"I remember the smell of burnt bodies and glass wool falling on my body like a thousand needles." The story of Kraft, an Azov soldier who survived the attack in Olenivka
Source: Ukrainska Pravda
Author: Olena Barsukova
"I think what I remember most is the smell. An indescribable, almost poisonous smell of smoke and burnt bodies," says 23-year-old Azov fighter "Kraft," recalling the night he survived two years ago.
He chose the call sign “Kraft” in honor of his favorite game, Minecraft. He celebrated his 20th birthday at a training course for young soldiers, his 21st at a training ground, his 22nd in captivity, and his 23rd in the Kreminna forests. The young Azov soldier has already endured extremely difficult battles in Mariupol, a terrorist attack in Olenivka, and a serious injury.
On the night of July 28–29, 2022, Russia blew up the so-called “Barrack 200,” where 193 captured Azov soldiers had been deliberately transferred. Fifty-three of them were killed.
Two years after this bloody crime, none of the occupiers have been punished. The fate of many survivors who remain in captivity is unknown.
"Kraft" was relatively lucky, as he survived and returned home as part of the "major prisoner exchange" on September 21, 2022. A few months later, he returned to active duty and became a UAV operator.
"Kraft" spoke to "Ukrainska Pravda. Life" about the attack on "Barrack 200" and life after the explosion. Below is his account.
Before military service, I was a student, studying cybersecurity at first, then telecommunications and radio engineering. In 2020, I realized that something was about to happen, so I initially went to the military department, but after seeing those majors, I decided to join Azov. I had friends there, and I ended up with great commanders.
For me, the defense of Mariupol began on the coast of the Azov Sea. We were constantly doing drills and training. So in February 2022, we left with neighboring National Guard units, stood on the coast for a few days, watched the ships, and then returned to the garrison.
On February 22, we were told that there would most likely be a full mobilization. I sent some of my belongings home, keeping only the essentials. On February 24, we were woken up about 10 minutes before the first strikes hit Ukrainian territory. I put the coffee on, took a shower, started getting dressed, and heard explosions. Once we were ready, we moved out to the “Sxidnyi” neighborhood and held our defenses there until around March 5.
Then we had to pull back into the city center so we’d have enough forces to hold our positions, while using mobile groups to destroy the enemy’s equipment and manpower. We moved to Azovstal at the end of April, among the last to do so.
I started out as a squad leader, then became a platoon leader, but I was wounded and had to spend about two weeks at the command post, helping the commander direct the battle.
Once I had recovered a bit, I began carrying out special missions involving position reconnaissance, assault operations, reconnaissance, and mining. We fought the occupiers for every street, for every district.
The intensity of the artillery fire wasn’t very high when we were in close proximity to the enemy. But once we entered the Azovstal territory, not even five minutes would pass without something landing on the plant grounds. And they were bombing civilians.
On the night of May 14 or 15, our commander came and said that, most likely, the only chance to save our wounded was to surrender. I had plans to leave Azovstal on my own; I had plenty of resources, but I asked the people I respected what they intended to do.
They said it was better to go with everyone else so as not to endanger the rest of our men and so the Russians wouldn’t do anything to our wounded.
Then I opened my backpack with the snacks, and we’d been eating them over the last few days. Porridge, soups, instant noodles—this was a reserve I’d kept untouched in case we had to go to Zaporizhzhia. I felt no emotions: they had run out after the first losses of my comrades.
On May 20, we arrived at the colony. For about a day, the colony staff searched us, recorded our information, and assigned us to barracks. Our barrack, which was designed for 50 people, held over 300. Luckily, they didn’t take my sleeping bag and mat, so I slept outside.
The food was terrible in the first few weeks because the kitchen wasn’t prepared for that many people. We might have breakfast at six in the morning and lunch at midnight or two in the morning the next day.
Over time, things settled down, and we started eating more or less normally and interacting more with each other. We found books, played chess, made cards, and tried to keep ourselves busy during all our free time just to keep from going crazy.
In the early days, they didn’t search us as thoroughly, so the guys managed to bring in a lot of great books from Ukrainian publishers, including plenty of Ukrainian and world literature.
Sometimes there were sympathetic staff members who let us take one or two books with us from the club where interrogations were conducted by FSB agents or representatives of the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation. There were also remnants of various fairy tales, textbooks on the Ukrainian language and literature, geography, algebra, and geometry.
The club is one of the buildings on the grounds of the colony in Olenivka. Next to it was a disciplinary isolation unit, where they initially held women, and later anyone who “violated discipline.” There were three barracks where only Azov members lived, and I was in one of them.
My comrades were subjected to torture. As for me personally, I only received a few slaps or kicks in the butt. I wasn’t very interesting to them at the time because, according to the documents, I was listed as a senior soldier. They simply told me: “Write a letter to your commander saying that he ordered you to shoot some civilian or steal something from an apartment, and you’ll be released earlier in the exchange.” I told them that nothing like that had happened and I wouldn’t write anything.
During the first exchange in June, our side handed over convicted Russian soldiers. Then the Russian Investigative Committee arrived and grilled us from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Some were called as witnesses, others as “the main culprits.” These cases were simply made up out of thin air. They were probably offended that we had handed over war criminals to them.
Then they started simply fabricating crimes by unit. They took the artillery and “pinned” all the destroyed buildings on them; they “pinned” the dead—most often families with children—on the reconnaissance units or snipers; and they “pinned” some destroyed museums on the tank crews. They found old women who, for a bag of buckwheat, would testify that they had seen a Ukrainian sniper shoot someone. Their imagination knew no bounds.
The Russians also came up with this trick: they offered prisoners from other units to “cooperate with the investigation” and testify against one of our guys. In return, they were promised a faster exchange or a bigger “ration.” Some prisoners agreed.
A few days before the attack, the Russians came with lists and gathered 50–60 people from each of the three Azov barracks. They brought everyone to the workshop (“Barrack 200”). A work crew of other prisoners who were working there told us that it had been prepared specifically for us. Then the prison warden came and said, “We want to renovate your current barracks, so we’ve moved you here.” We didn’t believe them, because it didn’t make sense. If that were the case, they would have evacuated one barracks, renovated it, and moved people back in. But instead, they just randomly pulled people from different barracks without any pattern. There were commanders, soldiers, artillerymen, scouts, and just people who had been civilians until February 24 and then ended up in our military unit. But they were all Azov fighters.
Conditions in the workshop were terrible; there was very little space. We were practically sleeping on top of each other. It was summer, it was hot… There was no way to wash up. There were two 1,000-liter barrels of water, but there were no taps for them, and on the last day we started setting all that up ourselves.
The day before the attack, they surrounded the fence of our barracks with barbed wire, then moved their observation post—which had been located 30–50 meters from the barracks fence—fortified it, and built trenches there. All of this happened in literally a day and a half.
Whereas previously we were guarded by FSIN employees wearing insignia, on the day of the attack about 10 people in black appeared—unknown individuals in balaclavas without any identifying marks. It’s also interesting that on the last day, an electrician was working on the lighting for us. We were locked up in the exercise yard at the time—we don’t know what they were doing. This was right before lights-out on the day the explosion occurred.
On July 28, 2022, we woke up and went through the usual routine. After dinner, I went to wash up and, as I was walking through the exercise yard, I noticed some kind of drone hovering over our barracks. At the time, I didn’t really know what it was, but I can guess now that it was one of DJI’s “Matrass” drones, because I saw the characteristic green and red lights. That happens when the operator messes up and forgets to switch to stealth mode.
I noticed this and told my comrades. When everyone started looking up, the pilot must have realized something was wrong and turned the lights off after all.
At that moment, a Grad multiple rocket launcher system began firing from the walls of the barracks. This wasn’t new to us, since the Russians were constantly firing Grads from the colony walls. That evening, we were forbidden from hanging out on the street; we were told not to leave the sleeping area—only to go to the bathroom one at a time.
I went to sleep, but woke up from the injury I had sustained and from a second explosion. I sensed something was wrong—I had a hole in my stomach, internal bleeding, and my body was burning. I checked myself and saw that my limbs were intact. Seeing heavy smoke, I realized I had to get out. The room was already ablaze. I saw the charred bodies of my comrades, who had been “melted” into their beds. I saw the fallen “Bashnya” and “August.”
I think what I remember most is the smell. An indescribable, almost poisonous smell of smoke, the smell of charred bodies, bright flames above the roof, and glass wool falling on you like a thousand tiny needles. At some point, it was as if I were in a soundproof bubble, with everything around me in slow motion and me watching from the sidelines. That sensation lasted until the moment they carried me out onto the asphalt.
I called out to my comrade who was running past; he checked me over. By then, the Russians had already started firing into the air. We were forbidden from going behind the curbs and told to lie down on the asphalt so that no one was on the grass. For about an hour, they wouldn’t let the medics near us. I lay there for a very long time.
Then our captured medics showed up; they tried to triage the wounded and provide aid to those who could still be saved. They had minimal supplies of medicine, and these guards threw us only a scrap of a sheet so we could rebandage ourselves.
When I asked if there were any painkillers, they told me there were only cold medicines containing paracetamol. I refused, because it wouldn’t help with injuries like these anyway.
I was second in line for evacuation. My comrade “Lemko” sat next to me, trying to keep me talking so I wouldn’t fall asleep. Around 6 a.m., when it was light outside, they loaded me into a Ural truck. They stacked us in piles and took us to the hospital.
My diagnosis: a penetrating abdominal wound, a grazed pelvic bone, a shrapnel fragment in my right hip joint, numerous burns, and minor shrapnel wounds all over my body. From the surgeons who operated on me, I learned that by the time I arrived, I had just over a liter of blood left. They said: you’re lucky that you’ve been involved in sports your whole life, because your heart kept you alive.
We were fed three times a day, though on weekends the food was worse because when the bosses went home, the kitchen staff would take the food home with them.
The doctors treated us fairly and provided qualified medical care. There were enough painkillers. I even refused them once I got used to them, and only took them before bed if I couldn’t fall asleep.
The young guys from the security battalion were also nice. They were just curious about everything related to Mariupol; they had been somewhat brainwashed by propaganda and asked about “biolabs.”
Some of the elderly cleaning ladies talked about Bandera supporters, Nazis, and fascists. One said, “You killed my son, why should I clean your room?” I replied, “Then don’t clean it.”
Russian journalists came to the hospital to film me, but I don’t remember the first shoot because I was unconscious in the intensive care unit at the time.
We were told that Ukraine had shelled the barracks with HIMARS. But at that point, I didn’t know what HIMARS was, because that weaponry had arrived in Ukraine after we’d been cut off from information. I saw how it worked for the first time when one of the guards showed me a video of a HIMARS destroying a convoy of vehicles. I told him that if it had been a HIMARS, there would have been nothing left of us.
It was immediately clear to us that the Russians had done this. They gathered all of us in one place and fired Grad rockets at us—it was a clear provocation. I believe it was a thermobaric charge that could have been planted while laying electrical lines.
Once, some degenerate—a so-called journalist from a “DNR”-Russian YouTube channel—came to see me. He showed me some interviews with old ladies from the trauma ward of this same hospital, where they were saying that a “sniper had shot their arm.” And he asked me what I thought about it.
I told him that I condemn any unlawful actions by the military against civilians. He didn’t like that. He stormed out of my room and went to hassle his buddy “Masla.”
At Hospital No. 15, I was on the top floor, where the security battalion’s headquarters were located. The most level-headed guard walked into the ward and asked, “Can you handle 12 hours in the ‘Ural’?” I was just starting to walk again after my injury, but I joked, “If it’s for an exchange, I’ll handle it for a whole day. If it’s a transfer to Russia—then no.” He said there would be an exchange and put me on his list.
A few days later, Russian special forces arrived, started gathering us all up, and taking roll call. At first, I thought we were being taken to some kind of transit camp, because earlier an artilleryman from “Azovstal” had stopped by the hospital after traveling through Russia. He had been tortured in every prison, and in Taganrog they beat him so badly that his right leg was completely black and blue and he had a bruise covering half his back. I thought the same thing would happen to us.
First, they took us to Olenivka, where they transferred us to another “Ural.” They crammed us in so tightly that we were sitting with our legs pressed against each other’s. At that point, everyone was very thin and bony—every bump in the road jolted our spines.
When we boarded the plane, they started calling out our last names. When they called out the names of many commanders, I genuinely thought they were taking us to a transit camp, or that they’d fabricated some “evidence” against us and we were headed to a show trial.
From Taganrog, we flew to Moscow, where we were picked up by a “Tavr,” and then to Gomel. They transferred us to a bus and took us to the border. The Belarusians got on the buses and said, “Guys, stay calm, don’t worry, you’re going for an exchange.”
It seemed to me that they were scared. After all, they’d been constantly fed propaganda that we were Nazis, fascists, and capable of killing nearly a company of soldiers with a single fingernail. But the Belarusians were more reasonable than the Russians and the “DNR” guys.
When the exchange itself took place, a representative of the Main Intelligence Directorate came to us and said in Ukrainian: “Guys, you’re home.” We were able to see the other guys who were returned in this exchange. Of course, everyone had changed a lot on the outside. I lost 27 kilograms, and some of the guys lost as much as 40 kg.
The next day, my relatives came to visit me at the hospital. They were very confused; they’d gotten themselves all worked up about PTSD, but I explained that everything was fine—I just needed a little time. My family and I worked everything out with the help of a psychologist.
It felt strange to go out into the world after seven months of isolation because I didn’t know any memes. My brother-in-arms’ wife was in the hospital with me; within a week, she brought me up to speed, showing me all the memes about “chmonyu,” Medvedchuk, and Oksana Marchenko.
It was also new to me that a huge amount of high-quality Ukrainian music had emerged. The first week in the hospital, I listened only to that, even though many songs are now considered trashy “Bayraktar-style” music. I started listening to some awesome artists.
“The consequences of my captivity will stay with me for the rest of my life”
When I left Azovstal, I weighed about 60 kg. After the exchange, when I weighed myself in Chernihiv, I saw 37 kilograms. This was due to my gastrointestinal injury, which prevented food from being properly digested.
I underwent a four-month course of treatment and rehabilitation at a rehab center; within two weeks, I regained my physical fitness and declined sick leave so I could return to my unit sooner.
In September, we were exchanged, and by February I was already heading to the Zaporizhzhia sector. What motivated me? I’d experienced a bit of the reality of Donetsk—it’s fear, gloom, a real-life Mordor. I don’t want anyone else to go through that.
I led the radio-technical reconnaissance unit, but I wanted to be more active on the front lines; I seized every opportunity to go out to the positions with the guys. When the unit was formed, I learned that my comrades had begun forming the 6th Battalion. “Lemko” offered me a position, and “Redis” approved it. So, since March or April, I’ve been an officer in the 6th Battalion of the Azov Brigade.
Of course, some of the consequences of my captivity will stay with me for the rest of my life. My memory has deteriorated significantly. Professionally, I’ve become better because I’ve completely lost my emotional component; I always make decisions with a cool head. But because of all my injuries, I can no longer regain my former physical fitness.
My comrades need to be rescued, because the attack in Olenivka is not the first nor the last act of intimidation, a demonstration of Russia’s impunity.
I was held captive for four months, while others have been there for three years now, enduring torture. We need to fight for them. And we need victory, not “peaceful” agreements.
Author: Olena Barsukova
"I think what I remember most is the smell. An indescribable, almost poisonous smell of smoke and burnt bodies," says 23-year-old Azov fighter "Kraft," recalling the night he survived two years ago.
He chose the call sign “Kraft” in honor of his favorite game, Minecraft. He celebrated his 20th birthday at a training course for young soldiers, his 21st at a training ground, his 22nd in captivity, and his 23rd in the Kreminna forests. The young Azov soldier has already endured extremely difficult battles in Mariupol, a terrorist attack in Olenivka, and a serious injury.
On the night of July 28–29, 2022, Russia blew up the so-called “Barrack 200,” where 193 captured Azov soldiers had been deliberately transferred. Fifty-three of them were killed.
Two years after this bloody crime, none of the occupiers have been punished. The fate of many survivors who remain in captivity is unknown.
"Kraft" was relatively lucky, as he survived and returned home as part of the "major prisoner exchange" on September 21, 2022. A few months later, he returned to active duty and became a UAV operator.
"Kraft" spoke to "Ukrainska Pravda. Life" about the attack on "Barrack 200" and life after the explosion. Below is his account.
"I had plans to leave Azovstal on my own
Before military service, I was a student, studying cybersecurity at first, then telecommunications and radio engineering. In 2020, I realized that something was about to happen, so I initially went to the military department, but after seeing those majors, I decided to join Azov. I had friends there, and I ended up with great commanders.
For me, the defense of Mariupol began on the coast of the Azov Sea. We were constantly doing drills and training. So in February 2022, we left with neighboring National Guard units, stood on the coast for a few days, watched the ships, and then returned to the garrison.
On February 22, we were told that there would most likely be a full mobilization. I sent some of my belongings home, keeping only the essentials. On February 24, we were woken up about 10 minutes before the first strikes hit Ukrainian territory. I put the coffee on, took a shower, started getting dressed, and heard explosions. Once we were ready, we moved out to the “Sxidnyi” neighborhood and held our defenses there until around March 5.
Then we had to pull back into the city center so we’d have enough forces to hold our positions, while using mobile groups to destroy the enemy’s equipment and manpower. We moved to Azovstal at the end of April, among the last to do so.
I started out as a squad leader, then became a platoon leader, but I was wounded and had to spend about two weeks at the command post, helping the commander direct the battle.
Once I had recovered a bit, I began carrying out special missions involving position reconnaissance, assault operations, reconnaissance, and mining. We fought the occupiers for every street, for every district.
The intensity of the artillery fire wasn’t very high when we were in close proximity to the enemy. But once we entered the Azovstal territory, not even five minutes would pass without something landing on the plant grounds. And they were bombing civilians.
On the night of May 14 or 15, our commander came and said that, most likely, the only chance to save our wounded was to surrender. I had plans to leave Azovstal on my own; I had plenty of resources, but I asked the people I respected what they intended to do.
They said it was better to go with everyone else so as not to endanger the rest of our men and so the Russians wouldn’t do anything to our wounded.
Then I opened my backpack with the snacks, and we’d been eating them over the last few days. Porridge, soups, instant noodles—this was a reserve I’d kept untouched in case we had to go to Zaporizhzhia. I felt no emotions: they had run out after the first losses of my comrades.
"The Russians found old women who would testify in exchange for a bag of buckwheat"
On May 20, we arrived at the colony. For about a day, the colony staff searched us, recorded our information, and assigned us to barracks. Our barrack, which was designed for 50 people, held over 300. Luckily, they didn’t take my sleeping bag and mat, so I slept outside.
The food was terrible in the first few weeks because the kitchen wasn’t prepared for that many people. We might have breakfast at six in the morning and lunch at midnight or two in the morning the next day.
Over time, things settled down, and we started eating more or less normally and interacting more with each other. We found books, played chess, made cards, and tried to keep ourselves busy during all our free time just to keep from going crazy.
In the early days, they didn’t search us as thoroughly, so the guys managed to bring in a lot of great books from Ukrainian publishers, including plenty of Ukrainian and world literature.
Sometimes there were sympathetic staff members who let us take one or two books with us from the club where interrogations were conducted by FSB agents or representatives of the Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation. There were also remnants of various fairy tales, textbooks on the Ukrainian language and literature, geography, algebra, and geometry.
The club is one of the buildings on the grounds of the colony in Olenivka. Next to it was a disciplinary isolation unit, where they initially held women, and later anyone who “violated discipline.” There were three barracks where only Azov members lived, and I was in one of them.
My comrades were subjected to torture. As for me personally, I only received a few slaps or kicks in the butt. I wasn’t very interesting to them at the time because, according to the documents, I was listed as a senior soldier. They simply told me: “Write a letter to your commander saying that he ordered you to shoot some civilian or steal something from an apartment, and you’ll be released earlier in the exchange.” I told them that nothing like that had happened and I wouldn’t write anything.
During the first exchange in June, our side handed over convicted Russian soldiers. Then the Russian Investigative Committee arrived and grilled us from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Some were called as witnesses, others as “the main culprits.” These cases were simply made up out of thin air. They were probably offended that we had handed over war criminals to them.
Then they started simply fabricating crimes by unit. They took the artillery and “pinned” all the destroyed buildings on them; they “pinned” the dead—most often families with children—on the reconnaissance units or snipers; and they “pinned” some destroyed museums on the tank crews. They found old women who, for a bag of buckwheat, would testify that they had seen a Ukrainian sniper shoot someone. Their imagination knew no bounds.
The Russians also came up with this trick: they offered prisoners from other units to “cooperate with the investigation” and testify against one of our guys. In return, they were promised a faster exchange or a bigger “ration.” Some prisoners agreed.
"I felt like I had a hole in my stomach." The night of the attack
A few days before the attack, the Russians came with lists and gathered 50–60 people from each of the three Azov barracks. They brought everyone to the workshop (“Barrack 200”). A work crew of other prisoners who were working there told us that it had been prepared specifically for us. Then the prison warden came and said, “We want to renovate your current barracks, so we’ve moved you here.” We didn’t believe them, because it didn’t make sense. If that were the case, they would have evacuated one barracks, renovated it, and moved people back in. But instead, they just randomly pulled people from different barracks without any pattern. There were commanders, soldiers, artillerymen, scouts, and just people who had been civilians until February 24 and then ended up in our military unit. But they were all Azov fighters.
Conditions in the workshop were terrible; there was very little space. We were practically sleeping on top of each other. It was summer, it was hot… There was no way to wash up. There were two 1,000-liter barrels of water, but there were no taps for them, and on the last day we started setting all that up ourselves.
The day before the attack, they surrounded the fence of our barracks with barbed wire, then moved their observation post—which had been located 30–50 meters from the barracks fence—fortified it, and built trenches there. All of this happened in literally a day and a half.
Whereas previously we were guarded by FSIN employees wearing insignia, on the day of the attack about 10 people in black appeared—unknown individuals in balaclavas without any identifying marks. It’s also interesting that on the last day, an electrician was working on the lighting for us. We were locked up in the exercise yard at the time—we don’t know what they were doing. This was right before lights-out on the day the explosion occurred.
On July 28, 2022, we woke up and went through the usual routine. After dinner, I went to wash up and, as I was walking through the exercise yard, I noticed some kind of drone hovering over our barracks. At the time, I didn’t really know what it was, but I can guess now that it was one of DJI’s “Matrass” drones, because I saw the characteristic green and red lights. That happens when the operator messes up and forgets to switch to stealth mode.
I noticed this and told my comrades. When everyone started looking up, the pilot must have realized something was wrong and turned the lights off after all.
At that moment, a Grad multiple rocket launcher system began firing from the walls of the barracks. This wasn’t new to us, since the Russians were constantly firing Grads from the colony walls. That evening, we were forbidden from hanging out on the street; we were told not to leave the sleeping area—only to go to the bathroom one at a time.
I went to sleep, but woke up from the injury I had sustained and from a second explosion. I sensed something was wrong—I had a hole in my stomach, internal bleeding, and my body was burning. I checked myself and saw that my limbs were intact. Seeing heavy smoke, I realized I had to get out. The room was already ablaze. I saw the charred bodies of my comrades, who had been “melted” into their beds. I saw the fallen “Bashnya” and “August.”
I think what I remember most is the smell. An indescribable, almost poisonous smell of smoke, the smell of charred bodies, bright flames above the roof, and glass wool falling on you like a thousand tiny needles. At some point, it was as if I were in a soundproof bubble, with everything around me in slow motion and me watching from the sidelines. That sensation lasted until the moment they carried me out onto the asphalt.
I called out to my comrade who was running past; he checked me over. By then, the Russians had already started firing into the air. We were forbidden from going behind the curbs and told to lie down on the asphalt so that no one was on the grass. For about an hour, they wouldn’t let the medics near us. I lay there for a very long time.
Then our captured medics showed up; they tried to triage the wounded and provide aid to those who could still be saved. They had minimal supplies of medicine, and these guards threw us only a scrap of a sheet so we could rebandage ourselves.
When I asked if there were any painkillers, they told me there were only cold medicines containing paracetamol. I refused, because it wouldn’t help with injuries like these anyway.
I was second in line for evacuation. My comrade “Lemko” sat next to me, trying to keep me talking so I wouldn’t fall asleep. Around 6 a.m., when it was light outside, they loaded me into a Ural truck. They stacked us in piles and took us to the hospital.
The hospital, “Haimars,” and propaganda stories
My diagnosis: a penetrating abdominal wound, a grazed pelvic bone, a shrapnel fragment in my right hip joint, numerous burns, and minor shrapnel wounds all over my body. From the surgeons who operated on me, I learned that by the time I arrived, I had just over a liter of blood left. They said: you’re lucky that you’ve been involved in sports your whole life, because your heart kept you alive.
We were fed three times a day, though on weekends the food was worse because when the bosses went home, the kitchen staff would take the food home with them.
The doctors treated us fairly and provided qualified medical care. There were enough painkillers. I even refused them once I got used to them, and only took them before bed if I couldn’t fall asleep.
The young guys from the security battalion were also nice. They were just curious about everything related to Mariupol; they had been somewhat brainwashed by propaganda and asked about “biolabs.”
Some of the elderly cleaning ladies talked about Bandera supporters, Nazis, and fascists. One said, “You killed my son, why should I clean your room?” I replied, “Then don’t clean it.”
Russian journalists came to the hospital to film me, but I don’t remember the first shoot because I was unconscious in the intensive care unit at the time.
We were told that Ukraine had shelled the barracks with HIMARS. But at that point, I didn’t know what HIMARS was, because that weaponry had arrived in Ukraine after we’d been cut off from information. I saw how it worked for the first time when one of the guards showed me a video of a HIMARS destroying a convoy of vehicles. I told him that if it had been a HIMARS, there would have been nothing left of us.
It was immediately clear to us that the Russians had done this. They gathered all of us in one place and fired Grad rockets at us—it was a clear provocation. I believe it was a thermobaric charge that could have been planted while laying electrical lines.
Once, some degenerate—a so-called journalist from a “DNR”-Russian YouTube channel—came to see me. He showed me some interviews with old ladies from the trauma ward of this same hospital, where they were saying that a “sniper had shot their arm.” And he asked me what I thought about it.
I told him that I condemn any unlawful actions by the military against civilians. He didn’t like that. He stormed out of my room and went to hassle his buddy “Masla.”
"It was strange to go out into the world because I didn’t know any memes." Exchange
At Hospital No. 15, I was on the top floor, where the security battalion’s headquarters were located. The most level-headed guard walked into the ward and asked, “Can you handle 12 hours in the ‘Ural’?” I was just starting to walk again after my injury, but I joked, “If it’s for an exchange, I’ll handle it for a whole day. If it’s a transfer to Russia—then no.” He said there would be an exchange and put me on his list.
A few days later, Russian special forces arrived, started gathering us all up, and taking roll call. At first, I thought we were being taken to some kind of transit camp, because earlier an artilleryman from “Azovstal” had stopped by the hospital after traveling through Russia. He had been tortured in every prison, and in Taganrog they beat him so badly that his right leg was completely black and blue and he had a bruise covering half his back. I thought the same thing would happen to us.
First, they took us to Olenivka, where they transferred us to another “Ural.” They crammed us in so tightly that we were sitting with our legs pressed against each other’s. At that point, everyone was very thin and bony—every bump in the road jolted our spines.
When we boarded the plane, they started calling out our last names. When they called out the names of many commanders, I genuinely thought they were taking us to a transit camp, or that they’d fabricated some “evidence” against us and we were headed to a show trial.
From Taganrog, we flew to Moscow, where we were picked up by a “Tavr,” and then to Gomel. They transferred us to a bus and took us to the border. The Belarusians got on the buses and said, “Guys, stay calm, don’t worry, you’re going for an exchange.”
It seemed to me that they were scared. After all, they’d been constantly fed propaganda that we were Nazis, fascists, and capable of killing nearly a company of soldiers with a single fingernail. But the Belarusians were more reasonable than the Russians and the “DNR” guys.
When the exchange itself took place, a representative of the Main Intelligence Directorate came to us and said in Ukrainian: “Guys, you’re home.” We were able to see the other guys who were returned in this exchange. Of course, everyone had changed a lot on the outside. I lost 27 kilograms, and some of the guys lost as much as 40 kg.
The next day, my relatives came to visit me at the hospital. They were very confused; they’d gotten themselves all worked up about PTSD, but I explained that everything was fine—I just needed a little time. My family and I worked everything out with the help of a psychologist.
It felt strange to go out into the world after seven months of isolation because I didn’t know any memes. My brother-in-arms’ wife was in the hospital with me; within a week, she brought me up to speed, showing me all the memes about “chmonyu,” Medvedchuk, and Oksana Marchenko.
It was also new to me that a huge amount of high-quality Ukrainian music had emerged. The first week in the hospital, I listened only to that, even though many songs are now considered trashy “Bayraktar-style” music. I started listening to some awesome artists.
“The consequences of my captivity will stay with me for the rest of my life”
When I left Azovstal, I weighed about 60 kg. After the exchange, when I weighed myself in Chernihiv, I saw 37 kilograms. This was due to my gastrointestinal injury, which prevented food from being properly digested.
I underwent a four-month course of treatment and rehabilitation at a rehab center; within two weeks, I regained my physical fitness and declined sick leave so I could return to my unit sooner.
In September, we were exchanged, and by February I was already heading to the Zaporizhzhia sector. What motivated me? I’d experienced a bit of the reality of Donetsk—it’s fear, gloom, a real-life Mordor. I don’t want anyone else to go through that.
I led the radio-technical reconnaissance unit, but I wanted to be more active on the front lines; I seized every opportunity to go out to the positions with the guys. When the unit was formed, I learned that my comrades had begun forming the 6th Battalion. “Lemko” offered me a position, and “Redis” approved it. So, since March or April, I’ve been an officer in the 6th Battalion of the Azov Brigade.
Of course, some of the consequences of my captivity will stay with me for the rest of my life. My memory has deteriorated significantly. Professionally, I’ve become better because I’ve completely lost my emotional component; I always make decisions with a cool head. But because of all my injuries, I can no longer regain my former physical fitness.
My comrades need to be rescued, because the attack in Olenivka is not the first nor the last act of intimidation, a demonstration of Russia’s impunity.
I was held captive for four months, while others have been there for three years now, enduring torture. We need to fight for them. And we need victory, not “peaceful” agreements.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.