Dobropillia, a Ghost Town at the Edge of the Front
The car speeds headlong past the last checkpoint. The plains of Donbas stretch out silently. The blur of yellow sunflower fields reflects the blazing sun. Columns of smoke quiver in the dry air, faint scars poorly stitched into a flat sky. The road is deserted. The front is close, and danger outruns the front.
For several weeks now, the T05, the logistical lifeline between Kramatorsk and Dobropillia, has been inaccessible. The rapid change in front lines now makes it possible for Russian kamikaze drones to attack the section. Charred metal carcasses litter the roadsides, marking the sites with a silent warning. Only a few daredevils venture there today, with the speedometer needle stuck at 160 km/h in the hope of passing between the propellers of enemy aircraft.
Faced with the paralysing threat from the air, rigid pillars now rise at intervals along the highway. Small teams are busy on the burning asphalt. Wounded soldiers unfit for combat, they still contribute to the war effort here, untangling repurposed fishing nets. Like a colony of spiders, they slowly weave a translucent corridor above the road. Rudimentary protection, certainly, but Russian drones often get tangled in the military web.
The installation is dangerous. Vassily, 39, is in charge of protecting one of the groups. He scans the skies with the same hunting rifle his grandfather once taught him to hunt with as a teen. A small frequency detector is attached to his bulletproof vest, topped with two antennas. It picks up the drones' command signals and vibrates when they approach. The team then takes refuge in the woods, and Vassily goes hunting. Two days ago, he shot down five that were attacking his section. And it is at the end of this road from which some never return that Dobropillia waits on borrowed time.
Summer is difficult in the Donbas. The advance of Russian troops in the Donetsk Oblast, in eastern Ukraine, has broken the balance of a previously static front line. Yesterday, after more than 400 days of fighting, Chasiv Yar succumbed to the Kremlin's assaults. Tricolour flags now fly over most of the region's major population centres. In the city of Pokrovsk, witness of the year’s most violent clashes, Ukrainian forces are losing ground to an infantry that is advancing without regard for casualties. Sector by sector, street by street. Here, people say that the city will fall in the coming weeks, despite its heroic resistance.
Dobropillia is holding its breath. A small mining town now about ten kilometres from the front line, it lies in the path of Russian forces after Pokrovsk. From the top of the Khrushchevkas on the outskirts of the town, you can see the titanic slag heap rising in the blinding light of late July. For several weeks now, Russian drones have been buzzing over the town's main thoroughfares. About twenty a day, sometimes more. They are searching for targets, which often turns out to be civilian.
We meet Fire, a drone operator who has been in the army since the start of the large-scale invasion of the country, in a café in the town centre, right next to the central drag. A young waitress with scarlet lipstick and perfectly defined eyelashes stands casually behind the counter. She listens distractedly to the hit song Alors on Danse by Belgian singer Stromae on the radio. Despite the growing danger and the proximity of the fighting, nothing here betrays the war.
All smiles, Fire waits for us by a large glass window overlooking the boulevard, an absurdly exposed position. A young man in his thirties, he sports a red beard and, like many in his battalion, has shaved off his moustache in current military fashion. His right temple is covered with a surgical bandage. ‘Car accident,’ he tells us, before proudly showing us on his phone the pile of scrap metal that was, just three days ago, his vehicle. On leave in the city, he is resting away from the front. ‘I'm going back tomorrow, to Rodynske, right above Pokrovsk.’
We are currently just a few kilometres from his new positions. The fighting is fierce, and the Russians are close. To the crossfire of street fighting are added the constant dangers of drones overhead. Infiltrations are increasingly dangerous. A month ago, his Hummer was hit by an enemy drone. The explosion knocked out the three soldiers in his team, and battling through a severe contusion, Fire brought them to safety. ‘Russian infiltrators are everywhere,’ he says of the situation at the front. ‘Every day, houses change hands. We no longer know who is with us and who is against us.’ The confusion caused by the rapid advance of Russian troops only increases the risks. ‘Now we're escorted into position by infantrymen armed with heavy machine guns.’ Last week, a Ukrainian walked into a Russian position thinking they were friendlies. “They gunned him down when they realised”, he says as he lets out a sigh.
From the café window, cars fleeing the city rush by. Mattresses and cardboard boxes are piled on the roofs. In view of the situation along the T05, a special evacuation route has been set up south of the city.
The city's Soviet apartment complexes are emptying, and the flow of people to the large cities of the neighbouring Oblasts of Dnipropetrovsk and Zaporizhzhia is intensifying. Many have already left. In the courtyards, families jostle to fill trucks. Entire lives are hastily sealed shut in cardboard boxes. From her folding chair, 66-year-old Galina watches sadly as the boxes are carried out of the family apartment, nervously playing with her wedding ring. The matriarch has known only Dobropillia since 1991. ‘We were happy here,’ she manages to tell us, before collapsing into the arms of her daughter Natalia, also in tears. Natalia makes one last trip up to the family home. ‘How did we get here? It's a tragedy’ she finally says as she contemplates the empty floors. Downstairs, the truck is almost full. The air conditioning units are loaded last and placed next to children's bicycles. With a dry clatter, the metal roller closes over the back of the vehicle. Less than a kilometers away, a kamikaze drone explodes. It’s time to go.
These empty flats are nevertheless finding new occupants. Close to the front line, soldiers find refuge there. Fire is one of them. Climbing into an elevator worn down by years of use and made unreliable by frequent power cuts, he takes us to the top floor. The neighbouring apartment has been destroyed by a recent strike. Toys litter the floor, and shreds of curtains flutter weakly in the breeze. The rumble of artillery positions surrounding the city is constant. ‘It's very dangerous here, but the view is beautiful,’ he says with a laugh. In his apartment, Fire prepares to return to the front. An assault rifle and bulletproof vest are leaning against the window. He receives a video call from the owner of the flat, who recently fled to neighbouring Dnipro. He has left behind some family photos of sentimental value. For about ten minutes, the soldier paces around the apartment to make sure he doesn't forget anything. Once he has made his selection, he will send them by post before he leaves for the front. He promised it.
On the other side of town, a parallel exodus is taking place. The Dobropillia civilian hospital, the last one still operating so close to the fighting, is closing its doors in two days. In the deserted corridors, boxes of medicines and medical equipment are hastily piled up. Rows of stretchers stained with old blood stand at attention in the courtyard. Most of the staff have been evacuated, and only a few patients remain. This morning, the last operation before the closure took place. Sergei, 51, is a maintenance worker in the municipality of Rodynske. He was hit by an FPV while riding his bicycle to work. ‘Before, the drones would circle above me and fly away when they saw that I was a civilian.’ This time, the enemy operator was not so merciful. But Sergei considers himself lucky. ‘A good pilot would have killed me instantly.’ The drone exploded next to him, injuring his leg. He is already able to get up. Tomorrow, he is leaving for Dnipro.
Doctor Igor Alexandrovich, one of the last remaining staff members, is exhausted. At 66, he was looking forward to a peaceful retirement. Now he is slumped in his office on the second floor. ‘It's become too dangerous,’ he says with a sigh, staring distractedly out the window. The entire hospital is being transferred to the neighbouring oblast, more than 150 kilometers away. Like many, he is leaving behind everything with little hope of coming back. All the tearful last glances on a city which has been a home to thousands are another aspect of the war. But they have seen what the Russians will do if they stay. Their lives here were lived on borrowed time. Now, they have no choice but to walk away.
Deep State Map - 08/07/2024