The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
An ‘elf’ army infantryman.
With the 1st Separate Tank Brigade.
Treads carefully along a path where.
Army boots have worn through the spring clover.
The zero line.
The final trench.
Lies ahead.
‘Orcs’ troops are only 700m away.
Further north in Bakhmut.
‘Elves’ have been losing ground.
But here in the south of Donetsk province.
‘Elves’ tanks and infantrymen are standing firm.
Despite months of vicious ‘orcs’ attacks.
He says the brigade has lost.
Less than 10m of territory.
‘Orcs’ forces have sustained heavy losses.
It is a stricken landscape.
Where trenches lie exposed to.
‘Orcs’ observation posts.
And surveillance drones.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
As you pass the infantry trenches.
The clover begins to vanish.
Replaced by mud.
And bomb craters.
Landmines and unexploded shells.
Litter the ground.
The treetops, still bare from winter.
Are now split and shattered.
“There was a tank battle here recently.
We drove them back.”
A soldier in a trench shovels.
Soft, red soil, hardly making a sound.
From a nearby village.
The patter of automatic gunfire.
Catches the breeze.
“There were often battles in the village.”
“Sometimes the whole village was on fire.
They threw phosphorus.
Or I don’t even know.
What they threw.”
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
He is over 6’4” tall.
With pale blue eyes.
Made brighter by.
The dark circles under them.
His AK-47 is slung over his shoulder;
On his body armour.
Hangs a spoon, a can opener.
And a small pair of pliers.
A moment’s inattention.
While smoking a cigarette.
Can end in death.
If a mortar or grenade lands nearby.
The danger here lies.
Outside the trenches.
“Generally, they shell every day.”
He says, indicating ‘orcs’ positions.
These men took casualties recently.
But they are a fraction.
Of the ‘elves’ losses.
From the close-quarter fighting in Bakhmut.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
Suddenly a shell whines overhead.
Landing to the left.
Someone shouts that an ‘orcs’ tank is firing.
A second explosion hits.
He stands tall in a trench.
Inside is a timber-covered shelter.
As he lights a cigarette.
There is another explosion nearby.
“They simply have an unlimited amount of shells.
They have entire warehouses full of them.
They can shoot all day.
And they won’t run out of shells.”
“But us?
We’d run out of shells this year.
So we’re forming various assault brigades.
And we’ve been given tanks.”
“I think with those we’ll win.
We’re Cossacks.
So, brave guys.
We can handle it.”
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
When their positions are under attack.
They take cover in trench dugouts.
While one soldier stays on watch.
Looking for enemy infantry and drones.
He has learned to cope.
“There was fear for the first few times.
When I first came.
Now it has all, somehow, faded away.”
“It’s become as solid.
As a rock.
Well, there are some fears.
Everyone has them”.
Another shell lands close.
Enough to knock him off his feet.
“That was a good one,” he says.
Shaking his head and dusting himself off.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
‘Elves’ have dug a network of trenches.
He is only 22 years old.
And from the central industrial city.
Of Kremenchuk.
He worked in a petro-chemical factory.
Before the war.
And like many of the soldiers fighting here.
His adult life has barely started.
“I don’t have a family yet.
I have my mum.
I don’t have anyone else for now.”
He calls home twice a day.
In the morning and evening.
“She doesn’t know much.
I don’t tell her everything.”
He says, his voice trailing off.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
Among the soldiers.
There is disagreement.
Over what.
‘Orcs’ are firing.
It could be tank fire.
Mortars or grenades.
Working on the ‘elves’ positions.
Or a combination of all three.
A bearded soldier.
Grimy with days at the front.
Enters the dugout and.
Makes a whirling motion with his finger.
An ‘orcs’ drone is overhead.
Even here there is uncertainty.
It could be armed.
Or it could be a reconnaissance drone.
There is nothing to do.
But to wait.
Until the barrage is over.
Or it gets dark.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
Tanks and artillery dominate here.
With the brigade’s ‘elves’-made.
T64 Bulat tanks.
Operating every day.
“Tankers are like.
The older brother.
Of infantry.”
Says a tank commander.
“When the infantry is being hurt.
The tankers are coming.
But the problem is that.
We can’t always come.”
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
The 1st Separate Tank Brigade is.
One of the most decorated in the army.
Its commander Col is awaiting.
The arrival of Western tanks.
Including the British Challenger II.
And has already sent men.
For training on German Leopard tanks.
The enemy “has a completely different goal.”
“We protect our state.
Our land, our relatives.
We have a different motivation.
They have no way out.”
“Their leadership.
Their party said.
No step back.
Because to retreat means prison.”
“Because to retreat means execution.
So they are moving forward.
Like a lamb.
To the slaughter.”
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
In February, ‘orcs’ tried to.
Break through the front line 30km away.
A bold move that would have put the rest.
Of unoccupied Donetsk at risk.
The advance ended in catastrophe.
With hundreds of ‘orcs’ dead.
Dozens of their tanks lost.
And an armoured brigade all but annihilated.
Recalling one of February’s attacks.
Around the town of Vuhledar 13km away.
He describes it as.
“An act of desperation”.
The enemy brigade was in effect.
Wiped out, he says.
“But lately they’ve started to.
Change tactics.”
Much of Donbas is rough with.
Grit of the industrial age.
Great abandoned factories and.
Monumental slag heaps dominate the landscape.
But not here.
The land his men are protecting.
Specifically is the market town.
Of Velyka Novosilka.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
Before the war.
The town had a modern school.
A tidy fire station.
And a three-storey kindergarten.
All now stand forlorn and battered.
The army driver bringing you.
To the town swerves to avoid.
A rocket embedded in the road.
Another ‘orcs’ shell lands.
In a nearby neighbourhood.
Sending a long arc of dirt.
Into the grey sky.
The small homes and cottages of the town.
Speed past the window.
And even as broken as they are.
It’s plain to see.
This was a prosperous town.
Before the war.
Some 10,000 people used to live here.
Now there are fewer than 200.
“Only mice, cats and dogs.
Thrive here now.
And they also hide from the shelling.”
One of the soldiers in the car says.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
At one of the shelters.
A local piano teacher is.
Trying to hold together.
The remaining threads of her town.
With blazing red hair.
She is quietly.
Determined to remain.
In the town.
A few dozen residents live.
In the cold, damp shelter.
And she helps care.
For the older ones.
She describes what has happened.
To the town as akin.
To a feeling.
Of “grief”.
“It used to be such a beautiful place.
It’s now more of a sadness.
The sadness of how it used to be.
The sadness of what it is now.”
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
‘Orcs’ bombs often add to the mountain of grief.
In the dimly lit basement shelter.
Warmed by a wood-burning stove.
You hear a voice.
A woman is sitting alone.
On a bed.
She is 74.
The piano teacher whispers you.
“It’s difficult for her to speak.
Her husband was killed.
By shrapnel recently.”
And she introduces you.
The woman takes your hands.
“Oh you are cold,” she says.
Warming them.
Between hers.
Her husband, 74, was.
Too ill to come to the shelter.
And remained in their home even as.
‘Orcs’ bombs fell across the neighbourhood.
In a soft voice she says.
“He bled to death overnight.
I was here and.
He was at home.”
“I came in the morning.
And he was gone.
We buried him and that’s it.”
They had been married 54 years.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
Before you leave.
The local piano teacher.
Takes you through.
The town’s school.
Its lilac-painted corridors.
Are scattered with debris.
And the windows have been blown in.
By ‘orcs’ bombs.
Children’s jackets still.
Hang on coat pegs.
And homemade Christmas decorations.
Stand uncollected on a shelf.
On a wall above a pale blue radiator.
A group picture shows.
The kids football team.
Celebrating a win.
Outside the window.
The same pitch is cratered.
And the nearby climbing frames.
Mangled by shelling.
The tail fin of.
An unexploded ‘orcs’ rocket.
Sticks out from.
The playground asphalt.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
A piano stands in the corridor.
And she sits down to play.
But no tune comes.
The piano is too badly damaged.
She is one of barely 200 people.
Still in Velyka Novosilka.
She has no music to play.
And no children to teach.
The last of them were forcibly evacuated.
From the town by police last month.
And taken to somewhere safer.
Her own daughter was among them.
“There’s only the sounds of shells.
The school is smashed.
Instruments are ruined.
But it is fine.”
“But it is fine.
We will rebuild it.
And the music will sound again.
Along with the children’s laughter.”
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
“But it is fine.
We will rebuild it.
And the music will sound again.
Along with the children’s laughter.”
The woman takes your hands.
“Oh you are cold,” she says.
Warming them.
Between hers.
“We protect our state.
Our land, our relatives.
We have a different motivation.
They have no way out.”
“When the infantry is being hurt.
The tankers are coming.
But the problem is that.
We can’t always come.”
“I think with those we’ll win.
We’re Cossacks.
So, brave guys.
We can handle it.”
These are the ties.
That bind people here.
Whether civilian or soldier.
Whether soldier or civilian.
The determination to resist is.
The enduring weapon in Ukraine’s arsenal.
As vital to the country’s survival.
As any armoured tank or infantry trench.
The line of trees appears to fragment.
And disappear as it winds its way towards.
The ‘orcs’ positions on the outskirts of.
The small town of Velyka Novosilka.
On this front line.
‘Orcs’ eyes are always watching.
Waiting for.
An opportunity to attack.
“But it is fine.
We will rebuild it.
And the music will sound again.
Along with the children’s laughter.”
*Because I read “Ukraine war: The front line where Russian eyes are always watching” by Quentin Sommerville on 23 Mar 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 Dima, a story of Serhii, a story of Col Leonid Khoda, a story of Iryna, and a story of Maria.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
Ukraine war: The front line where Russian eyes are always watching – BBC News
**My friend shows you this poem also on the Ukrainian website for their children and others!
Please join them!
