Iron & Soil: Journey Through the Battle for Ukraine
Part 4

1,066 words

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The steppe wind that roared through the night has fallen silent by morning. The thunder of artillery echoes clearly around us. Ukrainian and Russian artillery are locked in a duel. One can distinguish the outgoing fire of shells and the impacts as they land. The Ukrainian heavy battery here, hidden behind a line of trees, continues to send shells toward the enemy. The Russian artillery responds; a whistling sound cuts through the air, followed by explosions as shells detonate nearby.

Soon, we are seated in speeding vehicles, where the road is no longer smooth pavement but a mosaic of craters and dust. The holes shake our muscles and bones. The threat of drones means the minimum speed must be 120 kmh. The soldiers at the wheel keep their eyes fixed on the road and the horizon. The frontline landscape rushes past.

We are heading toward Ulakly, and from there, further to the location of the local company commander’s headquarters. It is just a stone’s throw from the front line. The rumble of indirect fire blends with the roar of our tires on the uneven ground. The villages we pass through are silent, with only occasional signs of movement.

In one place, indirect fire has destroyed the local cultural center. The shock of a recent missile strike still lingers heavily in the air. Even among the war-torn ruins, a few elderly residents move slowly down the streets. Some of them seem unsure of where to go. Others are not waiting for the war to end, but for a different power.

We are driven through Ulakly, straight toward the front line. The Donetsk highway, fought over for years, is now riddled with shell craters. The road looks like a plowed field. The air is filled with the constant roar of artillery and mortar fire, and even distant aircraft activity can be heard. The enemy’s heavy guns rumble, answered by the pounding of Ukrainian artillery. Shells whistle through the sky, and the ground trembles with their explosions.

While Ulakly still has a few civilians on the streets, Dachne has none. Destroyed houses, gates torn apart by shrapnel… everything is ruined. Amid the wreckage of barns and stables, a few animals stand with confused and frightened eyes, staring at what was once their shelter. A short distance away, the remains of a car lie shredded. The metal is twisted, the tires melted.

An abandoned checkpoint by the roadside is surrounded by shell craters and pockmarked with shrapnel holes. No one will be asking for documents here anymore.

The familiar Vovcha River flows parallel to the road, just north of us. On the northern bank, steep ridges rise. Perfect positions for the Russians. The southern side also climbs upward, as if looming over the valley where our convoy speeds forward. We are in a cauldron, with the enemy positioned on three sides at once.

Ulakly and Kostiantynopil lie in a valley, while Andriivka, sitting at the base of the ridgeline, is especially vulnerable. There are no concrete structures here capable of withstanding heavy bombardment. The basements of houses are becoming the last line of defense, where the coming battle will be close, brutal, and merciless. This is why the Russians aim to destroy every village in advance: to leave Ukrainian soldiers without a single place to take cover.

The enemy’s iron grip tightens with each passing day. The Ukrainians still hold a few industrial sites on the outskirts of Kurakhove, but rumors say they will soon withdraw from there as well. The front line needs to be straightened – it is only a matter of time.

The roof and walls of a collapsed house have tumbled directly onto the road, blocking our path. Debris is everywhere – roof tiles, piles of bricks and shattered asbestos sheets, all forming the skeleton of what once stood. We swerve aside, taking a different route.

Charred wrecks of vehicles lie in the roadside ditch, their metal twisted by explosions and warped by heat. Some have landed on their roofs, others are riddled with shrapnel holes, their shattered windshields staring blankly like blind eyes. Houses are scarred, blackened by fire –silent remnants of destruction. Nothing moves.

Then, something shifts in the silence.

At first, it’s just a shadow by the roadside. A dark silhouette rises from the ruins, moving with slow but deliberate steps along the edge of the road, as if it has walked this path for centuries. A black goat, its horns curved, its thick, matted coat hanging in tangled strands like the robe of an ancient prophet.

One of us exhales quietly, almost whispering, “Old Devil himself.”

No one laughs.

The goat stops. It raises its head and looks straight at us, not like an animal but like someone who knows.

We understand now: beyond this point, we are dangerously close to the iron threshold of no return.

The Ukrainian soldier behind the wheel grips the steering wheel, his gaze shifting from the goat back to the road. A second stretches unbearably long. Then, suddenly, he jerks the wheel. The tires sink for a moment into the mud. The vehicle pivots, and acceleration presses us into our seats.

The car surges forward, mud spraying from beneath the tires as Dachne disappears behind us. On either side of the road stand shattered trees, their branches torn away, trunks blackened. The relentless pulse of artillery fire rumbles close ahead.

Minutes pass before we reach the low-lying headquarters, hidden beneath a camouflage net. The net hangs over the porch like a tattered veil. Soldiers move with steady purpose, their faces calm, as if the constant cacophony of explosions is nothing unusual.

A shell detonates nearby. The ground shudders for a moment, but no one flinches.

The company commander approaches. No formalities, no wasted words. He hands each of us a beautiful wristwatch – made in Ukraine, engraved with the battalion’s insignia and a number. Even more meaningful is the firm handshake he gives us in parting.

The earth trembles again. Dust drifts from the wooden beams. A soldier glances toward the sky. No one lingers longer than necessary.

A whistle cuts through the air. Then – another blast. The ground shakes, dust rises, and fiery shards of torn metal fall somewhere close.

“Poyikhali!“ (“Let’s go!”) A voice cuts through the noise.

We move without hesitation. We leap into the vehicles, doors slam shut, engines roar to life. The convoy races forward.