Filatov records frontline soldiers’ stories. “Bakhmut: P’s Story” for example, gives only the initial of the speaker’s call sign. Two stories here give the whole call sign. Two stories are from the defense of Bakhmut and two from Soledar. They are difficult stories, infantry stories. Filatov endeavors to give a voice to soldiers who can’t write their own stories, to build an oral history, a record of the war. The Soledar stories, perhaps versions of the same or a similar assault, are told by two very different soldiers whose call signs seem to reflect their characters.
The final three pieces are Anton’s experiences and thoughts. The last of these is an excerpt from an essay he posted about films he’d reviewed in the past that have helped lift his spirits during this war. The excerpt is from his description of The Tree of Life, the 2011 Terrence Malick film. In that note, Filatov repeats the wording the English-to-Ukrainian filmscript translator must have used for Malick’s trademark voiceover narration. It’s close, but not exact, like most translations. In the original English: “Unless you love, your life will flash by.”
—Patricia Dubrava
Frontline Books
“The art of war is the art of lying” is a relevant quote from this book that explains the insane manipulations our mass media is flooded with now.
Here at the front, I’ve often tried to watch our news broadcasts. I’ve never been able to watch this eloquent nonsense to the end. My eyes bleed from the promises to recapture key facilities in weeks, to have an abundant supply of modern weapons, the generalizations that all Russian soldiers are idiots, and their commanders are morons who cannot fight, and the stupid generalization that all our soldiers are military geniuses.
I’m a tiny cog in this huge war machine. I see what’s going on from the inside. The story our news tells is a sedative for civilians, not journalism.
The truth is very cruel. Especially here at the front.
In the art of lying, it is important not to deceive ourselves.
Bakhmut: P’s Story
The enemy was about seventy meters from us. Our fortifications were inadequate. Due to constant shelling, assaults, and frozen ground, we didn’t have time to dig our normal trenches.
On one side the trench entered a small dugout where the water was knee-deep. It could hardly be called a bunker though. Barely four people could fit in it and it was covered by tree trunks no thicker than half-liter bottles. No bigger trees were around there. When a mortar shell fell nearby, all those sticks blew off.
The first Russian drone dropped a grenade on us but missed. As it was turning, we managed to knock it out of the sky with a Kalashnikov. A second drone came after the first and we downed it before it got to us. It’s cool when you shoot down a drone. But when the drone falls, it fucking booms. We were lucky the second one didn’t land in our trench.
A little later, a reconnaissance drone arrived. That’s some freaky shit: it flies high so you can’t shoot at it and, as soon as it appears, a Russian mortar starts hitting you.
We dove into the trenches, kept our heads down. There were three guys next to me. We crouched, covered our heads with our hands, and clung to each other. The one closest to me told me to move, because there wasn’t room for all of us. I crept a few meters away, where the trench made a small turn. A minute later, a shell landed where I had been. All three of those boys were torn apart.
The mortar continued to pummel us. Our machine gunner sat at the other end of the trench. He had recently been issued a cool American machine gun and was very protective of it. He was constantly cleaning it and kept it within sight, put it near the parapet. Between shellings, he looked out of the trench and at that moment a mortar round exploded right in front of him. The blast wave shoved that cool machine gun so hard that its muzzle went right through him. I don’t think he even had time to fire that gun once.
In a day and a half, less than half of us remained. During all that time, I managed to sleep for ten minutes. We decided to fall back, had to walk ten kilometers. When we reached the checkpoint, the officer swore at us and ordered us back to our positions. Soon after that, I noticed I had started stuttering.
Bakhmut: B’s Story
We took the position in October. There were eight of us. We occupied a spot near Bakhmut in a village with no houses intact. We set up a firing position near one of those damaged houses. I was stationed there for forty-one days straight. We slept in the basement, stayed dressed, didn’t take off our shoes, wrapped ourselves in two or three sleeping bags. We repelled two Russian assaults every night. During one of them, we Xed out eight Russians, 300ed1 another, and took one prisoner.
The prisoner was a twenty-six-year-old guy from central Russia. It was cold and he was wearing summer pants, a ratty old Soviet helmet, a civilian jacket that he stole somewhere here, and good quality body armor. He had only two bandages and a tourniquet in his first-aid kit. In his pockets, an icon and a photo of his wife. He had no documents or food and was very hungry. He said he was from a small village where all the men between eighteen and fifty years old had been mobilized. They taught him to shoot for three weeks and then he was sent to the front. On the very first day, his commanders lined up all the new arrivals and ordered them on an assault.
Four soldiers refused and were immediately shot in front of everyone, the prisoner told us. After that, no one refused. We captured him on his second day at the front. He said if he had turned back during the attack, he would have been shot by his own officers.
A bombed house was next to us and Russians were living in the house next to that one. There were less than a hundred meters between us. Sappers mined the area that divided us. But nevertheless, the enemy had opportunities to bypass the minefield. In the dark hours, I listened carefully to every rustle.
Men with us who’d worked mortars in the past had compromised hearing. That’s why I slept no more than three or four hours at a time: I was worried that the guys wouldn’t hear the Russians creeping up on us. I also had older men around me who couldn’t shoot. They reloaded and I kept changing machine guns and firing. Sometimes I shot a thousand rounds in one night.
One day, a young guy from another company was brought to us. He was on patrol for about half an hour. The kid was about twenty centimeters away from me when he was shot by a sniper. Straight to the head. I never even had a chance to ask his name. Snipers often targeted us. To evacuate the wounded, we had to wait for darkness. However, there was a huge risk that the injured would bleed out while waiting.
On the forty-first day, I got two concussions. When I asked to be evacuated, command told me to remain in position because there were not enough men. For a couple days I collapsed in the basement and couldn’t do anything, had a constant headache and nausea. I took some pills and gradually recovered. On the third day, I slowly started to be able to function. For some time, I couldn’t hear in my left ear, and my left leg and arm hurt constantly.
The last two days, I started to go crazy. I thought the Russians were advancing from all sides. I decided that I would not surrender, always kept a grenade close at hand. All those forty-one days, I tried to keep busy, to keep my mind from going useless places, to keep from focusing on tension: I built fortifications, dug trenches, transported water and food, ammunition.
We are here to support each other as best we can. We try to distract ourselves with conversation, so we don’t go crazy. We’re so fucking tired. But we have no choice. We’re taking a stand.
Soledar: Artist’s Story
Early in February 2023, we were ordered to capture a village near Soledar. I had a clear conviction that I was on a one-way trip. I prayed, kissed the cross, and went into the unknown. I was shaking with fear but gathered all my strength into a fist.
The sun set early. Days were short. Intelligence said the positions we were supposed to occupy were clear. Nevertheless, we ran into Russians there, and threw grenades at them.
It got dark. Three Russians walking fifteen meters from us called out loudly: “Adyesa!” The Russian pronunciation of Odesa was their password by which they identified each other. They were lost in the dark. When they got near us, we took aim and shouted: “Surrender!” They refused. A battle ensued. We shot two of the three Russians. The third dropped his weapon and ran at us with a knife. One of our men carefully took him down with a shot in the shoulder. He fell. We tied him up and administered first aid.
The prisoner told us he was offered two options: stay behind bars for years or serve his time in the Donetsk region, receiving thirty thousand rubles a month. That’s why he joined the Wagner ranks. He managed to last at the front for a couple of days.
At night, the Russians launched a counteroffensive. We liberated a Russian walkie-talkie and overheard a message: “For now, shoot with iron and the animal will arrive after.” This meant that they’d fire on us with a mortar and a tank would come up later.
They bombarded us. We were positioned behind four houses. After three hours of shelling, all that remained of those houses were knee-deep craters.
One of our brothers was seriously wounded by fragments. Because he was in a state of shock, he didn’t drop, but ran. And as we all fell back—away from the shelling—he ran toward the enemy. I shouted to him, “Fool! Where are you going? Come back.” He ran to a trench, fell into it, and yelled, “I’m in pain!” I ran after him, pulled him out, and at that moment, a shell exploded a few meters away. I was so stunned I don’t remember what happened after that. A few images remain in my memory: I was crawling, I was making my way through bushes, I was falling, someone was saying something to me.
The next day I felt better. And the next night, when it was a little quieter, that boy was rescued by some of our other brothers. But he had already bled to death.
During one bombardment, I was patrolling in the trench. Another brother stood two meters from me. Suddenly a tank shell landed between us. I was wearing a cap and a helmet but felt my ear sting after that. Almost like a burn.
It was a miracle the shell didn’t explode but ricocheted off the parapet and fell somewhere far beyond without detonating.
During the next bout of shelling, we were not so lucky. A mine fell in front of us. I was thrown back by the blast wave. Part of my brother’s head and brain were cut off by a fragment. He continued breathing for some time. I tried to get him medical attention. In vain. He died in my arms.
I tore off the blanket that hung at the entrance to the dugout and we placed his body on it. To carry him out, we had to first pass through the field that was being fired on and then also cross the river. His body was heavy. We hadn’t slept or eaten for several days and the four of us couldn’t lift him. We found a baby carriage in a nearby house and took him to the crossing in that.
The crossing was just a few planks laid inches above the water. They sagged under our weight and sank underwater. As we were dragging his body across, it slipped out of our hands and fell in the water. One of the soldiers jumped into the icy river, up to his waist, and grabbed the body. We slowly carried him to the other shore and the brothers there helped us.
I climbed into our armored car. Someone shouted something at me. But I couldn’t hear it. That’s how I realized I’d lost my hearing.
Later, I was diagnosed with a severe concussion and kept in the hospital several days. I took two sleeping pills every night. It was impossible to sleep without them. When I did fall asleep, I constantly dreamed the same dream—storming that village. In the dreams I saw all these events I’ve just told you. And when I woke, my hands were in position as if I were holding a machine gun.
Anton’s note: Soon after this, Artist was working on an assignment in which he arranged fortifications. He died there during mortar shelling.
Soledar: Mars’ Story
It was early February. We stormed a small village in a very inconvenient place. To get to it, we had to cross a river and an open field that was completely shot up. We had no time to plan an assault.
Everyone on my team was scared and confused. The situation was complicated by the fact that we hadn’t eaten or slept for about twenty-four hours. We had one bottle of water for the six of us. It was freezing and the water bottle was almost frozen.
One of the village cellars seemed suspicious to me. I threw a grenade into it and immediately heard someone shout that German word Russian soldiers have adopted: “Achtung!” Later we captured a Russian radio and in listening to it discovered that Iranian mercenaries were in that cellar at the time.
A gun battle broke out near one of the houses. The enemy was about twenty meters away. We shot from the corners of the house. There were five of them. They didn’t retreat and fired at us with a heavy machine gun. In response we threw grenades at them from the corners of the house and through its roof. After a half-hour firefight, we got behind the house and finished off four of the five. The last one managed to escape. They were all from the Wagner Group.
After we secured our position, I decided to clear the other houses of the village. I heard Russians in one of the cellars and crept silently to the entrance. At that moment, one of them came out and I managed to beat him to the draw with my machine gun. After I fired, the others slammed the door. I shouted an offer to let them surrender three times. They didn’t reply. The team brought me grenades and I threw three of them into the cellar’s ventilation pipe. The door flew open from the shock wave. I threw six more grenades into the opening. Even after the nine grenades, they continued to return fire.
It seemed like the Russians were under the influence of drugs. We fired at them, even saw bullets hit them, but they continued to crawl or walk forward. A person in his right mind cannot do this. Every impact of a fragment or a bullet causes enormous pain and numbness.
In the evening, after it was dark, two people came to our position and asked in Russian, “Who will transport the wounded?” They were Russians who had mistaken us for their own troops. One of them tried to escape and we shot him. The other we took prisoner.
He was a Wagner fighter who had previously been in prison for murder. He was forty-two years old, and his name was Dmitri. If you looked at him, you wouldn’t know he was a prisoner. He said he was paid twenty-seven thousand rubles a month. We treated him like a normal prisoner—gave him water and did not beat him. He wanted to live and so he had surrendered.
Convicts in the Russian army are not treated like people. On the walkie-talkie we'd swiped we heard how during our assault the convicts asked their command to allow them to retreat. They were refused and told: “Stand until the end or we will shoot you right here.” They are treated like dead meat. They have to turn over all their documents before going on an assault.
Our battle lasted about three hours. During that time, we killed more than forty Russians. We had no losses. But then, when we were entrenched in our positions, the Russians started shelling us intensively from tanks, mortars, and artillery. It lasted several hours and took the lives of two of us.
One of the two we lost went on assault with me in the first group. He was in his fifties and I suggested that he step away from the position to rest a little. But he replied: “I’m staying.” He ended up staying there forever. He was buried in dirt after the bunker took a direct hit. We spent a long time digging through the rubble to find his body.
The second fighter’s legs and spine were shattered. When we found him, his face was terribly distorted. It was horrible . . . he suffered a lot before he died and left life with that expression on his face.
It was already our second night without sleep or a regular meal. The guys got very tired and started making mistakes. Reinforcements did not arrive. On the third day we were finally replaced.
After leaving that place, all I wanted to do was lie there, hear nothing, say nothing, and not move at all. However, it was not possible to get a full night’s sleep. There was a lot of work ahead.
Hidden Wounds
We all have hidden wounds today. Those that go undiagnosed. Those that are not recognized as being “a result of hostilities.” These are injuries with which we are left on our own. Like radiation, they are invisible but dangerous, and can resurface suddenly after a long time.
One of our older men fell into an unfinished bunker while running for cover during some shelling. Because of fear and adrenaline, he didn’t notice he’d hurt his arm. The pain increased slowly. It took several days for him to get to a hospital. The hospital was overloaded with many wounded. He was quickly diagnosed with a contusion and his arm was bandaged.
His platoon was moved to a new position. To survive, they had to dig new trenches from scratch. He dug for several days. The hard ground and heavy tree trunks made the pain in his arm worse.
To get him back to the hospital, we had to wait several more days. He was x-rayed. It turned out his bruise had been a crack and because of the stress he’d put on the arm, it had become a fracture. It’d been three weeks since his fall when he finally got a plaster cast. According to the documents, this injury was not caused by military operations. He was left to deal with his arm on his own. Luckily, he is fine now.
There are tens of millions of such uncounted or hidden injuries today, many of them incurable. Even more will make themselves known over time so that their connection with the war will not be obvious.
Stay safe. Take care of yourself.
Abandoned pets
We were stationed near this place. An emaciated, almost bald cat kept circling us. He looked like tanks had driven over him and his eyes flashed the running message, “Feed me.” We called him Death and fattened him up in a week. He grew new fur and the expression on his face changed from unhappy to impudent. For him, life got better.
Later we had to leave in a rush, under fire. There was no time for packing and several bags of food were thrown out in that yard. Death will be OK for about a month. But after that someone else will have to help him out. Hurry up with that lend-lease because those orcs definitely won’t feed our animals.
The Tree of Life
From Anton Filatov’s description of Terrance Malick's 2011 film The Tree of Life:
The plot in this film recedes from the foreground, giving way to grandiose images. They pour in a thick stream, so you sit before the screen as if before a powerful waterfall. The Tree of Life hovers in those seldom-explored spaces where words lose power and visual images exist in primal forms. The axis of this film is the story of an American family that experiences sorrowful losses and happy reunions, inspiring epiphanies, and painful mistakes. Events are shown in a non-linear and poetic way.
The stunning shots of nature that fill the film are accompanied by wise words that echo behind the scenes. One of these aphorisms I often remember when I find myself in the war: “Without love, life flies by in vain.”
