A Ukrainian soldier’s firsthand account of an assault, fallen comrades, and a city that became a symbol of resilience.
Three in the morning. A phone call.
“Get ready. We’re going on an assault in the morning.”
It was our new commander.
No long explanations. No unnecessary questions. Just a few words that made sleep disappear instantly and set our hearts beating differently.
Back then, we lived at an old factory in Druzhkivka. An ordinary place for an extraordinary life. We slept, ate, joked, waited for orders, and tried to forget the war around us for at least a few hours.
But the war never forgot us.
We dressed quickly, checked our equipment, and loaded our weapons into the back of a pickup truck.
Bakhmut lay ahead.
We did not yet know that this city would become one of the most painful symbols of our war.
The Road That Led Toward Death
The night journey was even cheerful.
Yes, cheerful.
It may be difficult for a civilian to understand how you can laugh on your way to an assault. But in war, humor is sometimes the last way to hide your fear.
Some joked. Some stayed silent. Some stared into the darkness outside.
I thought about how every one of us wanted the same thing: to complete the mission and return.
We reached Bakhmut fairly quickly.
We went down into the basement where our headquarters was located.
The others had already gathered: men from the first, second, and third companies, and soldiers from separate platoons. Everyone who was available and could go was assembled.
The reason was serious.
The enemy had broken through the defensive line and entered the city itself.
Our men had held the defense for a long time. Nearby, in Klishchiivka, the destruction was already terrible. It seemed that even the earth could no longer endure what war was doing to it.
Now the enemy had come to Bakhmut.
And we had to stop them.
Three Kilometers to Hell
We left headquarters.
Ahead were about three kilometers through the city streets.
Three kilometers.
In peacetime, that is an ordinary walk. You can cover it thinking about dinner, work, or tomorrow.
In war, those three kilometers can separate life from death.
We covered the distance quickly and began assaulting enemy positions.
Everything happened fast.
There was no time to think about the future or remember the past. Only this moment, the comrades beside you, and the mission to complete.
Four hours.
That is approximately how long our assault lasted.
Four hours that cannot simply be erased from memory.
We retook our positions in the city.
It seemed the worst was behind us.
It seemed we could catch our breath for a moment.
But in war, the words “it seemed” can be the cruelest deception.
When the Sky Began to Kill
The enemy had no intention of giving up so easily.
A terrible artillery bombardment began.
Enemy artillery struck so relentlessly that it seemed the ground was tearing apart beneath our feet.
Explosion after explosion.
Strike after strike.
You no longer think about victory. You think about the next few seconds.
Whether you will find shelter in time.
Whether the comrade beside you will survive.
Whether another morning will come.
We could not stop that fire ourselves.
We had to pull back a little to find somewhere to establish a foothold and continue fighting.
But that was another day.
Another story.
Another ordeal.
Seven We Will Never Forget
That day we lost two comrades.
Two were killed.
Five more of our soldiers were wounded.
To some, these are merely numbers.
Two dead.
Five wounded.
But for us, behind every number stood a human being.
Someone who might have been laughing with us only a short time before.
Someone who might have traveled that same night road believing he would return.
Each had a life, dreams, and loved ones waiting at home.
Two will never return.
Five carried the wounds of that war onward.
Whatever the outcome of the battle, whatever the official reports called it, that day will forever remain the day we lost our own.
A position can be retaken.
A city can be defended.
But a fallen comrade can never be brought back.
The Fortress the World Did Not Yet Know
Today the name Bakhmut is known far beyond Ukraine.
They call it a fortress.
Thousands of articles have been written about it. Songs have been dedicated to it. Its name has become a symbol of Ukrainian soldiers’ resilience.
But to me, Bakhmut is more than a name on a map.
It is three in the morning.
It is the commander’s voice on the phone.
It is the old factory in Druzhkivka.
It is the pickup truck, the night road, and the jokes of men who did not yet know what awaited them.
It is three kilometers through city streets.
It is four hours of assault.
It is positions retaken.
It is artillery fire.
And it is two comrades who will live forever in our memory.
We did not yet know how much pain, blood, and how many human destinies would become bound to this city.
We were simply doing our job.
The job of a soldier.
Defending our land.
And there, amid explosions, ruins, fear, and courage, the fortress of Bakhmut that the world would later come to know was already being born for us.
I do not know whether anyone remembers that particular assault today.
But I remember.
I remember the men.
I remember that day.
And as long as I live, they will live in my memory.
For Fortress Bakhmut is not only buildings, streets, and defensive positions.
It is the people who stood where it seemed impossible to stand.
And those who paid the highest price: their lives.
Dedicated to the comrades who died defending Bakhmut. Eternal memory and honor.
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