Andriy & Vita’s Frontline Diary. Day 9

Day 9

Today might be our last day on assignment with Andriy. We’ve already abandoned hopes of reaching the “zero line,” are still searching for fiber-optic drones (though we don’t have much faith in finding them), and continue collecting small stories for new segments.

We visited the infantrymen of the 24th Mechanized Brigade, currently defending Chasiv Yar. They told us that due to the threat of drones, they sometimes have to remain in position for over 100 days.

Company commander Alpinist explains that many soldiers don’t even want to rotate out—every changeover, every movement is a huge risk for everyone. The troops nod in agreement: it’s better to stay on the “zero line” longer and then get an extended rest than to repeatedly risk their lives entering and exiting.

A soldier with the callsign “Shakal” shares his experience of his first combat deployment, which lasted an astonishing 75 days. He was sent to the front lines on November 2 of last year and was only pulled out on January 17. I imagine myself alongside him, covering the story. I admit that I wouldn’t have lasted two and a half months in such conditions. His comrade, an infantryman with the callsign “Kachenya”, chuckles.

“It’s fine. You just need two days to adapt, and then you get used to it,” he tells me.

We traveled to Kostyantynivka, now just 10 kilometers from the front line. Today alone, Russian forces dropped four aerial bombs on the city, killing civilians. Enemy FPV drones, hunting Ukrainian soldiers who remain in the area, also reach here. Some units relocate to the neighboring town of Druzhkivka, which is slightly farther from the frontline.

Druzhkivka isn’t much safer. The city regularly endures missile strikes, guided aerial bombs, artillery fire, and drone attacks. Unlike in Kostyantynivka, however, many locals—including children—still remain. As we pass by the Mound of Glory (a military memorial in Druzhkivka), we see a group of teenagers sledding. They slide down a steep, snow-covered slope and skid onto the road. Most drivers slow down, but I still worry—both for the kids and for Andriy, who is standing dangerously close to the intersection, trying to capture the perfect shot.

Today, Frontliner published images of the F-16 we saw a few days ago. Andriy’s footage has spread across the internet, picked up by major media outlets and independent journalists alike.

“Do you know what a reliable source is?” the editor-in-chief asks me.
“Andriy Dubchak?” I reply playfully.

He smiles and explains that professional editorial teams only share information from sources they trust. As an independent media outlet, Frontliner has earned that trust.

We have one more interview to record, and tomorrow we plan to head home. On our way back through the Kharkiv region, we might visit a few more units, but for now, our work in the Donetsk region is done. The earliest we’ll return is March, once we receive clearance again.

Our Instagram post about the F-16.

Media outlets and journalists who shared the photos: Ukrainska Pravda, NV, and the Telegram channel “Tsapliyenko”

Day 8

Today’s plan was simple: pause, take a breath, and sift through the material we’d gathered. Yesterday, the 24th Mechanized Brigade invited us to film a self-propelled artillery unit in action. I secretly hoped Andriy would turn it down. Not because it lacked significance—far from it—but because self-propelled artillery had been documented a hundred times over. Finding a fresh angle, a story that hadn’t already been told, felt like trying to carve new meaning into old stone.

At breakfast, we met with Andriy’s friend, Taras Ibrahimov, a journalist from Suspilne news outlet. By sheer coincidence, Taras was headed to film the same artillery crew. I watched Andriy hesitate—perhaps it was worth going after all? But after a moment’s deliberation, he shook his head. The footage wouldn’t justify the effort.

For a week now, we’ve been chasing shadows—fiber-optic drones, elusive and intangible. Some brigades have them, but access is another matter. Either they can’t show them to us, or they won’t. We’ve gathered a wealth of material on UAVs, yet without footage of fiber-optic technology and ground-based drones, the picture feels incomplete. Every lead dissolves before we can grasp it.

By evening, we had joined the online editorial meeting. Liza, our operations director, reminded us—gently but firmly—of the budget constraints pressing in like unseen walls. Independent media lives on the knife’s edge. We have 24 hours to find a story, something worth staying for. If we come up empty, we pack up and head home.

Day 7

After seven days of nonstop work, exhaustion is beginning to set in. We returned to the training grounds this morning, visiting the 93rd Brigade “Kholodnyi Yar.” We had hoped to reach the front lines, but enemy drones have made it too dangerous. Journalists could observe battles from the trenches in the past—now, that’s nearly impossible. Ukrainian and Russian forces constantly monitor enemy positions from the sky, so making any movement is a significant risk.

We considered spending the night in a bunker with UAV operators, but how can photographs from inside a shelter genuinely convey that we are just a few hundred meters from Russian positions? And, more importantly, is it worth the risk?

Later, we arrived at the special battalion Alcatraz training session—a unit composed entirely of former prisoners. They came from different backgrounds, served different sentences, and ended up in prison for various reasons. But here, they are all equal. By joining the Armed Forces of Ukraine, they have shed the stigma of incarceration and become soldiers eager to prove themselves in battle. Their commanders say they are highly motivated. This was evident in private conversations, even without officers present. Today’s training focuses on tactical medicine.

We also met the battalion’s new medic, a Canadian woman named April, who signed a contract with the brigade two months ago. For two years, she supported Ukraine as a volunteer—raising funds from Canada before traveling here at the end of 2022 to provide hands-on aid. Seeing the devastation caused by the Russian army, she realized how much more she could do on the ground. April hasn’t been home in over a year, leaving behind her three children.

“My kids have everything. They are incredibly privileged—unlike Ukrainian children, who have seen nothing but war,” she tells us.

At first glance, her decision to serve in the Ukrainian army might seem impulsive. But April insists this is where she belongs. She speaks about Canadian consumerism, the “sweet oblivion” of North America, Russian imperialism and terror, and the deep sense of brotherhood she has found in the Ukrainian military. We must figure out the best way to share her story with our readers.

We spent several hours with April and the Alcatraz battalion—warming ourselves by the fire, tasting army rations. Under the bright sun, surrounded by soldiers, fatigue seems to fade even more.
As evening falls, we return to Kramatorsk. Andriy buys a kettle—we’ll leave it as a thank-you gift in the apartment where his friend has generously let us stay for free. With grant funding temporarily suspended, we have to be frugal, relying on the kindness of friends. I buy myself a hairdryer, and tonight, for the first time in a week, I will finally be able to wash my hair.

Day 6

I woke up to a message from Denys, the press officer of the 37th Marine Brigade, with whom we had scheduled a morning meeting. He informed me that due to unforeseen circumstances, we had to adjust our work plan. This was the second consecutive day that our plans had been disrupted, but in war, that’s just how things go.

Reaching the meeting point now required a three-hour drive instead of two, even though the distance was only 150 kilometers. Denys had warned us that the roads were in rough shape, making fast travel impossible. But Andrii saw it as another opportunity to test his studded tires. Despite stretches of solid ice and deep potholes, the tires held firm. We left a little later than planned, yet still managed to grab coffee twice, take a few photos along the way, and arrive at our destination right on time.

The east is growing colder. The coffee we had left in the car overnight had frozen solid. Under the bright sun, the snow glittered, and the sky was completely clear—except for a thick column of smoke rising on the horizon, somewhere in the direction of Pokrovsk, which the Russians were relentlessly turning into hell.

After meeting with Denys, we had a short break for lunch. We quickly ate some shashlik and pilaf, fed a local cat, and then headed out to observe a drone training session.

We met with the UAV crew to watch them test the “Heavy Shot,” a large strike drone. As the team launched it, a deep roar suddenly filled the air. We looked up to see a plane on the horizon. It turned and flew toward us. Andrii raised his camera just in time to capture the moment—an American F-16 fighter jet slicing through the sky.

“He’s stirring up trouble for the occupiers,” Andrii said with a satisfied smile.

During the test, the “Heavy Shot” was supposed to drop two shells. It flew about a hundred meters away, and we instinctively took cover behind the cars—just in case. A blast echoed across the field. The drone was quickly recalled to base, hovering right above us with a steady buzz. A sudden wave of anxiety hit me—had it definitely released both shells?

After filming, we made a brief stop to visit my father, who also serves in the 37th Brigade. We had just enough time for a quick coffee and a 15-minute conversation before heading back out. The last time we saw each other was in November—a surprisingly frequent visit, given the realities of war.

Driving back to Kramatorsk along the dark, battered road, two sudden flashes lit up the horizon. Andrii, an experienced war reporter, instinctively started counting seconds out loud to estimate the distance of the strike. But this time, no sound followed. He guessed they might have been KAB bombs, the kind Russians often drop in pairs.

Day 5

Today, we had planned to film Kurt, the commander of the “Kurt & Company” unit of the 28th Brigade. But in the early hours, he called to cancel—the bright sunlight had thrown off their schedule. Instead, he invited us to a training ground to witness the first exercises of a new recruit.

We set out at noon, grabbing coffee, throwing bulletproof vests and helmets into the car. The snow still clung to the ground, reaching our ankles, and the cold had only sharpened. In the open, frozen expanse, warmth slipped away easily—especially in standard leather boots. It was my first winter journey to the front, and my footwear wasn’t suited for the task. To ward off the chill, I packed chemical hand warmers and shared them with Andriy.

The training ground was nestled in a ravine near Kramatorsk. Today’s session was for “Franco,” a 19-year-old who had joined the unit just two days ago. Small and wiry, he was swallowed by an oversized uniform, ill-fitting and worn from basic training. Seeing him like this, “Kurt’s” frustration bubbled over—how had the state failed to provide a soldier even a properly fitting uniform? After 45 days of training, the boy was agonizingly unprepared.

“Franco” had fired 627 rounds in training, but today, “Kurt” was teaching him the fundamentals: how to stand in a firing stance, how to execute tactical movements. The boy couldn’t even adjust his helmet properly or secure his bulletproof vest. His medical kit slipped off within minutes.

“I wouldn’t respect myself if I sent a soldier to war like this,” “Kurt” said. “The army’s training system is outdated. It’s a waste.”

For every mistake, “Franco” had to do ten push-ups. Each time, “Kurt” dropped down beside him, pushing through the reps together. After a dozen rounds, even Andriy couldn’t hold back—out of solidarity, he joined them on the ground.

Then, suddenly—gunfire. Tracer rounds streaked through the sky.

“Drone,” “Kurt” ordered.

His soldiers immediately took cover behind bushes, weapons trained skyward. We crouched low behind a slope. A few quick shots, and the drone darted away toward Kramatorsk. “Kurt” suspected it was an enemy scout.

By nightfall, we were driving back along the icy roads, the cold creeping into the car, discussing the systemic problems soldiers had shared with us—corruption in the General Staff, tensions between reserve officers and those battle-hardened on the frontlines.

Now, we face a difficult choice. Do we remain silent about these failures to protect morale? Or do we expose them, knowing the cost may be accusations of “sowing defeatism”?

Perhaps two years ago, silence seemed a necessity. But today, we’re living with the consequences of that very silence.

Day 4

Today, we are waiting for the military’s permission to speak with several units. Waiting is part of the routine—combat is not a spectacle, and things rarely go according to plan.

In the meantime, we continued interviewing locals on the topic before heading to Dobropillia to meet our camerawoman, Nadiya. For the past two weeks, she has been filming a documentary in this small frontline town about former prisoners fighting in the Da Vinci Battalion. The filming hasn’t gone as planned either—nearly all the soldiers, including Nadiya, fell ill, spending several days battling a fever of 40°C. She was supposed to return home a week and a half ago, but she’s still waiting for the chance to film a soldier currently deployed on the ground.

On the way to Dobropillia, we tested a drone detector. The device beeped intermittently as I tried to decipher its signals from the manual. The farther we moved from Kramatorsk, the more frequently it detected the 0.9 GHz frequency—used by Orlan, Zala, and Lancet drones, large reconnaissance and kamikaze UAVs capable of long-range flights. Yet, even with the manual, we couldn’t determine how far away these deadly drones were or if they were directly overhead.

In Dobropillia, Nadiya introduced us to Vadym, the chief sergeant of the Da Vinci Battalion. At 27, he has been fighting in this war since the days of the Anti-Terrorist Operation. He recalled his participation in the 2018 operation to liberate Pivdenne, a village near Horlivka. Turns out, Andriy had also been there, covering the battle as a journalist. Back then, it seemed like a major operation to him—but now, comparing it to the scale of today’s war, he smiles bitterly.

“They didn’t even fire mortars there,” he tells me.

In the morning, Donetsk was covered in snow. By evening, the roads had turned to ice, forcing cars to crawl at 50 km/h. Andriy, however, took great pride in the fact that he had studded tires.

Day 3

We have to eat breakfast in the car after a long workday and a short night’s sleep. I chew on a pie while Andriy fuels up with a sugary cappuccino—his way of getting a quick energy boost. I call it doping or, in gamer terms, cheating.

We’re on our way to Kramatorsk train station, where trains from Kyiv and Lviv arrive. Here, soldiers wait for their loved ones, holding bouquets. For safety, the platform is shielded on both sides by freight cars—to provide cover in case of shelling.

A young soldier, Bohdan, tells us we should jump under those cars if anything happens. He anxiously waits for his pregnant wife, who is on her way to frontline Kramatorsk despite his pleas to stay in Kyiv. Bohdan says attacks on the city have intensified in recent months. Just yesterday, Russian forces struck an industrial building near the station.

We also meet another soldier—Vadym. With a mischievous grin, he “secretly” shares his plan: today, he will propose to his girlfriend. As she steps off the train, he leads her to his car, then suddenly drops on one knee in the parking lot. Maybe our presence, with cameras in hand, gave him an extra push to seize the moment. By evening, we post their photos on Instagram, and Nataliia, his fiancée messages us with thanks—then invites us to their wedding. They plan to marry after the war.

Later, we set out to answer our readers’ questions about how Ukrainians feel about a possible freeze in the war. Vadym says if the terms resemble 2014, he’ll leave the country. However, if Ukraine wins, he, a professional builder, will stay to help rebuild. Others we interview say their only wish after the fighting ends is to embrace their loved ones on the front lines and honor the memory of the fallen. That says a lot about Ukrainians. Of course, we’d love to celebrate victory loudly—but more than anything, we want our people to come home.

After submitting our texts, photos, and videos to the editorial team, we head to see “Kurt,” who has invited us to celebrate a soldier’s birthday. The birthday boy—call sign “Mammoth”—turns 25 today. His commander chuckles as he recalls how Mammoth first joined their unit, calling him a “sugar-coated donut.” Today, this “donut” is an effective warrior.

Meanwhile, Russian forces attack Kostyantynivka daily—it’s just 20 kilometers from us and 10 from the front line. Kramatorsk also comes under fire every few days.

Day 2

Asleep in Sloviansk, I was distracted every half minute by the rumble outside the window. Artillery? Air defense? I tried to discern the dull and distant sound. Finally, I realized that it was a colleague in the next room snoring, tired from a long day on the road.

In the morning, Andriy and I set off to Izium to visit the heroine of my story – Nadia, the owner of the “Rodzynka” store. She boasted that our publication had made her famous. Now, she proudly donates to Frontliner. As ever, Nadia has no doubts about Ukraine’s victory in the war. For her, fate is in God’s hands, perhaps even through the will of the American president.

After saying goodbye to Nadia, we set out to film the surrounding villages that were damaged during the fighting in 2022. While waiting for a meeting with our another story’s protagonist – Kurt, a commander of one of the 28th Brigade’s units, we shared a bowl of shurpa. We only got to the unit’s base in the evening.

Meeting “Kurt” was like something out of a movie. When we entered the room, he was sitting with his back to us, smoking a cigarette, watching football, and cursing at the popular Ukrainian player Artem Dovbyk.

Lining the wall, a rack held dozens of drones, drop blanks, and an assortment of gear—each meticulously labeled in a cipher only they understood, everything in perfect order. Above some of the soldiers’ bunks, eerie depictions of devils stared down. “Kurt’s” personal system, a quiet joke among the unit—his way of marking those he occasionally had to “strongly encourage” to wash.

We talked to him for several hours about everything: Donald Trump’s inauguration, the war’s freezing, President Volodymyr Zelensky, his advisers, the lack of training for mobilized soldiers, and the criminal orders of the higher command. “Kurt” is convinced: if there is a truce now, in 5-7 years Russia will attack again, and they will have to fight again. He’s convinced that Ukrainians won’t take the hard lessons to heart, nor will they use this time to prepare for another invasion. And if it comes, “Kurt” believes, we’ll lose the entire Left Bank. I asked if such thoughts should be voiced publicly. He seemed almost offended by the question.

“Of course, we need to talk about it. How else?”

Day 1

Andriy and I met in Kharkiv. He hadn’t slept much the night before—first because of Russian ballistic strikes over Kyiv, then because of his two-month-old son, Ivan.

We left the city of ‘reinforced concrete’ around 9 p.m. Heading east on roads Andriy knows by heart, he took in the sight of the rebuilt bridges.

“Our guys blew them up when the Russians advanced. Now they can attack again,” he remarked darkly.
Near Izyum, I was struck by the sight of new fortifications. Why only now? And why here? Does this mean the Ukrainian army is preparing to retreat that far?

We drove into Dolyna, a village in Donetsk Oblast that was at the heart of the 2022 battles. Not a single house remains intact. Not even a street feels alive. The village is scorched, and abandoned—a place wiped off the map.

We moved cautiously, keeping to the road. The roadsides are still riddled with mines.

Under the full moon, Dolyna looks like a fever dream—an eerie, post-apocalyptic landscape straight out of STALKER. Andriy says the ‘Russian world’ brings only destruction—and occasionally, striking scenery for photographers.

Then, in this desolate exclusion zone, we noticed something unexpected. Smoke curling from a chimney. A flicker of TV light in a window. Someone is here. Who? And how do they survive in this wasteland?

As we pressed on, I scrolled through the news. US President Donald Trump’s warm exchange with Russian dictator Vladimir Putin and his latest statements did little to inspire confidence—either for us or for the soldiers on the front line. The situation remains precarious.

Text: Вікторія Калімбет & Photo: Андрій Дубчак