DISPOSABLE SOLDIER (diary of a RU mobik) - TOUR 4
(translation courtesy of cofi anon)

The original can be found here: https://endchan.net/.media/523c1e63e16c9ca9a21c77a2960065ab-applicationpdf.pdf


Chapter 1: Treatment of my Scratch. Ukraine-Russia. Winter of '24.


The brigade medical station in the Town of Sh. was already half full of wounded. All of us were examined again, injected with antibiotics, and re-bandaged. Here, they finally unwrapped my hand, and the local medic laughed at my injury: "Oh, it's nothing serious. I thought your whole hand was mangled, but it's just a scratch. Well, you'll still get your three million, we'll send you to Russia."

They collected our information, and in half an hour a vehicle arrived to take us to Russia. I was happy. The next point was the border. A familiar building, a familiar setting. Here they were supposed to issue form "100" – that's practically three million rubles in your pocket. We sat on benches and began talking to the medics one by one. Operations for the seriously wounded were being performed right there in the same hall. The medics were understanding – they wrote out form "100" for everyone who came to them. The doctor sitting in front of me looked at my wound with a condescending smirk but didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He filled out the form and handed it to me.

"Three million. You're free to go!"

The neighboring doctor was examining a guy with an injury to his index finger. This wound was also minor. The guy was unlucky; the doctor decided to give him a hard time.

"Look, the guy next to you is sitting with a huge hole in his shoulder. His artery is severed, his bone is broken. He gets three million. You get three million. Do you think that's fair?"

The question was pointless and provocative. There was no right answer. The doctor was just mocking the poor guy with the injured finger. But, in the end, even this guy received his "100" form. The doctor had his fun and finally signed it.

Tea and gingerbread cookies were waiting for us in the lobby. Aid workers had brought gifts for the New Year. When all the wounded were examined and processed, a vehicle was provided to take us to the next point.

We were taken to a former sanatorium. Nothing special, just another distribution point. There was already a large dressing station and an x-ray machine there. Everyone who arrived had an x-ray and their bandages changed. This took a huge amount of time. We sat there until morning. Well, at least there were also gingerbread cookies and drinking water here.

People were being registered for evacuation to Russia. We spent three days waiting our turn in a huge gym with long rows of bunk beds. My wound was minor, so I was assigned to the second tier. Here, I met some of my acquaintances. We discussed our wounds, the damned meat grinder, and the fates of our comrades. All the conversations were the same...

Three days later, my name was called, and I went to board a vehicle. We were heading to the hospital. When we arrived and crowded into the smoking area by the hospital doors, I suddenly saw another familiar face.

"Remen'! Remen', damn it, I'll be… It's me, Kompas, we haven't seen each other for probably a year! Remember, we were stationed together at the apiary near village I.?"

"Kompas, wow! Look at you! How many years, how many winters, hello! Are you a '300'?"

"Yeah, I came to the hospital. How are you? Did you recover from that injury?"

“Yes, as you can see."

“Damn. They said you might not live through the night, but look at you, you pulled through! Amazing! Where are you stationed now?”

“Well, after my injury, they assigned me category B (military disability in line of duty, per Russian law, translator's note) and left me to serve in Russia. I’m a driver. So, I now transport the ‘300s’. So, was that you who brought me here just now?”

“Whoa, so it turns out you were the one driving me. Well, good job, man. Serving safely. Cool!”

Remen' had landed a good posting. Lucky him. It's a shame, of course, that he wasn't discharged completely. But this was good too.

The hospital was my final stop. They didn't evacuate me any further. I had an appointment with my surgeon – he was a reasonable and understanding doctor with several dozen patients. Of course, he knew what fate awaited us next. The surgeon explained to me that they would keep me here for a week, and then send me back to the war. Organized transport. No freedom of movement. No leave, no trips to town either.

My father came to visit me; we stood for ten minutes by the turnstile at the checkpoint and talked. No longer visits were allowed. My father brought me all the necessities. After all, all my gear remained at the front. Weapon abandoned, armor abandoned, Ratnik backpack abandoned. My sleeping bag and one-hundred-litre backpack with my belongings remained in the camp dugout. Everything remained there: a change of clothes, shoes, personal items. I had “dropped my loot” again!

My things joined the other abandoned belongings in that camp. So that's where they come from...

My needs shrunk again. I no longer asked for a one-hundred-litre backpack filled with all sorts of stuff. I remembered how hard it had been to carry. I used to live at the front lines for months. Now I had lived at the front for eight days. An understanding came: what things are necessary and what are not. Lots of spare clothes, spare shoes, gas burners, extension cords, tools - all that's bullshit. I won't need it. Just one Ratnik backpack with everything I needed and a sleeping bag – that's all I needed.

One new set of clothes and shoes – the ones I'll wear. Cigarettes, radio, multi-tool, scissors, spork, power bank and wires, flashlight... A few more little things... I don’t need other things, I won’t have time to use them... With every rotation, fewer and fewer things... Everything will be lost anyway...

I met other acquaintances in the hospital. Almost our entire company was there: some stayed there for treatment, others were waiting for further evacuation. I learned from Fonar' that Zmey had indeed been pulled out of that damned forest. An evacuation team came for him and carried him out. He was now treating his legs and head. He had a huge scar across his entire skull.

Many were in a terrible state of mind and didn't want to go back there, despite being contract soldiers.

"Maybe it's better to desert? We'll all die there. They wiped out the company in three days…"

I also met Kosa here. He'd been "300'd" a day after me, but he was still in a cheerful, fighting mood: "I've made six million in a month! Sent my wife a bouquet of flowers for fifteen thousand. Soon I’ll have saved up enough for an apartment! Can you imagine, we took those squares! The four of us! Seasoned stormtroopers arrived, I went with them. I took down three Ukrainians there, one of them shot me in the jacket and arm, the bastard. Too bad about the jacket, damn it!"

I had no desire whatsoever to be a cool stormtrooper like Kosa. At that moment, I felt no pride in either the captured squares or the dead Ukrainians.

Six million rubles is, of course, remarkable. But would I be able to enjoy my millions?

Out of curiosity, I started looking for information about how demobilization was handled during the Great Patriotic War [WWII]. And I found out that the last mobilized soldiers returned home at the beginning of 1953. Almost eight years after the end of the war… They weren’t going to let anyone go home for another eight years… After everything I had seen, I realized that the same thing would happen now. And maybe it would be even worse.

The Great Patriotic War lasted four years. And the war in Ukraine has been going on for… No, not two years. The war in Ukraine has been going on for ten years already. Ten! And how much longer will it last?

There’s no progress. In the last year of the war, Russia captured less than one percent of Ukraine's territory. The Russian invasion is choking. All these human wave attacks are not yielding any results. And Russia continues, continues sending people to their deaths. Russia is exterminating its own people…

I’ll never go home. I’ll be finished before the war ends.

I started sounding the alarm. I'll die here! I want to go back to my old battalion!

My family contacted one of the staff officers of my battalion. We exchanged contact information. The officer gave my phone number to Yakor'.

Yakor'… Who would have thought I'd remember him fondly?

One evening, he called me. His voice sounded friendly:

"Kompas! Hello! You tired of collecting shrapnel yet?"

"Greetings, Yakor'!"

"Did you keep those sunglasses of yours?"

"I did, strangely enough!"

"Well, great, good job! So, do you want to come back?"

"Of course I want to!"

“Look, I can send an officer to pick you up. Find out, will they release you at all?”

I went to the hospital administration and started asking. They explained to me that such-and-such document was needed for them to release me with an escort. If there’s a document – no problem. But the hospital doesn’t care about the squabbles between military units. After all, I was with a different brigade! Transferring a soldier from one brigade to another requires coordination. The hospital could release me; they wouldn’t care. But it would be theft. “A soldier stolen!”

I explained the situation to Yakor', and he started thinking and figuring things out.

But when it came time to be discharged from the hospital, Yakor' failed to negotiate my transfer with the brigade. I tried to stall for time as much as I could. The bus with the soldiers was filling up, and I stood to the side. And then, there wasn’t enough space for me on the bus. I had won myself another day!

But that day passed, and still no good news came from Yakor'. We all boarded the next vehicle and headed back towards our fate.


Chapter 2: Help Me. Russia-Ukraine. Winter of '24.


All the roads had already been travelled more than once. Russia, the border, the unrecognized republics, the Town of R. We were taken back to that same training camp in the forest. Late at night, we were placed in a dugout where people were already living. There was even vodka there. We knocked back a glass each and finally celebrated New Year. A Dagestani guy immediately started chatting with everyone and creating a bustle. The "little lieutenant" had awakened in him; he was trying to create the illusion of leadership. People laughed at him but were very amicable.

This time, we spent only about five days in the camp. Every evening I called my family and tried to contact Yakor'. Thoughts swarmed in my head: "Help me! They're going to kill me here!" Every day, a hundred kilometers away from me, Yakor' tried to get me released from the brigade. He spoke with the battalion commander, the commander called someone, they contacted brigade HQ.

But it was all in vain. They wouldn't release me. Never.

They needed men for the human wave attacks! They wouldn’t release a single soldier to anyone. The soldiers’ desires didn’t matter to anyone. Neither did the wishes of their former commanders. On the fifth day, I realized I wouldn’t get out of here.

I thought they would give us weapons and armour here, and take us to the training ground, like last time. I was wrong. The situation had worsened. They needed soldiers for the assaults urgently. They didn’t give us weapons. They didn’t give us armour. They only issued first-aid kits. They didn’t take us to the training ground to "practice." A few days, and then back into the vehicle, back to the battalion. Everything happened so fast…

We made the same long journey in a Ural truck, this time without even entering Russia. Another transfer from one vehicle to another. Cramped. Forty people in one Ural, with their gear. No benches. One guy attached a telescopic sight to his rifle and sat by the side, watching the sky. We sat in the back of the truck and dozed. And then he started shooting.

Were we being attacked? My arms and legs were pinned between my belongings and my neighbours. I wasn't wearing any armour, and I had no weapon. Fantastic, just perfect. Fortunately, there was no attack. It's just that our all-purpose soldier saw a drone in the sky and decided to shoot it down.

And he did. He succeeded. He really was a good shot. I would have never managed it.

I thought they would take us to a safe location a few kilometres from the assault zone, like last time. I was mistaken. When we started to slow down after a couple of kilometers, someone muttered: "Is that… 'Fort'?" Yes, it was "Fort."

They brought us directly to the front line – the very place from where the assault groups begin their advance. We arrived at one in the morning. The local commander took down our information, settled us in a dugout, and led us to a garbage heap. Rummaging through the mountain of trash, he pulled out weapons and armour for us, ammunition, and food and water.

"In three hours you'll be moving to your positions in support. Get some sleep."

We had no opportunity to recover from the road, or to get acquainted with our superiors. We had no map, no radio frequencies, no briefing. Nothing.

I fumbled in the dark with my new body armour. Well, "new" – it was someone else's body armour, taken from a wounded soldier. The weapon was someone else's. The helmet was someone else's.

I recalled scenes from the Netflix film "All Quiet on the Western Front." In the movie, they took uniforms from dead soldiers, washed them, mended them, ripped off the tags, and gave them to new soldiers. I felt like a character in that film. Though, of course, the book is better!

Everything I had in my backpack, I tossed into a corner of the dugout. I wouldn’t need any of it. Just a little food, a couple of bottles of water, and a bit of ammunition. I was still wearing the same pink socks I had received almost a month ago. I refused to wear combat boots; last time they had played a cruel trick on me, rubbing my feet bloody at the very beginning of the march. Now I was wearing winter tactical trekking boots. We’ll see if they can protect me from the cold. I managed to get a little sleep…


Chapter 3: Happy Birthday! Town of L. Frontline. Winter of '24.


Early in the morning, a guide came for us and led us to the positions. This time, I wasn't the weakest link. I was already holding up okay. There was another guy who was constantly lagging behind and gasping for air. I felt sorry for him because I had once been in his shoes. Now he was being yelled at to move faster. We stopped again at Maniken's familiar camp. However, I still felt like a blind kitten stumbling towards its death, not knowing the way. Relatively calmly, the six of us reached the positions.

We were stationed on the flank near the road.

That same road, beyond which lies that same forest, where people die.

In the two weeks that I had been away, the offensive hadn't advanced. Things had only gotten worse. There was even less organization. They desperately needed men for the assaults. There were more losses. The crazed battalion commander was sending group after group into battle in a frenzy.

We were met by support troops who had been sitting there for a couple of weeks already. Our “positions” weren’t dugouts, they were holes in the ground. A hundred meters from the enemy. The holes were about half a meter deep and a meter and a half long and wide. Branches and a couple of sleeping bags were piled on top. It was impossible to shoot from these holes. To observe or shoot, you would have to climb out, making yourself a target for drone grenades. We preferred to stay in the holes.

So we spent three days in the hole. When we arrived, it was drizzling. Melting snow dripped on us from the roof of the hole, and we were wet from head to toe. Then a light frost set in. As a result, we spent three days completely soaked in a hole in the ground.

We lay side-by-side, with sleeping bags under us, and covered by a couple more. Cold. My feet were cold. The boots helped; there was no frostbite. But my feet were freezing. Freezing badly. I was used to this sensation and just ignored my feet. During the day we lit a trench candle and warmed our wet hands by it. But it didn't help. My gloves were soaked through, and it was impossible to dry them. Everything was wet through. My hands shrivelled up like raisins. Cold.

Strangely enough, there was enough food. Well, "enough" in the sense of: take a normal person's daily ration and stretch it out over a week – that’s how much we had. And it was sufficient! We didn’t want to eat much. If you eat a lot, you’ll need to use the toilet. And it’s impossible to go to the toilet. Drones with grenades were circling above us every minute. The sounds of shelling could be heard constantly nearby.

Things were worse with water. The water had turned to ice. We melted it over the trench candle, but it was a very slow process. However, we didn’t want to drink much either. Going out to pee even a couple of times a day was also life-threateningly dangerous.

So we lay in this hole under the sleeping bags. It was almost impossible to move—it was too cramped. And we didn’t want to move. There was enough time to sleep—twelve hours of darkness. Sleep, sleep, wake up from an explosion, sleep, sleep, wake up from an explosion. Sometimes we’d hear a mosquito-like whine above us – that’s a kamikaze drone. Sometimes we’d hear the roar of a chainsaw – that’s Baba Yaga, delivering RPG grenades to someone’s head.

Thoughts constantly swirled in my head. How can I get out of here? They'll only send me home if I lose a limb. How can I lose a limb and stay alive? They won’t get me out of here after all.

Maybe step on a “kolokolchik” (M85 DPCIM bomblet)? A “kolokolchik” will blow off my foot. But there weren’t any “kolokolchiks” lying around nearby. And even if I did step on one, they wouldn’t evacuate me. They won’t. And I won’t be able to get out on my own without a foot.

Maybe detonate a grenade in my hand? But I don’t have a grenade. And besides, no one would believe me. How could that happen, unless I did it to myself? I’d be court-martialed for self-harm. And anyway, if I detonate a grenade in my hand, I’ll die from that grenade. What if I dig a hole in the ground, stick my hand in it, and detonate it? Someone will definitely see me and report me. I’d be eliminated for endangering my comrades… I couldn’t come up with any good ideas.

I had already tried to blow off my foot on a “kolokolchik” once. Honestly tried. As we were walking along the forest belt, I saw a kolokolchik lying near the path. I stepped on it. Deliberately. I wanted them to take off my foot and send me home. The kolokolchik didn't explode. Nothing happened. My foot remained intact.

Not far from us, another group took up positions. That same day, I heard on the radio that their commander was a "300." He had stepped on a kolokolchik, and it blew off both his legs. He crawled into a hole to his men, but his men didn’t know anything about first aid. They couldn't stop the bleeding, or even just bandage him - they didn’t know how, they panicked. And knowledgeable, capable people couldn't reach him because of the drones and shelling. The evacuation team couldn't get him out either.

And then, on the third day, the order came to advance on the assault. A guide came for us and yelled, "Woo-hoo, let's move out!" We crawled out; I threw my sleeping bag to hell. I only put on my Ratnik backpack with ammunition. The guide led us to the road. A wounded man lay on the path near the road, unable to walk. He was panicking; he couldn’t walk or talk. He just lay there moaning. He looked at us with eyes full of despair. And we couldn't help him - we had no stretcher, and we were being urged forward over the radio: "Forward!"

“Cross the road, and then follow the path straight ahead! You need to find Ranger. Just follow the path; he'll meet you! Run! Run!”

Ranger was the group leader who was holed up facing the enemy, having lost all his men – killed and wounded. He needed reinforcements. That was the same square we had been in last time. During this time, things had only gotten worse.

The guide didn’t go any further. And on the radio, another commander, panicking, asked for reinforcements from beyond the road: "Bring the men forward! Bring the men to Ranger, quickly! The Ukrainians are advancing!"

And we went. We ran across the road and followed the path.

Along the whole route, mortar shells and grenades were exploding around us, and we were heading precisely in the direction where they were exploding most often. A hundred meters ahead, fifty meters ahead. Right before my eyes, a column of smoke, earth flying up. And drones, drones, drones…

But soon the path ended. And we stood in the middle of the forest like blind kittens, yelling: "Ranger!" In the distance, about fifty meters away, I saw a man in a white camouflage suit without an armband and shouted to him: "Ranger!" He didn't answer and disappeared behind a tree. It wasn't Ranger. He wasn’t even one of our soldiers, and it only later dawned on me who it was…

We decided to go back and ask for directions again. They told us the same thing as before. So we set off again. On the way, we found a hole in the ground and yelled into it: "Ranger!" It wasn't Ranger. It was crammed full of immobile wounded men looking at us with pleading eyes. They were hoping we’d pull them out, but we didn’t have a stretcher.

And on the radio, they urged us forward to find Ranger.

We reached the place where the path ended again. And then they started shooting at us.

Ukrainian assault troops had come out at us. Later, there was talk that it was either special forces or Kraken.

Kraken is a legendary Ukrainian battalion, rumored to be staffed by mercenaries, or drug-addled Nazis with swastika tattoos, or killer convicts. They were shooting at us. They had drones with grenades and mortars. And everything was raining down on us. We had no drones, no mortars; they were useless. We only had assault rifles.

I didn’t manage to fire a single shot. The very first bullet hit my rifle’s receiver, and the gun was disabled. We fell to the ground and started crawling back. Bullets whizzed over my head. I was done for. This was it, my fate. Despair and panic wrestled with adrenaline in my head. There wasn’t a single bit of cover around.

The soldier in front of me was wounded first. He cried out. Then I was wounded – a light graze on my left shin. Now I could legitimately be evacuated, I was a "300."

All that was left was to get out alive.

Every time before this, when I'd been wounded, there were responsible and experienced people nearby who could help. This time, there were only four of us, without a leader. And when I was wounded, no one could help me but myself…

…And I couldn’t help anyone. I couldn’t carry a wounded man under fire; he’d have to crawl on his own.

We were crawling out from under the enemy special forces’ fire, from under the drone grenades, from under the mortar shelling. And the people who very much wanted to kill me – they were only fifty meters away. As we crawled, I was hit a second time. It was very painful, and I screamed.

Something kissed my right thigh. I thought my artery had been severed, and right there, under fire, I twisted onto my side and started tightening a tourniquet on my thigh. I tightened it weakly and incorrectly. If the artery had actually been severed, I would have died within minutes. Fortunately, both the artery and the bone were intact.

One guy from our group is a hero. While we were crawling, he covered our retreat. I’m crawling and I see him sitting behind a tree on one knee, firing. And then he stood up and ran to change position. One minute, I'm crawling further, and crawl past him. Dead. Eyes glazed, face like plastic.

It was… exciting. This was one hell of a birthday, damn it. A little wolf cub has to look after itself. If I don’t get out now, I'm finished.

Finally, it dawned on me. My backpack had been on my back the whole time. It was swinging back and forth as I crawled. I managed to pull it off. I threw the backpack to the side, towards the enemy. Perhaps that saved me. In the rough terrain of the forest, behind broken logs and branches, the enemy soldiers couldn't see my body on the ground—they saw the backpack, raised a few centimetres above me. When the backpack fell on its side and lay still, they thought I was dead and stopped shooting.

We crawled and crawled for about a hundred meters, then got on all fours, then on our feet. And ran. Me with a mangled thigh, the other guy with a mangled lower back. Somehow, we found the path. Then we reached our own and reported in. We were told that no one would ever get us out of here. We would lie in a hole, like those dying wounded men. The evacuation team wouldn't come. Wouldn’t make it here alive.

And we went ourselves. I threw off my body armour and helmet. Threw everything off. Back across the road, towards the front line. Fortunately, the path here was clearly visible. My unfortunate comrade really wanted to climb into some hole and rest. But I told him: "No! If we get into a hole now, we won’t be able to get up and walk any further. We have to keep going!"

And so we walked. We again passed a wounded man lying there, moaning, whom we couldn't carry. And then we met our evacuation team. We were saved. Finally, help… Finally, our own… Our own!

The soldier who had been complaining about his lower back walked all the way to "Fort" on his own. I knew I wouldn't make it. First, they led me by the arms to Maniken's, then they dragged me for a long time on a stretcher, on a cart, on a trolley… Two guys from the evacuation team encouraged me. I groaned with every bump and asked for water. Halfway along the evacuation route, they became alert.

“There was fighting here a couple of hours ago. Look, fresh bullet marks on the trees.”

“Yeah, and this tree fell down very recently.”

“They tried to encircle us. Or maybe they already have.”

Now I was beyond groaning. I was also on high alert. If we run into fighting now, I’m finished. I won't be able to do anything. All I can do now is stare at the sky.

Somewhere in the distance, a sniper started working. As they were passing the City of M, my rescuers saw an open window in a house.

"That window was closed before. There might be a sniper or a spotter there. We need to get past this place quickly.”

Fortunately, if anyone was there, they didn't shoot at us. We moved on. Then another unpleasant thing happened. We got lost. The guys from the evacuation team wouldn't admit it, but I could hear it in their voices. I was lying in the wheelbarrow the whole time. After a while, we finally reached somewhere. A “bukhanka” van without any markings was parked there.

“I’ll go check. If it’s ours, they’ll tell us. Or maybe we’ve just stumbled upon the Ukrainians. Then we’ll have to fight.”

Fortunately, they were ours. They pointed us in the right direction. It wasn't far to "Fort" now. They shared our concerns about being encircled.

And there it was, "Fort." Finally, four hours after being wounded, I was with the medics. Oh, I screamed like a little girl when they packed the wound with a hemostatic agent. The medic recognized me.

"Oh, it’s the pink socks!"

"Yes, Doc. It's me again. Long time no se-ee-ee…"

They gave me a bandage package to bite down on so I wouldn’t scream so loud. It turned out that my thigh was shot through. A large fragment had entered from the front and exited the back, miraculously missing the artery and bone. In addition, I had a scratch on my left shin and a small laceration on my heel. My boot, of course, was also torn, but I hadn't noticed this little detail. The doctors were amused and teasing me (actually, this is very proper behavior for doctors):

"Well, millionaire! You’re going home! After something like this, they’ll definitely give you two months of leave!"

"Yeah, right…" I thought to myself. But I still won’t be able to spend those millions. They’ll still send me back here, back to my death…

After a while, they loaded the wounded into a vehicle. All we could count on was luck. Especially after one of the “bukhanka” vehicles, which had left for the rear a few hours earlier, was hit by Baba Yaga along the way, killing both the drivers and the passengers. Even around “Fort,” it wasn’t safe.

“We’re going home, come on, fate, have mercy on us, at least today…”

He closes the chapter by quoting from this song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXk8QXhr7Fk