DISPOSABLE SOLDIER (diary of a RU mobik) - TOUR 3
(translation courtesy of cofi anon)

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



Chapter 1: The Long Road Home. Ukraine-Russia. Autumn of '23.


So, a long journey lay ahead of me. First, I ended up in the Town of Sh., at the brigade medical station. They treated me again and let me stay for the night. I wasn't transported right away: there was a shortage of vehicles. No one was going to allocate a vehicle just for me. They waited until they had five lightly wounded or one seriously injured soldier. I waited at the medical station for a whole day. The worst part was that they didn't have normal full-size (underarm) crutches, only elbow crutches (Canadian). Walking on them was excruciating. In the evening, a vehicle was finally available, and we moved on.

The next stop was the border with Russia. Here, they processed the paperwork for the wounded and gave me my first dose of antibiotics. Then – the Town of Ts. A well-equipped field hospital was located there, complete with an X-ray machine, operating tables, and other medical equipment. Here, they stitched up my arm for the first time.

I was lying on the operating table; they injected my arm with novocaine and started stitching. It felt about the same as when a dentist stitches up your gums after a tooth extraction. There’s no pain, but you can feel them poking around in your flesh. Much later, I found out that stitching up the wound at this stage was a medical error.

After spending the night in the Town of Ts, we went to the City of D. There, a large hospital consisting of several buildings was located. This is where they kept those who didn't require long-term treatment. They gave me a wheelchair, in which I felt very uncomfortable. I felt helpless and inadequate. I needed another person to get anywhere. We spent more time in line for registration than in the hospital itself. After a couple of hours, we were sent to the airport.

No, of course, there were no parachutes. Climbing into the plane via a ramp was very difficult; it was steep and slippery. For a person who couldn't walk, it was torture. Inside the cabin were two rows of seats for paratroopers. After takeoff, we realized that it was very noisy in the cabin. But, actually, I’d expected worse. We only flew for an hour, and the flight was normal, comfortable.

We were assigned spaces in a hospital in the City of B. These were old Soviet-era (and partially pre-revolutionary) buildings with high ceilings. Some said they used to be stables. We were met by the head doctor himself, who turned out to be a fan of army idiocy, and the nurses handed out bottled water and Tula gingerbread. That was a nice touch. I got an excellent surgeon who played music in the dressing room and exchanged jokes with the nurse.

"Oh, look! He has five holes in his left leg. See? Look closer!"

When the nurse leaned in closer, the surgeon would start irrigating one of my wound channels from a syringe filled with chlorhexidine. Somehow, my wound channels were connected, and at that moment, chlorhexidine would shoot out of the other two holes in my leg, right into the nurse's face! The surgeon was delighted with this joke.

My arm had become inflamed, and my surgeon scolded the doctors for stitching it up without cleaning it first. He removed the stitches, and cleaned the wound thoroughly for a long time. When they stitched it back up, the surgeon told the nurse to hold the end of the thread and said, "Hold the end! But don't tell your husband. Because I know you, you’ll come home tonight and start telling him, 'Today the surgeon asked me to 'hold his end!'"

I had several pieces of shrapnel remaining in my left shin, slightly fewer in my right shin, and one in my right forearm. It could have been worse. My wallet saved my thigh: when I took it out of my pocket, I saw a delightful picture. A piece of shrapnel had entered the wallet, gone right through all my cash, and got stuck without reaching my thigh. Money saves lives, it turns out!

I spent three weeks in City B, and by the time I was discharged, I was already walking on my own two feet. They gave me a recommendation for a month of rehabilitation leave and an order to report to the convalescent regiment. Naturally, I wasn't going to go there right away, and instead took a taxi and went to Moscow to see my family for the weekend.

(Author randomly quotes Chicherina - Tu-Lu-La, fun fact: the singer ended up one of the most rabid zegresses. The song he quotes is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xr_73mMVH8)

I spent time with my family and visited the regiment, where they granted me rehabilitation leave and issued the necessary documents. At the regiment, I met my comrades who were also waiting for their leave.

The convalescent regiment was appealing because of its attitude towards people: they promised to grant rehabilitation leave, regular leave, and veteran's leave. There were even sample applications for each type of leave posted on the wall in the office. This bait would later play a cruel trick on me.

Having received all the documents, I returned to Moscow and happily spent my entire leave with friends and acquaintances. Civilian life is civilian life; there’s nothing special about it. While I was on leave, my unit started looking for me. They, like me, didn't understand why the hospital hadn't sent me back to them. I promised them that I would come back and report after my leave.

My leave flew by very quickly, and the war showed no signs of ending. At the end of winter, I packed my things and headed back to my unit.

How many things I had left behind in Village I, and how few I packed now! On previous deployments, I had three enormous, heavy duffel bags, but now I packed just one hundred-litre backpack and a sleeping bag (and a small bag for small items).

How my needs had shrunk, it turned out! And everything I needed fit into a single one-hundred-litre backpack.


Chapter 2: A Fatal Mistake. Russia. Autumn of '23.


Arriving at the unit, my paperwork was processed, and I was assigned to the barracks. Conscripts, mobilized soldiers, and contract soldiers all lived there. The company commander was a private first class, an old, wise contract soldier, but still just a private first class. I thought again: where are all the officers? Were they all sent to war and didn't return? How bad are things that a private first class is commanding a company here?

That same evening, after I arrived, I met Kolobok and Maska. They had been wounded back in May or June, and they were still here. They were living the good life: they had an arrangement with the command to stay here. Now, instead of going to war, Kolobok and Maska travelled all over Russia (at their own expense) looking for soldiers who hadn't returned from leave and unauthorized absences. Kolobok and Maska didn't have the authority to arrest or interrogate anyone – they only conducted interviews and issued warnings, and there were reasons for that.

The Russian army has a lot of AWOL soldiers who have been absent from their units for two days, weeks, months… And, by law, they should all be imprisoned. But the army needs men. If you imprison everyone, who will you send to fight? Kolobok and Maska politely and amicably threatened the AWOL soldiers with criminal prosecution and imprisonment – and most AWOL soldiers returned voluntarily within a couple of weeks after the interview. Often, they weren't even punished, but simply sent back to war. Only the most desperate refusers ended up on the wanted list and in prison.

When I settled into the barracks, the convalescent company started calling and berating me for not reporting to them after my leave. They demanded that my unit send me back to them.

I also had reasons for wanting to return. There was no hospital here – this wasn’t a convalescent regiment. And my leg still hurt. The nerves had been damaged during the injury – it’s inevitable. Every step caused me pain. And still does.

I wanted to see a neurologist to get treatment. And somewhere deep down, I had a foolish hope that I’d be assigned a medical category that wouldn’t allow me to continue serving. And they were granting regular and veteran’s leave at the company! I had just been issued my veteran's ID, and I hoped to get a month and a half of leave: one month of regular leave and another half-month of veteran's leave. That was impossible at my current unit: the commander’s orders – no leave.

So I started actively complaining about my health and requesting a transfer to the convalescent regiment. The command decided to send me along with a group of other walking wounded. And before our departure, the wise old contract private first class told us, “Guys, you’re making a mistake. The entire convalescent regiment is future assault troops! Only one in five survives! At the first opportunity, try to come back to us!”

I laughed at him to myself at the time. I thought he was just trying to scare us. I thought he simply didn't want to lose any men…

Arriving at the company, we discovered that we had been brought there without transfer orders. The staff officers were spitting and cursing at us, calling us morons.

“Take them back, for fuck’s sake! There are no transfer orders! Fucking morons!”

We sat in the hallway for several hours waiting. When the officers finally calmed down, we were admitted, registered, and assigned to the barracks of the convalescent regiment. The recovering Shlyapa and Akhil were also brought here soon after. I went to the neurologist about the pain in my leg, and she admitted me to the hospital for further treatment.

I spent three weeks in the hospital as well. They gave me IVs, and physical therapy – all for nothing. Upon discharge, the doctor told me that I would continue serving in the war. Another one of my hopes crashed and burned.

And soon, another hope was dashed: while I was in the hospital, all leave was cancelled. In the end, I didn't get regular leave or veteran's leave. Everything I had requested a transfer to the convalescent company for turned out to be an illusion.

I was dreaming of getting assigned to the best duty, where they treat people humanely, and I was led around by the nose. I’m a fool.

A few days later, I was put on a train to the combat zone.


Chapter 3: Third Deployment. Russia-Unrecognized Republic, Town of R. Winter of '23.


An old senior lieutenant and a young private were escorting us. We changed several modes of transport: first a Ural truck, then a commuter train, then a double-decker train. Throughout the journey, the senior lieutenant and the private told us how great their regiment was.

"Men, if you only knew how great it is at our place! The dugouts are spacious, and warm, everything’s already dug out. We even have an underground banya (sauna)! You’ll recuperate first, and then come straight to us! Good positions! Just sit there and don’t worry about a thing. By the way, guys, did you all go on leave?"

"Only rehabilitation leave. Regular and veteran’s leave were cancelled."

"That’s at your unit they’re canceled. At our place, everything’s allowed. We have an order that all mobilized personnel should go on leave before New Year’s. So don’t worry. We’ll get to our positions, and we’ll send everyone on leave! I'm the battalion political officer, so if anything – ask me."

We were happy, because the private confirmed everything the senior lieutenant said. Surely a soldier wouldn’t lie to his future comrades-in-arms? At the train station, they took us to a store, to a Burger King. Smoke and have a snack as much as you like! A real fairytale.

However, when we arrived, we realized that no one was planning to keep us here. And among us were those who needed further treatment. One of us had lost an eye, and the wound was inflamed, oozing pus. How did he even get put on the train? Another was on crutches. A third was waiting for spinal surgery. And yet, here we were, all going to war.

We stopped for exactly five minutes: the time it took to walk from the train to another vehicle. It was a Ural truck again, this time with an insulated cargo bay. Good thing it wasn’t a canvas-covered truck bed. It wasn’t as cold in the cargo bay as it would have been in the open. And it was winter outside!

And again, a long journey to the SMO zone. Along the way, we stopped at small shops, stocking up on food and cigarettes. After crossing the border, we realized that we had arrived in the unrecognized republic.

My third tour had begun.

Late at night, we arrived at some sort of camp in the woods near the Town of R. It was impractical to decide anything in the dead of night: we were settled into a prepared but freezing cold dugout. There were bunk beds, but no sleeping bags. There was a stove, but no firewood. I was lucky: I had bought everything I needed in advance, back at the convalescent regiment, preparing for the worst. I had a sleeping bag. Most of the other guys didn't. There was a sign at the entrance to the dugout with the number thirteen. How symbolic.

And the senior lieutenant and the private were already gone. They had brought us here – and that concluded their responsibilities.

The next morning, we were briefed. This was a training camp. Here, we would be re-equipped, supplied, taken to the training ground, and then sent further, to our duty station. For now, we were getting used to each other and solving our problems. We chose a senior man – it was Warrant Officer Fonar (Flashlight). A very kind and pleasant, heavyset fellow. Soon we moved to a warmer and more spacious dugout. There was even a generator there and electricity. Life was improving; we were getting to know each other. I slept next to Indus (Indian). Though, he was Kyrgyz, not Indian. Sometimes we chatted.

“Kompas, what did you go to war for? To defend your Motherland, right?”

“No. I went to war because I’m a coward. I was afraid of prison, so here I am. And what did you go to war for?”

“For the future of my family: my wife and children. I'll serve a little longer, and in February, they’ll give me a passport. Then my wife and kids can get passports and move to Moscow. Moscow is good! So many opportunities!”

“Yeah, if you make it back…”

The group turned out to be pleasant and friendly. We were given a lot of sleeping bags - enough for everyone. In the evenings, the banya was open – wash as much as you like. There were designated people working at the banya who carried water, prepared firewood, and stoked the stove.

There were even washing machines there, though I didn’t manage to use them. The line for laundry was incredibly long… I submitted a whole set of clothes to be washed: from underwear to my uniform jacket. But I came back the next day – not washed, two days later – still not washed, a week later – still not washed. In the end, my set of dirty, smelly clothes just stayed there in the banya, and it's still lying there.

Soon we were issued armor and weapons. Standard-issue weapons – AK-74s. I got a “lucky” number – all the digits were paired! Jackpot! I thought it was a sign of good luck.

The armor, by the way, was good. Not as good as my old armor, sadly. My old armor was rated for protection class five; this armor was class four. But it would do. And the helmets were just gorgeous – modern, with a bunch of pockets and attachments.

We were given a mountain of pouches, all shapes and sizes – everyone could customize their body armor to their liking, which we did in our free time. Pouches for one magazine or for two magazines, for grenades, for a radio, spare utility pouches, for a shovel, this, that, and the other… Beautiful!

Some of us had bought their own body armor back home. For example, one guy had his own body armour for one hundred and twenty thousand rubles, with ceramic plates, protection class five, with a groin protector. Indus, of course, strutted around in his own body armor, not the standard-issue one. Someone brought weapon accessories from Russia. One of the soldiers spent an entire evening installing a dovetail mount and a scope on his rifle.

There were also doctors at the camp, but they didn’t help everyone. Our one-eyed comrade finally managed to get himself sent to the hospital – pus and blood were constantly oozing from his eye socket. But the guy with the crutch was out of luck – they simply took his crutch away and said, "Serve, you malingerer!" The same thing happened with the heavyset fellow who was waiting for spinal surgery. He was curtly told, "When you get back to Russia, then you can have your surgery." But if any of us had a fever, the doctors would take the patient to a separate dugout and treat him with paracetamol.

When we were equipped, training began at the firing range. Although it was December, the temperature hovered around zero: the roads were all muddy. Every time we went to the firing range in a Ural truck, we were afraid of getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. I recognized this firing range – I’d been here more than six months ago! The same firing range, the same grenade throwing, the same medical training. I fired an RPG again, at the same hillside as in April. We practised applying tourniquets and hemostatic bandages again. This time, we were issued two tourniquets each! Now that’s generosity!

Again, engineering training, where they showed us how TNT detonates. That day, it was one of our guys’ birthday. The instructors allowed him to detonate all four TNT blocks in different ways. The instructor took one TNT block, inserted a blasting cap, lit the fuse, and said, “Here’s your birthday cake, birthday boy! I'll light the candle now, and you blow it out quickly, and don’t forget to make a wish!”

The medics told jokes and stories they'd heard from the assault troops. One of the stories was about the “jumping mine” – the OZM ( ocкoлoчнaя зaгpaдитeльнaя минa - fragmentation barrier mine). It’s buried in the ground, and then tripwires are stretched around it. When someone trips the wire, the mine jumps out of the ground, splitting into two parts. The bottom part stays underground; there’s a wire connecting the top and bottom parts, and as soon as the top part jumps up to a height of about half a meter, the wire pulls taut, and the top part explodes, scattering shrapnel all around. It’s usually fatal.

“So, a guy goes to take a shit…”, we already knew where this was going, and started laughing, “…he goes to take a shit, pulls down his pants, sits down – and trips a wire! And there’s a jumping mine right under him! And so, the frog jumps out and right into his ass! But the wire didn’t pull taut because his ass was lower down. So the mine doesn’t explode! The guy’s alive but with a mine in his ass!”

When the instructors had finished the entire training course and had nothing left to tell us, we just goofed off in the middle of the clearing. One time, there was a light rain, and the instructors called our senior man, Fonar. When he returned, he was pleased, with a smile on his face, and gave us a choice:

“So, brave Soviet scouts! We have two options. Option A: we now practice assaulting thaaat hill over there. Option B: we now practice building a fire and warming ourselves by said fire.”

Naturally, we were all delighted with Option B.

On the way back to camp, we would often stop at the store and stock up on groceries. One time, we bought several packages of pelmeni (dumplings). However, we didn't have a pot or a cauldron in the dugout. So a brilliant decision was made to cook the pelmeni in a bucket. The bucket-cooked pelmeni turned out quite edible.

And we also bought energy drinks… tons of energy drinks! Energy drinks during wartime easily replace water and any other beverage. A dugout could easily consume a hundred energy drinks in a day.

Although the group was good, I was still thinking about how to get back to my own unit. I asked Fonar how to transfer back to my old battalion. Fonar asked the higher-ups, but the answer was always the same: no way. No one was going to transfer me. It wasn't in anyone’s interest. My desires weren't taken into account.

So we spent a couple of weeks in that camp. But this carefree life was just training, "acclimatization" before being sent into combat.


Chapter 4: The Camp near the City of M. Frontline. Winter of '23.


Finally, the day of our departure arrived. Early morning wake-up call, and immediately the news: we receive first-aid kits in half an hour, be ready at the vehicles in two hours. The first-aid kits they issued were normal: not bad, not great – just normal.

We packed our belongings and sleeping bags and went to the vehicles. We weren't the only ones leaving; several squads were departing at once. And, of course, the good old Ural trucks were waiting for us. I was already so used to riding in them. A year ago, it seemed so uncomfortable…

And now – pure bliss! Just sit and listen to music in your headphones. While wearing a body armor vest.

We drove through Russian territory again, again the same shops, the same checkpoints at the borders. Again, a few bottles of hard liquor appeared in the back of the Ural. Someone pulled out some hashish, rolled a joint, and everyone immediately felt so good…

High, high, high, everyone get high!

Of course, we traveled the entire day and arrived at the front lines already in darkness. The distribution point met us with the dark silhouettes of some ruins and hangars. We’d long since understood that we weren’t going to be stationed in the rear… And we weren't going on leave either… Perhaps never again…

We are assault troops!

We were transferred from one Ural to another: now, instead of three trucks, there were only two. People had to cram in. Fonar and I didn't have space inside this luxury cabin, so we had to sit right on the tailgate. I thanked my lucky stars that I was wearing a triple-layered ass pad, otherwise, my ass would have been turned into a steak. We somehow held on with our hands to the bars above. Our arms went numb. Our asses ached. Our legs were numb; I couldn't even put them down on the floor of the truck bed – there was no room for them. And somehow, miraculously, I still managed to smoke and even crack open my last energy drink.

Finally, late at night, we reached Village P. It was a loading and unloading point near the camp outside of the City of M. Our brigade's assault troops were stationed there.

We unloaded, checked in at HQ, and were led to our dugouts. Thankfully, there were plenty of ready-made dugouts here with free space. Or was this free space a bad omen?

On the way from the Village of P to the dugout, I realized my weakness. It wasn't a long walk, less than a kilometre through the woods. But I had overestimated my strength when I was packing. I was wearing a body armor vest, a helmet, carrying a weapon, a one-hundred-liter backpack, and a sleeping bag. I also put on warm winter pants, which made it very difficult for me to walk. I was exhausted. At first, I was breathing heavily, then I started wheezing, and then I collapsed on the ground. The backpack felt like a dead weight on me. I very slowly and painfully dragged myself to the dugout. In the end, I wasn't assigned to the same group I had travelled with, but to the neighbouring dugout, with the local old-timers.

Well, not exactly old-timers… I later learned they’d been there for about a month, and they were already considered old-timers.

That night, I didn't have the energy for anything. I didn’t want to meet anyone. I didn't want to eat or unpack my things. I just wanted to lie down in a warm place, lie there, and sleep, which I immediately did. I slept until noon.

When I woke up, I finally had a chance to look around and get to know the people. The place was very picturesque and livable – and most importantly, safe. Sparse coniferous forest on all sides, many warm and well-equipped dugouts, latrines with seats, storage sheds, generators. The dugout had some semblance of electricity, though not 24/7. A stove, plenty of firewood, tools, axes, and chainsaws – everything was there! Help yourself! And no shelling reached us.

The soldiers around were friendly and understanding. And the commander seemed reasonable, at first glance. The acting company commander was a cheerful fellow who treated us as equals. However, when I talked to him about a transfer to my old brigade, he immediately told me it was impossible. Just like everyone before him.

I got acquainted with some of the old-timers in my dugout. I was most drawn to a comrade nicknamed Vint (Screw), a man of about forty, a former psychologist who hadn’t managed to build a career in that field. He had signed a contract quite recently, a couple of months ago, out of patriotic feelings. He still had some left… Vint showed me around and told me what was where and who I should meet.

About a dozen soldiers lived in our dugout. Two of them had already survived two assaults and were considered experienced. Both were cheerful, friendly, and sociable guys. But just a couple of hours after we met, they were called away on a combat mission.

They left… and never returned.

Two Zeta convicts, who had signed contracts back in the spring for amnesty, were also living with us. Their contracts were supposed to end in three days. But that evening, they were also called away somewhere.

They also left… and never returned.

The other men were also experienced. I didn’t really talk to them. A couple of days later, they were called away.

They left… and never returned.

The next day, another soldier from our dugout was called away. He was appointed as a squad leader for a rearguard unit. Thankfully, not for an assault.

He left… and never returned.

Over time, I began to understand where all the abandoned belongings came from. People left and didn't come back…

In the week I’d spent at the camp, only one person returned – Saiga (Antelope). He had left for a rearguard position a week ago and finally returned safe and sound.

The one and only.

Saiga gave me a lot of advice: how to arrange my body armor, what to take with me on a combat mission, how to use maps. But, honestly, I never really figured out how to use maps. At my old positions, everything was easy: I'd learned the terrain in a couple of weeks. Here, the terrain was new to me, and I was supposed to go where I’d never been before.

At the warehouse, they issued us all sorts of stuff: lots of food, humanitarian aid, and even New Year's gifts with gingerbread. One evening, they brought us a bunch of socks. The socks were warm, no doubt about it. But they were bright pink!

Apparently, they weren't in demand, so they decided to give them to the military as humanitarian aid. But, really, you can’t see what colour your socks are under your boots anyway. I decided to wear the pink socks for fun. Why not? I'll be stylish, fashionable, trendy. That’s what they issued!

Meanwhile, we were assigned to assault squads. After all, we were assault troops… I was assigned to a squad commanded by a soldier with the call sign "Kaban" (Boar). I didn't like this guy. He tried, yes. But at first glance, I understood that he was a "typical tough guy from the streets," who talked the talk. I always felt threatened by tough guys from the streets. And such a man was now my commander.

Nevertheless, he tried to prepare us for what awaited us. We gathered as a whole group in a gazebo; he began explaining who would go in what order. Who was the machine gunner, who was the assistant, who was the grenadier, who was the assistant, who was the medic, who was the lead man, who was the rearguard. He was even going to take the whole group to the firing range – yes, there was even a firing range here.

Well, sort of a firing range: tin cans on a hillside. But I'm talking about something else: we had time and organization. We were used to each other, we knew our commander. We knew each other by sight. If you think this is a given and not important at all – you’re wrong. It takes days, if not weeks, to memorize a comrade's face, his voice, his gait. And during a combat mission, if this isn't there – you get friendly fire.

“Our call sign will be ‘Cucumber,’ and our countersign will be ‘Kvass.’ You will meet your guides at the 'Mannequin' position. I’ll be waiting for you at the old school. Make sure you all introduce yourselves to each other.” Kaban instructed us in the evening. “You’ll leave around 0400. Rest up.”

I quickly gathered my things: naturally, I didn't take my heavy backpack. I only packed a patrol “Ratnik” backpack (25 litres). A couple of bottles of water, some food, a chocolate bar, and two heavy machine-gun boxes for the machine gunner – that was all my luggage. I was very afraid of freezing to death, so I put on warm, padded pants again. But nothing could truly prepare me for this assault. I went to bed.


Chapter 5: Holiday Assault. Town of L. Frotline. Winter '23-'24.


Early in the morning, we began our advance. Generally, in an active combat zone, there are three categories of soldiers: assault troops, defensive troops, and evacuation (Eva). Assault troops, well, assault – they advance into a square held by the enemy, eliminate the enemy, and establish a defensive perimeter.

A day or two (or perhaps a week) later, the assault troops are replaced by defensive troops. These guys hold the positions: they dig in. Defensive troops are supposed to hold the line for a long period. Eva – these are the evacuation teams, supply runners, and guides. Ideally, Eva doesn't engage in combat. Eva retrieves the wounded, delivers provisions, ammunition, and batteries for radios, and also guides groups in and out. However, in reality, every soldier can switch between these three roles depending on orders: Eva can become defensive troops, and defensive troops can go on the assault. We were assault troops – we were told that right away.

Early in the morning, I put on all my gear, we met up with Kaban and the rest of the group, and set off. Already at this point, I realized that I was getting exhausted again, even with a light backpack. Along the way, we ran into the company commander, who gave us new radio frequencies and wished us luck. Two other groups were moving ahead of us at a considerable distance. The first checkpoint was reaching "The Fort."

“The Fort” was the starting point for the assault squads. The medics were also stationed there. It was about a two-kilometer walk to “The Fort,” and this trek was very difficult for me. I was exhausted again. Upon arriving, we finally stopped for a break, and I caught my breath. The groups ahead of us were delayed. We had about half an hour of downtime. Later, we continued moving. It was another several kilometers to the assault zone. I was breathing heavily, wheezing and whining. I was the weakest link in our group.

At every open section of the path, Kaban cursed me with every imaginable word. He wanted to yell, but we had to be quiet, so he hissed through clenched teeth: "Kompas, fuck. Faster. You fucking moron. They’ll kill us because of you. This is an open area; we need to run across it. Push through it, damn it. Kompas, fuck. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me earlier that you couldn't keep up physically?"

“What could I have told you? As if anyone would listen to me?”

“You’re such a fucking loser. Move your fucking legs faster. Fuck, where are our guys? You fucking donkey, you were supposed to keep an eye on those ahead of us. What a fucking idiot you are. Now where do we go? We’ve fallen behind because of you, you useless dickhead. Fuck, do you understand that no one will be sending you home now? Stop whining like a little girl, there’s no turning back. Move forward, asshole. I swear to God, I'll zero you out there. I swear to God, I'll zero you out, and everyone will thank me for it. We’re supposed to be helping each other out here, but you can’t even help yourself, you stupid fuck. What a moron you are, Kompas!”

Finally, we reached some sort of destination. It was "Mannequin’s" camp – several dugouts where the Eva team was stationed. These guys had arrived here about two weeks prior and were living near the front line, about a kilometer from the fighting. They were engaged in retrieving the wounded and resupplying. There were guides among them.

Mannequin’s camp, named after the Eva commander, was the closest location to the front where they could provide initial medical assistance, hide the wounded, and carry them further to the rear. Eva had a good supply of bandages and tourniquets: though they weren’t real medics, they knew how to keep a man alive for a few more hours.

Here we stopped for a long time, for an entire day. We hid from the drones under a camouflage net and just lay there, lay there, lay there. The first group was already engaged in combat, the second group was waiting ahead of us. And we were also waiting. Maybe we wouldn't be needed? Maybe they would complete the task, and we’d go back? Maybe a miracle would happen?

The guys from Eva fed and watered us. But I didn't feel like eating or drinking. I didn’t want anything. I just wanted to go back, to the warm and safe dugout. It was winter outside. Cold. I wasn't thirsty. I was wearing boots. My feet were already rubbed raw from the long walk. My heels were blistered. They were bleeding, but I didn't know it yet. Every step brought pain. I was cold.

At Mannequin’s camp, I finally realized what was hindering me so much: the warm, padded pants that didn’t fit. They were sliding down from my waist to my ass. I decided to forget about staying warm and took off the winter pants—I was left wearing only summer army pants. Of course, I still had thermal underwear on. But it wasn't helping. Cold.

Two captured Ukrainians were led past us. I saw Ukrainians for the first time during the entire war. They weren’t making any unnecessary movements and remained silent. They had already been stripped of their armour and weapons. Their uniforms looked so much like ours… You couldn't tell a friend from foe from a distance. They were being searched and prepared to be escorted further to the rear. There was fear in their eyes. There were arguments on the radio about what to do with them next: take them for interrogation or zero them out on the spot. In the end, they were taken away somewhere.

As dusk fell, we moved on. We had a guide from the Eva team; he led us to the next strongpoint. The trees here were already completely bare. No needles. Branches broken off by constant shelling. Tree trunks fallen across the path. This trek was a little easier for me because I had taken off the warm pants. Shallow trenches, a dugout, and one covered machine gun nest, half a meter deep, awaited us. You could only get in there by crawling. Some people went into the dugout. Fonar, another soldier nicknamed Zmiy (Snake), and I climbed into the machine gun nest. Cold.

We were to spend the entire night here. We hadn’t taken our sleeping bags with us. So we slept right on the ground, on the bottom of the pit. The wind blew through the pit from both sides. My teeth chattered, I shivered, my feet were frozen without the warm pants. Cold.

But at least we managed to get some sleep. We spent half the day in that frozen pit. Our sleep was restless. I constantly woke up from the explosions and from the cold. But even such restless sleep was enough. The sand was everywhere. All our clothes were covered in sand. All our gloves were covered in sand, our hands were covered in sand. The sand was in our eyes. How did I not get conjunctivitis? How did I not get pneumonia? Truly, there are far fewer sources of infection on the front lines than back in Russia.

I am amazed by the human immune system's ability to adapt to extreme conditions. At home, such unsanitary conditions and cold would have put me straight to bed. But here, I was more alive than ever. Yes, it was incredibly difficult and cold. But despite all that, I realized: on the front lines, I feel better than at home. At home, there’s always something aching, something throbbing. But here, all my ailments seem to go into hibernation. My body is telling me:

"Uh-uh, no, buddy. No time to be sick now. We have more serious problems. We need to survive. We’ll be sick at home."

But as soon as you return to warmth and comfort – the aches and pains come back.

We were awakened at dawn by Kaban, who told us to be ready to move out. Then came an unexpected turn of events.

Kaban decided to get rid of two people: me and another soldier who had pulled a leg on the march – Kaban ordered him to fall out and go to the medics. I was the weakest link in the group – Kaban decided that I would be nothing but trouble and wanted to foist me off on another group. He ordered me to join the sappers and took away my radio and machine-gun boxes. Even better; less weight to carry.

My whole group left. They abandoned me. And I sat in the dugout with the sappers. Our guide, call sign "Apollon" (Apollo), was waiting for the right moment to move forward.

Before us lay the road.

A fifty-meter-wide dirt road, visible and exposed to fire from all sides – especially from the air. And beyond the road was the forest. The same forest where the fighting was taking place. Some of the squares were ours – some were controlled by the Ukrainian Armed Forces. The distance between our fighters and the enemy fighters was fifty meters.

And beyond that damned forest was the Town of L. The same settlement we were shelled from and tried to advance on in the summer, and from where the Ukrainian Armed Forces launched dozens of drones.

The puppet governor of the Russian-occupied region once declared in the media that there were no enemy soldiers left in the settlement. Ha! On that very same day that I saw his mug on the distorted TV screen, they were firing at us from that settlement. They were firing from there even now.

Russia didn't need this Town of L for shit. We weren’t liberating this land, we weren’t defending this land. We were simply stretching the front line. Drawing some of the enemy's forces towards us. This entire assault was just part of a massive diversionary maneuver.

Apollon was listening to the sky. The sky was constantly dirty (full of drones). Apollon was a cautious and experienced guide, and didn't want to die or get his group killed – after all, he would then have to evacuate this group. We waited for several hours, found a window between the drones, and ran to the next covered position before the road. But "birds" were constantly circling there too, and artillery was working. We also spent several hours there, and then had to return.

Evening twilight was approaching. Apollon reported that the group couldn't advance because of the dirty sky and led us back to Mannequin. There, the sappers were reprimanded for failing to complete the task, and they decided to try again the next day.

And I had become a "lost soul." A stray assault trooper who’d lost his group. I started asking everyone around: what should I do now? I just wanted to go back, just go back. When would this nightmare end? But the command had other plans for me.

Mannequin contacted HQ, and the logical response came from there: let the "lost soul" go with the next group.

And the next group was already there. The command was sending new groups to this conveyor of death one after another. The senior man in the group was a soldier with the call sign "Melnik" (Miller). The group was divided into two halves: one half went with Melnik to a dugout by the road that evening, and the second half, including myself, stayed overnight there, at Mannequin's.

There was no room for us in the dugout. We lay down on bags under the camouflage net and covered ourselves with someone’s sleeping bag. The guys from Eva fed and watered us again; they brewed hot tea for us and treated us to chocolate spread from their MREs. Under the sleeping bag, we discussed the same old topics: When are we going home? Why did you go to war? What assholes these commanders are, right? A contract soldier nicknamed Meshok (Bag) honestly confessed: "I’m here for the money! I have a wife, I have kids, I have a mistress. All of that requires a fuckload of money! Buy this for the wife, buy that for the mistress, and you have to buy tons of shit for the kids!"

We had enough time to sleep. Another restless night, "birds" overhead, chills, chattering teeth. Cold. Midnight arrived; it was now twenty-twenty-four.

"Happy New Year, guys!"

"Yeah, happy fucking New Year."

"What a great way to celebrate New Year’s, huh?"

"Not enough champagne."

"Yeah, and no Olivier salad or kholodets (jellied meat)."

"A festive New Year’s assault for us, guys."

"Yeah, the commanders decided to make us happy, prepared a nice little gift for us."

"As you celebrate New Year's, so you’ll spend the year, right?"

"Fuck off."

I lay there thinking. I'm not a warrior. I'm weak, stupid, and cowardly. I don't want victory. But I'm very lucky. My chance to get out of here alive is to get wounded and be evacuated…

That’s it… That’s the plan!

The next day, Apollon led us forward again. We joined up with Melnik and waited for a long time for a gap between the drone patrols. Then another guide, "Kosa" (Braid), led us further. Kosa was a competent and capable soldier. He wasn't afraid to go forward and lead people.

Around midday, we crossed the road and entered the damned forest. All three groups that had gone before us had been destroyed. All my acquaintances were either "200s" (KIA) or "300s" (WIA).

Kaban was killed. He had a coded radio and a phone with maps and grid coordinates on him. These things couldn't fall into enemy hands. The local commander, call sign "Batareya" (Battery), sent two wounded men to retrieve the damned radio and phone.

They didn't return – they were killed. Fonar and Indus were wounded (“caught some shrapnel”). I saw one of the soldiers become a "vegetable" right in front of my eyes.

And many, many other people… Batareya’s group was destroyed – only he remained; Kaban’s group was destroyed.

We were next.

Kosa led us through the forest and listened to the sky. But listening was pointless. There was no cover nearby anyway. And the bare trees, devoid of branches and leaves, provided poor camouflage. "Birds" were above us. At some point, we decided to just make a run for it. We started running and successfully reached a strongpoint.

Everything was standard: a dugout and shallow trenches with a couple of firing positions. Batareya met us there. The enemy was fifty meters away.

My thoughts were jumbled in my head. Getting wounded in this godforsaken place might already be too late. They wouldn’t pull me out of here. If I didn't get out myself, it was over for me.

The group commander was at a loss and didn't understand what to do. He couldn’t lead. We all felt just as lost. As soon as we got into the dugout, drones and artillery started working on it. The explosions were somewhere nearby. Grenades were falling directly into the trenches at the entrance to the dugout. One of them caused a ringing in my ears: the sound of a death knell.

Seeing the group commander’s confusion, Batareya took charge. He explained everything to us, reported the situation on the radio, and offered encouragement.

"Guys, the main thing is not to freak out!"

But his words went in one ear and out the other. I didn't process the meaning, but I felt the intonation. He was confident. Batareya was a complex man. He was a confident and assertive commander who had a grasp of the situation and could make people follow orders. But on the other hand, as people said, Batareya had never once left the dugout during the entire time he'd been there and never risked his life alongside his subordinates. He was a clever bugger who knew how to survive in war. And I needed someone like that. I felt that I had an experienced and responsible comrade nearby. Even if he was a prick.

The lightly wounded soldiers from the previous groups went to the exit. They had their own guide, who safely led them to a secure location. And we stayed inside, waiting for the order to begin the assault. And the order came.

But we weren't the ones assaulting anymore.

We were being assaulted.

Suddenly, shots rang out from outside: they were shooting at us. Batareya started yelling both on the radio and at us: "We’re under attack! Get out, return fire! Come on, come on, quickly, quickly! Here, take a grenade, throw it, damn it!"

I was one of the first to climb out. Two others followed me. We lay down in the trench and fired who knows where. I didn't even try to look over the parapet. I just fired into the air, towards the enemy, Somali-style, without aiming, holding the rifle above my head. I hoped to scare them off. The others were also firing. They were firing at us. Mortar shells were exploding around us. Drones were above us, dropping grenades on us. Less than a minute passed, and I felt a gentle kiss on my right hand. My hand could still move, but I had received my coveted light wound—my ticket out of here.

“I’m a ‘300,’ light injuries!”

I crawled backwards into the dugout. At the entrance, I yelled again: “I’m a ‘300’! My hand, I can’t shoot! Switching out!”

Back into the dugout, further into the corner. Meshok climbed out to replace me. Batareya handed loaded magazines and grenades to those outside. The group commander was sitting in the corner, stunned. Kosa started examining my hand.

“Oh, this is nothing! I’ll patch you up!”

Kosa opened the bandage and started wrapping it around my hand. He wrapped it very tightly and securely. This would save me later.

Another grenade exploded outside. And another. And another. If the enemy didn’t retreat, it was over for us. Our comrades outside also crawled back inside with injuries. A wounded soldier sat down next to me. Blood was flowing from his head and back. I was still conscious, so I started helping him, bandaging his head with one hand. Another “300” stumbled into the dugout with a lacerated back. Then a grenade landed near Meshok. It seemed like he was dead. Batareya yelled outside: “Meshok! Meshok! Respond, how are you? Meshok!”

But Meshok didn't respond.

The shooting stopped. The enemy retreated. A minute later, Meshok crawled back into the dugout. His head was covered in blood, his torso was covered in blood. His eyes darted around in panic; he spoke with difficulty. We had all been hit hard, but thankfully, all our wounds were light – and we were all still able to walk. Four "300s" in ten minutes. That’s most of the group. The group commander was still sitting in the corner, stunned. We bandaged each other, reloaded our magazines. Basically, my hands and head were occupied for the next half hour. Batareya praised us: "Well done! Men! You’re real heroes, guys, I'm proud of you! Especially Meshok, he was fantastic! Alright, guys, you’re millionaires! Already thought about what you’ll spend the three million on?"

Half an hour after I was wounded, the adrenaline in my blood began to wear off. The excitement gave way to panic. The tight bandage on my hand was constricting my fingers painfully. My blood pressure dropped. Everything went dark before my eyes, my ears were ringing. I didn't know what to do with my head or my arm. My limbs began to go numb one by one: they were throbbing as if I’d been lying on them for a long time. One by one! First the wounded arm, then the healthy one. First one leg, then the other. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me? And all of this despite the fact that my wound was just a scratch: a small piece of shrapnel had entered and exited the soft tissue of my hand. Noticing my state, Batareya became worried.

"Kompas, are you wounded somewhere else? Take off your body armor. Take off your clothes too!"

They examined me and didn't find any other injuries. Then Batareya began cursing at me: "Fuck, you have a scratch, and you're acting like a little girl! How many times have I told you, don’t wear those fucking balaclavas in combat! How are you supposed to listen to the sky in that thing? And why the fuck did you button up your jacket like that? So that I’d have to struggle to unbutton it for you? What’s in your pocket? Fucking documents? They should be in your chest pocket! Fuck, how I hate you mobilized soldiers! All you can do is whine and moan! 'Oh, they made me go to war, how horrible, mommy take me home!' You need to work, not cry!"

His words and intonation worked. Strangely enough, Batareya managed to bring me to my senses, for which I am very grateful to him. I actually started feeling a bit better. I put my head between my knees and waited. Underneath me lay the corpse of a Ukrainian soldier.

We waited and waited for a suitable moment to leave and return to our lines.

If only we could leave. If only we could leave…

Kosa wanted to lead us out at dusk. So we waited for darkness to fall. My thoughts were no longer occupied with the future of the group commander or those of us who remained unharmed. May fate protect them. I just wanted to get myself out of there now. I only felt immense pity for Zmiy. He couldn’t walk. Batareya tried to make him walk, cursed at him the same way he’d cursed at me.

"Zmiy, you fucking crawled here somehow! Do you understand that this is your life?!"

"I understand, Batareya, but I can’t…"

"Fuck, we can’t carry you out! We have four ‘300s,’ how are we supposed to carry your carcass? We don’t even have a stretcher.”

"Batareya, my legs have a mind of their own. I can’t walk.”

“You’ll just lie there until you die! No one will come for you!”

Alas, Batareya’s cursing had no effect on Zmiy. Zmiy’s legs were injured, his head was injured too. Zmiy remained lying there.

We didn’t wait for darkness. We sat in that dugout for about three hours, and then, at one terrible moment, we heard a pop not far from the entrance, outside. There was no explosion. But a minute later, Kosa, who was sitting by the entrance, started coughing violently. Then Batareya started coughing.

Gas.

We pulled our scarves over our faces to protect ourselves from the acrid fumes. No one had gas masks. They had long since been discarded. They weren’t even issued anymore. The war wasn't that kind of war.

Fortunately, it wasn't poison gas. Chemical weapons are rarely used in this war. It was “pepper” – tear gas, which causes tears and choking. Not lethal. But Kosa decided not to risk his health.

“We’re leaving now.”

There was no need to repeat the order. By that point, I had long since discarded both my weapons and body armor. The body armor would only slow me down now. I needed to run. And for that, I needed to be light, otherwise, I’d be exhausted again. I knew that as soon as I started moving, my head would clear, the adrenaline would surge again, and I would feel better. And that’s what happened.

We quickly crawled out and ran through the forest towards the road. Along the way, one of the soldiers got tangled in his belt kit strap. I knew that if he fell behind now, he wouldn't find his way. So I stopped and waited for him, keeping both him and those ahead of us in sight. We were incredibly lucky. The drones saw us, but didn’t drop anything. The artillery shelling paused. The enemy soldiers weren't firing at that moment. Miraculously, our group of four wounded men, the guide, and Batareya safely reached the road, crossed it, and made their way towards Mannequin’s.

The further we walked, the safer and calmer it became. The “birds” weren't pursuing us. Having reached our lines, we finally stopped and caught our breath.

“Water! Please, water!”

There was water here. There were our guys here. There was a path to “The Fort.” There were medics there. Now everything would be alright. We had made it out. All that was left was to walk another five kilometers. A line of battered and exhausted men trudged along the path.

Along the way, I heard radio chatter. The officer commanding the assault was extremely dissatisfied. They were out of men. Yesterday, there had been a company. Today, there was no company.

No company!

As one comrade said, “They ran out of men, so they sent us. We’ll be gone soon, too.” And that's exactly what happened. We were finished. The officer yelled into the radio: “Let the company commander come here himself! If the men he sends on the assault can’t handle it, let him fucking assault himself. Assemble a new assault group: company commander, clerks, supply officers, first sergeant, cooks! Everyone who’s left, for fuck's sake!”

Finally, “The Fort” appeared ahead. There was a dugout for the wounded and a dugout that served as an operating room. We all sat underground, waiting for the medics to examine us. When they looked at my hand, they saw the tight bandage Kosa had applied. From the side, it looked like my hand had been blown off. And they decided not to remove the bandage.

I was incredibly lucky. Because if they had unwrapped it, they would have seen what a minor wound it actually was – and they would have left me there. They would have dabbed it with iodine and sent me on the next assault. But Kosa’s tight bandage saved me. I was registered for evacuation to Russia, just like the rest of us. Soon a vehicle arrived for us, and we left that damned forest.

I’m the luckiest bastard in this war! Easy three million! My friends will call me ‘The Beneficiary.’ So much money – and I got off so lightly.

He then inserts lyrics to parody to Fleetwood Mac's "Little Lies" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPN0qhSyWy8