Iron & Soil: Journey Through the Battle for Ukraine
Part 2

2,389 words

Part 1 here.

In the morning, a convoy of six vehicles sets off for eastern Ukraine. Behind us, the breathtaking estuaries of the Black Sea fade into the distance. Ahead lies a long and uncertain road.

We drive through Kryvyi Rih, where in March 2022, the Russian advance was halted. The city held firm. It still stands.

There are more and more military vehicles on the highways. More convoys. Some battered, some fresh from the factory. The war machines move eastward, always eastward.

On the radio, Bayraktar FM plays. Folk melodies turned into frontline songs. A deep Ukrainian voice sings of love, longing, and battles.

Zaporizhzhia. The land of the Cossacks. The land of steel. Towering factories stand silent, their chimneys lifeless, their walls scarred. This is already a frontline city. Airstrikes hit Zaporizhzhia often, artillery fire falls without warning. Just a few dozen kilometers away, the enemy holds a nuclear power plant – a sleeping giant in its grasp.

These twin threats – bombing and radiation – hang over the people of Zaporizhzhia like a sword. Most of the children here have never seen the inside of a classroom. First, schools were closed due to the pandemic, then because of the war. Now, new schools are being built underground – twelve deep shelters, each designed for a thousand students. No windows, no sunlight. Only concrete walls and corridors. But it is better than nothing.

Life goes on. Buses and trolleys still run through the streets. The market is open. People mend the wounds of war where they can.

We reach the Dnipro. This old, wide, and mighty river was, for the ancient Greeks, the edge of Europe. The Varangians once sailed its waters from the North to Byzantium. Many wars and hard-fought battles have been waged here. Downstream from us, near Kherson, the river is once again a frontline. The famous Dnipro dam is a constant target for missiles. But still, we cross.

As we reach the other shore, a deep air raid siren begins to wail across the city. Suddenly, there is no signal, no GPS. Phones fall silent. We stop in the middle of the highway, trying to determine which direction to take.

A trolleybus comes to a halt ahead of us. Its passengers have already found shelter from the rockets. The driver steps out – not to seek cover, but to wave his arms and guide us through the blaring sirens. We thank him and speed onward.

The city fades behind us, the last apartment blocks and factory chimneys slipping past the car windows.

The landscape flattens. Fields stretch to the horizon, interrupted only by black rows of trees and the occasional farmhouse. The whitewashed buildings and abundant limestone clay hint at a landscape different from the familiar northern European forest zone.

Typical Ukrainian steppe landscape with a treeline.

We have now entered the vast Eurasian plain. One end of this boundless expanse lies at the foot of the Carpathians, the other far away in the Altai. For thousands of years, wave after wave of tribes have ridden across these steppes from east to west – conquering and plundering new lands, only for their looted empires to crumble back into dust.

The most ancient of these nomads were the Scythians and Sarmatians, descendants of the first horse tamers. Even today, Ukrainians consider themselves, at least in part, heirs of the Scythians. Some even believe that the distinctive “h“ sound in the Ukrainian language originates from the Indo-Iranian tongues of the Scythians and Sarmatians.

From more recent history, we know the Cossacks – mostly descendants of Ukrainian peasants who fled Polish and Russian rule into the steppes, adopting the nomadic way of life.

For centuries, brave Europeans have defended themselves against nomads and invaders from the east. Today, those defenders are the Ukrainians. And perhaps they are so successful because the blood of the ancient steppe warriors still flows in their veins.

Towards the east, the roads get progressively worse.

Villages sprawl for kilometers along the valley floors, golden-domed churches standing proudly atop the hills. Once, life bustled around the small houses – people tending their gardens, caring for livestock. Now, most have left. Only a few buildings still show signs of life, their windows boarded up with plywood, a fragile light flickering behind them.

Night has long since fallen, and the drive continues through darkness. Two high school-aged girls, walking by chance along a village street, wave at the passing convoy. Did they recognize the emblems of our international aid mission? Or did they take us for soldiers? It does not matter. What matters is the hope carried by every convoy racing toward the front. Help is on the way.

In the night sky over eastern Ukraine, an unforgettable sight unfolds. On the edge of a vast steppe, where a thin line of trees marks the boundary, we stop the cars for a moment. Under the full moon, the stars shine brightly. Then, in the next instant, the mind registers something unusual – the brightest stars are moving rapidly across the sky in a single, determined direction, toward targets somewhere behind us. From the horizon, even faster-rising stars streak upward to meet them.

A battle for the airspace is taking place above us. The thought of making a wish upon a falling star disappears. That night, Russia launched one of its largest missile strikes against Ukraine’s energy infrastructure.

We arrive at our first host unit somewhere near Pokrovske and Vasylykivka. It is the drone unit Harpiya – the Harpy.

We spend the night in a farmhouse by the banks of the Vovcha River. A stone house from the early 20th century, adorned with beautiful decor – rare in Estonia, but here, these buildings line every village road. There is no running water, no indoor toilet. Washing is done outside by the well. For soldiers, compared to frontline conditions, this is a hotel.

Outside, the air is cold, but inside, a wood-burning stove crackles, spreading warmth through the small stone house. Three tiny rooms are packed with sleeping men. They sleep wherever they can: on old camp beds, on the floor, their rifles resting against the walls. There are enough mattresses and spare cots for us as well.

In the dimly lit room, screens glow in the corner. It could be a gamer’s dream setup, but here, it is the heart of real warfare. Keyboards, controllers, and, when needed, live video feeds from the sky. Starlink provides the internet connection.

Our humble accommodation.

The Starlink receiver sits outside on the ground, a small square satellite dish pointed at the sky. It must remain outside – nothing can interfere with the signal. A single cable runs from the dish into the house, linking it to a Wi-Fi router.

This is not a luxury or convenience. For the drone unit, it is essential. Drones connect via Wi-Fi, their controllers linked to the network before takeoff. Once airborne, the connection switches to an analog signal. The invisible link to the battlefield remains intact.

Elon Musk has provided Starlink to the Ukrainian military free of charge. No matter how complex the world’s richest man’s views on Eastern Europe may be, we haven’t heard a single bad word about him from Ukrainian soldiers. Since the activation of the first terminal, Starlink has become the essential nervous system of the frontline. Every unit has at least one receiver. Often, it is hidden under scrap metal or crates to avoid detection by enemy aerial reconnaissance. Starlink is used to operate drones and adjust artillery fire. It connects commanders with frontline fighters, transmitting real-time battlefield updates.

The drone operators are young and cheerful. Their commander is older, bearded, with a warm yet commanding presence. Laughter is common here – quick and sharp as machine gun fire. War has not yet drained the joy from these men.

“The routine is simple,” one of them says. “Two days on the front, two days in the rear. But it changes depending on the situation. It’s always changing.”

Two days in the trenches, two days in a place like this. A break, they call it, but can it really be called a break when the morning starts with the roar of helicopter engines overhead?

The first time it happens, we are still half-asleep. A deep, angry roar shakes the walls. For a moment, no one moves. Then someone mumbles: “Ours.”

It happens every morning. Helicopters fly low, slicing through the dawn like hunting hawks. They belong to Ukraine. Russian ones haven’t dared to fly here for a long time, thanks to Ukrainian air defenses.

The windows are carefully covered with foil and wooden planks to prevent even the smallest sliver of light from revealing the soldiers’ position. Vehicles must be spread out along the village streets, never clustered together. There is good reason for this.

For the Russians, drone operators are among the most hated targets. If enemy radio surveillance detects their signal, a swift and ruthless strike follows with full firepower. And yet, there is no army in the world today that can surpass Ukraine’s in drone warfare.

FPV drones.

Drones are not the best weapons in war. The best would be fighter jets with precision-guided missiles. The next choice would be artillery. Only then come drones. They get the job done, but slower and with less impact. Ukraine focuses on drones because it has no other choice. They are the poor man’s weapon – assembled in garages and basements, flown by young men who have learned their skills on the battlefield.

Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, Ukraine has been fighting two wars: one with a conventional army and another with drones. Without the drone operators, this war might have been lost in the first months. Now, there is no frontline unit without its own drone team. Some have entire drone battalions. Soon, there will be entire drone regiments in the ranks.

This is not the future warfare as imagined in the West, with high-tech killer robots costing millions. Ukraine’s drone war has not followed that path. Instead, it has been a process of constant adaptation, experimentation, refinement, and rapid implementation. Today, Ukraine produces one hundred thousand drones per month. Software is updated every few days. FPV attack drones and small bombers have become the backbone of Ukraine’s defense.

Ukraine does not waste years on technological leaps or spend vast sums on experiments. It acts quickly, produces cheaply, and strikes hard. In 2024, Ukraine produced over a million explosive drones. Most of these are FPV drones, where the pilot sees a real-time image from the drone’s camera. They are small, rarely more than 25 cm in diameter, but can carry four kilograms of explosives up to 20 kilometers. Some of the drones we see here can transport up to 800 grams of explosives over 100 kilometers and reach speeds of up to 200 km/h.

The greatest enemy is Russian electronic warfare. But even Ukraine’s own jammers, which must block Russian drones, can sometimes become obstacles. The best pilots can maneuver through the chaos, fly low, avoid interference sources, and bring their drones to their targets. The war is fought by men, but victory is decided by machines – assembled in basements and sent into battle.

Beneath the large black case holding FPV drones lies Baba Yaga – a deadly attack drone. The Russians fear it, and for good reason. It strikes the enemy at night, unseen, leaving behind only fire and rubble.

Different versions of Baba Yaga are called Nemesis, Vampire, R18, or Kazhan. Ukraine has thousands of them. Each carries nine, twelve, or eighteen kilograms of death – mines, mortar shells, explosive charges that tear through both steel and flesh.

The drone takes off as darkness falls. It flies low, hugging the terrain, its rotors humming in the wind. The enemy does not sleep, but by the time they hear Baba Yaga’s buzz, it is already too late. The thermal camera detects targets: vehicles, bunkers, soldiers. The explosive charge drops. In an instant, the target is destroyed.

Baba Yaga drone.

But its mission does not end there. Baba Yaga lays mines, cutting off roads and trapping Russian columns. It delivers supplies, food, ammunition, and medicine to soldiers holding the front lines.

The Russians hunt Baba Yaga. They track its signal, send reconnaissance drones against it, and sweep the fields and forests, searching for the teams that control it. They offer bounties such as leave and maybe even medals to those who can bring one down. But Baba Yaga is a ghost.

The name suits it. We tell the Ukrainians about the ancient Finno-Ugric shamans and witches, who may have inspired Russian tales of the evil old woman living deep in the forest, flying above the treetops in a wooden mortar. Now, Baba Yaga serves proudly in the Ukrainian army.

The drone boys take us to the shooting range, where we fire a few rounds at the targets. The vibrations of Kalashnikov-type rifles and the PK light machine gun pulse through our shoulders. We are wearing helmets now, and the weight of the flak vest presses down on us.

What does it mean for a soldier to truly know his weapon? A weapon is not just a tool – it becomes a living, burning companion, a guardian angel that may one day save his life. It demands both respect and control. It can break the enemy’s fighting spirit and end lives. You don’t just hold it in your hands. You become one with it.

In battle, an overwhelming array of weapons work together, each contributing to the final objective. The fire that suppresses the enemy does not come from a single rifle but from the combined force of all arms. Death comes to the enemy by many paths – on land, at sea, and in the air. Every weapon is directed toward a single goal: to defend the land and people of Ukraine. A nation’s collective consciousness guides a soldier’s every move.

We say farewell to the drone operators. Left behind with them is a yellow Volkswagen van, my companion, which has carried me thousands of kilometers from Estonia to here, shaking over every bump along the way. At first, I feared it, fumbling with gears and struggling through chaotic traffic, but on Ukraine’s unpredictable roads, I learned to know and appreciate it. Now it stays here, but I feel as though I am leaving behind something more than just a machine.