officer answered calmly.
—"Then all we need to do is continue."
The Russian army increased pressure.
But still avoided a major assault.
Why lose thousands of men when hunger was already fighting on their side?
Inside the city, rumors spread faster than official orders.
Some claimed relief forces were already nearby.
Others claimed the Russians had broken deeper into the Carpathians.
Some whispered that the fortress would surrender soon.
An elderly teacher sat inside his apartment with his family.
On the table stood what might be their last proper meal in weeks.
Very small.
But still real.
His wife quietly asked:
—"Will we survive this?"
He stared through the window for a long time.
At patrols.
At empty streets.
At people moving slower every day.
—"I don't know."
It was the first time he had told the truth.
Late that night, fortress command gathered once again.
New reports were placed on the table.
Food reserves.
Hospital conditions.
Ammunition.
Morale.
Horse supplies.
The final category had nearly disappeared.
There were very few horses left.
One officer quietly asked:
—"And if help doesn't come?"
Nobody answered immediately.
The fortress commander stared at the map for a long time.
Then slowly spoke.
—"Then we will have two options."
The officers waited in silence.
—"Attempt a breakout."
A heavy pause followed.
—"Or surrender."
The room seemed to grow heavier.
One young officer stood up immediately.
—"We cannot surrender."
The commander looked at him coldly.
—"Then pray for the army in the Carpathians."
Nobody spoke after that.
Everyone understood:
time was running out.
Far away in the Carpathians, Austro-Hungarian commanders gathered once again to discuss another attempt to relieve Przemyśl.
The map was covered with new offensive plans.
And old casualties.
One general stared darkly at the reports.
—"We've already lost more men in these mountains than there are soldiers inside that fortress."
Heavy silence filled the room.
Nobody could dispute the numbers.
The officer continued:
—"We're throwing divisions into snow, mud, and Russian artillery for a garrison that may already be doomed."
Several officers looked away.
Another general suddenly stood.
—"And what exactly do you propose?"
The first answered coldly:
—"Save the army."
The second general slammed his hand onto the table.
—"If we abandon Przemyśl, the entire army will see it."
He looked around the room.
—"Every future garrison will know that the empire may leave them to die behind fortress walls."
He pointed at the map.
—"Then no trust in command will remain."
The room fell silent again.
He continued more quietly:
—"And if soldiers stop believing that someone will come for them... morale across the entire empire collapses faster than any front line."
Nobody answered.
Because both men were right.
One spoke from military logic.
The other spoke about the survival of the empire itself.
Finally, the commanding general spoke.
—"We attack."
Outside, snow continued falling.
And thousands of men were already marching toward the next slaughter.