VUHLEDAR: CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES OF LOSS
We attempted to reconstruct the sequence of events and found servicemen who were among the last to break out of the encircled city with fighting and losses, some of them withdrawing without ever waiting for an order to withdraw.
On October 2, 2024, Vuhledar was lost. The last Ukrainian-controlled city in southeastern Donbas. A strategic high ground long considered an impregnable fortress — one that the enemy had failed to take for over two years thanks to the heroic resistance of the 72nd Black Zaporizhzhia Brigade and adjacent units.
Why was the withdrawal order issued only after the city was already encircled? How did such a painful defeat become possible?
For several months, we analyzed open-source data and collected firsthand accounts from those who remained in the city until the situation became critical — and who eventually abandoned their positions without receiving formal orders.
This film features infantrymen who were among the last to withdraw — under fire, with fighting and losses. It also shows unique footage from the final weeks of Vuhledar’s defense. We made it to understand what lessons can be drawn from these failures — and what price has been paid.
***********************
Vuhledar, September 2024
Commander of the "Bulava" Unmanned Systems Battalion, 72nd Brigade: The number of destroyed targets is just... you can see it for yourselves — a tank, an MT-LB over there, a UAZ. If you just see a number listed that means infantry. We took out the infantry there. Some Ural truck. There’s a lot of destroyed equipment here — just look at it! This is our Donbas. And I’ll say this: what you see here is from just the past four months of fighting for Donbas, for Vuhledar.
This isn’t something written down on paper. Every number we report… it means a target was fully destroyed. One hundred percent.
A JOURNALIST: So, the Russians failed to break through with tanks in January 2023 — but they managed to do it on motorcycles?
Battalion Commander: Yes, but… The motorcycle assaults — I think that started around February or March. And even then, they didn’t really succeed. It was more of a test run. They realized it was one of the possible assault tactics. Over the course of three months, we took out a huge number of them. I mean… just our battalion — in a single week… we were taking out around 70 to 100 enemy personnel. Just our battalion. That’s a company every week — and we kept that up for probably four months straight.
Well, as for equipment, we’ll soon have the battalion's annual report, we’ve destroyed a lot. Over this time, our brigade has taken out nine enemy brigades — nine. That is a huge amount of manpower. And as long as we held our defensive lines, the enemy’s gains over two or three months amounted to just one or two tree lines — and even then, those weren’t tree lines, just grey zones where we constantly pushed them back, inflicted losses, and disrupted their attempts to entrench themselves. But the biggest issue is that, yes, we inflicted massive losses — but we also suffered casualties. Not many, and not proportionally — one to 10, one to 20.
And we understand that qualified infantry is gold — meaning it’s extremely hard to find. This is the backbone that the brigade has been building over the course of several years. The enemy suffered heavy losses there and realized they had to combine forces and launch assaults along the entire frontline. At that time, the brigade’s frontline stretched 35 kilometers — and the brigade held it.
The brigade’s right flank was Pavlivka–Vuhledar. The left flank — Kostiantynivka... A neighboring brigade was holding Novomykhailivka, but unfortunately, we lost it — I believe at the end of 2023. So, roughly speaking, the left edge was Novomykhailivka, and the right edge was Vuhledar–Pavlivka. Pavlivka is even further to the right than Vuhledar. This was our line of responsibility. If you don’t measure it in a straight line but follow the actual frontline positions we were holding, it came to 35 kilometers.
Unfortunately, the enemy continues to effectively apply the tactic of deliberately sacrificing large numbers of personnel and equipment to drive a wedge and later attempt an encirclement. They have used this approach repeatedly, including in our direction.
The first wedge was driven in the direction between Solodke and Volodymyrivka, as they advanced through the ravine and first wedge was driven. After that, they built up their forces and tried to encircle our positions, but due to our tactical withdrawal, they failed to do so. We preserved our personnel as much as possible while inflicting losses on the enemy.
Next, they drove a wedge around Vodiane and began reinforcing in that area. At the same time, they forced a breakthrough toward the First Mine. They then extended the wedge further through Vodiane toward the Third Mine.
We were actively trying to hold that pocket and prevent it from being closed. Additional infantry forces were sent in, and we kept delivering constant fire on enemy positions. Still, the enemy stops at nothing when they see that a position could become strategically decisive.
The enemy immediately understood that those few tree lines had become our road of life — they began constant remote mining, FPV drone attacks, air-dropped munitions, and artillery fire targeting the approaches, waiting for vehicles at multiple directions. All this happened despite enormous effort, including the work of the battalion commander responsible for that direction. The issue was not about holding the city itself — it was about sustaining it.
August 2024, Vodiane village, breakthrough northeast of Vuhledar
Petro Biliakovskyi: My name is Petro, I’m the commander of the Second Platoon of the First Rifle Company, military unit 7391. We ended up in Vuhledar after a short period of recovery in the Zhytomyr region. Initially, we were transferred near Pokrovsk, and later to a staging area near Vuhledar, where we were placed under the command of the 72nd Brigade.
We were assigned a relatively narrow defensive line near the village of Vodiane — about three kilometers east of it.
We were given our position, our section to defend, and it was clear that behind us was Vodiane, and slightly beyond that were the dominating heights we needed to support. We were essentially deployed along the Kostyantynivka–Vuhledar road, and it was obvious that holding that road was also one of our main tasks.
We estimated that we’d be able to hold out for about two to three weeks.
And that’s more or less how it turned out. Why? Because at first, we were told we’d be taking up what was supposedly the second line of defense. But gradually, step by step, they pushed us forward — pushed and pushed — and by the third or fourth day of being on position, we were informed: "Congratulations, you’re now the first line."
August 2024
There were always several drones hovering over my position — launched by the Russians as essentially one-way missions. How does it work? You hear a constant buzzing above you — three or four drones — and the noise is so intense it feels like you’re standing in the middle of a swarm of bees, or like you’ve stuck your head inside a beehive. When the battery would run out, they’d just direct the FPV drone toward any suspected target — maybe a dugout, maybe a trench, maybe just a hole in the ground — it didn’t matter whether anyone was there or not. They’d steer it in just to make it explode — to damage an existing shelter, or get lucky if someone happened to be inside. So it went on like that — one drone would crash, another would arrive. One goes down, another shows up. There were always three or four circling, constantly tracking any movement in our positions.
There were no proper prepared trenches. Some outlines had been dug near various strongpoints, sure, but you couldn’t call it a finished defensive line. As soon as we took over the position, we had to start digging — covering ourselves up, doing whatever we could to feel at least a bit more secure.
We tried to catch those short windows when drones weren’t flying so actively — maybe two to four hours a day at most. But we had to dig almost right along the road — it was paved, with a solid surface, and in some places the asphalt extended all the way into the treeline.
Then came August 12 — the day they started throwing drones at everything, non-stop.
During those heavy drone assaults, we started taking casualties. We lost a few really good guys, others were wounded. And after they’d located and destroyed most of our defensive shelters, that’s when the mechanized assault began.
It’s not like we missed it or anything — but at that moment, we were informed that enemy armored vehicles were heading toward us. By then, they were just 600 meters away — in a straight line.
The guys scattered across the trenches, dugouts, holes — wherever they could. As soon as the first IFV rolled in, they started hitting it with RPGs. But considering those vehicles were basically improvised tanks — makeshift armor welded on like barbecue grills — it just wasn’t enough to stop them with that kind of weapon.
One of the IFVs broke through the intersection practically right in front of our positions. Then, behind my guys — maybe 150 meters away — it hit a mine and exploded. But the Russian soldiers inside that IFV — as we found out later when I ran up to it myself — were basically unharmed. They climbed out and ended up right behind our troops.
We began moving toward the area where a firefight had broken out, where some of our wounded were lying, to provide support. We kept reporting to the battalion commander — giving updates on our position, what we could see — and the main goal was to localize the enemy so support forces could be brought in. I was moving with another guy — just the two of us at the front — and, well… that’s when it happened. I got hit. The first bullet — it went straight into my head.
That mark will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Everything went dark. My first thought was: that’s it — I’m dead. But then, somehow, I started to realize there was still some vision left, something was slowly clearing up, and I began to slowly fall back. That’s when the second bullet hit — it struck my upper arm bone, basically immobilizing me. My arm was behind my back, hanging by the skin — by the triceps.
It wasn’t even a hundred meters — more like fifty, maybe forty. The guy who was with me in the pair, he rushed over to try and help me, maybe pull me back — and he immediately took a few rounds himself. He was killed on the spot.
We tried to keep returning fire for a while, to fight back. But by that point... There were more wounded — five, maybe six. It was clear we had to call in quick reaction and evacuation teams. From the moment I was hit to the moment I was finally evacuated — it took around nine hours.
The 72nd Brigade understood that the front was being pushed in. They’d been operating in that area for quite a while, and that’s exactly why the main anti-tank mining efforts had already been carried out behind our lines. That’s how that IFV ended up driving past us — and hit a mine behind our backs.
There was no real withdrawal. We simply ran out of people. Not a single one of the soldiers who took up positions in the village of Vodiane made it out of there in one piece.
There were certain elements we clearly lost on in that sector. Specifically — FPV drones. The Russians had stronger electronic warfare. They constantly adjusted the frequencies of their FPV drones, which effectively bypassed our EW systems. As a result, they were able to take apart our positions and inflict heavy losses on our personnel. But despite all that — I have to say this clearly: In my company — and even in my battalion — no one turned their back. Not one of the guys. They all fought to the end.
September 1–9, 2024
Battle for the "Pivdennodonbaska No. 1" Mine, Vuhledar
Mykola Voroshnov, commander of the 1st Motorized Infantry Company, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade, callsign "CANADA":
They ran headfirst into Vuhledar — and realized they weren’t going to take it head-on. So they started wiping Vuhledar off the map with glide bombs and missiles. We’re not even talking about artillery anymore — that was constant, basically happening by the minute. The key to Vuhledar was at the First Mine. So that’s where the enemy focused the full force of their assault.
Callsign "Moskva": We were stationed at the mine. That was the last point we held — Pivdennodonbaska Mine No. 1. The Russians kept pushing day after day. That mine — it was basically the gateway to Vuhledar. There’s a direct road leading to the city from there. We were the final line of defense.
Marine, company commander of the 3002nd Rifle Company, Western Territorial Unit of the National Guard of Ukraine:
The first large-scale assault that allowed the enemy to break into the actual facility — the mine itself — took place on September 1st. I remember joking with the company commander, Moskva, that while kids were going back to school, the orcs were coming after us. A lot of my guys were calling their wives that day, asking how the kids were doing at school. And right before that — there had been some brutal assaults.
I don’t run around with a GoPro on my helmet. I just keep a phone tucked into my plate carrier. I try to record everything — partly to remember it, partly to analyze it later, so we can learn and improve.
The enemy used, if I’m not mistaken, 12 large vehicles that day — MT-LBs, APCs. Then came buggies, quad bikes, even golf carts. They threw in a lot of manpower too. According to initial estimates, it was between two and three enemy companies that day.
We were holding the line together with the brigade — with the motorized infantry battalion. We were mixed in, because their guys had more experience in this sector.
We understood the significance of that high ground — the mine shaft. If the enemy managed to set up an ATGM team or deploy FPV drone operators there, it would make things incredibly difficult for our guys in Vuhledar. We knew that sooner or later, we’d be pushed out. We knew they’d drive us off that position eventually. But we did everything we could to act as a kind of "angry dog’s fence" — something that held the ground and bought time.
SEPTEMBER 8-9, 2024, CHEMICAL ATTACK
The enemy began assault operations on the mine. They first hit us with chemical agents, targeting all floors — because by then the buildings looked like Swiss cheese.
They gassed us hard. Some of us started losing consciousness right there at the mine — especially the guys positioned on the upper floors.
That’s when one of the recon teams radioed in: five IFVs heading toward you at full speed. Covered in infantry. The troops were riding on top.
We understood exactly what that meant — if they made it into our position, we’d never get them out. They’d occupy every hole, every corner, every pile of rubble. And in that moment, I felt real fear — the fear that I couldn’t do anything about it.
You couldn’t see the enemy at all.
But then, our Javelin teams from the 72nd Brigade — stationed at Donbaska Mine No. 3 — they hit them hard. And they stopped that assault fast. That’s when the weight finally lifted off my chest.
Moskva: At the time we pulled back, there were 27 of us at the mine and 25 more holding the line. Out of those, 16 were wounded — with varying degrees of injuries.
Marine: You can see from the footage what kind of conditions we were giving aid in. We had some old mattress we could throw under him.
We made an IV drip from a spent shell casing. It’s all visible on the video. Hygiene, sterilization — those words didn’t even apply anymore.
The soldier in that video — unfortunately, he was killed. He wasn’t part of my unit, but he helped us a lot, especially with navigation and getting our bearings on the ground. He was a mortar operator with the motorized infantry battalion — callsign "Zhytomyr," real name Maksym.
That loss hit me hard.Even though he wasn’t from my unit, for some reason... his death tore me apart.
The medic and I ran over to him between shelling. I was filming — the medic was treating his wound. We joked it was nothing serious.
He said, "Just be careful not to get dirt in the wound." And I replied, "Look around you, man — we are the dirt."
We laughed a bit. He smiled. And barely ten minutes after we left the building — the call came through: "Zhytomyr – wounded." We thought it was fine. But then — "No, he’s seriously wounded." We’d only just run off when a Grad bombardment started. We waited it out. Then again: "Zhytomyr – wounded." "No way... No, he’s badly hit." Massive blood loss. Spine. Internal organs. Sadly, it was just a matter of time. The medics couldn’t save him. That was really, really hard.
Moskva: Holding that position no longer made any sense — not because we didn’t want to, but because there was simply no one left to hold it. That mine complex has 36 buildings. Just the admin building alone would take a well-trained company to secure.
At that point, the last supplies of water were being delivered solely by drone. There was no logistics left. Everything was cut off, all routes were under constant surveillance by FPV drones.
Marine: I saw it with my own eyes — four drones were circling above the position where my guys were sitting.
JOURNALIST: So they can deploy one drone per person?
A HERO: Yes. Right now, we only use drones against enemy shelters and equipment, while they can use one, two, even three drones against a single soldier.
Marine: It was already evening. I told them: hold out a bit longer, until nightfall, so we could pull you out. There was a lot of chaos back then, a lot of yelling. I wasn’t exactly in good standing with command. But we managed to evacuate the people. The guys filmed that moment — it was an emotional video.
When we came under the command of the 72nd Brigade, they were already completely exhausted from the fighting. We rotated in for three months, while they had been holding that sector for two years. And it wasn’t even about poor logistics — they simply didn’t have time to deliver enough ammunition and firepower.
Moskva: We had grenades, thanks to our friends from the National Guard — Matador, T-4, and there was also a Spike. I asked, "What should I send to the position to help you hold the line?" But because the troops didn’t know how to use that stuff, the platoon leader said, "Send grenades."
That’s it. I mean, you give someone a launcher — and they don’t know what to do with it. It’s single-use anyway, you understand? And these are still our people, but their level of training… it’s not even average — it’s zero. They’re simply not prepared at all.
MARINE It was a reckless infantry fighting vehicle — I don’t know, maybe it was some kind of penal unit. It happened in broad daylight. We spotted that vehicle from far away — we were expecting it. And then it just drove in head-on, like an idiot. There were two RPG hits. You can’t even begin to understand what that was... Again, their manpower and equipment resources allow them to carry out these senseless actions — drive in, lose everything, and that’s it.
They managed to hold only the administrative building.
JOURNALIST: And what about you?
Marine: We were in the administrative building as well.
JOURNALIST: Oh, so you were inside...
Marine: It’s a huge administrative building.
It’s shaped like the letter "P".
And that’s where they slowly started to build up their presence.
JOURNALIST: At what point did you realize the situation had become too dangerous and that it was time to withdraw? What exactly happened?
There was a turning point, roughly two or three days before... when we had already started withdrawing in groups. The only route we had left to the mine was a narrow forest strip. It was already littered with mines — covered in Lepestok (petal -ed.note) mines — and the enemy had full UAV surveillance control around the mine in all 360 degrees. The Russians were already so confident in their observation capabilities around the mine that even entering any building became extremely dangerous.
At that point, we couldn’t deliver anything to the mine anymore. By the final stage of the defense, we were running out of ammunition. And about two days before the withdrawal, we completely ran out of water. A person physically can’t go more than two, three days without water. And trying to deliver logistics by drone — one or two bottles at a time for that many people — was simply ineffective. Water was the critical issue.
Journalist: Did you ask higher command for permission to withdraw?
I did ask as well. We were told no.
Moskva: If we hadn’t pulled back that day by the evening — we were among the last to retreat to the mine — there were four of us. It was 4:35 in the morning. We were at a neighboring building. The Russians had already started storming the admin building we had just left. Right at 4:35 a.m.
If we had stayed there, that’s where we would have stayed — all of us. If you know what I mean. As strange as it may sound.
Journalist: So that was your own decision?
Moskva: We talked it over, there was also a company commander assigned to us from the National Guard, call sign Marine,
a reconnaissance platoon commander from our battalion, and the commander of the second company was there too.
We discussed everything — there simply was no alternative.
I believe I made the right decision. Because if we had stayed, that mine would’ve fallen much earlier.
Marine: Honestly, for both of us, the priority was saving our people. Personally, I didn’t care whether I’d get reprimanded or face criminal charges for disobeying higher command and pulling the troops out. We understood clearly: if we didn’t evacuate them in time, there would be no one left to hold the line.
When I woke up the next day — on the 10th — I looked around and realized I wasn’t in some swamp or mud. I turned my head and saw a cup of coffee next to me. And I couldn’t tell if it was real or just a dream. I’ll share something not many people know: back at the mine, I recorded a farewell video for my wife.
It was the kind of video... you know, in the style of Skryabin’s song "Do You Remember?" Do you know that song?
Journalist: Did you send it?
I did. And I was really lucky — I’ll send you the video later, the one we filmed as we were leaving.
We were recording a video — everyone covered in dirt, happy, joking around — and I suddenly remembered I’d sent that farewell video to my wife. But I was alive. It was around 4 a.m., we were approaching Kurakhove, and I quickly opened Telegram to check. I saw she hadn’t read the message yet, so I deleted it. And I was like — phew. Because if she had seen it, she would’ve already been in Kurakhove. That’s how she is — she’d be there in person, sorting things out. I really exhaled after that.
Journalist: Did you get reprimanded for that decision?
Moskva: Mmm… Well, yeah. We got a reprimand. A formal severe reprimand from the Vuhledar Operational-Tactical Group — for "abandoning fortified positions," as they put it. Even though, on the day we pulled out, we were met — I saw them for the first time in my life. The Vuhledar OTG and the Donetsk OTG — a bunch of little big shots came out.
And they didn’t even bother to ask, "How are you holding up? Are you okay?" — nothing like that. All they asked was, "Why did you abandon your positions?"
I said, "Good day. And who are you?" He goes, "And who are you?" That’s how we got introduced. "I’m so-and-so," he says. "Nice to finally meet you — first time in my life." There were six of them standing there like a committee. Whatever. I have zero respect for them. Absolutely none. Don’t cut this out — let them hear it.
Who could’ve held out there? No one. Those guys — they deserve a monument for what they did. They didn’t run. There were incidents, sure, people had to go back and force others to return — because the job had to be done. But they kept saying: "Those were fortified positions." Or, the classic — "Dig holes." That was the line. "Dig holes." Meaning dig yourself a hole in the trench and sit there.
Well, who can stand it? No one can stand it. Well, we should erect a monument to those guys, because they survived. They did not run away from their positions. There were precedents there, you know, they came back, forced them to do the job. And they say, prepare positions. Or dig holes. That's the key phrase, dig holes. You know, digging holes, like digging holes in a trench.
If you want to show how it’s done — then go and show it. I know what it means to dig holes. I grew up around soldiers. I know what it means to dig holes. I know what it means to dig trenches. I know how all of this damn stuff is built. But they don’t get it. How are you supposed to dig like that? How? I told them back then — give me six people a day, and they’ll be digging holes. But the moment a drone appears — the second you start digging — a munition is already inbound, an FPV is already flying in. And that’s it — the person’s gone.
People don’t understand that. For them, the war is all on paper. We love paper wars here. Personnel fighting strength, papers — that’s our everything.
For improper performance of official duties and violation of Articles 11, 12, 14, 16, 36, 37, 59, 111, and 112 of the Statute of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, disciplinary action is to be imposed on Lieutenant Moskaliov Yurii Petrovych. That’s it. How many articles did I violate? A real criminal.
Let them lock me up — maybe I’ll get some rest in prison at least. Not like it matters — they pull you back from prison to the war anyway.
So it’s a closed circle, whether you like it or not. You’ll end up back here no matter what.
Journalist: Do you regret your decision?
Moskva: No. Never. I only regret not doing it sooner — that’s the one thing I do regret.
I even joked — maybe they’ll kick me out of the army. We’re such troublemakers. But nope — they’re not letting me go. So yeah. What’s a severe reprimand, really? The main thing is that the people are alive.
Because then mothers and fathers won’t be calling senior commanders — right? Calling about their sons, their fallen comrades.
For me... I don’t know. There’s nothing worse than that.
Marine: We had a terrible situation. A soldier was killed at one of the positions. And I asked the UAV crew — and the chief medic of the motorized infantry battalion — to send us a body bag. We said, "Please drop us a black bag." There were eight servicemen at that position.
And the medic asked, "So, should I send eight?" I said, "Are you joking? Can you imagine — there are eight guys at that position, and we send them eight body bags? Are you out of your mind?" He replied, "I’ll send one for each." I said, "We’re not planning to die just yet." You laugh now. We even joked that soon they’ll start including black body bags in every individual first aid kit — standard issue. For us, that’s insanity — you think, My God, what is this... But for them, it’s just routine. You joke about death. You’re constantly playing cards with her. And for now — you’re still winning.
Some people get it, others don’t. Some curse me out — definitely. They say I’m this and that, that I sent their son or father to his death.
And I can understand them. But we have to do everything possible to make sure the personnel stay alive.
Why are we standing here? To stay alive ourselves — and to give others a chance to live.
That’s why you have to make these decisions yourself.
September 19, 2024
Prechystivka village, west of Vuhledar
Canada: When we started having logistics problems — after the first mine fell, and then the third — it became extremely difficult to bring anything in or out. I made the decision to pull back aerial reconnaissance, drones, and strike UAVs from Vuhledar to the tree lines back on September 19. On September 19, we withdrew from Vuhledar and began operating from the tree lines.
It was a purely internal tactical decision, made at the battalion level. It didn’t go up the chain of command. We call it this — horizontal coordination. Everything in the Ukrainian army that works on horizontal coordination — works.
Anything that has to go through the top — always turns into a total sh#tshow. Here, people talk directly, coordinate directly — everything gets done right: fast, clearly, no nonsense. But the moment something starts going up the chain, everything goes straight to hell. Always. I don’t know why it’s like that.
On September 19, we pulled back into the tree lines and started operating from the north of Vuhledar. When the enemy stopped trying to enter Vuhledar head-on and instead started bypassing it through the upper garages and the same tree lines — creeping through the tree lines without entering the city — we had to pull back even further. And that’s when we got a surprise. The kind of surprise called "someone knocked from behind."
The enemy broke through in Prechystivka. The brigade covering our right flank failed to hold the village, and the enemy pushed through with giant strides — effectively creating a pocket. There was nowhere left to withdraw.
It turned out to be an appendix, which... the Russians love that kind of thing...(In this context, "appendix" refers to a narrow, exposed stretch of territory — a military salient. - ed.note)
They took the first mine, then the third, and what was left of Vuhledar was this long, stretched-out appendix running diagonally.
That’s all we had left from of Vuhledar.
It was a shock. The fact that they got in behind us — that played a very, very bad role later on. They completely cut off our withdrawal routes. Because as long as Prychystivka held, as long as they hadn’t pushed out from Pavlivka, we still had a chance — a chance for infantry to pull out of Vuhledar across the fields, alive and more or less unharmed. Not forced to take the so-called "trail of life."
JOURNALIST: What was the size of that gap?
The width of the corridor for withdrawal was about three kilometers at most. Then it got even narrower. At a certain point, in the final days of September — the final days of Vuhledar — it had shrunk to about one and a half kilometers wide.
This road you see running along the tree line — that was the only way out for our guys. On both sides — left and right — the enemy was already there. That’s where our soldiers would take cover, grab a brief rest before the final push. For many, unfortunately, that last push turned out to be just that — the last. Across the field, between this tree line and the edge of the next one — that’s 930 meters. That road was, essentially, a death road. Many of our men were killed there. Many were killed while still in the tree lines, in the dugouts. It’s hard for me to imagine the kind of choice those who withdrew last from Vuhledar had to make. There were wounded — including critically wounded — and yet in front of you, there was this deadly stretch of ground you had to cross. Even on your own, on foot, the odds of making it without being hit were already slim. But if you were slowed down by the wounded, your chances of making it out were close to zero. Just imagine the kind of decision those guys had to make.
To stay behind with the wounded, engage the enemy, and die together with them. To try to pull the wounded out — to drag them across this death road, from Vuhledar to the tree line, across that entire distance… There was a 90% chance you’d be killed — both you and the wounded. Right now… I’ve got a tremor in my body just thinking about that kind of choice — the kind of choice our soldiers maybe… no — not maybe — the kind of choice our soldiers actually had to face.
September 25–26, 2024, Pavlivka village, southwest of Vuhledar
Oleksandr Kichka, deputy commander of a mechanized company, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade
Both the left and right flanks gave way. Especially after they took the mines — they seized the high ground. They set up their antennas and gained full control of the airspace — particularly in terms of UAV operations. They completely dominated the air. We were blind. We could no longer target them accurately. Our reconnaissance drones couldn’t reach the distances they used to. And that’s when everything began to fall apart.
September 25, 2024
Forest, infantry squad leader, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade named after the Black Zaporozhians: We were positioned directly in front of Pavlivka. It’s a small town or village — they captured it back in 2022. We were on the left side of Pavlivka, closer to the center, near the bridges. That’s where we were holding the line.
These were tree lines — we kept digging, digging, building them up. Basically, it was a defensive position. It was farmland, and we had several positions set up there.
Tantsor, UAV platoon commander, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade named after the Black Zaporozhians: They just bring in their electronic warfare systems — and that’s it, we can’t even get close. Our task is to get as close as possible to see what’s going on. But we have nothing even close to what they’ve got. Every piece of their equipment is covered by two or three EW systems. Each vehicle — even for a single run — gets its own protection. It drives through once and stays behind, but the EW system keeps working. We’re building our own EW gear here from scratch. We scraped together ₴260,000 to buy one — because we didn’t have any. Bought a car, bought tires, bought an EW unit. Because waiting for the state to provide all of this takes way too long.
They started using motorized bicycles, motorcycles, buggies — anything to shorten the distance to our positions.
For example, if there was a minefield — they’d spend a week clearing it using FPV drones. They’d send an FPV to each mine, one by one.
All day, FPVs flying in, clearing that field. The next day they’d move to the next one — and again, methodically, drone by drone, they’d take out the mines.
Forest: Yeah, it was all really strange. One day they stormed us with IFVs, the next day — with Zhiguli cars. Then motorcycles.
It was a mess — a complete mess. A chaotic mix of everything. They literally showed up in Zhigulis to launch an assault.
There were drones in the air the entire time. Constantly. There wasn’t a single moment of silence in the sky.
At that point, all the news outlets were already reporting that the 72nd had withdrawn from Vuhledar.
The Ukrainian fortress in Vuhledar was held for 31 months. Now it is about to fall.
The 72nd Mechanised Brigade seems to have started to withdraw
Forest: Our own people were picking it up — and so were Russian Telegram channels. Meanwhile, we were still sitting in Vuhledar.
And we weren’t okay with that narrative at all. The company’s senior sergeant asked me to record a video showing that we were still in Vuhledar. I didn’t have much time to shoot it — every time I approached the window, an FPV would immediately show up. It was really important. It was simply about stating clearly: we were still in the city. We hadn’t left.
VUHLEDAR, SEPTEMBER 26, 2024
Video — Forest: We are soldiers of the 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade. I want to dispel all the doubts spread by so-called experts, claiming that the 72nd Brigade has pulled out of the city of Vuhledar. Today is September 26, 2024. Despite all the doubts and harsh circumstances — we are in the city.
Journalist: How did you make the decision to withdraw?
Well, mostly out of desperation. The guys were holding the line — especially the 7th company. They held the defense really well. They were positioned near the upper dachas and were doing a great job cutting the enemy off.
But they ran out of ammunition — and, honestly, everyone did. Every day we were told we’d be rotated out.
MAN: On the 25th, we moved from Pavlivka to Vuhledar. From the 26th to the 30th, we were inside the city. Then, on the morning of the 29th, the order came to start pulling out of Vuhledar on the 30th.
Oleksandr Kichka, deputy company commander, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade: The actual withdrawal took place under contact fire. Everything was going according to plan — until an FPV drone hit, and one of our brothers-in-arms got wounded. That’s when everything fell apart.
FOREST: Spleen injury. We barely managed to get him out — and only because of his own will to survive. Even though, over the radio, he was telling me to leave him behind.
Serhii (Seroha) Leshchenko, wounded vehicle commander — squad leader, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade named after the Black Zaporozhians: So Forest remembered there was a quad bike — with low tire pressure. He said something was wrong with the engine, it barely moved.Said maybe it could carry one person. And he goes, "Let Seryoha get on the quad and try to make it across the field." But I couldn’t anymore. So the guys — this one guy Misha, we called him "Stakanchyk" — agreed to go.
He pumped up the tires, threw me in the back. And that quad, it runs on battery — electric — and off we went, crossing the field. There were about 150 meters left when we hit a bump, and the battery flew out. The quad just died. And then a drone appeared. It hovered. I looked at it — I was on my knees — and I saw it drop. It landed maybe two meters away from me. Not a single piece of shrapnel hit me. I got lucky. And then I saw Misha running from behind — and we made it to the tree line. We rushed into a dugout...
He was like, "Seryoha, come on — there’s no one left, it’s just us. We have to go."
He said if he didn’t move, that would be it for him. In the end, an M113 showed up and evacuated us.
Oleksandr Kichka, deputy company commander, 72nd Separate Mechanized Brigade: We sat there for a long time, measuring the distance — from our last shelter to the first one on the way out. It was 860 to 932. Eight hundred sixty meters of tree line — and 932 meters of open field.
Journalist: You remember all those numbers that precisely?
Yes. I’ll always remember them. And it was on that quad bike that they got out. There were two of us left.
Journalist: How did you realize you were the last infantryman to withdraw from Vuhledar?
Soldier: When our last guy got captured. I kept hoping, right until the end, that he’d be the last one — that he’d withraw.
JOURNALIST: You spent two and a half years in Vuhledar. What’s your strongest memory?
Canada: The strongest memory… The one that hurts the most — deeply — is from September 28th, 29th, maybe even the 30th.
One of our positions was located to the right of Vuhledar, along the Pavlivka–Bohoiavlenka road. It was a very strategic position held by our guys. The bastards slipped through and launched an assault… They stormed our dugout. We managed to get there in time — barely. But how did we get there? All our drones had been damaged, everything was shot up. Our equipment — it couldn’t take any more. Nothing held up. There were four or five of those bastards. By the time we got overhead, they had already dropped into the trench — right in front of our dugout — where our guys were hiding. I don’t even know how many of our guys were there. I don’t know their names. I don’t know who was in that dugout.
We had an operating altitude of about thirty meters there. We set up… and we could have — we should have — saved our guys just by dropping munitions. Just drone drops — that’s all it would’ve taken to save them. We locked onto the position — stabilization, everything done in seconds. And the first munition goes — and it veers off, 15 meters to the left. At that moment, we realized — the drone was broken.
We tried to adjust those 15 meters manually — and on the third drop, we still missed. And the orcs entered the dugout. I don’t know who exactly was in there. I don’t know the callsigns.
But they were from our own company. We could have saved them. But we…
When we got there the second time — the b#stards were already inside the dugout. We hit it. We leveled that dugout.
We buried them in there. Later. But that was later. We buried them along with our guys. We couldn’t save them. One flight
I was, unfortunately, a witness... You know, to the shootings near Vuhledar. You've probably all heard about it.
On October 2, 2024, near Vuhledar, Russian occupiers executed five unarmed Ukrainian prisoners of war.
The Donetsk Regional Prosecutor’s Office launched a pre-trial investigation into a war crime that resulted in the loss of life — under Part 2 of Article 438 of the Criminal Code of Ukraine.
The execution of prisoners of war is a grave violation of the Geneva Conventions and qualifies as a serious international crime.
But this isn’t… This isn’t a one-time event. Sitting behind a monitor, unable to do anything when… Someone else saw it — just like I did. And that stays with you — for the rest of your life. We will never be able to speak about it in detail, or name names. We have no right to do that. So I’m asking — every time someone writes to me, I ask them: Please, don’t tear my soul apart. Please… don’t tear my soul apart.
That’s something I’ll take with me to the grave. Something like that.
F#ck, and I — shit — I see it all like a painting. Every single moment.
Oh, fuck.
F#ck. I broke down crying like a damn kid.
JOURNALIST: On October 2, 2024, when the Khortytsia Operational-Strategic Group — not the General Staff, but Khortytsia — announced the withdrawal of forces from Vuhledar, you wrote:"Vuhledar has fallen. Vuhledar was doomed. It couldn’t be saved. But people — they could have been saved.And yet the order to withdraw never came. Everyone in the city and around it knew the countdown had started — first in days, then in hours.But the order never came. Where will we pull back to? F#ck knows. As long as the enemy has enough strength to keep pushing us, we’ll keep falling back. I won’t take part in the comments under this post. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret. I’m sorry." What didn’t you write? What was it you didn’t want to say?
Canada: Even now… maybe I still don’t want to say it. Too many good men were left behind in Vuhledar. Men who could have been saved. And that’s exactly what happened — They pushed us as long as they had the strength. Vuhledar collapsed, and everything collapsed with it. Could Vuhledar have been saved? Yes — Vuhledar could have been saved. But only back in June. If they’d deployed one more fully equipped mechanized brigade — that would have stopped the enemy. We just ran out of strength. And no one came to help. We ran out of strength.
We ran out of resources. We ran out of people. We needed support. We needed relief. And it never came.
Were there tools and means that could have saved us in that situation? I am absolutely convinced — yes, there were. Could the situation in Vuhledar have been salvaged? It could have — back in June. Starting in July, when we lost ground near Vodiane — when Vodiane fell — it became absolutely clear, at least to us on the ground, that the situation could no longer be saved. At that point, it would’ve taken a massive counteroffensive — and Ukraine simply didn’t have the capacity for that anymore. Because, as it turned out, they were preparing the Kursk operation. And we — we simply didn’t have the forces to launch that kind of counterstrike to reclaim our previous positions. From the moment we fell back to the lines around Vuhledar, we were on borrowed time — weeks, maybe months — before the final act. Unfortunately, that’s exactly how it happened.
FOREST: Every day they told us: "Just one more night, hold out one more night. Just one more night." "We just need a bit more time to prepare. We just need a bit more time to prepare. We just need a bit more time to prepare." And that’s how they kept postponing the decision to pull out.
For example — I don’t blame them for not wanting to enter Vuhledar. I don’t blame them for that. I only blame them for not being honest — for not saying clearly that they weren’t going to go in. Because then, at least, we could’ve made decisions based on that. Because, for example, I think even our own command was waiting — hoping they’d enter at any moment.
Student, UAV unit commander: I’ll say it directly — one of the key reasons we lose in this war is lying. And it starts at the bottom. A squad doesn’t report that they’ve left a position — right? It’s a tough situation. The battalion commander, the brigade commander — they issue orders: "Hold the line." But sometimes, objectively, the moment comes when you have to leave. Yeah, you might get yelled at, threatened, maybe even formally reprimanded. But you have to tell the truth: we abandoned the position. Then the company commander has to pass that truth upward.
Same thing — they’ll get heat from above: "We’ve lost the position." Then the battalion commander reports it, then the brigade commander — and so on, up the chain. But everyone wants to sugarcoat it just a little bit. And even that little bit — once it goes through every layer — by the time it reaches the top, it’s so polished, so cleaned up…that it sounds like everything’s basically fine. Like, "Yeah, maybe we’re short a few people, but overall, it’s okay." When in reality, "No — it’s critical. There are no people left there." But by the time that message gets to the top — it says, "We’ve got enough troops."
We understand that this direction isn’t permanent for us. Very soon — in the near future — I believe we’ll be redeployed to one of the more intense sectors, where, as our brigade commander says, we’ll carry out tasks that match the scale and capability of our brigade. We’re a mechanized brigade with a long history, real combat experience, and so on. And we’re never going to sit in the shadows —we’ll always be out there, getting results.
