Avdiivka, Eastern Ukraine

Picture this: Russian drones buzzing overhead, the rumble of artillery, and a 5-second panicky run for cover as a Ukrainian spotter sees a GRAD rocket headed our way.

Volodymyr

Volodymyr is the Ukrainian lieutenant in charge of our unit and shouts at everyone to move their ass. He’s the last one into the bunker and appears annoyed his morning routine of one hundred pushups was interrupted. He fingers a cigarette in one hand and massages his assault rifle in the other.

Brad takes a photo: Volodymyr, a Ukrainian soldier standing nonchalantly at the bunker’s entrance while Russian artillery hits outside, waiting for his chance to get back out and fight for his nation. Media gold.

A whoosh overhead signals the rockets passing us, headed toward a distant target. I can breathe again. 

We get out of the bunker and finish drinking our morning coffee, while Volodymyr keeps his eyes on the horizon. No more pushups.

“Can I come to your country? Can you get me a visa?” he asks me out of the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, I can’t do that.” 

We arrived here a week ago, fresh off a 2-week freelance job covering the Stockholm EDM music scene. Volodymyr is caught in the human meat grinder of the front line in Ukraine. How am I to answer to his question? Life isn’t fair.

“You can come to Ukraine, but I can’t go to America. That’s the world we live in.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” I say, “to let people know what you’re going through here.”

The tried and tested reply of journalists in awful locations everywhere. At least, I brought food. Last night, Volodymyr and his twenty odd soldiers feasted on the best lamb chops a journalist could buy in Kyiv.

Marcin

Since yesterday, we’ve spent most of our time talking to our escort, Marcin. From Poland, he speaks fluent English, and an incomprehensible mishmash of Polish and Ukrainian. He tells us third hand stories about combat. I’ve begun to suspect he’s more skilled at shooting the shit than shooting a rifle. He volunteered for the International Legion last year, picked us up at our hotel in Kyiv for the journey to Hrodivka.

I’m pleased we are the first Western journalists to reach this area since the fall of Avdiivka. But I can see the bitter disappointment and worry on the soldier’s faces when I talk to them. Brad, our photographer, has an easier job and the soldiers are happy to show off their tattoos, and hold their weapons for the camera: assault rifles, grenades, a heavy machine gun, the now infamous javelin anti-tank missile that halted the Russian army’s advance on Kyiv.

But It's obvious, this war is being mostly fought with the artillery that roars back-and-forth overhead. The drone operators who sit hidden somewhere hidden. The UA doesn’t want us filming them and war, revealing any secrets.

Prisoners

Word comes in that our scouts have Russian prisoners. An old model Skoda pulls up, and blindfolded prisoners are escorted out. Their blindfolds are removed, and they are shoved into a line. Volodymyr looks each of them in the eye and says something, then directs his soldiers to take them all away.

“What did he say?” I ask Marcin.

Marcin translates: “You are safe with us.”

Volodymyr looks preoccupied with planning today’s mission, but I push in and interrupt. This could be a real scoop for my article.

“Can I interview the prisoners?” 

“Nee.” Volodymyr dismisses the idea. ‘‘Nee’’ is the Ukrainian equivalent of ‘‘nyet’’. 

Marcin has told us Polish, Ukrainian, and Russian share much of the same vocabulary. That’s how he communicates, using Polish words sprinkled with Ukrainian conjunctions. The exchanges in war aren’t that complex. Someone is injured, the enemy is that way, run for cover.

We wait for the drive to the front line that we were promised.

Thirty minutes later, a gunshot rings out.

Marcin whispers, “He always kills one, so the others will talk.”

When I see Volodymyr’s face returning our way, the thought of that gunshot sends a shiver down my spine. 

I dare to ask him, “What happened?”

“A wild dog,” he mutters.

He corrals his soldiers, giving them a briefing. “The Russians have fresh recruits on the field today. Give them hell. We fight for our country, for our history, for our families.” He says before we depart in a hodgepodge of civilian cars.

Marcin tells me that Volodymyr’s brother was killed in the first days of the war. He recalls his name every time he confronts the enemy. I would not want to be captured by Volodymyr.

The Front Line

We arrive to the front line, and spend a long day in the fields and forests of eastern Ukraine: scouting, hiding from Russian drones, providing cover for the snipers who take shots at distant targets. Marcin says most days are like this, quiet, except for the days when the Russians have been resupplied with artillery shells. I don’t want to be in the field on those days, Marcin says. The soldiers look at my gear, and especially at Brad’s expensive camera equipment, with envy in their eyes. I make sure not to stray too far away from Marcin.

Watching Volodymyr bark orders at battle-hardened soldiers, sending them to their possible deaths, I have an inkling we (an American journalist and a photographer), are dispensable. If we are overrun, Volodymyr will have no hesitation using us as cover, sending us out with a white flag to get shot down, or trading us for protection. This is a war of survival.

Luckily, nothing happens on our first day, and outside a few close calls that I can deduce from the soldiers’ pantomimes, we have suffered no casualties.

We spend the next three days hiding in the shrubs and taking cover from drones in the daytime, and at night, recover in the merciful warmth and safety of the Hrodivka. I learn the personal history of each soldier. How they have come to be here, their lives outside the military. Many have spent time in Western Europe and we have much we can relate to. I pray for their safety after I leave.

Safety in Hrodivka

On our last night, when we arrive back at our hotel in Hrodivka, Volodymyr makes a point of coming over to me. “You are a brave man,” he says. It warms my heart. By staying strong, at least I wasn’t a burden to these men who live through hell day after day.

Brad goes down to the bar to relax while I sit down in the room to start hammering my notes into a compelling article to submit for publication. Being the first Western journalist to report on the collapse of Avdiivka is sure to be unique material. Combined with the stunning photographs, the article is highly likely to get picked up by a national publication, maybe even the NYT.

In a world torn apart by conflict and strife, Volodymyr stood as a beacon of hope–a reminder that even in the darkest of times, righteousness can still prevail. And as we bid farewell to Hrodivka, we are left with a renewed sense of faith…

Before I go to sleep for the night, I check the updates on the war. 

An article from Rebel News catches my eye. Upon opening it, I see Volodymyr's stoic face, standing nonchalantly at the bunker entrance with a cigarette in one hand, and massaging his assault rifle in the other.

The headline: War correspondent Brad Williams takes an inside look at the fall of Avdiivka. My name isn’t mentioned.

I go down to the bar. “Brad?” 

Brad’s article has been published, so no other media company will pickup my almost identical piece.

In the crowded bar full of soldiers, Marcin sits by himself, nursing a beer.

“Have you seen Brad?” 

“Your friend?”, Marcin asks. “He has left the hotel. Has a new assignment. Have a beer?”

A bartender comes over, but I have no interest in relaxing over a beer right now.

Across the bar, I see Volodymyr glances my way. I’ve never him smile. He points at me and says something to his sergeant.

A minute later, Volodymyr plods heavily in my direction, his face signalling deep weariness with life, the war, the world. “What is the problem?” he asks.

I explain to him how our photographer, Brad, scammed me, ran off with the story and violated his freelancing contract. I see, from the look on Volodymyr’s face, that duty means a lot to him.

“If he’s in Ukraine, I can find him,” he grunts.

I take a second to think about it, then give him my answer.