The house was one of the few in Bakhmut that still had a roof. Rucksacks, rifles and dirty clothes were strewn across the floor. Stepan wished he was alone in the makeshift base, and tried to block out the chatter of the dozen or so other soldiers. He had not washed or shaved for weeks. His clothes were almost black – encrusted in the heat with sweat, blood and mud. An itchy rash had spread all over his body, but Stepan had decided he wasn’t going to clean himself until this was all over. He couldn’t imagine when that would be.
From August 2022 to May 2023, Bakhmut was the site of ferocious fighting between Russia and Ukraine. Stepan had just spent two hellish weeks on the front line, before managing to drag himself back to base. Now he’d been ordered to return to the meat grinder. “I lost faith and I lost hope and I certainly lost trust in any of the commanders,” he said.
He went down into the pitch-black cellar which served as a dormitory. The air was close and smelled of mould. He lay on a bunk and closed his eyes – but he could not sleep, despite the fact that he had been awake for days. Eventually he got out of bed, returned upstairs and sat by himself at the table, trying to put his mind in order. He thought of the cross he always wore around his neck, which he had lost wading through a swamp. The next day he would be expected to take part in an assault on the Ukrainian trenches. “I knew I would not come out alive.” | | |
