Iron & Soil: Journey Through the Battle for Ukraine
Part 6

1,873 words

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

We head out of the steppes, moving north into Ukraine. Here, the landscape becomes more familiar to an Estonian eye: we pass through pine forests and once again see log houses by the roadside.

In the Lyman region, we enter liberated territory. This area was under Russian control in 2022, captured during their first major offensive. Then came the Ukrainian counteroffensive, reclaiming it. But new dangers lurk here.

Mines could be anywhere. A roadside stop could be fatal if you step off the asphalt. Road signs are riddled with bullet holes, high-voltage power lines hang snapped and dragging against the ground. This is a scorched place, still bearing the scars of war.

We stop for a moment. There’s another sign by the road – a metal sheet, shot through with holes. Someone fired at it, again and again.

Traffic sign with bullet marks in Lyman.

Lyman feels like a world of its own. Azov’s own republic. At the entrance to the city, Azov’s banners welcome travellers. At the checkpoint, Azov soldiers stand watch. Their faces are calm, but their hands never stray far from their weapons. There is order here, but not the usual military hierarchy. Azov has its own command structure.

Azov made its name in the summer battles of 2014. Back then, they were volunteers, holding the line when few others could. Now, they have grown into something greater: two full brigades, along with a host of specialized units. The most famous of these is probably Kraken, a name that sends shivers down Russian spines in the trenches.

Yet Lyman does not feel safe or civilized, not even with Azov at the checkpoints. We are just ten kilometers from the frontline. Windows are blacked out. Many homes stand empty, others have their windows boarded up with plywood. On the edge of town, a solitary gas station fades into the dark. There is a heavy gloom here – something left behind after occupation. It lingers even more than in Kurakhove.

Now the convoy must rush forward, even on the icy roads. We race through the darkness, using only low beams. Any unnecessary light could be spotted by enemy observation drones. The winding road twists, and the vehicle jolts through potholes; hidden traps lurking in the shadows. The tires grip, slip, then grip again. We are back in the danger zone. The only thing to do is keep driving.

But we arrive safely. Night falls, and we find shelter in a small village staying with Azov’s neighbors, the 4th Tank Brigade, or more precisely, their mortar team.

A new farmhouse, with a black cat standing guard at the door. The cat watches us with indifference. Inside, we are met with warmth. There is electricity, a stove’s heat, and Starlink. There is no water, but that is a minor thing.

The mortar unit commander is a broad-faced man with a thick beard and honest eyes. He looks about thirty. If not for his jet-black eyebrows, his features could easily be mistaken for Estonian. He shakes hands firmly, grinning widely.

The team stands behind him. The gunner, who looks like an old-school train driver, introduces us to their largest mortars. He pats them with a mix of pride and reverence. A quiet, friendly soldier listens more than he speaks – his facial features suggest he could be Mansi or Nenets. Another, older, bearded man watches us in silence. He has the look of someone who works hard and speaks little.

Their faces are sharp and strained. Their stubbled chins bear the marks of hard living and sleepless nights. They have seen things that do not fade in daylight. But when they see volunteers bringing aid, their expressions change. They smile, and it is genuine. There is no greater gratitude than this.

They show us a Russian army uniform. A thick, worn quilted jacket smelling of oil and sweat. They let us take one. A trophy. A relic. The skin off the enemy’s back.

Inside, they have a small 60mm Austrian mortar, standing right in the room like a piece of furniture. Under the shed, a much larger gun waits. Metal and grease, ready to be fed.

With a mortar crew of the 4th Tank Brigade.

Shahed drones buzz overhead. The sound is steady, mechanical, hungry. Somewhere in the distance, the Ukrainians respond. An air defense system barks, missiles tear into the sky. Minutes pass. Another Shahed follows. The night belongs to neither side.

In the neighboring farmyard, the soldiers have built a shelter. Not for themselves, but for the locals. A hole in the ground, reinforced with logs, covered with a camouflage net. A place to go when the sky rains death. The only light comes from candles, their flickering flames casting shadows on the mud-lined walls.

Only in the morning does it become clear what was truly at stake that night.

The Russian propaganda machine howls for blood. It drives its troops forward, demands victory. Moscow has pinned its hopes on this offensive, meant to punch a hole through the seemingly impenetrable fortress of the 3rd Assault Brigade and the 4th Tank Brigade.

In the darkness, Russian units, brought from afar, launch their attack. They break through the 4th Tank Brigade’s defensive line east of Borova, near Raihorodka village – the same place where Estonian volunteer fighter Martin Jääger fell just a few months ago. We are only ten kilometers from this breach.

Later, we hear the full story. The Russians pressed so hard in the dark that our hosts even considered waking us up and ordering us to leave immediately. Had the breakthrough reached us, we would all have been handed weapons…and the fight for our lives would have begun.

But that breakthrough is all they achieve that night. Ukrainian reserves rush into battle. The 4th Tank Brigade slams the door shut. The counterattack begins. The Russian advance is halted. Their infantry, trying to push forward in the dark, is wiped out. Drones hum in the sky, missiles slice through the night. The roar of battle drowns out everything else.

The next morning, the Ukrainian General Staff reports: In the last 24 hours, 2,200 Russian soldiers have been eliminated. It was the bloodiest day of the war so far. This grim record has been broken many times in recent months, but now, it has been shattered again. Along with the men, eight tanks, 24 armored fighting vehicles, and 42 artillery systems have also been destroyed.

Statistics are cold. They have no emotions. But they speak of unwavering courage.

Do we truly grasp what these numbers mean? What kind of endurance they represent? What kind of simple, unbreakable determination lies behind them? Once again, Russian tanks rolled toward Ukrainian positions. Once again, every man stood ready – soldiers, commanders, medics, logistics crews. And once again, Russian armor burned. The defenders held.

The breach was sealed. The invaders were annihilated. All of it paid for in blood, as always.

But today, Putin has two battalions fewer.

The next day, our hosts take us to the shooting range. The PK machine gun kicks hard, spitting bursts of fire. I fire it prone. Then standing. Its weight, power, and the sharp mechanical rhythm settles into my bones.

To the men of the 4th Tank Brigade, we leave our last two vehicles. On the way back, we all squeeze into a single minibus.

The road to Pisky-Radkivski is empty. Houses stand silent, their windows dark. In the middle of the village, we see ruins. The concrete foundation remains, but the walls are gone, shattered into heaps of white bricks. The rubble is piled high, blocking what was once a doorway. A metal window frame, now twisted and jagged, stands like some foreign, deformed shape. This was a kindergarten.

Pisky-Radkivski kindergarten, destroyed by Russians.

This was not an accident. The Russian missiles did not miss. The surrounding buildings – factories, gas stations, warehouses – are untouched. The strike was precise. This must have been a deliberately chosen target.

Someone has brought flowers to the ruins. They are now withered, their petals dry and brittle. Among the rubble, children’s toys lay scattered. Faded plastic, half-buried in debris. No one has come to take them away.

Russia uses violence to rule. To sow fear. This is not war as soldiers understand war. This is something else. This is the slow, calculated destruction of life. This is not about military targets or strategy. This is about breaking the will of a people. A brutal reminder that they have the power to destroy anyone, anywhere, anytime.

The survivors of this village do not speak of it. They shake their heads. They look away. They know what happened here. But they will not say it aloud. The words are too heavy.

There is nothing more to do here. The dead are buried. The ruins will remain.

This is how Russkiy mir (“Russian world”) is born.

Then, we see it. A Russian tank. Or what remains of it. What was once a fearsome T-72 war machine is now an empty carcass. The metal is twisted, blackened. The turret was blown several meters away by the force of the explosion. The ground is scorched, littered with shattered steel.

A single Javelin did this. Ukrainian defenders saw the enemy tank, locked onto the target, fired…and it was over. The missile hit precisely. The ammunition inside ignited, sending a column of fire into the sky. The men inside never had a chance.

There is nothing left of them. No bodies, no bones. Only the burnt-out shell of the tank, shards of steel scattered on the ground. A shadow of war.

We stop for a moment. The wind stirs the ashes, making them swirl slowly in the air. It is silent. No birds. No voices. Only remnants, rusting into the earth.

The road is rough, the air thick with dust and the scent of burnt metal. We drive past shattered trees and destroyed buildings, until we reach the ruins of a munitions depot.

It was once a thermal power plant, built in 1937, as the faded numbers on its towering chimney still declare. The brick walls were thick, but time cracked them – and war tore them apart. The explosion ripped the building to shreds, leaving behind only twisted beams and broken bricks. The smoke-blackened walls are all that remain to remind us of what once stood here.

After blowing up the Ukrainian munitions depot, the Russians occupied it. They stockpiled their weapons here, filled these halls with men and machines. We walk through the ruins. The walls are covered in graffiti – crude drawings, vulgar Russian words. Traces of occupation. Some inscriptions mention the Altai Rifle Regiment. Soldiers from distant mountains, sent thousands of kilometers from their homes, to fight on land that was never theirs.

Everywhere, there are signs of their presence. Not just the graffiti, but also trash, broken bottles, filth. All left behind by men who never belonged here. The wind drifts through the wreckage, carrying the scent of gunpowder and dust. We don’t stay long. There is no one left here but ghosts.

We get back into the car and drive on. The road stretches forward, cracked and uneven, leading to the next village, the next ruined city. The war moves forward. The destruction continues.