Another winter on the front line in Ukraine

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Reporting on the war in Ukraine often feels like one long camping expedition. You put on warm layers and leave in the dark to get to your place before sunrise – embedded in a military unit, for example, somewhere along the 900 kilometer long front line.

It’s been two years since Russia’s massive invasion of Ukraine began, and another winter of war is almost over. For soldiers, winter brings freezing conditions in the trenches. There is less cover because the trees largely have no leaves. Ukraine’s rich, black soil is soft, and frequent rainfall turns the roads and fields into mud. Soldiers describe trudging through knee-deep mud and being exposed to artillery fire for hours as they drag vehicles out of the mire. As temperatures drop below freezing, the roads and trails turn into sliding, bumpy obstacle courses.

For reporters, winter conditions increase the dangers and complications of working in a war zone. No one wants to slide into a ditch within range of the Russian artillery, which is constantly sounding along the front. When it’s cold, the batteries of tape recorders and mobile phones die. I usually carry a pencil because pens can freeze and stop working in the snow or rain.

I learned this while covering Chechnya, the rebellious republic attempting to gain independence from Russia, where I first worked for The New York Times nearly 30 years ago. I then went on to report on wars and conflicts around the world for the newspaper, with the aim of bearing witness, seeing for myself what was happening and telling it to readers.

In December, Ukrainian reporter Vladyslav Golovin and I agreed to visit units of the 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade of the Ukrainian Army. It was a rare opportunity to spend the day with a battalion commander on an important part of the front in southeastern Ukraine.

A press officer asked us to be at the meeting point before sunrise, so our team of drivers, reporters, a photographer and a security advisor stayed in a nearby town. We met on a side road in the dark, the ice crunching under our tires as we drove in.

Several soldiers got out of their cars to greet us. This was our military escort for the first part of the ride. They could only take two people, so Vladyslav and I got into their vehicle and set off along bumpy, potholed roads toward the front line.

On the way we met the commander. We were driving fast now, turning off dirt roads and hugging the tree lines as the sky began to lighten. The fields close to the front line were not harvested last season and at one point we drove through thistles as high as the car.

We stopped at one position and ran into an underground bunker, where I interviewed two drone operators, men in their twenties, sitting at computers in hooded sweatshirts. A third member of their team was responsible for going out to arm and launch the drones. Outside the bunker, a commander of an anti-tank unit briefly told us about his task of defending the Ukrainian position, watching for movements of Russian tanks and armored vehicles and firing on them with anti-tank weapons as they came within range.

We drove to the next unit and gratefully accepted hot coffee and donuts filled with chocolate cream as soldiers described the toughest fighting they had experienced against soldiers from the Wagner Group, a Russian military contractor.

The last visit of the day was to a unit fresh out of training school. We watched them prepare for their first drone strike as a battle raged a few miles away. “Take your time,” the commander calmly told the men as they struggled to get a drone in the air. We planned to stay for 15 minutes, but it was so moving that we stayed for over an hour.

Then it was back in the car to go home. We arrived cold and hungry, our boots and jeans covered in mud, but safe – and with a better understanding of Ukraine’s struggle on the front lines.