When Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, I was writing a novel. It took place in America in 1863, and followed a Ukrainian man as he traveled from Virginia to Missouri, meeting on his way various weirdos, soldiers, deserters and runaway slaves. I’ve always been very interested in the history of the United States, and the idea of integrating a Ukrainian protagonist — not a classic emigrant but a soldier on the side of the North, with his own history of servitude under the yoke of the Russian Empire — into the realities of the Civil War was attractive to me.
This story was supposed to become a book, and I was supposed to fulfill my dream: to follow the path of my protagonist from Front Royal, Va., to Ozark, Mo., taking in all the life I could savor. But Russia, not content with destroying the statehood of Ukraine once before, had other plans. I put my writing on hold and took up arms instead. Now I’m making efforts to prevent a new stage of subjugation in my country.
That’s what happened, and I accept it. But did I really want to fight? Do hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians really want to risk their lives, to be separated from their families in flooded trenches or dry steppes? Did I really want to die at the end of the world, from which not everyone returns? Probably every Ukrainian soldier asks these questions that don’t have answers.
In Bakhmut, where I served in May, they were inescapable. The unit I commanded was given the task of building a combat position on the outskirts of the city, but everything was changing very quickly. The Russians captured the rest of the city and most of the Ukrainian units left. Suddenly we found ourselves in a trap — there was no one to cover us. Seeking protection, I lay down in a tiny trench.
I spent five days in that tomb waiting for death, sometimes urinating in a plastic bottle and counting the calories I consumed and the amount of water I drank for fun. (Day 1: 560 calories, 350 milliliters of water. Day 2: 780 calories, 550 milliliters of water. And so on.) For 115 hours, I lay in this four-foot-deep hole and looked up at the clear sky, wincing at the explosions next to me.
All around was pure hell. Since our positions were on the way out of Bakhmut, retreating troops — wasted, wounded, deafened by explosions — passed by constantly. The enemy attacked them, walkie-talkies went crazy with reports of casualties and drones buzzed endlessly. Branches sheared by shelling fell on our heads.
I was lying at the bottom of my grave thinking that, even though I had accepted my death long ago, I was still not prepared for this death right now. My wife doesn’t know how to pay utility bills, I didn’t leave her my email and internet banking passwords, and there are parcels in the mail that I didn’t have time to inform her about.
No, I didn’t prepare properly. I didn’t write anything really important to her before I left. Who knew that the internet, the generator, food, water and nearly all things would instantly disappear under the fire of Russian artillery? There is almost no communication, no way to transfer passwords, no way to control the fate of your unfinished novel.
At the same time, I thought about what I would do if I survived. There is such a possibility — to survive. Well, then, I will write a message. I will say: My love, I survived. But it was difficult to think about a happy ending. I preferred dreaming about my death, when, soaked to the bone by the rain, after falling asleep for an hour under the cannonade, I would be killed by a Russian mine.
The first, second, fourth day passed. Different people, heroes, stories came and went. Not everyone was lucky enough to stay alive. Bakhmut was burning in front of us — I will always remember the smell of the burned city. There were dead bodies all around us — I will always remember the pungent, sour smell.
People shouted, jumped into the trenches, asked for cigarettes, shared cigarettes, asked for water, shared water. They jumped out, ran or crawled on. When the fifth day came to an end, heavy rain suddenly began, an almost tropical torrent. The shelling stopped for the first time. And the walkie-talkie, whose batteries hadn’t quite run out, rang with the command to leave.
So I left. Under a downpour, thirsty, wet, exhausted, having lost seven kilograms of body weight and all ammunition, but still carrying my weapon. When we got 15 kilometers from the front line, to a transshipment point at a gas station, the internet connection was restored and we seemed relatively safe. I wrote to my wife: My love, I survived. I still have a hard time believing it.
Did I want to fight? Do hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians want to fight? We have children, families, jobs, hobbies, parcels in the mail. And some of us have an unfinished novel about the adventures of a Ukrainian in America who didn’t want to fight but couldn’t do otherwise. We also cannot do otherwise, because our enemies are trying once more to take away our right to live on our land. Because they are trying to take away our right to freedom.
How could I not pick up a weapon here? For those who lived for many decades in the cozy arms of democracy and freedom, who don’t know the fear of captivity and torture, it is difficult to understand why such peaceful people — who from time immemorial grew wheat, mined iron and coal, and grazed cattle on boundless meadows — defend every meter of their country with such fury. But I know the answer. This is our wonderful land. And it must be free.
Artem Chekh is a soldier, a writer and the author of “Absolute Zero.”
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