DJ and Skif are soldiers from the Third Battalion of Ukraine’s Volunteer Army, deployed in an unnamed village along the Zaporizhia front. They hold the explanation for why last summer’s Ukrainian offensive yielded such limited gains. Although Kiev’s forces managed to push Russian troops back at this point along the contact line, the entire area the Ukrainians advanced through was strewn with dense minefields. Once a new position was secured, progress forward remained practically impossible. Now, as they approach the positions they had seized in earlier months, they must traverse several kilometers along narrow roads lined with vast stretches of explosives on both sides. The result is a vulnerable stance, easy prey for enemy artillery.
Around midnight yesterday, ten members of a neighboring unit, a group of twelve that was rotating, were killed after Russian forces tracked and bombarded them, explains DJ, detailing the day-to-day realities in this part of the front. If the defending forces cannot even ensure regular relief for troops in the first line, the prospect of meaningful advances appears almost fanciful. Neither DJ nor Skif, who sits beside him, will call last summer’s movements a failure. They point to a measured success: Robotinye was liberated. Contrary to press reports, the goal in this contact zone did not involve reaching the sea or breaking the land corridor between Crimea and the Donbas into Russian control. The objective, they say, was to reach Tokmak, forty kilometers to the south, from which artillery with a thirty-kilometer range could disrupt Russian supply lines.
Explosive minefields laid by Russian troops in southern Ukraine aim to prevent Kiev’s forces from reclaiming lost ground and have helped make the country the most mined place on the planet. Mines may be arranged like a chessboard with three meters between each mine or in a line closing a path with just a few centimeters separating devices. They can combine anti-personnel mines such as the POM-2, a terror device with a cylindrical body and six stabilizing legs that detonates under only about 350 grams of pressure, creating shrapnel, or small PFN-1 anti-personnel mines measuring roughly 12 by 6 centimeters. Although they rarely kill outright, they can force amputations. What angers DJ and Skif most is the minimal risk to invading troops when planting bombs across the southern steppes of Ukraine and the relatively little effort required to do so. Russia’s army operates weapons like the BM27 Uragan launch system, which can scatter mines over wide areas at random. Government estimates put mined land at about 174,000 square kilometers, with reversing the situation likely to take decades.
Artillery, ammunition, attacks
In spite of the front’s specifics—where Russian forces have marshaled every resource to prevent Ukraine from breaking the continuity of occupied territories—the only tangible gains for the invaders have been modest. The requests directed at partners mirror the same refrain: more artillery, more ammunition, more tanks. Skif repeats the disadvantage of firing far fewer artillery rounds than the opposing side. Not long ago, he bought his own rifle, and the unit’s mortar dates from 1943, he laments.
Yet the Third Battalion of Ukraine’s Volunteer Army can still claim a notable advantage: foresight. They anticipated the hardship and the looming disaster as early as 2014 during Maidán. “We knew a confrontation with Russia was inevitable, so we began forming our own units because there was no reliable army, and we did not trust that the government understood the scale of the challenge ahead,” DJ explains. Today, though they remain a volunteer corps, they do not receive salaries and rely on limited weaponry from authorities. Still, they stand as one of the most experienced units in Ukraine, capable of training new recruits. They acknowledge the war will be lengthy, but they remain convinced that victory will favor Ukraine. “This war will last, but we will win,” Skif concludes.