When the ‘orcs’ retreated.
From Bucha.
A massive operation began.
To find and document the dead.
Police Chief was.
Sitting at a child’s desk.
In an abandoned school.
In Bucha.
Collecting the details.
Of the bodies.
He has broad shoulders.
And short dark hair.
And rarely uses.
An unnecessary word.
Every few minutes.
Chief received a call.
Chief received a call.
On his mobile phone.
And the brief conversations.
Went the same:
A location.
A few details.
A phone number of.
A relative or friend.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Before the ‘orcs’ came.
He was an ordinary.
Local police chief.
The head of Buchanksy District 1.
Who spent his days.
Dealing with ordinary.
Local crime and.
The occasional murder.
Since the liberation.
Of Bucha.
He has spent his days in.
This abandoned school classroom.
Where school posters.
Still hang on the walls.
Coordinating the massive.
Operation to find the dead.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
The area was occupied.
By ‘orcs’ forces.
For a month as they.
Attempted to assault Kyiv.
And its liberation.
A little over a week ago.
Has begun a slow and painful.
Process of uncovering horrors.
Each time the phone rang.
Chief consulted the map.
In front of him.
And on a plain piece of paper.
He wrote down.
The necessary information.
In neat handwriting.
One line per body.
By mid-morning.
He had filled.
One side of A4 and.
Moved on to the reverse.
The previous day.
There had been.
64 bodies.
The day before, 37.
He did not know.
How many there would.
Be that day.
But he was expecting.
The number to jump.
By around 40.
Because a mass grave.
Was being dug up nearby.
He is only in charge of.
One part of this region and.
Many more bodies are being.
Found outside his jurisdiction.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
He paused occasionally.
To go to the school playground.
For a cigarette.
But even these moments.
Were interrupted by.
Calls about bodies or.
Problems relating to.
The collection of bodies.
It was raining.
In Bucha.
And one of the vans.
That ferried corpses.
To the morgue.
Had become stuck.
In the mud.
A tractor needed to.
Be found quickly.
Because there was.
A limited number of vans.
And a large number of bodies.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
He generally delegates.
The field work.
To his deputies.
But in cases of.
Particularly grave crimes.
He goes himself.
“When people have been.
Shot in the head.”
“With their hands tied.
Behind their back.
For example.
I will go.”
“When the bodies have been.
burned I also go.”
About mid-morning.
A call came in.
From a 24-year-old.
Police deputy.
In one of his units.
To log a body.
That had been reported.
Behind an apartment building.
On the outskirts.
Of Bucha.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
When the police arrived.
At the building.
Which stood alone.
On an otherwise undeveloped.
Green area on the edge.
Of woodland.
He found two men.
Behind the building.
Behind the building.
At the place.
Where the property line.
Met the woods.
They were wearing.
Blue surgical gloves.
And standing over.
The partially decomposed body.
Of a man.
Who appeared to.
Have been shot.
In the back of the head.
The body lay on.
A stained white duvet.
Decorated with red flowers.
And was surrounded.
By empty bottles.
Of beer and spirits.
The blue surgical gloves.
Initially gave the men.
The appearance of.
Medical officials.
But they introduced themselves.
As the dead man’s father and brother.
Lying on the blanket.
Was a 30-year-old former cook.
Who, until the ‘orcs’ arrived.
Lived a peaceful life.
With his girlfriend.
On the sixth floor of.
The apartment building that.
Now towered over his corpse.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Father and brother.
Had lost contact.
With him a month earlier.
When the ‘orcs’ seized.
Control of Bucha.
And communications went down.
It was impossible.
To enter the suburb.
To check his building.
So they searched for him.
For a month online.
Scouring social media.
In vain for evidence.
That he was alive.
In vain for evidence.
That he was alive.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
When the ‘orcs’ finally retreated.
A little over a week ago.
Brother got a call.
From the man’s girlfriend.
And she told.
Them the story.
The ‘orcs’ had assaulted.
The apartment building.
And blasted their way.
Into every apartment.
With a shotgun.
Demanding people.
Handed over their.
SIM cards and keys.
They interrogated.
Her and him.
In separate rooms.
Beat them, and.
Shot their dog.
She said.
Then they took her down.
To the basement.
With a group of.
Other residents.
And bolted the door.
But took him away.
Separately and told her.
She wouldn’t see him again.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
And she didn’t.
As soon as the ‘elves’ army.
Declared Bucha.
Safe to re-enter.
Father and brother set out.
For the apartment building.
Inside, they found blood.
Smeared on the floor.
In the stairwells.
And personal photographs.
From people’s apartments.
Strewn around.
On every door.
You could see the holes.
From the shotgun blasts.
– sometimes one.
You could see the holes.
– sometimes four or five.
Doors with steel plates.
Had been crowbarred.
On one wooden door.
Where the lock hadn’t.
Given way to.
Repeated shots.
The ‘orcs’ soldiers.
Appeared to have.
Become frustrated.
And blown a hole.
Right through the middle.
Of the door.
Into the apartment.
Behind another door.
It was clear.
The homeowners had.
Pushed a heavy table.
Up against the frame.
In a failed attempt.
To keep the invaders out.
In a failed attempt.
To keep the invaders out.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
When Father and brother.
Reached the sixth floor.
They saw that the shotgun.
Had been used.
On the door of.
Apartment 83.
A rank odour.
Came from inside.
The ‘orcs’ had trashed.
The apartment and.
Pried open the air vents.
And even the bathroom drain.
Looking for money.
Brother guessed.
When brother entered.
His bedroom.
Brother suffered.
The first of several blows.
To his hopes of.
Finding the man alive.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
On the pillow.
There was a deep blood stain.
And blood was sprayed up.
The walls behind the bed.
Among the mess on the floor.
There were two.
7.62mm.
Bullet casings.
– the calibre used by.
The ‘orcs’ army.
In their rifles.
“You could see that.”
“You could see that.
A man had been killed here.”
Brother said.
“But there was no body.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
So father and brother.
Began to search for him.
Knowing that their search was.
Now probably for a body.
And not a son and brother.
They could hold again.
In their arms.
Brother was carrying.
A passport photograph of him.
“We searched and searched.
And at first we were.
Looking for his face.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Behind the building.
Next to the woods.
They found what appeared.
To be a shallow grave.
And they began to dig.
It took time to exhume.
The remains there.
First they saw.
A flower-patterned duvet.
They didn’t recognise and.
Their hearts found some hope.
But when they brought.
The body up they saw.
That inside the duvet.
There was a curtain.
From the man’s apartment.
Then they saw.
The dead man’s shoes.
And thought.
They recognised them.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
The light was fading.
By that point.
And they had to be home.
Before curfew.
So they covered the body.
With the sheet.
Embers of hope remained.
“Today was the final touch.”
Brother said.
The following day.
Looking down at the body.
“Today we took.”
“His shoes off.
And we saw his feet.”
Because his feet had been.
Inside socks and shoes.
They were better preserved.
Than the rest of his body.
After a month.
In the earth.
“We saw the shape of his feet.”
Father said.
“Then we looked at.
The shape of the nose.”
“And the hands.”
Brother said.
“And we knew it was.
Our bloodline.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Father had purchased.
The small apartment in Bucha.
Two years earlier.
– an investment in his son’s future.
He had been a cook.
In a restaurant in Kyiv.
Until the pandemic hit.
And he was laid off.
He did some work.
In construction and.
Was looking for something.
More stable.
But he had a girlfriend.
He loved and a dog.
And now an apartment.
In a nice neighbourhood.
He loved to fish and hunt.
And forage for mushrooms.
In his spare time.
And cook.
“He was living.
A peaceful life here.”
Brother said.
“He was a normal guy.”
“He was a normal guy.
That’s all.
A kind-hearted man.
He gave his all.”
“He was a son.
And a brother.”
Father said, trying to.
Hold back his tears.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
At the front of.
The apartment building.
The officer was filling out.
His police report.
Father went to his car.
And took two small pieces.
Of cardboard and.
Wrote his name and.
Wrote his name and.
Phone number and.
The man’s name and.
Address on each.
Then he asked some neighbours.
For clear tape.
To cover the ink.
Because the rain was.
Beginning to fall.
Harder on Bucha.
And he went back to the body.
Without surgical gloves.
This time to tie.
One piece of card.
To the man’s ankle.
And one to his wrist.
“I do not want to lose.
My son,” father said.
The officer finished.
His report.
And called it in.
Chief would arrange.
For the van that collected.
The bodies to stop by.
Father and brother.
Took shelter from the rain.
And waited for.
The van to arrive.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
As the day wore on.
Chief’s classroom command post.
Got busier.
Officers came and went.
Filing crime scene reports.
The list on his desk.
Got longer and.
His phone kept ringing.
A dead woman had been.
Found in a well.
Next to a destroyed column.
Of ‘orcs’ tanks.
There was a body.
There was a body.
On the ninth floor of.
An apartment building.
A driver of one of.
The vans called to say.
He couldn’t find the body.
He had been sent to collect.
A woman came in.
To the classroom.
In person to report that.
Her neighbour was dead.
“I understand everything.”
Chief told her.
Keen to move on.
“We will try to collect him today.”
Chief’s father called.
“Dad, I am too busy.
Everything is OK.”
“Everything is OK.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Two of Bucha district’s.
Police departments.
Had been destroyed.
In the ‘orcs’ assault.
And Chief was struggling.
For resources.
There were not.
Enough body bags.
His team had also.
Been whittled down.
Over the preceding days.
To those who had shown themselves.
Capable of withstanding.
This new work.
“Those who were weak.
Went at the very beginning.”
There was little room.
For sentiment.
Amid the scale.
Of the task.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Chief received.
Another call.
“Nine?” he said.
“Where?”
The call was coming.
From a unit.
In a neighbouring.
Police department.
Nine bodies were buried.
In a field nearby.
Chief hung up and dialled.
One of his mobile units.
“The team there is exhausted.
And they have no.
Body bags left.
They have been collecting bodies all day.”
“Please go and help them now.
Find body bags.
And help them.
To pack the bodies.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
The nine graves.
Were laid out neatly.
In a row at the edge.
Of the field.
Behind a corrugated fence.
At the end of.
A dirt track.
The dead had been buried.
The dead had been buried.
By their neighbours.
During the ‘orcs’ occupation.
And now they were.
And now they were.
Being exhumed.
By their neighbours.
With the help of the police.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
“Some of these people died.
Because they could not.
Get medicine and.
Some were killed by ‘orcs’.”
Said a 45-year-old ‘elf’.
From one of the buildings.
By the field.
Who had helped.
To bury the bodies.
And was doing.
The most work now.
To bring them up.
“These were our neighbours.”
He said, a look.
Of deep anger.
Set in his face.
“Here is a man from.
The building next door.
And a neighbour.
Of his.”
“Here is another person.
I knew from the next building.
This man has.
A bullet wound.”
“We didn’t know him.
But we found a passport.
On his body.
This elderly woman.”
“This elderly woman.
Had severe diabetes and.
We tried to take her.
Out of Bucha but.”
“There was no green corridor.
So she died.
This man went for.
A walk with his dog.”
“And didn’t come back.
We are not pathologists.
But it looks like.
He was shot.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
The work to remove.
The bodies was hard.
They had been buried.
Well in deep graves.
And the rain was soaking.
Into the mud.
And making it slippery.
The 45-year-old.
In a green plastic rain cape.
Climbed into each grave.
One after the other.
And shovelled the earth.
From around the bodies.
So that thick straps.
Could be tied around them.
To hoist them up.
Each body had been wrapped.
In whatever was at hand.
– curtains, blankets of.
Different colours and patterns.
They were examined.
By the police and.
Any obvious wounds.
Photographed with an iPhone.
Enough body bags.
Had been found.
And after a while.
The van arrived.
In the dirt on its back doors.
Someone had scrawled ‘200’.
– the military identifier for.
The transport of the dead.
The bodies were.
Loaded inside.
The sky was grey.
And the rain kept falling.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
At the man’s apartment building.
Father and brother had waited.
As long as they could.
For the van to arrive.
It was getting dark.
And they needed to get home.
The man’s body would have to spend.
Another night on the ground.
They were too late.
Now to make.
The 9pm curfew.
In Kyiv.
But at the military checkpoints.
Along the route they showed.
The death report and.
Were waved through.
At sunrise the next morning.
Father and brother got up.
And began the drive.
Back to Bucha.
They could not wait.
For the van any longer.
And they loaded.
The man’s body.
Into the back of their car.
And set out for a morgue.
In the town of Boyarka.
About an hour’s drive south.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Before the invasion.
The staff at the Boyarka morgue.
Were used to handling.
About three bodies a day.
The vast majority of them.
Deaths from natural causes.
Since Bucha was liberated.
They have been autopsying.
About 50 bodies a day.
80% of which.
Were violent deaths.
Said a man, 39.
Who has been.
The forensic expert.
There for 16 years.
The morgue.
A small outbuilding.
At the back of a hospital.
On the edge of town.
Where Boyarka meets the forest.
Had just acquired.
Two rented refrigerator trucks.
And both were.
Full of bodies.
Body bags lay on the floor.
By the trucks and against.
The fence nearby and either side.
Of the entrance to the morgue.
“There are not enough staff.
And there is not enough room.”
Said the forensic expert.
“Even if we had more people.”
“Where would we?
Put the bodies?”
Normally he would do.
A careful autopsy.
On every body.
And print a death certificate.
“Now we just dissect them quickly.
And write something simple by hand.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Father and brother were not alone.
In bringing a body themselves.
Private cars pulled up.
To the morgue.
And bodies were brought out.
Wrapped in blankets and rugs.
Relatives and friends.
Came searching.
A woman was looking for.
The body of the father.
Of a friend.
Who was abroad.
“He had his passport.
On his chest.”
She told the staff.
A man came for.
His father-in-law who.
When the ‘orcs’ cut the gas supply.
In the depth of winter.
Rigged up a makeshift heater.
Using a gas cylinder.
But fell asleep.
And was poisoned.
When the flame went out.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Father and brother waited.
Outside until.
They were called in.
To identify the man.
They stood inside.
The cramped, low-ceilinged morgue.
Where there were bodies.
On the floor.
Where there were bodies.
On the floor.
And on every gurney.
And the smell was overpowering.
They had to squeeze.
Between two gurneys.
Beside an open corpse.
To get close to.
The man’s body.
And they searched it.
For scars.
They could remember.
They repeated.
To the pathologist.
That they thought.
They recognised his feet.
Father looked away.
And looked back.
He was wrestling.
With doubt and hope.
Afterwards, he walked.
Behind the refrigerator truck.
And stood alone sobbing.
His chest heaving with his tears.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
The man was brought out.
His body bag tagged.
Number 552.
– the 552nd body processed.
By this small morgue.
Since the beginning of the year.
Nearly double the figure.
In a normal year.
The extra hundreds all.
Condensed into one week.
The police took fingerprints.
And told Father and brother.
That the formal identification.
Would take around a month.
Because of the backlog.
But otherwise.
They were free.
To take him.
To the cemetery.
To be buried.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Rather than wait.
For the body van.
Father and brother lifted.
The man carefully again.
Into the back of their car.
And drove him.
The hour or so.
Back to Bucha.
Past the rows of destroyed.
Homes and places where.
Bodies had laid.
In the streets for weeks.
At the cemetery.
Which was already full.
New graves were being dug.
Outside the boundary fence.
On a thin strip of earth.
Along the side of the road.
A priest intoned.
The funeral rites over a coffin.
The mother of the dead man wailed.
In the near distance.
Past the line of the forest.
Enormous booms sounded.
As unexploded ordnance.
Was detonated.
Father and brother drove.
Into the cemetery.
And unloaded the man.
Next to a long line.
Of body bags arrayed.
On the ground.
Because the man had already.
Been identified and.
Would be buried here.
In Bucha.
He was placed into.
A simple wooden casket with.
Maroon fabric and afforded.
The small dignity of resting.
Inside a brick building.
On the cemetery grounds.
He would be buried.
In two days’ time.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Father and brother.
Left the cemetery and.
Father decided that.
He would buy a plot there.
Even though it was far from.
Their home in Kyiv.
He would buy a plot there.
For his wife, the man’s mother.
Who was suffering.
From end-stage cancer.
So that when the time came.
She would be near to her son.
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Two days later.
On a bright, cold morning.
In Bucha, the family.
Gathered at the cemetery.
Once again, father and brother.
Took the lead and.
Went inside the brick building.
To prepare to carry the casket.
Mother sat outside.
On a bench.
Smoking a cigarette.
Alone among the body bags.
The casket was carried.
To a stone plinth and.
The family gathered around it.
While the priest read the funeral rites.
And two elderly women.
From the church held.
The incense burner.
And sang.
Then the man was taken.
By the van marked 200.
To one of the fresh graves.
Along the roadside.
Outside the cemetery.
And laid to rest.
Father was still wrestling.
With doubt.
“I am still hoping.
That the fingerprints will.
Show this was.
Not my son.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
Later that day.
Back at the abandoned school.
In Bucha, Chief was.
Sitting at his schooldesk.
Listening carefully.
To a man who had come.
In person to ask for.
Help finding a relative.
He had heard was.
In a mass grave.
The man had been to.
The large mass grave.
The large mass grave.
By the church, he said.
But they redirected.
Him to the police.
He wanted to give Chief a picture.
But Chief explained that.
This was not the way.
Things were done.
“We cannot go around.
Opening all the body bags.
Holding this picture.
Do you understand?”
“It will waste too much time.”
Chief explained that.
They had to begin burying.
The unidentified bodies.
Because there was not.
Enough space at the morgues.
But Chief assured.
The man that.
Fingerprints and.
Photographs were.
Being taken and.
Would be kept.
“Even though the people.
Themselves are buried.
The information remains.
The photographs remain.”
In front of him.
On the school desk.
There was a map.
Of Bucha.
A once peaceful and.
Little-known suburb.
Of Kyiv that is now.
A sprawling crime scene.
The calls kept coming in.
– a body on Yablunska Street.
Another body.
Next to a school.
“We have cleared these.
Two addresses already.
Give us more to collect.”
He saw a window.
For a cigarette and.
Went to the playground.
The number of bodies.
Each day was already.
Beginning to fall.
And he thought.
The job might be.
Finished soon.
“There are no weekends here now.
We will keep working.
Until the collection of.
The bodies is complete.”
He flicked his cigarette away.
His phone was ringing.
The job might be.
Finished soon.
*Because I read “Collecting the dead in Bucha” by Joel Gunter on 13 Apr 2022, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022, on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, as a story of Vitaliy Lobas, a story of Dmytro Kushnir, a story of Volodymyr, Serhiy, Vitaliy and Lily, a story of Gennadiy, a story of Semen Petrovych, a story of Tatiana, and a story of Oleksander.
Please read the original story on the BBC news: