Vladimir Putin’s war machine is pushing harder and crushing Ukrainian morale.
Orikhiv, Zaporizhia province
AFTER TEN days in the trenches of Robotyne, Grisha is ready for a rest. “Time for sex, drugs and rock-and-roll,” he says, his voice still jittery from front-line adrenaline. The 36-year-old infantryman with Ukraine’s 65th brigade has just marched 7km from his position hauling 60kg of equipment, jammer aerials and a large battery pack—vital survival kit for anyone working in the drone-filled skies of Zaporizhia province. In 2023, during Ukraine’s failed counter-offensive, every square metre of this ground was the subject of world news. Now the Russians are pushing back, and far fewer are paying attention. “It’s happening,” Grisha says, his eyes looking into an imagined middle distance. “You can see it. They are coming—crawling, crawling, up and over, trying for any way through.”
Ukrainian intelligence believes that Russia is gearing up for a bold assault on Zaporizhia city, 30km from the front. When exactly no one is clear, but it makes some sense. As one of three remaining centres of heavy industry in the country, the provincial capital remains crucial to Ukraine’s survival as a functioning state. In late 2022, Vladimir Putin claimed the entire province as his own, despite controlling only a third of it—following a sham referendum in which the people of Zaporizhia city didn’t vote. For two months, Russian missiles and glide bombs have hammered the city, destroying 1,500 homes. And the front lines are rumbling anew too. A Ukrainian spokesman warns that 130,000 Russian troops could soon be hurled into the fray.
Not every soldier is convinced that an attack is imminent. Colonel Oleksiy Khilchenko, commander of Spartan, a rapid-response brigade newly deployed to Zaporizhia, says Russia is tied up elsewhere. He claims the Russians had planned to send two divisions (20,000-30,000 troops) for an initial assault, but half were diverted to Russia’s Kursk area to strengthen its counter-offensive against a Ukrainian incursion there. “Lemberg”, a battalion commander with the 118th brigade manning the south-western defences of Zaporizhia province, agrees. “They aren’t ready to hit yet, but when they are, the first blow will be the hardest.”
But Ukraine is taking no chances. New fortifications are being built in rings radiating from the provincial capital. The work is thorough—minefields, engineering obstacles, and structures made of concrete and iron—unlike the more chaotic picture in neighbouring Donetsk province, still the site of the heaviest fighting. There, Russia is moving faster than at any time since the early days of the invasion. Hardened by the blunders of 2022, Russian commanders have developed a grim formula that works: drones, electronic warfare, guided air-launched bombs, ruthless command, and waves of disposable infantry. They hit Ukraine where it is weakest, cutting supply lines and encircling targets rather than striking them head-on as they once did. It is not easy going—they have been losing as many as 1,500 troops a day in their now year-old offensive. But they are recruiting more than they lose. “Look, they will never have a problem with manpower,” says Colonel Khilchenko. “They drive people into debt, into loans, and will force them to fight for them. They aren’t going to stop.”
Ukraine’s problems, meanwhile, are worsening mainly because of manpower issues. The army is long out of willing recruits, and its mobilisation campaign is falling short, recruiting barely two-thirds of its target. A senior Ukrainian official says he is worried the situation may become irretrievable by the spring. An even bigger problem is the quality of the new recruits. “Forest”, a battalion commander with the 65th brigade, says the men being sent from army headquarters are now mostly too old or unmotivated to be useful. All but a handful are over the age of 45. “I’m being sent guys, 50 plus, with doctors’ notes telling me they are too ill to serve,” he says. “At times it feels like I’m managing a day-care centre rather than a combat unit.”
A visit to the brigade’s training range underscores the commander’s point. The recruits are here for zlagodzhennia, formal induction into their units. It is the final stage of preparation before heading, in a few days’ time, to the front. The newest of the recruits is Grigory, a 51-year-old former labourer from the central Poltava region. Gold-toothed and ruddy faced, he squints through +9 prescription glasses, and his ill-fitting body armour flaps unfastened over a short, stocky frame. Grigory admits he was as surprised as anyone when he was enlisted; he did not expect the officers to mobilise someone who was half blind. Unsurprisingly, he is struggling with the physical demands; it’s hard enough to walk with the flak jackets. But he has got used to handling firearms. “Anyone can shoot,” he says. “It’s hitting the target I’m not so good at.”
The situation on the front lines is widely accepted to be as difficult as at any time since the early days of the war, with many fearing a significant Ukrainian retreat may soon be inevitable. For now, the looming threat keeps the soldiers in Zaporizhia focussed. They say they remember the atrocities that followed Russian advances and occupation. The experience of resistance still counts for something. As weak as Ukraine is, Russia can be beaten, argues Forest. The proof? An ambush in February, when his battalion singlehandedly destroyed a mechanised column of two dozen Russian vehicles. “To those who shout we’re screwed, I ask them when hasn’t Ukraine been screwed?”
But Ukraine’s systemic weakness is clearly taking its toll on the morale of its front-line fighters. With no hope for rotation or demobilisation, some of the once most committed now wonder if a ceasefire might be the only way out. “Chechen”, the brigade officer leading the new soldiers’ training session, says he remains determined to fight to the end. “Giving away territories to these disgusting people is no guarantee it will stop.” But he admits that fewer soldiers than ever share his resolve. “It’s not even 50-50 any more, but 30-70.” Lemberg puts the situation in even starker terms. “In 2022 I was ready to tear the Russians apart with my teeth,” he says. “In 2023, I just needed rest. This year? I almost couldn’t give a fuck.” ■
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