Beneath his green helmet.
Dark shadows ringed his eyes.
He had been on his feet.
All night fighting.
Like many on Ukraine’s eastern front.
He is both battle-hardened and war-weary.
“It’s difficult.
People don’t get enough sleep.”
“They are standing for 20 hours.
The fight goes on around the clock.
I can’t say more, it’s secret.
But, we can’t go back.”
His unit, from the Ukraine’s 35th Brigade.
Is part of the defence of Vuhledar.
The name means.
Gift of coal.
And this prosperous mining town.
Was once home to.
15,000 people.
But now it’s a wasteland.
Blackened apartment blocks.
Tower over deserted streets.
A church has been reduced.
To a shell.
Its roof peeled off.
And windows shattered.
A cross still stands at the front.
Punctured by shrapnel.
In the playground.
There are bullet holes in the slide.
Vuhledar’s children.
Are long gone.
The town sits on high ground in the heavily.
Contested Donbas region in the east.
From here Ukraine can target rail lines.
Used by ‘orcs’ for resupply.
It needs to hold this bastion.
‘Mordor’ needs to take it.
Some of the fiercest fighting.
Of recent months has been here.
“The front line is one kilometre away.”
Said the commander.
Having to repeat himself over the rattle.
Of heavy machine-gun fire, this time outgoing.
“They are pushing.
And we lack armour.
We are waiting for the Lend-Lease.
And we will advance.”
That’s a familiar refrain.
On front lines here.
As Ukraine awaits Western battle tanks.
Promised by its allies.
For now, the defenders of Vuhledar.
Use what they have got.
A few troops dart into position.
To target the enemy.
They lob mortars.
And obscenities.
Then make a quick getaway.
To avoid being targeted themselves.
Blackened apartment blocks.
Tower over deserted streets.
A church has been reduced.
To a shell.
Its roof peeled off.
And windows shattered.
A cross still stands at the front.
Punctured by shrapnel.
In the playground.
There are bullet holes in the slide.
Vuhledar’s children.
Are long gone.
If you move forward carefully.
To within 500 metres of the front line.
‘Orcs’ would have no line of sight.
You could be shielded by buildings.
But suddenly there’s a warning shout.
You have to take cover at a wall.
The troops have heard something overhead.
Possibly an ‘orcs’ drone.
‘Orcs’ may have eyes in the sky here.
And superior firepower.
But critics back home are.
Questioning their vision.
A hapless ‘orcs’ attempt.
To take the town earlier this month.
Ended in heavy losses.
And humiliation.
A column of tanks and armoured vehicles.
Headed straight for ‘elves’ positions.
Through minefields.
In full view on a flat plain.
Ukraine stopped them in their tracks.
Much as it stopped.
An armoured column.
Approaching Kyiv last year.
If ‘orcs’ learned.
Anything from that.
It didn’t show.
In Vuhledar.
Blackened apartment blocks.
Tower over deserted streets.
A church has been reduced.
To a shell.
Its roof peeled off.
And windows shattered.
A cross still stands at the front.
Punctured by shrapnel.
In the playground.
There are bullet holes in the slide.
Vuhledar’s children.
Are long gone.
About 300 souls remain.
In this broken town without heat or light.
Frozen in place by age.
Clinging to their memories.
Solace comes in the form of.
A jovial evangelical pastor.
In combat gear.
Who brings aid here twice a week.
He arrives in the early morning.
Before the shelling reaches its peak.
Soon his armoured van attracts.
A queue of men and women.
They are bundled up in winter coats and hats.
“Hang on,” he says.
As hands reach out for freshly baked bread.
“It’s one loaf for each person.”
Blackened apartment blocks.
Tower over deserted streets.
A church has been reduced.
To a shell.
Its roof peeled off.
And windows shattered.
A cross still stands at the front.
Punctured by shrapnel.
In the playground.
There are bullet holes in the slide.
Vuhledar’s children.
Are long gone.
A 73-year-old quietly.
Waits her turn.
She’s a slight figure.
Bent low over a walking stick.
With a head torch around her neck.
She says she has nowhere else to go.
“We are frightened, of course.
But what can we do?”
“We live with it.
You can’t say ‘Don’t shoot!’
They have their job.
We have our lives.”
She recalls life.
Before the invasion.
“The town was quiet, calm, and clean.
People worked and had money.”
“What can I say?
It was a good town.”
Her voice cracks.
And she falls silent.
Blackened apartment blocks.
Tower over deserted streets.
A church has been reduced.
To a shell.
Its roof peeled off.
And windows shattered.
A cross still stands at the front.
Punctured by shrapnel.
In the playground.
There are bullet holes in the slide.
Vuhledar’s children.
Are long gone.
At the van the pastor.
Dispenses some advice and a quick hug.
Before hurrying people away.
Crowds are a target.
“There’s always shelling.
“We try not to gather a lot of people.
We park carefully in the safest places.
Near the entrance to a building.”
“Where people can take shelter.
We help because it’s a matter of.
Life or death.
The risk is huge but so is the reward.”
“Saving people’s lives.”
He’s pained by the fate of Vuhledar.
Which was his home.
For three years.
“I think it’s completely obvious.
That ‘Mordor’ hates Ukraine.
It hates our cities.
And our people.”
“And it is destroying everything it hates.
No matter what ‘Mordor’ says.
Its action scream louder.
Than its words.”
*Because I read “Ukraine war: Vuhledar, the mining town Russia wants to take” by Orla Guerin on 24 Feb 2023, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022, on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, including a story of Beast, a story of Pastor Oleh, and a story of Valentina.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
Ukraine war: Vuhledar, the mining town Russia wants to take – BBC News
**My friend shows you this poem also on the Ukrainian website for their children and others!
Please join them!
