Iron & Soil: Journey Through the Battle for Ukraine
Part 3

1,753 words

Part 1. Part 2.

A unique road culture has developed along the roads leading to the front. In the small town of Pokrovske, military shops, cafés, and burger stands have sprung up to serve the large number of soldiers passing through every day. The town is filled with people in military uniforms and all kinds of military vehicles. They drive by with license plates from many places – plenty from neighboring Poland and Romania, but also from Latvia, Lithuania, and we even see one from Estonia. The gifts sent by our volunteers are valued and put to good use.

A roadside café near Pavlohrad has become famous across Ukraine. Here, soldiers on the move are offered free meals – borscht and solyanka. The cooks stir large cauldrons and prepare coffee. It’s a place where, for a brief moment, the weight of the world is lifted as soldiers, whether heading to the front or returning to the rear, sit down at a long table and fill their stomachs.

We’ve brought several dozen crates of fruits and vegetables, potatoes, and buckwheat from Odesa – over a ton of whatever local farmers can provide. These supplies are essential. The café stays open thanks to such donations from volunteers. Every shared meal, every delivered crate is part of the same fight: to give something back in gratitude to the defenders, to help wherever possible.

We drive on dark roads toward Orikhiv, the car’s headlights cutting through the black night, and make a short stop in the village of Barvinivka. The place seems empty, as if the sky and earth are holding their breath. We meet serious, hardened men who don’t speak much. They hold the front between Orikhiv and Robotyne, and they have no time for anything but their mission.

The full moon casts long shadows on the ground, illuminating those who have been awake for far too long. We don’t need to say much. They are here to receive the vehicle we’ve brought them. Not a single word is wasted. They load it quickly. Heavy battles are raging under Orikhiv. We move on toward the next ones in need, while they return to their posts – back to the front lines.

Delivering foodstuff to the roadside cafe near Pavlohrad.

In Pokrovske, under a Soviet-era aircraft monument, we meet two scouts serving under an assault brigade. They will be our guides as we travel into Donetsk Oblast. There’s no time for long conversations; war does not allow for that. Their eyes are sharp, focused. They know what they’re doing. They understand this land, the dangers, and the rhythm of the front.

Our route takes us along Highway H15, which once connected Zaporizhzhia to Donetsk. The eastern end of the road was cut off as early as 2014. With a good car, it is still drivable, though far from ideal. Massive military vehicles move constantly to and from the front. Occasionally, ambulances rush past.

We cross the winding Vovcha River and simultaneously enter Donetsk Oblast. The farther east we go, the worse the road gets, and the surrounding landscape becomes increasingly abandoned and desolate. We are moving deeper into a land where there is no room for jokes, where everything has turned harsh. Every few kilometers, excavators dig trenches along the roadside. It is clear that the region is preparing for the battles ahead. The front is in a precarious state, and fallback positions are essential. Soon, the fighting will reach here.

Driving on this road is already dangerous. We switch off our radio transmitters, silencing all conversations. Russian reconnaissance might be listening. We must keep up with our guides in their military vehicle. Driving at such speed on a pothole-riddled road is a huge risk, but we have to take it. No one can fall behind. If someone misses the right turn, they are lost.

But what is war if not constant danger? We press on with a clear purpose: to deliver vehicles and supplies to the right destination. Every kilometer is a reminder that there is no time or place for mistakes.

The men with whom we will spend the next two nights, just ten kilometers from the front, are not like the drone boys. They are different – more serious, straightforward, hardened. They belong to a reconnaissance or communications unit, but their exact tasks and daily work remain hidden from us.

Behind them is an almost unbroken chain of battles since last winter when the Russians breached the front near Avdiivka. And although the enemy has advanced painfully slowly since then, they have not hesitated to throw enormous masses of troops into combat just to seize a few square kilometers.

The threat assessments of these men could decide our fate today and tomorrow.

The howling wind cuts through the steppe like steel. We are by the Mokri Yaly River, just ten kilometers from the front – southward near Velyka Novosilka and eastward near Kurakhove.

Our shelter was, before the war, a rather respectable house – at least by Donetsk Oblast standards. It is clear that decent people once lived here. Children’s toys lie scattered where they were last left in the middle of play, notebooks and textbooks still rest on tables and in drawers. A framed diploma hangs on the wall, awarded to a local village school student for winning a mathematics competition.

The house is guarded by a gray cat with tiny drooping ears – the only remaining member of the household. The soldiers feed him. He always sleeps on the same couch – evidently the one where his owner used to rest before. At night, he seeks warmth and the sound of a heartbeat, pressing against my chest and falling asleep peacefully, as if knowing that he is still home, no matter how much the world around him has changed.

The kitten has remained behind to guard the abandoned house.

There is no electricity, water, or internet here. Light comes from candles and flashlights. In the yard, there is a well where ice-cold water can be drawn with a bucket. A glowing iron stove radiates a cozy warmth into the dimly lit living room.

Here, we see how the farmhouse stove is fueled with coal. Yes, Ukraine’s famous coal, the older brother of our oil shale, both a blessing and a curse for eastern Ukraine. The Donbas region takes its name from the giant coal mines that burrow into its land. Once a rich energy source for all of Eastern Europe, brutally exploited by the communist regime at the cost of both nature and human labor. The cities of Donetsk and Luhansk grew into industrial centers from the depths of these mines, drawing workers from across the Soviet empire. This is where the war erupted in 2014.

The surrounding land bears the scars of its industrial history: crumbling factories and slag heaps stand as reminders of a shattered world. Coal dust is everywhere, even in the air. The landscape silently testifies to the price this region has paid for progress. And even now, as war threatens to destroy everything, the old stoves still burn, and coal keeps the cold at bay.

Most of the residents in villages less than ten kilometers from the front have left. Those few who remain are not trusted by the soldiers. Before the war, this was a predominantly Russian-speaking area. One can guess that some of those who chose to stay are waiting for a Russian victory. Walking the village streets in a helmet and flak vest is unwise, and vehicles must be dispersed along dirt roads to prevent enemy drones or hostile civilians from identifying the soldiers’ and support mission’s location.

One night, for example, a rocket struck the very house where the soldiers hosting us were sleeping. Half the building was reduced to rubble, and the cars parked outside were destroyed. Yet, by some miracle, every soldier survived. While searching through the wreckage, they found an old button-operated mobile phone. Most likely, it had been hidden there by a local collaborator, providing the Russians with the target’s coordinates.

Now we get a glimpse into the work of our hosts. Two Ukrainian soldiers live in this house. One of them is an a stormtrooper – shturmovik – whose duty includes assaulting enemy positions. The other always carries a small pistol under his arm. This suggests that he is not a frontline fighter but someone with other assignments. Exactly what those are remains a mystery. Most likely, he is either a scout or a military policeman.

The steppe stretches endlessly in all directions, the howling storm wind drowning out even the sounds of the front tonight. It is hard to fathom how many men have fallen here, how much has been fought over, how many have been wounded and died, how many comrades have been laid to rest – only for others to take their place on the front line again. War moves to a relentless rhythm: week after week, month after month, until the rest of the world seems distant and foreign.

Every morning, the Russians continue their assault on Velyka Novosilka. Their attacks begin at dawn and last up to twelve hours straight. The enemy’s largest forces are concentrated east of the settlement. It is from this direction that the heaviest blows come, where Ukrainian defenders must endure a relentless storm of fire from artillery, mortars, aircraft, and drones.

Yet even this is only a fraction of what the defenders of Kurakhove face. Kurakhove is currently the site of the fiercest fighting. It is one of the few places where the Russians still send armored columns – tanks and infantry fighting vehicles – day after day. Many of these machines are destroyed by the Ukrainians, but new ones keep coming. The next morning, we must drive within just a kilometer and a half of Kurakhove, and the air is thick with anticipation.

Anyone who understands the risks inevitably reflects before falling asleep. Is he truly aware of himself and certain of his choice? Only when a person confronts the real possibility of death – when he accepts it – can he look into his soul with absolute clarity. Only then can he fully grasp what it means to be alive and to choose life with open eyes.

For every warrior, fate is a constant companion. We, too, have set out on this journey trusting our fate, knowing that without such trust, nothing requiring courage can come to pass. Every miracle in this world demands courage. Even the courage to love – to love one’s homeland so deeply that one is willing to walk through hell for it.