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Reporting on the war in Ukraine often feels like a long camping trip. You bundle up in warm layers and start in the dark to get into position — embedded in a military unit, say, somewhere along the 600-mile front line — before sunrise.
It’s been two years since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine began, and another winter at war is almost over. For soldiers, winter brings cold conditions in the trenches. There is less cover as the trees are mostly bare of foliage. Ukraine’s rich, black earth is soft, and with frequent rains, roads and fields become a quagmire. Soldiers describe running through knee-deep mud and spending hours exposed to artillery fire as they tow vehicles out of the muck. As temperatures drop below freezing, roads and tracks turn into slippery, rutted obstacle courses.
For journalists, winter conditions increase the risks and complications of working in a war zone. No one wants to slip into a ditch within range of the Russian artillery, which is constantly ringing along the front. In the cold, the batteries in tape recorders and cell phones die. I usually carry a pencil with me as pens can freeze and stop working in snow or rain.
I learned that while reporting in Chechnya, the rebel republic making a bid for independence from Russia, where I first worked for the New York Times nearly 30 years ago. I continued to cover wars and conflicts around the world for the paper, aiming to bear witness, see for myself what was happening and tell readers.
In December, Ukrainian reporter Vladyslav Golovin and I arranged to visit units of the Ukrainian army’s 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade. It was a rare opportunity to spend the day with a battalion commander in an important part of the front in southeastern Ukraine.
A press officer asked us to meet at the meeting point before dawn, so our team of drivers, journalists, photographer and security consultant stayed in a nearby town. We hit a side road in the dark, the ice crunching under our car tires as we turned.
Several soldiers got out of their car to greet us. This was our military escort for the first part of the route. They could only take two people, so Vladyslav and I got into their vehicle and started along bumpy, bumpy roads in the direction of the front line.
We met the commander on the way. We were driving fast now, going down dirt tracks and hugging the tree lines as the sky started to lighten. The fields near the front line were not harvested last season, and at one point we drove through thistles as high as the car.
We stopped at a location and ran into an underground shelter, where I interviewed two drone operators, men in their 20s, sitting in hoodies at computers. A third member of their team was responsible for going outside to arm and launch the drones. Outside the bunker, an anti-tank unit commander briefed us on his task of defending the Ukrainian position, tracking the movement of Russian tanks and armored vehicles and hitting them with anti-tank weapons when they came into range.
We drove to the next unit and gratefully received hot coffee and donuts filled with chocolate cream while the soldiers described the toughest battles they had ever experienced against soldiers from Wagner Group, a Russian military contractor.
The last visit of the day was to a unit fresh from training school. We watched them set up for their first drone strike as a battle unfolded a few miles away. “Take your time,” the commander told the men calmly as they tried to bring a drone airborne. We had planned to stay for 15 minutes, but it was so exciting that we stayed more than an hour.
Then it was back to the car to go home. We arrived cold and hungry, our boots and jeans caked with mud, but safe — and with a better understanding of Ukraine’s struggle on the front lines.
