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“Marc keeps whistlin’ and makin’ them f*ckin’ mortar noises!” Scroll seethed. “Does it bother you?” I asked. “F*ck yea it bothers me! I was in Iraq, bro. They hit us with mortars constantly. We heard those f*ckin’ sounds everyday,” Scroll continued. “He and Dima think it’s f*ckin’ funny, but it’s not, not when you’ve f*ckin’ experienced it.” We were inside the farmhouse waiting for Rod and everyone else to get back from the range. Our training had already ended. A cold wind had blown across the fields. The soldiers shivered in their kit, holding their rifles at attention, just waiting to be relieved. “You guys did good! Keep workin’ on what you need work on, and I think we can be done with reloads today,” Scroll told us. “Rod and everybody else should be back soon, and then we can have lunch. Did anyone see what we have back there?” I answered, “I think it’s some kind of macaroni and some pork or something. I saw them bring it up while you guys were training.” “Oh, hell yea. I like that stuff,” Scroll smiled. “Can never get enough macaroni and meat,” Rico joked. “Hey, Scroll, I already talked to Rod about this, but I’m going to go get some practice with my FPV drone,” Henry informed him. “Uh, okay, but where are you planning on doing it?” Scroll asked concerned. “Well I’ve got a spot lined up that I think will be good,” Henry explained. “There’s an old abandoned warehouse a couple kilometers from here, and I think there’s enough room for me to practice there.” Scroll nodded, “Okay, well just be careful. Don’t get spotted, and don’t do it anywhere close to here.” Henry agreed, “Of course! I’ll be careful. Also there’s another spot I saw where I could be under an old bus stop and fly it free in the sky, but no one could see my location.” Scroll repeated himself, “Like I said, do what you need to do, but just be careful.” Back inside the farmhouse, we all had another round of coffee. “So what time do you guys normally have lunch?” I asked, letting my stomach do the talking. “We don’t really have a set time,” Scroll replied. “Usually around noon,” Rico added. I looked at my phone. It wasn’t even noon yet. It felt like we had been out there for hours, but in reality it had only been an hour and a half or so. “Hey, you want to come to the store with me?” Scroll asked me. “Sure why not? I don’t really need anything, but I’ll come with you,” I told him. The store was at another little farm just down the lane. It catered pretty much exclusively to soldiers and the Ukrainian farmers who still worked the land there, despite the dangers. It was a little “mahazine,” a cross between a rural grocery store and a 7-11. Inside the store, we found Roland browsing its selection of goods. “Hey,” he nodded, before turning back to the products. “Howdy,” Scroll replied. Scroll had come to the store to re-up his supply of Bang energy drink. As is common with American soldiers, he was an inveterate caffeine and nicotine abuser. He put his selection of drinks on the counter and the little old babushka rang him up. She showed him on the calculator his cost in Hryvnia. He gave her a 500UAH bill, and she gave him some change. “Damn, I’m gonna need to get some money out when we get to the village. I’m running low on Hryvnia,” Scroll explained. “Yea, I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s not like you need much out here,” I replied. “I go through a lot of smokes,” Scroll admitted. “At least you’re getting paid,” I told him, in reference to the fact that many foreign soldiers fighting for Ukraine in the Legion deal with notoriously late payments or never get paid. The new unit Rod was in charge of was not part of the Legion, but a direct part of the Ukrainian military. This was a big factor that explained their rapid success in attracting a company’s worth of foreign talent for what was originally supposed to just be a platoon, in only a month’s time. "Well, there is that," Scroll admitted. "Money is important." Scroll, Roland, and I left the store together and walked back to the farmhouse. Rod and his group had finally returned. Most of them were inside getting their kits off, but a couple of the Columbian guys were outside smoking a cigarette. I decided to join them. “Hi!” One of them waved to me. “I’m Leon.” I came over and shook his hand. “Mucho gusto. Me llamo Zane,” I spoke in Spanish. “Oh, hablas Español?” Leon asked. “Un poquito,” I shrugged, pulling a cigarette out of my jacket pocket. “De dónde eres?” He asked. “California,” I replied. “Oh, California! Bueno,” he nodded. “Tienes encendio?” I asked, after fumbling around for a lighter to no avail. “¡Sí!” He handed me his lighter. “Te gusta Ucrania?” Leon asked. “Tak,” I replied. Leon laughed. “Oh, f*ck. I mean sí,” I fumbled between three languages. “I’ve been learning Ukrainian and been here so long, that it’s hard to switch back to Spanish.” Leon laughed, “Don’t worry. I understand you.” I finally lit up my cigarette. Rico came outside the farmhouse. “You guys havin’ a smoke?” He asked. “Yea!” I called. “Come on down!” Leon laughed. “Don’t mind if I do,” Rico replied, walking over to us. “So what do you think about American politics? Do you think aid will come soon?” Leon asked. “Not before the election,” I answered. “When’s that?” He asked. “November,” Rico chimed in. “Who do you support?” Leon wondered. “I support Trump,” Rico replied. “Why? Don’t you think he’s dangerous for democracy?” Leon questioned him. “Well… I don’t really believe in democracy,” Rico admitted. I smiled and took a drag of my cigarette. “You don’t believe in democracy? Then what do you believe in?” Leon asked. “Well, I just don’t think it makes sense that homeless people and drug addicts get the same vote as everybody else,” Rico explained. My old soldier friend Vance would later ask over a phone call, “Why would he even be there if he doesn’t support democracy?” Leon was just as confused. “So, why are you fighting for Ukraine?” He asked. “I’m just here to help the people, not necessarily the Ukrainian state,” Rico clarified. “Whatever you say man,” Leon smiled. “I mean, I guess it’s the same for me. Not about democracy, but about supporting the Ukrainian people rather than the Ukrainian state,” I agreed. Dima overheard our conversation walking by. “I’m here because Russia is an evil empire,” he grinned. “That too,” Rico laughed. Rod walked out of the farmhouse. “So, I guess the commander and I are taking you back to the village today. Sorry mate,” Rod informed me. “Oh. Okay. Let me get my stuff together,” I told him. “There’s no rush. We’ll leave sometime after lunch,” Rod insisted. “So… I guess you’re leavin’ us,” Rico smiled sadly. “Man, you know if I had my way, I’d never leave,” I assured him. “Yea, I get it. OpSec and all that,” he replied. “Well, you guys are coming to the village tomorrow, so I’ll see you then,” I added. “Yea, I’ll be getting a van for tomorrow. I’ll try to convince the guys it ‘may’ be their last chance to go to the village for a while,” Rod figured. “I’ve already been kinda trying to ‘seed’ that idea into everyone,” I laughed. “Crazy shit, bruv,” Rod muttered. “Crazy shit,” I repeated. Scroll came outside for a smoke. “So, are you staying another night?” He asked me. “Nah, I guess I gotta go back today,” I sighed. “Well, shit. It’s been real, bro,” he told me. “I’m not leaving just yet, and also I guess I’ll see you guys in the village tomorrow,” I explained. “Oh, yea. I definitely need to go and get dump pouches and some other stuff. Maybe a carton of cigarettes. Also, I gotta get cash out,” Scroll laid out his laundry list. Dima popped his head out of the farmhouse. “It’s lunchtime for anyone who wants it!” He announced. “Don’t mind if I do,” Scroll replied. “What is it?” Rod asked skeptically. “Macaroni and meat,” Rico told him. “Huh. Sounds good,” Rod admitted. “I’m hungry as hell,” I muttered. We went inside and proceeded to tear through medium-sized helpings of macaroni and meat. I hadn’t had breakfast so I packed it away. Soldiers’ appetites are no joke. “I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as you, bruv,” Rod told me. I thought to myself of all the days where I basically eat nothing but dinner. But then again, I have been known to eat my fair share, given the right circumstances. “I mean where I’m from I eat the least,” I laughed. “Mate, I’ve seen you eat a Kebap the size of your head and then drink a dozen pints,” Rod insisted. “Well, this one time in Reno…” I began. “I ate 40 pieces of salmon nigiri in a minute and 47 seconds at an all you can eat sushi place.” Rod just shook his head laughing. “Damn. 40 pieces? That’s wild,” Scroll spoke in between bites of macaroni. “I’ve had all you can eat sushi in Reno,” Rico, the boy from Chico, smiled. “There’s something wrong with you, mate,” Rod told me. “Of course there is! How else would I be your friend?” I asked after finishing my meal, walking to the kitchen to clean my plate and silverware. After lunch, the commander came in, and it became clear it was time to go. I packed up all my stuff and put my plate carrier back on. I struggled to fit my sleeping bag back into its pack, and it became a team effort. Dima and I were the main players, but soon everyone was somehow participating. “How many f*ckin’ people does it take to pack a f*ckin’ sleeping bag?” Rod asked rhetorically. “A lot, apparently,” I answered deadpan. “Well, good luck Zane!” Scroll saluted. “It was good to see you again, bro! Stay safe,” Rico shook my hand. “Have a good one everybody! Good luck out there!” I exclaimed to the crowd. Everyone waved and said a variety of goodbyes. The commander and Rod helped me carry some of the stuff to the truck. We got in and pulled out onto the long dirt road back to civilization. “Sorry about all this, bruv. I’ll pay for a couple nights at a hostel in the village and a ticket back to Kyiv,” Rod assured me. “I’m thinking about staying maybe longer in the village, then maybe going on a tour of the east,” I told him. “There’s a couple bombed places in the village that you could maybe film,” the commander told me. “Well, in that case I’ll just pay for the hostel,” Rod nodded. “Thanks for everything, guys,” I told them. “We both feel bad. Everyone was looking forward to this documentary, but shit happens,” Rod sighed. “Yea, don’t worry about it. You guys have a lot more important things to worry about other than me!” I assured them. “So what’s the situation on the zero-line?” Rod asked the commander. “It’s not good, but it will hold for now. The biggest work will be the second line. You and the guys will have a lot of work to do to prepare that position,” he replied. The truck flew fast across the flat land, a vast expanse stretching to the horizon in all directions. It looked like the most classic kind of terrain for the most classic kind of war, the kind of war that modern people have forgotten, a war of blood and soil, trenches and mud, sickness and starvation, avarice and ambition, the kind of war that humbles you, the kind of war that breaks down the myths of romance and greatness, replacing them with shit and filth. Europe covets its most sacred traditions: the old magic of death and glory, God and country,    meaning to the madness of modernity. European society simply cannot handle a century of peace. It is antithetical to its monotheistic founding ideals, the ideals that unite all European cultures: that might is right, that Rome will rise again, and one nation will rule them all under the auspices of God. Even more than 100 years after Europe burned the world order it created in the name of one war to end all wars, with one nation chosen by God to rule the ashes, this imperial idea remains deathless. And Russia is perfectly European in this regard. After all, what idea is more European than a brutish, animalistic interpretation of the will to power? Even now, the nationalists and radicals accuse the “New” Europe, the “United” Europe of weakness, the gravest of European sins. They accuse their modern European brothers of forgetting their masculinity, of losing their fangs, of becoming weak. And Putin, the true European, upon smelling weakness, did what all the old wolves of Europe would have done. He preyed upon it, as a hungry, prideful European wolf should, and just as those prideful wolves of old, he bit off more than he could chew, in his bottomless hunger and avarice. And just as the old wolves of Europe that Putin and his nationalist ilk worship so desperately, he brought about his own doom. He who lives by claw and fang will die by claw and fang. Old wolves don’t die gracefully. Putin is no exception. The voices in the truck break my train of thought. “So, what hostel are you thinking of?” The commander asked Rod. “Uh, I dunno. I thought we’d just find one,” Rod shrugged. “That might be a problem,” the commander warned him. We were still in the fields, flying down country roads, but soon we would be in the village. Our inability to confirm a plan did not bode well. “Let me check online again,” Rod spoke while searching on his phone. “That school was bombed by Russian rockets,” the commander told me, pointing to a blasted, burned-out building. We were pretty much in the village now. We parked at the bus station. The commander started ringing up hostels and hotels in town, to no avail. “They say that you often have to book a place weeks in advance because of the high demand of soldiers looking for places to stay,” he informed us. “Damn,” Rod muttered, still searching his phone. It took us an hour or so driving around the village, talking to different people, before the commander found me an apartment for $20 a night. Rod and I didn’t have enough cash, so the commander generously ended up paying for 7 days in the apartment. “I’ll pay you back,” Rod promised him. The commander and I walked up to the apartment to meet the landlord. He spoke Ukrainian to her to get everything set up. “Thank you so much, man,” I told him with deep sincerity. “It is no problem,” he assured me. Once everything was dealt with, we walked back to the truck to get my stuff. Rod and him helped me carry some things up to the apartment, which was on the 6th floor, with no elevator. So, we had to drag 100lbs of kit up those goddamned stairs. “Thanks again, man! This is really generous of you,” I told the commander. “Think nothing of it,” he replied. “Well, see you later, bruv,” Rod shook my hand and pulled me in for a hug. “Good luck, guys!” I told them knowingly. And then they left. And I was alone. The air raid siren moaned in the distance. The next day I filmed myself in front of the blown-up school. I had written a little blurb that I had cleared with Rod and the commander. It took me a couple tries, but eventually I was able to rattle off a little something like this: “45 minutes after I got to the staging position 7.5 miles from the frontline, the frontline position we were supposed to be heading to was hit by a massive GRAD rocket attack that killed and injured a bunch of Ukrainian soldiers, many of whom had been living in the trenches there for months. Orders came down that I could no longer be there, and that there was an indefinite media blackout for the unit. The next day I was taken back to the village, and the commander of the unit put me up in an apartment for the next week so I could do some filming and interviews in the area, which was very generous. I had previously been worried that something like this might happen, as a major Russian offensive along the southern lines has been in the works for weeks. Rocket attacks are a daily occurrence, and massive amounts of Russian soldiers are being sent to reinforce positions. In fact, in the short time that I’ve been in the village, the air raid alarm has gone off many times. Due to the coming offensive, media and fundraising is the last concern of the military at this time, which is pretty reasonable given the gravity of the situation. For the remainder of my time here, I will be traveling to nearby villages famous for devastation and still open to the public, as well as hopefully interview soldiers coming in from Dnipro or fresh from the front. While it is a little disappointing not to be able to film the documentary for the unit, my petty concerns pale in comparison to the serious concerns of safety and security of the people fighting on the frontlines.” Right as I finished my last take, I was told to leave by some Ukrainian groundskeepers, who asked if I was a “real” journalist, adding insult to injury. “Vuibachtay,” I nodded to them apologetically before heading back into town for breakfast. I took it easy the rest of the day, and had a couple beers at one of the bars in town. The village was lively from the war economy, full of the soldiers from dawn till dusk. There were a number of quality restaurants, cafes, and bars; with a number of services and a large bazaar geared towards the needs of soldiers. There were over a dozen tactical equipment stores in this town of 9,700. The town shutdown way earlier than the official curfew, which was pretty common for Ukrainian villages, even before the war. The air raid sirens moaned constantly in a single ceaseless tone. That night I smoked cigarettes on my balcony and listened to them moan. After a while, I didn’t even hear them anymore. The next day, Rod, Rico, Scroll, and the commander visited the village in the van Rod had finally managed to secure. There were far less people than expected, and they were all on a time-crunch because the commander had to personally head to the zero-line in less than 12 hours to provide desperately needed support to the position. “We’re down at the tac-stores in the bazaar,” Rod texted me. “Where’s that?” I texted him from the cafe. “At the alley across from the ATB,” he replied. “Ok! On my way!” I confirmed. I struggled to find the alley near the ATB, until finally Rod came out to get me. “Oi!” He shouted from down the street. “Hey!” I shouted back. “Good to see you, bruv,” he greeted me as I approached. “So, what’s on the agenda today?” I asked. “Well, we gotta get some last minute tac stuff for Rico and Scroll, and get some anti-inflammatory medication at the Apteka,” he informed me. “Cool, cool,” I responded. “Yea, also we’re tryna have a little cookout back at the base before we send everyone out tomorrow,” he added. “Last meal?” I joked. “Could be, bruv,” he agreed. The bazaar was a large open air market in the village that sold everything a human being could want, and even more than that if said human happens to be a soldier. Rod and I met Rico and Scroll browsing the wares of a knife dealer. “This is where I bought my knife last year,” Rod told Rico. “How’re ya doin’, my man?” Scroll asked me. “Pretty good, man! Good to see you guys!” I smiled. “Yea, just tryna get some last minute stuff before we head out,” Rico told me. “They know that we’re deploying tomorrow,” Rod informed me. “Oh, wow. How do you guys feel about that?” I asked. “Well, I mean that’s what we came here to do, so I’m ready for it, but I know some guys are more ready than others,” Scroll told me. “I just found out today. But I think I’m as ready as I could be,” Rico added. “We’re gonna be going to second line, so it won’t be as hot as the zero-line. The hardest part is going to be digging new trench systems on the second line,” Rod explained. “Oh, so you’ll have somewhere to retreat to?” I asked sardonically, referencing an experience Rod had during his time with the Legion when his unit had no secondary line and had a 5km run across open field to the nearest fallback point. “Yea! Imagine that?” Rod replied similarly sardonic. We walked through the bazaar before crossing the main street to a brick-and-mortar tactical shop. Rico looked through the pants and knee-guards. Scroll was looking for a small go-bag, while Rod was looking for a second large duffel bag. Eventually, only Rod made a purchase there. Rico almost bought a helmet, until the lady told him they only took cash for those items. “I gotta go get some cash,” Scroll declared, leaving swiftly. Rod and I stepped out for a cigarette. “So, what’s new?” I asked. “Well, the commander’s heading out to the front at 4 a.m. tomorrow, but he has some business here to attend as well,” Rod answered. “So, we’ve got to leave as soon as we finish our business. Sorry we can’t stay longer, bruv.” I nodded, taking a long drag of my Lucky. “Hey, I’m done at this store. You guys ready to move on?” Rico asked after joining us outside. “Scroll is getting cash, but I guess we could check the tac-shops over by the bank,” Rod replied. We gave the whole scene a once-over before regrouping with Scroll, heading to another part of the bazaar on the hunt for knives and other accessories. “Hey! That’s an AK bayonet! It’s actually good quality too, but it’s not the original knife,” Rod pointed out to Rico. “Hmmm… would it work with an RPK?” Rico asked. “Yea. Pretty sure it’s standard,” Rod thought. “Skilkay?” Rod asked the merchant. “600,” he replied in English. “That’s a pretty good deal,” Rod noted. “Yea… I’m not sure… let’s move on,” Rico passed on the knife. We walked through the market slowly, taking it all in, before Rico finally found a decent knife. Afterwards, we walked into the large expo-building that held the meat and produce market. Rod bought many pounds of pork, spicy sausage, and spices. A few onions, potatoes, and a hot pepper joined the haul. “It’s my favorite lady!” Rod called to one of the stall workers. “Dobre Dehn!” She smiled back at him. “What have you got for me today?” He asked. “How about?” She asked pointing to some particularly savory spicy sausage. “Oooooo, yea. Let’s get some of that!” Rod spoke greedily. “Oh, that looks good,” Rico salivated. Her eyes asked, “How much?” “The whole thing, love,” Rod nodded. “Damn, are you feeding an army or something?” I asked. “Damn near,” Rod chuckled. “We’re eatin’ good tonight!” Scroll exclaimed. We left the bazaar and went to the ATB for Rod to get some charcoal for the barbecue, among other things. Scroll went to buy a carton of cigarettes. I held the bag of meat for Rod, standing outside with Rico. Scroll came back first. “I was only able to get 10 packs,” he spoke forlornly. “I mean that’ll probably be plenty,” I told him. “No, man. You don’t understand how many cigarettes I smoke. But I won’t be able to smoke at night out on the frontline, so I’ll be smoking a bit less,” Scroll explained. “I already have a stash of smokes at the house,” Rico remarked. We waited a long time for Rod. Finally, he came out of the ATB. “Bruv, that old babushka robbed me! She f*ckin’ stole from me, bruv!” Rod exclaimed. “What happened?” Rico asked. “There was this babushka in front of me, right? She had a bunch of groceries, and she didn’t have enough cash, and her and the clerk were taking forever!” Rod told us with disbelief. “So, I decided to just give her 200 Hryvnia. And then she took my money and left the groceries! I couldn’t believe it, bruv! You couldn’t write that shit!” We all broke down laughing. “These mean village streets,” I deadpanned. “You’re not jokin’, bruv!” Rod shook his head. “I can’t believe you got robbed by a little old lady,” Scroll smiled. “Can’t trust people, man,” Rico said, confirming his conservative beliefs. “I’ve still got to go get the medicine at the Apteka,” Rod remembered. “You guys can go wait for me at the van!” In the parking lot, the commander was standing outside the van talking with a Ukrainian guy. They were both smiling and chuckling, and I just instinctually knew they were talking about Rod getting robbed by a babushka. Bad gas travels fast in a small town. “Hello again, my friend,” the commander shook my hand. “Good to see you!” I nodded. “Are you enjoying the apartment?” He asked. “Absolutely. Thank you again! That was very generous of you!” I told him gratefully. “So…” he turned to everyone smiling wryly. “I hear you guys had some problems with a lady in the store.” I laughed. “Yea! Rod got robbed by a babushka!” Scroll spoke wide-eyed. “Can’t believe she just took his money,” Rico shook his head laughing. “It is common in Ukraine, unfortunately,” the commander reminded everyone. Pretty soon Rod returned with the medicine. “Did anymore babushkas rob you?” Scroll asked. “Oh, you’re joking, bruv. Here I am, a big, strong soldier, and here she is a tiny old lady, and she f*ckin’ robs me, bruv. She had no fear!” Rod exasperated. “Ukrainians…” I muttered. “She probably went to get a bottle of vodka,” the commander confidently concluded. “Or she’s getting medicine for her poor sick grandchild,” I laughed. “Yea, right,” Rico chuckled. “So, are we ready to head out?” The commander asked everyone. “Yea, I think so,” Rod replied. “I’m good,” Scroll nodded. “Ready to get back and cook this stuff,” Rico smiled. “Well, good luck guys!” I made my goodbyes. “Good seeing you again, man!” Scroll waved. “Yea, stay safe out there,” Rico nodded. “Zane, you stay safe, bruv. I’ll see you soon,” Rod promised. “Oh, I’m sure of it!” I smiled. “It was good to meet you,” the commander shook my hand one last time. “See you guys on the other side!” I called out, lighting up cigarette. The van roared to life as they crowded inside. Rod flipped me off one time before they skirted out from the parking lot. I returned the favor. And took a long drag of my cigarette. Alone again… I walked back to the bar cafe for a beer. Then I went to ATB and bought a week’s worth of groceries: eggs, bread, mandarins, butter, and sausage. I had 7 days in the village, so it was time to make the most of it. I spent the next few days getting video from around town, showing life 20 miles or so from one of the hottest sections of frontline in the war. I also started planning my next moves. There weren’t many villages nearby that were damaged or good locations for filming, so I made the decision, after checking in with Rod, to head to Kramatorsk from Dnipro. After that, I would go to Kharkiv and then maybe Sumy, before returning to Kyiv. I started making the necessary preparations. On the last day, I checked out of the apartment, thanked the lady for her generosity, and headed to bus station carrying 100lbs of equipment. It was a slow-burn through the streets of the village. When I finally made it to the bus station, I dropped my gear on the front steps and sat down. I had an hour or two to kill before my bus came. I started playing Spades on my phone, like the degenerate I am. At some point, this little kid came up asking for money. I didn’t have much cash, so I just gave him all my coins. “Where are you from?” He asked in Russian. “America. California!” I told him. “Ohhhhhh, America!” He responded. He told one of the old men who worked at the bus station that I was American. The old guy just nodded and grumbled. “Pavlik,” the kid introduced himself. “Zane,” I replied shaking his hand. Pavlik started speaking rapidly. “Segundo,” I stopped him. I pulled out my phone translator, and clicked the microphone. “What are you doing here?” He asked, the classic question. “Journalist,” I said without translation. “Ohhhhh, Dobre! Dobre!” Pavlik nodded. We continued going back and forth for a bit. “How old are you?” I asked. “Thirteen,” he responded. “Hmm,” I nodded. “Do you smoke electronic cigarettes?” He asked trying to act cool. “No, I smoke adult cigarettes,” I told him, showing him my pack of Luckies. He laughed. “Do you want something to eat?” Pavlik asked, clearly intending for me to get him something as well. “No, but I’m thirsty. Help me carry my stuff over to the cafe, and I’ll buy you a drink,” I promised. He agreed quickly, helping me with my kit, which we set outside at the tables before heading inside. I bought us two sweet teas. He looked at them wide-eyed. “Dyakuyu!” He said, deliberately in Ukrainian. We sat outside at the tables. “How do you feel about the war?” I asked. “I mean, obviously not great. I am a refugee,” Pavlik smirked. “Are you scared of the war?” I asked. “No. My people are strong,” he proclaimed proudly. “What people? Ukrainian?” I asked. Pavlik shook his head. “Russian?” I asked. He shook his head again. “My people are Roma… Gypsies,” he declared. “Are you from this village?” I asked. “My family was living in a village in Donetsk Oblast, but we had to escape 6 months ago,” he told me. There was a lull in conversation. “Can I have a cigarette?” Pavlik asked. “F*ck it. Why not?” I shrugged. Who was I to tell this gypsy refugee he couldn’t have a cigarette? He already drank and smoked like most European kids. Besides, who am I to be an arbiter of morality? God can judge us, but I certainly can’t. I handed Pavlik a cigarette. Then I lit my own and handed him the lighter. There was already an ashtray on the table, indisputable proof that Ukraine is part of Europe. “Can I take a picture of you?” Pavlik asked. “Sure!” I nodded. He set his cigarette in the ashtray to have a free hand to take a selfie of the two of us. “Do you have an Instagram?” He asked. “Yea! Here, send me that pic,” I told him, exchanging contact info. “You have a lot of stuff,” Pavlik remarked. I unzipped my jacket and knocked on my plate carrier. “Wow! You have armor!” Pavlik reacted strongly. “Yea, I have full-kit. I was supposed to go to the frontline, but my plans failed,” I explained. “What happened?” Pavlik asked. “If you’d believe it, I have a one-armed British soldier friend who fights for Ukraine, but lost his arm in Afghanistan serving in the British military, who now commands a unit of foreign soldiers in the army,” I spoke into the translator. “I was supposed to do a documentary for the unit, but the position was hit by rockets, and it was canceled.” It took a moment for the machine to process the convoluted contents. “You have a crazy life,” Pavlik responded. “Yea, but I’m still trying to have something to show for it,” I shrugged. “You will be victorious,” he proclaimed profoundly. “Dyakuyu Pavlik,” I thanked him. “Well, are we going to smoke another one, or what?” He asked arrogantly. “Sure, one for the road,” I chuckled. I handed him my last smoke. I lit up mine and then his. We each took a long drag, inhaling the moment. Pretty soon my bus came, and we said our goodbyes. “Message me!” Pavlik told me as he left. “Tak! Vece Dobre!” I called back to him. The bus headed to Dnipro, and my excuse for a frontline excursion was over.

The voices and boots of soldiers woke me up. I had passed out on the floor in between the bunks, cozy as could be in a sleeping bag Rod had used in Bakhmut. Most of the soldiers were already up. They were walking over me to go for coffee and cigarettes. Some even had breakfast. I scrambled up out of bed with a dramatic stretch and yawn routine. “Gee! I guess someone’s finally awake! Did you sleep okay on the floor?” One of the guys, Scroll, asked me. “I slept like a baby,” I replied confidently. “Was probably all those Revos!” Rod interjected from his bunk. “Oh yea, you guys were going late last night. I came out to smoke at like midnight, and y’all were still up!” Scroll joked. “Rod and I used to be pretty wild in our younger days,” I smiled. When I first came in the night before, carrying a 40-rack of Revos, I got reintroduced to the soldiers who I had met in Ternopil weeks before. Some of the guys were still in training, and had not yet arrived to the front. Scroll was the first person in the farmhouse to reintroduce himself. “My name’s Scroll. We met in Ternopil. You probably don’t remember me because I was laid up sick back then,” Scroll continued at a rapid clip. When I visited Ternopil, the entire unit had been afflicted with lung infections. I bought a huge care package of citrus and vitamin C for the unit, and spent a day smoking cigarettes with sickly souls inside a musty old building with no ventilation that served as their barracks, that felt more like a plague quarter than military housing. Scroll had been so sick, that he was bedridden and couldn’t talk the last time we “met.” I was the only one who didn’t get sick. “Hey, man! Good to see you!” Rico, another soldier who I met in Ternopil, greeted me. Rico was a white Trumpist Republican from Chico. He even had family in Petaluma, my hometown. We bonded over our mutual California-ness. “Man, it’s such a bummer about the documentary. I was looking forward to you coming out with us,” Rico said sadly. “Yea, but there’s more important things than me in the world. And shit is going down,” I explained comfortably vague. “What is even the reason that they gave?” Scroll asked. “I guess the unit is on a media blackout. I think some guy gave an interview to French television that’s got everyone freaked out, and the Russian offensive is coming, so they can’t guarantee my security,” I explained, leaving out some key details. “Who gave an interview?” Rico asked. “I dunno. Some French guy from the unit,” I shrugged. “It was probably Pierre,” Scroll figured. “Yea, probably,” Rico agreed. “Well, whoever it was, I just think it’s funny because, like, this OpSec shit always comes from people in house,” I chuckled. Just weeks before a Hungarian guy meant to be Rod’s second, got caught with a grenade in his car during a routine traffic stop, causing headaches for the unit. “Like how stupid can you be, bruv?” Rod would later tell me. “So how long are you supposed to be here?” Rico asked me. “Uh, I guess just for tonight. Rod’s trying to see if he can swing me staying one more night, but we’ll see,” I explained. Rod came in carrying a small little kitten, interrupting our conversation. “This is Frog, our unit cat,” Rod explained. “We got her from another house that’s full of cats. She just got attached to us. She’s particularly attached to me.” Frog purred warmly on Rod’s shoulder. “We all pitch in on feeding her,” Rico added. “We call her Frog because her purr sounds like a frog,” Rod explained. “Oh yea, she climbs all up over me and sleeps,” Scroll agreed. “Hopefully, she doesn’t piss all over my stuff.” Everyone laughed. After that, the night went by in a haze of Revo and cigarettes, as I have already relayed to you good people. The morning came, and life came with it. “You can just put your bag up on my bunk,” Rod told me. “Sounds good,” I nodded. I walked into the dining room after packing my stuff away. “Hey Zane! You wanna go for a smoke?” Rico asked. “F*ck it. Why not?” I replied. “I’ll go with you,” Scroll nodded. “Well, if we’re all f*ckin’ goin’,” Rod mused. Outside the farmhouse, the light felt bright even though it was cloudy and cold. The vast expanse of farm and field surrounding us was surreal in the cold grey light of dawn. We walked into the shed out back for a smoke. “So what’s the agenda for today?” Scroll asked Rod, after blowing out a hazy humid plume of smoke. “Well, I gotta take the other half of you guys out on the range today, for some shooting and reload drills, since apparently you guys didn’t get f*ck-all with the Legion,” Rod grimaced. “What do you want the rest of us to do?” Scroll asked. “You can lead the guys through some reloads,” Rod suggested. “Sounds good,” Scroll nodded. “You’ll have to stay here with them,” Rod told me. “The place we’re going to train is like halfway between here and the front, and completely vulnerable to drone attacks.” I nodded, “No worries, man. Like I said, I’m just happy to be here!” An awkward silence settled over us. “Soooo… have you been paying attention to the election?” Rico asked me with a smile. “Yea…” I admitted. “So, what do you think about Trump and Biden? I know last time you said you didn’t support Trump,” Rico continued. “Well, I mean I think Trump’s gonna win. I think that’s just the way the wind is blowing,” I explained. “But you know, there’s just so many black swan events hanging over this election. It’s really impossible to predict.” Back when we were in Ternopil, Rico found himself a lonely man when he declared his casual, yet ardent support for Trump in a room full of Britons and globalists. “But what do you think about Biden?” Rico asked. “I think Biden is really eating it on the Gaza conflict. It’s not doing him any favors,” I went on. “It’s just so stupid because the people who vote on Israel are already mostly against Biden, and the people who support Palestine are his most critical base.” Rico nodded, “Yea, I don’t get the whole Israel-Palestine debate. I just think we should stop supporting all these foreign wars.” We went back inside the farmhouse. I sat down and poured myself a coffee. Rod was buzzing to-and-fro checking in with different soldiers and preparing for the training. “Some of the upper brass are apparently coming to watch me train these guys,” he had told me. Scroll, Rico, and I sat at the table talking about geopolitical struggles and general life experiences, a storied vice of mine. “Well, I just think that the United States could be doing a lot more for this country. That’s part of why I came here,” Scroll told us. “You know, I had no family or friends to keep me there, and I started feeling more and more useless. Then an old army buddy told me about fighting in Ukraine. That’s when I made the decision to come here.” Rico nodded. “For me it was similar. I was in law school, but I didn’t really feel like I belonged. I was so out of place there,” he explained. “People there are like from another planet. And I feel like they resented me because I was a veteran. And I was struggling in school, and just really unhappy. So I decided to drop out of law school and come to Ukraine.” I chuckled. “I totally forgot that was what you did before here,” Scroll spoke quickly. “My family’s not too happy about it,” Rico admitted. “Do you think that a lot of veterans are kind of seeking redemption in Ukraine from what happened in Iraq and Afghanistan?” I asked. “Definitely. People are definitely workin’ through some of their issues,” Rico answered quickly. “I mean when it’s what you’ve trained your whole life for, and you don’t have any other skills, being back home just makes you feel useless,” Scroll reminded us. “And like Rico said, a lot of people look down on veterans. I mean, I was in Iraq for years. A lot of shit went down, you know? And it’s hard to come home and just pretend to be normal after that.” Rico corroborated Scroll’s story, “Yea, I just feel like people in America look down on us, like we’re violent and crazy, like we’re gonna go psycho at any moment and kill a bunch of people.” I nodded. “Basically, Ukraine is a place where my skills matter, where these skills can do the most good, and it’s the same for a lot of the people who come here to fight,” Scroll explained. “Do you feel like this is a ‘good’ war?” I asked. “Well, I was in Afghanistan, in some of the hottest AOs,” Rico informed me. “And yea, I mean, I don’t know how much ‘good’ we did there, but I believed in the mission. We had people to protect, even if they didn’t want us there.” Scroll agreed, “Absolutely. Did we achieve what we wanted to achieve? No. But we believed in the mission. As for Ukraine, I think for a lot of people it has more to do with giving us an outlet for our skills than some kind of redemption.” Rod and the movement of soldiers in full-kit interrupted our conversation. “Okay, boys! We’re headed out to the range. Scroll, make sure to run them through reloads, and make sure to help them work through what they’re struggling with. Obviously, Rico has a busted ankle, but he still has a lot he needs to work on,” Rod announced. “Will do. I’ll let you know how it went when you get back!” Scroll waved. A little while later, Scroll had the 5 soldiers under his command lined up for reloads in full-kit and rifles in hand. From left to right, there was Dima from Kazakhstan, Roland from Switzerland, Marc from Hungary, Rico from California, and Henry from Britannia. Scroll stood stoutly in front of them shouting orders. I paced around inspecting their form with Frog the kitten on my shoulder. After Frog kept jumping onto reloading soldiers, I took it as my duty to keep her under guard. While most everyone had AK-47s, Rico and Marc had RPKs, the larger Soviet-era machine gun with a longer barrel and magazine than the AK. A few of the guys were missing their dump pouches, where soldiers are trained to drop their magazines during a tactical reload. For all intents and purposes, there are two standard types of reloads in modern warfare: tactical and speed reload. Tactical, as the name suggests, is the type of reload you do when you have extra time to do so. During a tactical reload, soldiers are supposed to reload their weapon with a new clip while tossing the old one in their dump pouch as efficiently as possible. Sometimes that magazine may still have some ammo remaining, and the purpose of the reload is to get a fresh magazine in the weapon before returning to combat engagement. Speed reload is what soldiers do during active engagement. The objective of a speed reload is to get a new magazine into their weapon as quickly as possible, discarding the old magazine on the ground. Speed reloads are often done in tandem with live shooter training and buddy drills, where soldiers practice infantry movement and tactics combined with shooting and reload drills. In this case, we were just running through the basics with a focus on doing drills standing, sitting, and prone; while being able to move from one position to another with tactical awareness and efficiency. Everyone unloaded their clips and rifles before showing them to Scroll to confirm everything was kosher and not going to kill anybody. “Ready…” Scroll called out. “Reload!” The soldiers scrambled to unload and reload. Dima from Kazakhstan was the fastest gun in the west just about every drill. He would usually be followed by Roland from Switzerland, then Marc from Hungary or Henry from Britain. Rico was almost always the slowest, but part of that was because of his RPK. Even Marc, who had apparently been the fastest the day before, struggled with the size and weight of the RPK. The long banana clip was particularly troublesome for quick reload times. “Okay! That was better. Now let’s switch to tac reloads!” Scroll announced after half an hour or so of speed reloads. “For those of us who don’t have dump pouches?” Henry asked. “Just put it in your vest somewhere. I gotta get you guys dump pouches when we go to the village,” Scroll admitted. “Rod said you guys are going to the village tomorrow. It might be your last chance to get things for a while,” I said full-well knowing that that would be their last day before being deployed to the frontline. “Well, anyway, let’s just do these drills. Okay. Ready?” Scroll waited. “Retain!” The tac reload was much more of a struggle for everyone. Except for Dima of course, being the fastest gun in the west. Lacking dump pouches, RPK users Marc and Rico particularly struggled. While Scroll kept everyone running through drills, the water truck came to change out the tank. The farmhouse, as a forward operating base, received daily deliveries of supplies, such as food and other essentials, with a new water tank being brought in once a week or so. Two Ukrainian men jumped out of the truck and proceeded to get to work with the tank. “Privit! Tak! Ti! Ti!” One of them pointed at me. “Me?” I asked pointing at myself. They nodded emphatically. “I’m not even allowed to be here,” I chuckled to myself. It became clear they needed help carrying the old tank off its wooden pallet. I brushed Frog off my shoulder, and she landed on the ground with a little pitter patter of paws on moist earth. Then I rushed over to help them. Once we had the empty one off the pallet, we carried the full tank sloshing with probably a thousand gallons or more of water, and eased it onto the pallet. Then we put the empty one back in the truck. “Dyakuyu!” They nodded to me as they left. “Bud laska!” I replied with a wave. The guys went through the reload drills for a while before moving into practice with prone, sitting, and standing. After Scroll felt that he had gotten them as good as he could for the day, he decided to join the fray. “Hey, Zane! I’m gonna jump in there! Can you call out the drills?” Scroll asked. “Sure… no problem!” I answered. “Thanks man!” He nodded before jumping in. “Speed reloads?” I asked. “Yea!” He replied. “Okay…. Ready?” I asked a little unsure at first. The soldiers nodded as they entered shooter ready positions. I waited for a moment. “Reload!” I called out. They all scrambled. The usual suspects did their usual performances, but Scroll had been slow on the draw. “Damn, maybe I need to warm-up,” he laughed. I continued calling out the drills for a good 15 minutes. “So, are we going to do the competition?” Dima asked Scroll. “Is that what we want to do?” Scroll asked the general audience. “Sure, why not?” Marc answered. “I think it’s time,” Henry nodded. “I’m ready if everyone else is,” Roland replied. “So… slowest does the dishes?” Rico asked sheepishly. “Yup,” Scroll confirmed. “Okay… Ready?” I called out confidently. I barely waited a second. “Reload!” Dima finished first. Then Marc. Then Scroll. Then Roland. Then Henry. Rico finished last. “I guess I’m doing dishes again,” he shrugged with a smile. It was an elimination game, so Rico was out of the race. “Ready?” I called out more confidently. I waited a little longer than last time. “Reload!” Dima finished first. Then Scroll. Then Roland. Then Henry. Marc finished last. “Marc! What happened? Yesterday you were the fastest!” Scroll exclaimed. “I dunno. I’m just not feeling it today, I guess,” Marc shrugged. “I mean the RPK users are kinda f*cked,” I laughed. “There’s a clear disadvantage.” “Well, I mean yesterday Marc won it, but yea, they’re definitely slower,” Henry added. “I think they just take time to get used to,” Dima theorized. “Okay. Let’s go! Ready?” My voice boomed loud and proud. This time I waited for an eternity. Everyone’s eyes twitched. Their muscles trembled. Their stomachs turned. Their fingers wavered expectantly. A dead silence hung over the air. “Reload!” I shouted. Dima was first. Then Scroll. Then Henry. Roland finished last. “You can’t win them all,” he smiled. “Damn! Dima’s fast as hell!” I exclaimed. “Yea. I can barely keep up with him,” Scroll shook his head. “I think it’s probably gonna be me this time,” Henry admitted. “Okay! Let’s get to it!” I declared. “Ready……..” I elongated each syllable. A moment went by. “Reload!” I called out. Dima was first. Scroll was second. Henry was last. “Yup. That about does it for me,” he shook his head. “You’ve improved though, Henry!” Scroll consoled him. “Okay. This one’s for alllllll the marbles!” I narrated. “Yea, give me a sec,” Scroll said, shaking out his head and hands. “I’m ready when you are,” Dima replied with his Russian accent. “Okay…. Ready?” I called. I waited and waited and waited. Our beards grew with expectation. Our fingernails grew out from their tips. Our teeth decayed from neglect. “Reload!” I boomed. It happened so fast you couldn’t even see it. Dima and Scroll had finished in a dead heat, a perfect tie. “Holy shit!” I commentated. “Who won?” Dima asked. “It was tie!” Rico answered. “That was crazy,” Henry added. “I’m sweatin’ over here!” Scroll exclaimed. “Yea, it was a perfect tie. Run it again!” I shouted. “Ready?” Dima and Scroll returned to shooter ready. They side-eyed each other expectantly. Fingers flirted in position nervously. “Reload!” I called out, quicker this time. Like lightning legends, their magazines flew out of their AKs and onto the ground, all while seamlessly transitioning in fresh ammunition. This was the work of professionals. Again, a dead tie. “F*ck me that’s fast!” I laughed. “Did we do it again?” Scroll asked. “Yea, man! Another tie,” Rico informed them. “Haha, this is crazy,” Dima chuckled. “Okay, okay. Let’s do one more round!” I told them. “Hopefully one of us will win this time!” Dima joked. “Ready?” I shouted seriously. In an instant I called, “Reload!” The sound of empty mags falling on the ground and full mags jamming back into rifles filled the air. Dima and Scroll were both taken off guard by the blitz, but Dima recovered quickly, while Scroll still fumbled. That fumble was fatal. Dima finished first. Scroll finished last, less than a second later. “Fastest gun in the f*cking west!!!” I cheered at Dima. The mood became vivacious and celebratory. “Man, you are f*ckin’ ON today!” Scroll congratulated him. “Thank you. Thank you!” Dima nodded graciously. “That was awesome,” Rico smiled. “Congratulations, Dima!” Henry saluted him. “You are really fast,” Roland admitted. “Next time I will be ready,” Marc spoke starkly. “I’d like to see how fast you are with an RPK,” I joked. “Yea! You know I’d like to see that too, Dima!” Scroll agreed. We did a few more rounds of the game without any challenge, with me calling out the reloads, before we decided to see what would happen between Marc and Dima if they switched weapons, Marc taking the AK and Dima taking the heavier RPK. Scroll called that one out. Dima still won every time.

“I don’t know if I’m gonna make it out of this one, mate,” Rod spoke to me in hushed tones, his eyes glazed, his face illuminated by the eerie glow of a single light. Silence dominated the farmhouse. All the other soldiers were asleep. Or at least they were supposed to be. I can imagine that one or two were still up, staring at the ceiling, hearing every word of their dark fate dribble drunkenly from Rod’s lips. Of course, he wasn’t really drunk. He was just blowing off steam. The weight of the world had been thrust upon his shoulders suddenly. Now he was just another man dealing with the curse of being given everything he ever wished for. Rod and I sat at the kitchen table, empty cans of Cherry Revo scattered about. “Well, I mean you’ve made it out of worse before,” I told him. “I couldn’t say this in front of the guys, but this is different,” Rod spoke seriously. “I've been to Mariupol, Bakhmut, more places than I can count. I’ve been shot, blown up, almost killed loads of times. And all of those times I thought I was gonna make it out. But I’m not so sure this time.” His last words were a whisper. “What makes it different?” I asked. “Numbers. We’ve got word that more Russians are reinforcing the position. I can’t tell the guys this, but we’re outnumbered 17:1,” Rod paused a moment to let the figure sink in. “I’ve always been outnumbered here, 5:1, 3:1, 2:1, and I’ve always made it work. Because I’ve had to. But I can’t do everything. If they decide to charge us with everything they’ve got, we’re dead.” I felt a pang of guilt for being able to know before the other guys. I wondered if any of them were listening, but ultimately I was too enthralled in the conversation to care. “Some of these guys are already anxious. Some of them don’t have any real battlefield experience. And now the GRAD rockets have hit our Ukrainian counterparts there, so we might be told to head out to the front at any moment,” Rod shook his head in exasperation. “I haven’t even gotten a chance to train with most of them.” Rod took a long sip of Revo. “So they don’t even know they’re headed out in 2 days?” I asked. “A couple of them do, but I’m not telling any of them until it’s time to head out. I don’t want to add to their anxiety. I need them focused on the moment,” Rod explained. “So much for the two weeks of training,” I mused. “Sorry about all this mate. We were all looking forward to working on that documentary. But the situation has changed,” Rod grimaced with guilt. “Don’t worry man. It’s the Russians’ fault,” I grinned. “The fuckin’ Russians,” Rod repeated. We clinked our cans together. “I think it’s time for a smoke,” I told him. “Alright, let’s go,” he agreed. Outside the farmhouse, we had to keep the lights low, for fear of being sighted by enemy drones. The farmhouse had been controlled by the Russians and used as a forward base in the exact same manner just a year before, until being liberated by Ukrainian forces. The Russians had apparently executed some civilians there in the early days of 2022. We walked over to the shed to light up in the darkness. “The commander wants to take you back tomorrow, but I’m gonna try to swing for you to stay here one more night. I’ll tell him that since we’re going back to the village on Sunday, we should bring you back then. Maybe I’ll make an excuse that I wasn’t able to take you back or something,” Rod suggested. “Yea, I mean I’ll take all the time out here I can get,” I nodded in the dark. “I just feel fuckin’ terrible that you came all the way out here, only for this shit to happen,” Rod sulked. “Don’t worry about it man. You got enough real shit to worry about. My shit doesn’t even come close,” I soothingly said. “The commander feels bad about it too,” Rod explained. “He was asking me what we could do. I think I’ll pay for you for a couple days in a hostel, then get you a train back to Kyiv.” I took a long drag of my Lucky Strike, its cherry ember slightly illuminating my face. “Maybe I’ll do some interviews of soldiers in the area and do a little tour of towns that are open near the front,” I figured. “This is the closest you’ll ever get to the frontline, at least for right now,” Rod informed me. “How far are we again?” I asked. “12 kilometers, so like 7-and-a-half miles,” Rod calculated. “Hmmm, well that’s cool I guess,” I shrugged. “Actually, I think the commander said that you’re officially closer to the front than any other unaccredited civilian has been so far,” Rod told me. “Yea, I mean I’m just honored to be here,” I spoke sincerely. “Don’t worry, mate. If you keep doing what you’re doing, something will work out,” Rod reassured me. We went back inside the farmhouse. Rod rang up his missus. “How you doin’, my love?” she asked over the screen. “Pretty good. Zane’s here with me,” Rod yawned. “Hiiii!” I waved in the screen. “Oh, that’s good,” she responded. “Well, it’s not good, because the documentary’s canceled, and now we’re going to the front on Monday. It’s gonna get hot here very soon,” Rod grimly explained the situation. “Well as long as you survive till our wedding,” she teased him. “You just want my money,” he joked. “Yea, I want your money. I’ve already had to put up with all your shit without a ring on my finger!” She laughed. “Don’t you start. I’m the one who has to put up with the stress of basically being a married man for 5 years!” Rod clapped back. “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard of in the entire world who’s fighting in a war to pay for his wedding!” I shook my head laughing. “You couldn’t write that up!” Rod laughed. “Where are you getting married again?” I asked. “At Henry VIII’s old state house. It’s quite nice,” Rod responded. “Oh yes, it’s lovely,” his missus agreed. “Lovely and expensive,” Rod mocked her in a fake childish voice. “Well, you’re the one paying for it,” she declared. “What do you think I’m doin’ here, love?” Rod rhetorically replied. “Killing Russians,” I interjected. “You shut the f*ck up,” he pointed at me with a giggle. The noise issue was clearly no longer on anyone’s mind. “No, but honestly, I should write a story in the Daily Mail or something about your wedding at some point,” I explained. “It’s just f*cking unbelievable.” Rod laughed. “Okay Darling, I’m going to have to let you go now. I love you,” the missus ended with emphasis. “I love you too, my lovely,” Rod told her. The phone call ended. “She understands. I could die any day. Do you think she’s not used to this by now? I’ve been fighting for YEARS, mate,” he explained. “Well, almost 2 years,” I pointed out. “Exactly. That’s how long it’s been. Tell me it doesn’t feel that long? Honestly bruv, it feels like I’ve been in this country for a long f*cking time,” he emphasized. “Yea, I mean I left for a year, and you were still here fighting. Everybody we know is gone, but you’re still here,” I told him. Rod drunkenly thought about it for a second. “Yea… everyone else is gone. I’m the last one here, mate. I’ve basically been home for 3 or 4 months in the last 2 years,” Rod reiterated reverently. “That’s pretty crazy,” I admitted. “So believe me when I say that this one is different. It just feels different,” Rod spoke suddenly serious. “I’ve had a lot of cat lives, bruv. I’m just usin’ ‘em all up. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this before the shit comes back to get me.” Silence filled the air for a moment after his words. I shook my head, “This shit’s so f*cking crazy.” We kept sipping Revo and talking for a while longer before passing out. I had the best sleep of my life.

I’ve finally returned to Hrebinka, to the abode of the two saltiest motherfuckers on the planet, expat brothers Ray and Tim, who have made their Great American Escape, and are now living their best lives in Nowheresville, Ukraine with their three dogs. “Where the fuck is Hrebinka?” Tim will often joke. “Ain’t nobody gonna come here!” I was supposed to go to Hrebinka on Monday, but Ross called me Sunday night and asked me if he could come and get his stuff Monday night and leave Tuesday morning for his new assignment with some crazy prima-donna task force. He got me a 6 inch knife and two exploding .762 rounds as souvenirs. “I just figure while you’re in Ukraine, you should have at least something to protect yourself,” he told me. Ross and I parted ways at the train station in Kyiv, and I headed back to Hrebinka. The strange moan of the air raid siren with its melancholy melody floated through the air from the center of town. Ah, the children of Ukraine, what music they make! The siren is much more noticeable here than in Kyiv, even though they go off at the same times. This is because Kyiv is a large region and bustling city, while Hrebinka is just a pinprick on the map. Ray was recently badly bitten by the dogs when he tried to get in between two of them fighting. His hand needs constant care on a daily basis, that Jane, their elderly neighbor lovingly provides despite Ray’s paranoia and discontent. “I don’t trust these people,” he told me. Part of this mistrust was developed when he tried to walk to the store against Tim’s advice and fell on the return journey. Apparently the Ukrainian people going by didn’t stop to help him. Tim thinks that it’s probably because they thought he was drunk, but being a communal society, they also don’t like the highly-individualistic-cowboy-energy emanating off Ray. “They don’t like people who obviously are two-faced,” Tim complained. Ray is still very much alive, despite his promises to die last year at the first snowfall, much to Tim’s chagrin. His persistence with a near-nonexistent-blood-oxygen-level continues to shock and surprise everyone in the medical field. Ray and Tim’s relationship has gotten more conflict-ridden than Donetsk, but that’s just what happens when two people spend too much time together. “The joy he gets out of making me suffer allows him to overcome his natural negativity,” Ray explained. Ray still mostly persists on beer and cigarettes, with occasional candy and ice cream, as his sensitive system finds it hard to process real food. “I can’t eat these Ukrainian spices,” Ray will often say, despite most of the meals Tim cooks only having salt and pepper. The need to take about a dozen or so medications a day really takes a toll on a person’s stomach and taste buds, but even dying men have to eat. Ray and I spent the day listening to the Grateful Dead and other related bands like Little Feat, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and getting dirty looks from Tim for listening to that, “Hippie shit.” Ray said, “Oh, now he’s pissed off.” The next morning when I came down for coffee Tim asked, “He ain’t dead yet? Bummer. I’ll get Jane to come over and fuck him up,” referencing getting Ray to take his medication. There’s nothing quite like brotherly love! Ray’s willingness to die has decreased as the expiration date closes in. Despite coming to Ukraine to escape being put in a nursing home in the United States, as well as to keep his ex-wife from collecting on a million-dollar-life-insurance-policy on him, he continues to talk about the possibility of returning home for medical care due his misplaced mistrust in Ukrainian medicine. He also refuses to allow a caregiver to come and help him cook meals and bathe. “I just want to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” Ray explained. “You don’t have any dignity!” Tim retorted. “Whether you go back to the United States, or stay in Ukraine, eventually, you’re gonna need a caregiver,” I tried to tell him. “I know you think I should just roll over and die, but it’s not that easy,” Ray told me. Pride is such a stupid thing. No matter how big you are, no matter how great you are, someday you will begin to deteriorate. Someday you are going to need someone. Refusing to acknowledge that fact and making life harder on your loved ones isn’t a sign of pride or strength. It’s a sign of weakness.

This is gon’ be a long one folks! So sit back, relax, and the enjoy the show! On Saturday, I rented a cheap hotel room in Maidan for 4 nights. I was going to old town Kyiv on Sunday for my old friend Andre’s birthday over by the Landscape Alley. So I decided if I was going to pay the $5 to $10 Bolt taxi from my apartment on the outskirts, then I might as well just spend a few nights in Kyiv Center like the old days. Things really started to feel like the old days when Ross gave me a call right before I left for Maidan, telling me he had just had another conflict with his unit and was coming back to Kyiv after nearly dying a few times (Again). “This time was different bro. It was scary. I thought I was going to die. I got a concussion from an RPG hitting the trench right next to me through the window. I had been running back and forth between two windows, laying down suppressive fire. It was just me, bruv! They left me to defend an entire part of the line alone. It was scary, bruv,” he told me. “Well at least you’re still alive,” I told him over the phone. “No like artillery, yea, was targeting me, and I just had to sit there with just some wood logs and dirt above me. I could hear the logs cracking, bruv. And when I tried to call in artillery to cover me, they told me over the radio to silence, bruv,” he continued. “Jesus,” I replied. “Yea, I told them, I don’t mind dying, but I don’t want to die doing some stupid shit, and this was just stupid, bruv,” he spoke seriously. “Damn!” What else could I say? “Yea but anyways, when I get back to Kyiv, let’s have a drink,” Ross insisted. “Sounds good, man,” I nodded. I Bolted into Maidan, checked into my hotel, and had a few drinks walking down memory lane. The next day, a bit hungover, I got a call from Ivan, Andre’s English-speaking friend, that I should come down to the park at 5 p.m. for the birthday party. Andre wasn’t drinking anymore (He found God recently), but everyone else was. “Hopefully you don’t get sick again,” Ivan laughed over the phone. Last year, at the same location, I may have thrown up a couple times after too many shots of whiskey. Come to think of it, back in those days, every time I was with Andre I ended up puking. “I’m not gonna puke this time,” I told Ivan and myself. When I walked to the park, I knew exactly where to go: where I heard electric guitar floating up in the distance. The sun shone hot and brightly. As I returned to the place where my last trip to Kyiv ended, a surreal feeling began building in my gut. I saw Andre and Ivan set up beneath the shade of a large rock. “Andre! Ivan! My friends!” I called out as I arrived. “Welcome to Kyiv!” Andre shouted excitedly. We all exchanged hugs. “Happy birthday, Andre!” I exclaimed. “Thank you, my friend,” Andre nodded gratefully. “So you are back now. Have you finished your school?” Ivan asked. “Hell yea! I’m a grad now,” I laughed. Pointing over to the musician playing halfway decent guitar riffs, I asked, “Is he your friend too?” That was a joking reference to the fact that it seemed like every artist of any kind in Kyiv was somebody they knew. “No,” Andre replied. “Somebody needs to take him, tie him up, and teach him how to play music until he understands,” Ivan informed me. “Just take him off the street,” I laughed. “Exactly,” Ivan nodded. “Bring back Piano Anton!” I fake-protested. Piano Anton was their extremely talented friend who had performed last time I was here. He and I ended up being the last people drinking at a bar when it shut for curfew. What a time to be alive! Ivan and I started hitting the whiskey. I tried to water down mine with Coca-Cola, but this only did so much to defend against the drunkenness. More of their friends kept coming, and the drinks kept flowing. Many cigarettes were smoked upon this night. Things started to get a little hazy, and while I did not puke, by the end of the night I was so drunk that my leg was slightly shaking uncontrollably, and I swayed this way and that in every direction despite my best efforts. Andre decided that I had had enough, and he was going to bring me home. After making sure I wore a helmet, I climbed on the back of Andre’s motorcycle, and we sped through the heart of Kyiv. We were cutting through traffic, buzzing around curves. It was epic. Talk about surreal. Eventually he dropped me off near my hotel, and I eventually made it back alive and unspoiled. “Thanks for everything, Andre!” I bade him farewell. The next day I met Ross for Bochka breakfast. I was supposed to meet him the night before after the birthday party, but I had to text him that I was simply too drunk. We came back to the place where so many beers had met their end, Bochka. We each had their English breakfast and a liter of beer to wash it all down. Ross reiterated his story from the front, with a few liters of beer more, before we decided to head back to his place to drink some Revos and smoke some cigarettes. Revos are an energy-drink-alcohol weighing in at about 8.5% abv. When we finally got to his place, Revos in hand, the drinking really started. We had only gotten 3 each because Ross told me, “If I have anymore than that, I turn into a right cunt!” I told him the story of my cousin Jayden and his inability to drink Vodka Red-Bulls without getting crazy. “Oh yea, I can relate,” Ross laughed. After a while of smoking cigarettes and sipping Revos, we decided it was time to head out somewhere. There was a lovely little fountain restaurant-bar where we decided to spend our Hryvnia. We each had a beer, then 2 mojitos. I had a bowl of borscht, which was delicious. “Let’s go to Buena Vista!” Ross exclaimed. “Oh, Jesus,” my stomach and I replied. Buena Vista had been the site of a legendary story that I recount in great detail in my forthcoming book, but that I will not be relaying to you people here due to its depth and depravity. Needless to say, Buena Vista is hard on me. Fuck tequila! And what did Ross order when we got there? Tequila. He ordered us each a beer and shot of tequila, and then the bartender, bored with an empty bar, decided to give us one on the house like the sick bastard he was. It was a conspiracy, man! They were out to get me, man! Everyone’s in on it! Everyone’s against me! Somewhere in the deluge that followed, Ross ordered another shot of tequila, after which he went upstairs for a cigarette, and I promptly went to the bathroom to vomit my heart out. I so vomited so viciously all over the place, that after it was done I had to leave immediately or risk or 5-star bounty. So much for that delicious borscht… When I hobbled upstairs, I saw Ross passed out in a chair on the front porch. I was like, “Fuck this shit. I gotta get home.” If I didn’t make it back to the hotel now, I knew I never would. So, I called a Bolt to whisk me away from that horrible place. Apparently, Ross didn’t wake up until closing, almost 6 hours later, when they presented him with the bill! “Dude I puked so viciously at Buena Vista,” I texted Ross. “I don’t know how I got home, bruv. I don’t remember how I typed in the code. I don’t remember calling my missus, and I don’t remember falling asleep,” Ross told me over the phone the next day. Utterly marvelous! That's all for now! Some other things happened over the course of these days, but I’ve taken up enough time from you good people.

When I got off the bus, I was tired, very tired. The first thing I did was hire a taxi to take me to the first apartment I’ll be having in Ukraine. It was a little further out than I’d imagined, but it’s in the middle of some beautiful country at the edge of the forest Northeast of Kyiv, near Irpin. Before I leave here I will probably end up paying a visit to Irpin and Bucha, those living monuments to Russian aggression, and the sites of countless war-crimes. When I got to the little part of Kyiv where my apartment was, I couldn’t find the place due to it not being properly located on Google maps. I wandered the whole town looking for it. My rolling suitcase took some serious wear on the wheels, before I finally asked for help. As it would so happen, the first couple I asked knew where my apartment was and spoke perfect English. They were walking their dog, a German-Shepherd-mix named Bucha, who they had rescued near Irpin and Bucha. On top of that, the guy, Mycola, even helped carry one of my bags for me. I got into the apartment with little trouble and thanked my lucky stars. I ended up offering to take them out for a cup of coffee. I had trouble again the next day, when I went to the mall to get a SIM card for Ukraine. The SIM card situation was easy enough, but my world was shattered for a while when an ATM ate my card. It was even further shattered when a little old lady used the ATM, and it gave her her card back! Jeez Louise! Luckily, I have all my cards on Apple Pay and am now exclusively using MoneyGram, not because it’s the only option, but because that way no bitch-ass machines can steal my livelihood. Honestly now, writing this a few days later, I can’t help but laugh at the insanity of it all, but boy, for a while there, I was struggling to find the humor! Also another issue that arose that made this even more nonsensically hilarious, is that many of my apps are being weird and not allowing me access in Ukraine. On top of that, the one that seems to be fine is/was the artist formerly known as Bank of the West, that has tragically come to be known as BMO. The transfer between bank-systems has not been smooth. There’s like thousands of complaints and like Hurricane Idalia victims not being able to use their cards. So I’m waiting on that. The biggest saving grace has been Capital One, which finally worked after I set up an American VPN. That’s my main credit card company, so as long as I can pay bills on that I’m basically good. I mean I can see what I’m spending on their app, but I can’t know what my balance is with those BMO bastards. This time these problems were a lot easier to solve for two reasons: One, my cards work fine and most places take card. And two, my dad left me €65 that he wasn’t able to spend in Portugal, that I converted in Poland to Ukrainian Hryvnia, which after a hefty fee came out to about 2300 UAH. I haven’t even spent all of that in my 4 or so days here, though many places only take cash, which is why I hit myself with a $300 MoneyGram just in case. In a country where shit can go down at anytime, cash is king. But just like the travel guides will tell you, when you’re traveling abroad you should never spend cash if you can use card, because transaction and exchange fees make cash more expensive. I headed to Maidan once to check in to the Ukrinform Media Center in Kyiv, and to pick-up my Gram from a reliable bank I used to use. The check-in wasn’t necessary apparently, but it was nice to get a little info. At that same location they do daily briefings, so I might check that out once I get more established. In the meantime, they told me to just fill out the application online for accreditation and that it will probably take at least two weeks to process. After all my business was concluded, I ended up having a couple mojitos in the name of Auld Lang Syne. In that same spirit of nostalgia, I walked down to Kreschatik to the old kebap place that Ross and I used to hit on a daily basis. After that, I had no choice but to go to Bochka. Ah, Bochka Pub! The place of my dreams! I ordered a liter of beer and walked out to the smoking veranda and lit up a Lucky Strike. I had tagged the old crew in a post about Bochka on Instagram, and the very-fuckin-minute I did that, Pato video-called me. He was one of the knuckleheads that I met in Lviv back in ‘22. Jeez. We had a pretty good conversation on account of that I was a little buzzed. It was extra-hilarious because the bar was empty, and the workers kept coming up to smoke. They were just listening to us talk about the most out-of-pocket topics known to civilized man. Pato has this amazing ability to say things that are so cringe that you can’t believe he really said them, and by the time you wrap your mind around them, he goes and says something worse. He’s not even aware of this, mind you. A part of me hopes those workers don’t speak English. But another part of me hopes that they do… After my liter was done, and after I had properly honored the spirits of that sacred place by chain-smoking cigarettes, I decided it would probably be best to leave before Bochka  swallowed me entirely. It was time for a stroll down memory lane. I walked over to the Drunk Cherry to ride the tumult of those blood-red seas once again. Across the street the old apartment I lived in towered overhead. It hit me with a heart full of feels to be back on Kreschatik. Things are happening here. Change is coming.

My final-hurrah-last-farewell-tour with my dad through Britannia was over! It was an epic ride, not soon to be forgotten, but now I was heading to Ukraine to get back in the action. After a year away, I was feeling antsy to return to where great things are happening, where everyday people are heroes. Now there was only one thing between me and my destination: Warsaw. Well, that and the highly chaotic and variable Polish-Ukrainian border. I had a hiccup in Poland (although really in London), where my bag didn’t get on my connecting flight because they had to rebook me on a later flight due to their own malfeasance. London Heathrow Airport is literally designed and maintained by the Devil. It was so deja vu missing another connecting flight there due to their logistical errors. Riley and I had the same thing happen on our way to Portugal last year. It’s like they just don’t know how to operate connecting flights. I’m never going back through there unless I have to. And now this baggage bullshit went down on top of every else! God bless British Airways! Lord knows they need it… So I had to wait an extra day in Warsaw. Thanks to the saving grace of the angels, I was reunited with my pack the next day, but I still had booked a couple extra days in Warsaw. I love Poland, but I’m not sure Poland loves me. Polish people are very kind, but they have a tendency towards strictness that obviously is not going to work for me. Watching Polish people walk their streets is evidence that this world really is a simulation. Everyone acts like AI is such a radical new thing, but authoritarian governments learned how to create and mass-produce artificial intelligence years ago! Sure there’s occasional glitches in the system, but those units just need to be reprogrammed or disposed of. Simple. The beauty of Old Town Warsaw is surreal. It’s like a little fairyland of culture hidden in the heart of one of the world’s most modern cities. It had to be totally and painstakingly restored after being completely destroyed by the Germans in WWII, as Old Uncle Adolf had a particular animosity for the people of Warsaw due to their tendency to fight to the death for their friends and families. I even saw in one dedication that German soldiers had gunned down all the elderly women in a nursing home there. The destruction was fierce. Before that Warsaw had been one of the gems of Europe. That they were able to restore even a whisper of what once was, through public dedication and donation against the forces of totalitarianism and the backdrop of the Soviet era, is a testament to the will of the people of Warsaw. There is a romantic sadness here underneath the surface of everything. Similarly to Ukraine, much of the history of Poland could be recorded in sad violin music, with brutality and deprivation being consistent themes throughout the performance. That longing for something that will never come back: that’s a really special feeling isn’t it? That temptation towards tragedy pulls at our heart strings, even after our hearts stop beating. Maybe that’s why the youth of Eastern Europe are so focused on the future, while their elders drift increasingly to the past. Hell, maybe it’s a global phenomenon… I missed my train to Kyiv due to all the British nonsense. British nonsense can be explained thusly: Let’s make everything needlessly complicated and just force everyone to be compliant because they have to listen to us! Therefore, I was forced to do something I swore I would never do again: ride a goddamn bus through the Ukrainian border. In the words of Pat Thompson, as relayed to me by my father, “Is it never again already?” Riding a bus across the border is like playing logistical Russian Roulette. You might make it, or you might be stuck there for like 20-fucking-hours. No mortal timeline can survive that kind of blow without the need for serious revision. Luckily for me, I have all the time in the world, and my timeline was shot to hell already. But I made it across perfectly on time. We headed West with the setting sun at our backs. Its promise to return filled the world with fiery radiance, as our bus roared ever closer to Kyiv. As night fell across the land, a half-moon came to check in on us, its hallowed light guiding our way through the dark. With such good omens and guardians as these, it’s no wonder that we made it to Kyiv perfectly on time at about 8-in-the-morning. I was back in Ukraine, alive and unspoiled!

There, shining in the distance, we saw it. The blue moon peered through the clouds over Edinburgh Castle like a Celtic goddess, gracing us with her light. Sintra had returned to us! She had missed us so much that she came back one more time just for us. We stood there on the rooftop bar of Johnny Walker, overlooking the city, sipping an old Oban, and taking in the beauty of the moment. After a few minutes, the moon rose into cloudy obscurity, only a faint memory of its light remaining in the Scottish sky. It felt gentle and mysterious, like a soft kiss in the dark. And just like that, it was gone. It was our last real night in Edinburgh. The next day and night would be spent resting easy and preparing for our early morning the flights the day after that. “I’m gonna miss you,” my dad said, still staring into the sky. “Oh, dad!” I laughed, giving him a hug. His eyes had moistened a few times already that night, his tear ducts loosened by the liquor. The moon would end up following us to the airport two days later. She just hung there, engorged in the sky, an omen of momentous things to come. We barely had time to take her in, so swept up were we with our own timeliness. Our parting happened matter-of-factly. We had already had some more emotional heart-to-heart stuff the evening before. Now we were just in airplane-mode. “Thanks for everything Dad! I’m hope you enjoyed this,” I told him. He shook my hand. “Safe travels. Don’t be stupid,” he told me “Good luck!” I nodded, raising two fingers. And then I turned my back and walked away. The moon would follow me to Warsaw.

“So does £10 sound unreasonable?” Glenn asked everyone. “I don’t know! Sounds pretty pricey to me!” My dad exclaimed. “Well, yea, that’s because you’re taking care of your middle-age son,” Glenn clapped back. We were at the Beehive Inn watching Glenn Wool do a bit of stand-up. He was a Canadian comedian, but he fit right in in Scotland. We had been in Edinburgh for a couple days at this point. The city was teeming with life for the yearly Fringe Festival, a festival for the performing arts that runs through most of the month of August. There were many street performances on High Street running all the way up to the castle. Despite my dad’s initial complaints, he began really enjoying himself. Once we got rid of the car, at least. The Orwellian process of driving on British roads had one last laugh when my dad had to drop off the rental car. The drop-off was easy. Getting there was not. He still has shivers when he thinks about it. “I cannot describe how bad it was,” he told me. Even as I write this, Edinburgh Castle looms in the distance, staring at me through the window, its dark-grey aura dominates the skyline here from every direction. We went up to see it, but we didn’t like it as much as Stirling Castle or some of the others. My favorite castle was actually Dunyvaig on Islay because of its low-key presence and freedom of exploration. Our time in Scotland has almost come to an end. The month of drinking is starting to wear down on my dad. Yet, each morning he does his best to recover by the afternoon like a tried-and-true alcoholic. “I am 58 and a half after all,” he often reminds me. Soon he will be heading West. And I will be heading East.

“I guess it’s just that time of the night,” I told everyone. “It’s always that time of the night!” John the Scot laughed knowingly. His friend Peter had just whipped out his tattooed cock in front of me and my dad. “You don’t think I’m mental?!” Peter exclaimed before doing it. Minutes before he had been talking about the heaviness of military service in Kosovo, finding dead kids in cars, and other war-related traumas. “But let’s turn to lighter subjects, eh?” Peter said. Apparently lighter subjects involved pulling out his cock for a few seconds while making eye contact in intervals between me and my dad. Peter was a Liverpudlian, a true son of Liverpool, just another Scouse bastard living as wild as possible in the moment. He loved that me and my dad were going on this trip together. He kept saying, “All you have is these moments.” Falkirk is a wild place. Two days before we would ever see Peter’s cock, we were in Perth. Perth is nice enough, but it was a little sleepy. We left Perth without too much fanfare. All we did there was go to the Old Ship Inn, a really old pub from the 1600s. After leaving Perth we came to Stirling, and visited the castle at the center of Scottish geography and history. I ended up scaling its natural defenses, a sheer cliff with branches and bramble, on my way to a walk in the park. Then I met up with my dad at Settle Inn, a cheap little local watering hole where my dad made friends. Anytime my dad makes friends in Scotland, you can be sure that he’s going to be hungover the next day. And it was in the spirit of that hangover, that we dragged ourselves to one of the shittiest, and I say that with love, towns in Scotland: Falkirk. And the rest as they say, is history.

After leaving the great Isle of Skye, we wandered East across many winding roads to the old Pictish capital of the highlands, Inverness, the city on the River Ness, whose teat flows straight from Ole Nessie herself. The night we spent there was a night spent recovering from the wild drinking that defined our last night on Skye. Nothing much happened, but we did drive to Loch Ness in the afternoon. And I DID swim with Nessie in the Loch. Like that girl who got away: just because you don’t see her, doesn’t mean she’s not there with you. The next day we drove to Aberdeen, the old port city on the North Sea. We stopped for lunch in a beautiful burgh called Huntly, with its prestigious ruined castle from a more romantic age. Huntly was cool, but as my dad was quick to point out, there weren’t enough pubs. Aberdeen would quickly come to the rescue, though. There were more bars in that city than a body could put itself through in a hundred days. We tried our best to hit a few, including a weird church that had been converted into a Satanist bar. We didn’t stay there, though. I didn’t like the musty smell. All I can record of Aberdeen is this: Vere innumeris tabernis… Truly countless taverns…

“I told your dad, ‘Well, at least he didn’t go off the deep end,'" Kiera, the Irish woman at the bar told me. “He has!” My dad responded. “But it’s not like he’s gotten into trouble or nothin,” she continued. “He has!” My dad insisted. “Well, at least the two of you are still close,” she laughed. We had been drinking at the bar in Portree and playing pool with the locals on our last night on  the Isle of Skye. The rest of our time we went to the Old Man of Storr, went to this little dinosaur museum, hiked to the edge of the isle seeing the northern islands of the Hebrides in the distance amongst the view of purple-hazed-heather, did the Castle at Dunvegan, and wandered a couple miles through crowded paths to the Fairy Pools. “Once we had some beautiful spots on the river, then about 20 years ago or so, someone decided to go and name them ‘The Fairy Pools’ or some such nonsense, for the tourists,” an old Scotsman at the bar said. I preferred Islay to Skye, but I love the steep and rugged coastal range that dominates the skyline of Skye. The land has been much less tamed than Islay, but it feels rather barren, and the only forests are farms for profit. The sight of dead trees is a common one in Scotland, but many regions of Skye felt a little like the Lorax. But anyway… onto the East!