Artem measures time not in minutes but missiles. ‘I can’t tell you by the clock how long we battled the Russians that day,’ he tells me as we sit by a tree, listening to the sound of artillery in the background. ‘But it lasted for 80 Grads [Soviet rockets used by both sides]. A hard day.’
The front is now largely closed to journalists because of Kyiv’s counter-offensive, but I was able to get access through the help of friends. If the Russians discover the base’s location, they will wipe it — and us — out in an instant.
Artem is a commander in the 3rd Tank Brigade and he was here fighting when Vladimir Putin launched his full-scale invasion more than 500 days ago. Soon after, the unit was sent to help defend Kyiv.
It then took part in a counter-offensive in the Kharkiv region in September 2022, when Ukrainian T-72 tanks smashed their way through Russian defensive lines, liberating their lands and sending the enemy scuttling back across the border. Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky recognised his brigade’s achievements on his country’s Independence Day in August, giving it the name the Iron Brigade.
We are in a secret tank base deep in the forests of eastern Ukraine, close to the border with Russia
Why? I ask. ‘Because we’re tough and fast — like iron horses,’ comes the reply. Artem tells me about life on the frontlines during this vital counter — and it’s brutal and revealing in equal measure.
As Ukraine pushes forward, trying to break the enemy lines, Kyiv knows that the Russians are trying to break through in return — and it is here that they will come.
‘We are close to the border here,’ Artem tells me. ‘And that is always the gravest danger. From any point along it those b*****ds could launch a new offensive. If and when that happens, me and my boys will be in the frontline facing them. And, believe me, we are ready.’
Artem recalls a recent battle. ‘It was especially difficult. We couldn’t get too close as the fields were full of anti-tank mines and we needed to shoot across eight to nine kilometres with total accuracy because our boys were only 75 metres from the enemy. We knew that if we made any mistake, we’d end up killing them. It was terrifying.
‘But we killed them all [Russians] in the end. It’s a great pleasure to kill Russians. But imagine killing your own men? How would your life be after that?’
Security on the base is paramount. The journey here was replete with precautions and took an entire morning. I begin my trip in the eastern city of Kharkiv: bombed remorselessly by the Russians in the early months of last year, as they failed to capture it. The scars of war are everywhere.
Days before I leave for the front, I take a walk with my friend Nataliya Zubar, an activist who documents the invaders’ war crimes. Trudging through a field, we stumble on an abandoned Russian trench. Her friend Yevgeny is sure he can smell bodies. Surely they’ve been taken away, I say. ‘Meh,’ Nataliya shrugs. ‘It’s probably just a leftover leg or head.’
The younger guy with a cap and tattoos is Anton. His tattoo says ‘For honour. For Glory. For the People’
Two days later I set off for the front, driving to the nearby town of Chuhuiv to meet with Mykola, my liaison from the Ukrainian military. A smiling man in his 50s with missing teeth, he joins our car to guide us to the next meeting point.
As we travel to the front, the scenery changes. Ruined buildings appear on either side of the worsening roads. We drive through shell craters so deep it is like descending in a submarine, the view of the surface disappearing as we sink.
As we stop by a field to stretch our legs, Mykola warns me against straying too far. ‘Be careful, David,’ he says. ‘It may be mined.’
We reach a village I am not allowed to name. ‘Switch off phones,’ comes the order. The Russians can track the devices’ signals, locate our position and call in an air strike. They were here not long ago and the landscape still bears the scars of occupation.
While we wait for a military escort to the front, I buy coffee in a small kiosk next to a tiny woman in a patterned headscarf, her mouth full of gold teeth. Soldiers idle around, their Kalashnikovs resting by the counter.
I stand outside drinking a surprisingly good cappuccino and looking at a building largely turned to rubble, across which are the remnants of a Soviet mural. It shows Lenin holding the USSR flag, with the famous inscription: ‘All power to the Soviets.’ The arm that would once have pointed forward has been broken in half.
It is a single image that encapsulates Ukraine’s resistance to Russian aggression in microcosm.
The guy sitting down with the baseball cap and sunglass is Artem. The makeshift table and benches are ‘The camp dining area with table and benches made from spent tank shells’
Before independence in 1991, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union and before 1917 of the Russian Empire. Now, in 2023, Ukrainians are once again fighting the imperial designs of Moscow. My ‘fixer’ Rodion looks up at the damaged effigy with contempt. ‘It’s great to see that,’ he says. ‘A stupid man and a f***ing thief.’
Soldiers arrive in a car. We switch vehicles. Vlad is our new army guide and he has firm instructions. We cannot take photos of the base. ‘It is the most secret one in the region,’ he explains.
More winding in and out of craters, more shell-strafed roads. We bounce around, the soldiers’ automatic weapons clattering against the doors of the 4×4. After 20 minutes we arrive at an urban base. Now we make our way on foot.
We tramp through fields, flat at first, then find ourselves in thickets of shrubbery. A path emerges, forged by the endless procession of military boots. In the distance is a horizon of darkness: the forest.
Fifteen minutes later, we reach the cover of the trees. The light disappears. The ground is a tapestry of tank tracks sliced through the mud; many are filled with stale rainwater — a breeding ground for mosquitoes. I am being devoured by them. Yet one more threat on the front; they are everywhere: whining and buzzing and biting. My arms, neck and under my shirt, my chest, are breaking out in welts.
The dull thud of artillery can be heard in the distance. I see a green-and-brown mass come into view. It is, I realise, a T-72 tank smothered with camouflage netting. It squats among the trees like a vast, armoured ox.
Suddenly, the whir of a chainsaw cuts through the silence — soldiers are at work. We emerge into a clearing to see a makeshift dining area, with table and benches. A Kalashnikov is propped against a tree. A tent flutters in the breeze. As I get closer, I can see that the table and benches are made of spent tank shells. Long, hollow tubes bolted together, their serial numbers are stamped on in black.
The table is four shells wide with a flat piece of wood running across the top, on which are spread Tupperware boxes, pickles and a bottle of Coke. The soldiers have even used the shells’ hollow insides like kitchen cabinets, to store supplies. It’s a masterclass in ingenuity.
The table is four shells wide with a flat piece of wood running across the top, on which are spread Tupperware boxes, pickles and a bottle of Coke
I realise how well hidden we are — and we need to be. Russian technology is so advanced, they can identify a location from an image of just a few trees in a forest.
I notice the soldiers aren’t wearing body armour. Artem laughs. ‘If they find us here it will be a missile for us — no protection against that. Also, have you ever tried getting in a tank with body armour? But we have incredibly strong helmets.’
I want to discuss the counter-offensive, but Artem remains tight-lipped. ‘Counter-offensive plans love silence,’ he replies. ‘Our mission here is top secret and even our commanders don’t know the full plans until the last moment.’
A young soldier, tattoos snaking up both arms, walks by with a shovel and sledgehammer. His name is Anton, a 27-year-old tank commander. He signed up the day after the invasion and has been serving ever since.
It has been tough. ‘When you are in a lot of battles, you lose a lot of your colleagues. Especially in the first months of the war. I cannot tell you how many. But it’s a lot.’
The Russians have lost many more, though. Artem explains why he thinks the Ukrainians have been so successful. ‘Russia has been fighting for many years in many different countries. They have books on military tactics.
‘But in every place, we Ukrainians have different soldiers, with different skill-sets using different tactics. That’s why it’s hard for the Russians to work us out. We fight in unexpected ways.
‘For example, military doctrine says that you never launch an offensive without air cover. But we don’t have enough planes, so all our offensives start on foot.’
More outgoing artillery fire cracks through the forest and Anton tells me what it is like to live with the constant fear of death. ‘People from outside imagine we are crazy, because they don’t understand the context of our jokes. But without fun, you cannot survive. Also we do not have psychopaths here who, from birth, love to kill people.’ ‘Is that what the Russians are?’ I ask. ‘Maybe all of them,’ he laughs.
My military liaison, Mykola, interrupts. ‘I want to make one thing clear: in this unit there are ethnic Russians, but they don’t love to kill. Stalin was a Georgian — what difference did it make? None. The difference is not ethnicity, but the Russian mentality.’
The Russians have lost many more, though. Artem explains why he thinks the Ukrainians have been so successful
These soldiers are tough men from tough places. Artem comes from Kamyanka, riddled with more landmines than anywhere else in Europe. When he was a child, he says, he liked nothing better than hunting for World War II bombs and mines and throwing them onto a fire to watch them explode.
The fighting has intensified with the start of the counter-offensive. Recently, the brigade received an order to destroy a Russian tank a kilometre away. But the real threat has been drones.
Viktor, a grey-haired soldier — soon to be 55 — has been sitting with us quietly drinking coffee from a tin cup. Now he chips in to explain just how dangerous drones have made things on the front.
‘The Russians use all different types,’ he says. ‘Some small intelligence-gathering ones with excellent cameras, they fly 6 to 8 kilometres above so you cannot see them. Sometimes they use quadcopters that hover just 50 metres in the air. The problem is that if the tank engine is on you can’t hear them.
‘Usually, we can work out that there is a drone overhead if, when we change positions, the Russian artillery changes with us and continues to fire accurately on us. Then, even if we cannot see it, we know it’s there.’
Anton takes up the theme. He’s lucky to be alive, he tells me. ‘One day a Russian drone flew over and located the position of our tank. For around two hours we were trying to evade it, but we just couldn’t.’
He adds: ‘Then the engine cut out. I was desperately trying to restart it — but nothing worked. I thought it was the end. Finally it started, and we got moving. We advanced a few metres and then came across a huge tangle of smouldering debris from an artillery strike. If the engine hadn’t cut out, we would have been there — we’d all be dead. The tank breaking down saved our lives.’
Viktor, a grey-haired soldier — soon to be 55 — has been sitting with us quietly drinking coffee from a tin cup
Anton looks off into the distance, laughing to himself. How do they handle the searing emotion of war? ‘Emotional people make mistakes,’ says Artem. ‘In war, to be a good soldier you need to be calm to make an impact. That is one big difference between us and the Russians in how we fight. Sometimes, we shoot 100 shells in a day. It’s very intense and you need to be calm at all times.’
Anton rolls up his sleeve to show me the tattoo on his right bicep. It’s a grenade with three phrases wrapped around it. They are lyrics from the song For Ukraine: ‘For honour. For glory. For the people.’
He has, he tells me, a message for the Russians: ‘If you want to get out of here alive — run.’
It’s time to leave the base. Artem has been drinking tea, but now he has something to say.
‘For many years after World War II we thought we would never see war like this again. It was like a mantra or a prayer you said to a fairy godmother. But as we now see, war can return in any part of the world, at any time.’
He pauses to think and leaves me with a last thought. ‘I want to tell you that we are very grateful for all the help Great Britain has given to Ukraine. And I would also like to tell the British people to remember our stories, because if we don’t beat the Russians here, they will never, ever stop.’
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