A Ukraine novelist writes his own soldier story

[David Lockmiller]

In Bakhmut, where I served in May, the unit I commanded was given the task of building a combat position on the outskirts of the city, but everything was changing very quickly. The Russians captured the rest of the city and most of the Ukrainian units left. Suddenly we found ourselves in a trap — there was no one to cover us.

Seeking protection, I lay down in a tiny trench. I spent five days in that tomb waiting for death. For 115 hours, I lay in this four-foot-deep hole and looked up at the clear sky, wincing at the explosions next to me. All around was pure hell.

I was lying at the bottom of my grave thinking that, even though I had accepted my death long ago, I was still not prepared for this death right now. My wife doesn’t know how to pay utility bills, I didn’t leave her my email and internet banking passwords, and there are parcels in the mail that I didn’t have time to inform her about.

At the same time, I thought about what I would do if I survived. There is such a possibility — to survive. Well, then, I will write a message. I will say: My love, I survived. But it was difficult to think about a happy ending. I preferred dreaming about my death, when, soaked to the bone by the rain, after falling asleep for an hour under the cannonade, I would be killed by a Russian mine.

When the fifth day came to an end, heavy rain suddenly began, an almost tropical torrent. The shelling stopped for the first time. And the walkie-talkie, whose batteries hadn’t quite run out, rang with the command to leave.

So I left. Under a downpour, thirsty, wet, exhausted, having lost seven kilograms of body weight and all ammunition, but still carrying my weapon. When we got 15 kilometers from the front line, I wrote to my wife: "My love, I survived. I still have a hard time believing it."