Chapter 15

A Ukrainian army motorised company—a tank and several infantry fighting vehicles—was ordered to take a detour through the city limits. They drove along a narrow street, twisting cumbersomely between rickety houses, crashing into and knocking down fences at crossroads with their metal flanks. Villagers mobilised with surprising rapidity: they took to the street and blocked the road, arms extended. Old women cursed from their windows. As soon as the column came to a halt, a legless drunk lay in front of the tank tracks and shouted: “You won’t get through, you cunts!”

One of the armoured vehicles pancaked somebody’s car. Women shrieked, threw stones and rotten potatoes at the soldiers, while men clambered onto the vehicles and tried to grab at the rifles. That earned them a smack in the teeth with the butt of the weapon. It was all senseless. None of the soldiers knew how they were supposed to deal with the civilians, because the only order they had been given was to clear the roads of improvised barricades and to occupy positions at the south of the city. But it was impossible to even get there. A commander tried to get clear instructions from the HQ on his radio, but all they repeated was: “Proceed as per instructions.” More people gathered.

A desperate commander climbed onto a tank and tried to make himself heard: “We have come to defend you from the Russian invaders, we are on your side!” But nobody listened. A handful of loudmouths running back and forth whipped up the crowd. Over and again, they yelled: “We don’t need protection! Fascists! Junta! What are you doing on our land?” The short, bald owner of the pancaked car ran from one infantry vehicle to another, tugging at the hems of the soldiers’ trousers and yelling hoarsely: “Give me back what’s mine! Who’s going to compensate me?”

His shouts were suddenly drowned out by the awesome roar of a yellow-and-blue-winged fighter jet buzzing the street. The smiling soldiers waved to the fighter pilot. The stunned crowd dispersed and squatted in the bushes. They soon returned to resume their racket: “You’re gonna bomb us now?! Go ahead and bomb us! Bomb us!!” The fighter circled and again zipped over the street with a deafening roar. The soldiers waved again. Some caught a selfie with the fuselage zipping over their heads. Most people there had never seen a Mig-29 before.

“What are they doing that for?” Andrei asked the commander.

“It’s an intimidation tactic,” said the commander from his position on the tank turret. “It’s like firing in the air, but better.”

He slid the magazine out of the rifle propped between his knees, inspected the cartridges, slotted the magazine back in, turned off the safety, fidgeted with the breechblock, and then turned the safety back on. The air cracked as the supersonic fighter again flew over them and turned north-west to return to base.

“Nice one!”