Soldier of Fortune Magazine The Journal of Professional Adventurers
by Jonathan Stumpf
Life with a frontline mortar crew, where an old Soviet weapon fires from the countryside as the war in Ukraine moves toward Chasiv Yar.
“Tri, dva, simdesyat,” crackles over the radio.
“Tri, dva, sim, nol,” I repeat as I lay the old Soviet 120mm mortar onto the new target. The Belarusian gun chief drops the mortar round – loaded with five propellant increments – down the tube. I check that the baseplate is still seated properly in the pit and that the numbers are right.
“Three, two, seven, zero, elevation same,” the stocky man with the dark beard stubble confirms.
I remove the precious sight and tighten the firing lanyard. “Ready to fire!”
“Open se fire!” the Belarusian roars. I pull, and the mortar thunders.
The author at work. (Photo courtesy, Jonathan Stumpf)
As the drill repeats itself over and over and only the numbers change, an older German with a bushy gray beard prepares the next rounds. First the fuze is tapped into place with a rubber mallet – the part the firing pin will later strike – and it is wise not to get overenthusiastic with the hammer. Then the extra propellant charges, little cloth bags filled with black powder, are tied around the tail of the bomb. Finally the protective cap is unscrewed from the impact fuze and the live round is handed to the loader. I am actually the loader, but the gun chief wanted to swap jobs with me for a few days so I could gain experience as a gunner. He seems to like me and is happy to have found someone with whom he can practice his English.
He has the old German, who looks every inch the drifter, firmly in his sights. He is constantly chewing him out over trifles, driving him with insults to work faster, and confusing him with contradictory orders fired off in rapid succession. Once he even throws the rubber mallet at him – and hits him. The man really is a little absent-minded at times, but he does not deserve that kind of treatment. I tell him later, when we are alone, that I would have walked away long ago. He waves it off and says he is used to being spoken to like that and does not take it personally.
(Photo courtesy, Jonathan Stumpf)
I had trained on an old Iranian 82mm mortar and Yugoslav 60mm mortars. The principle is the same; the smaller calibers simply do not use a firing lanyard. I have grown fond of the big Soviet mortar from the Second World War, paired with a newer Bulgarian bipod that allows continuous adjustment in traverse, unlike the old Russian mount. It requires less fine motor control to seat the heavy weapon properly, and after a shot or two recoil barely shifts it left or right anymore.
READ MORE from Jonathan Stumpf: At the Eastern Front: Inside Ukraine’s 49th Infantry Battalion
Unlike howitzers, mortars are high-angle weapons with relatively short range, which is why their crews are known in soldiers’ slang as the infantry’s artillery – or the “Gypsy artillery.” Their first documented use dates back to the siege of Constantinople in 1453.
The remarkable thing is that mortars first fielded 80 years ago are still firing today, while ammunition and fire-control systems have improved enormously. Our fire is observed and corrected by drone pilots hovering somewhere above the battlefield.
Our position is almost textbook perfect: the mortar sits in a brush-covered ravine, with a dugout and ammunition cache under a large shrub behind it, both dug about chest-deep. Digging holes like that is brutal work. At first you shovel wearing helmet and plate carrier, then the helmet comes off, and eventually the plate carrier lies beside the spoil pile. The logic is simple: inside the hole you are protected from shrapnel; if a shell lands directly in the hole, helmet and armor will not save you anyway.
(Photo courtesy, Jonathan Stumpf)
Not far away is a cluster of summer cottages, the dachas. To avoid being spotted by enemy drones we spend most of our time on the ground floor of one of them, sharing it with a one-eyed tomcat we have fattened into a proper frontline mascot. It is already spring, and the landscape of ponds and marshes is genuinely beautiful. The idyll is interrupted not only by Russian drones but by a sign reading “MINES.”
We stick to the worn path leading to the mortar and avoid wandering through the countryside. It is a shame we have to leave after only 10 days because our unit is rotated out of this Kharkiv-sector front. We are heading for the Donbas.
The battle for Chasiv Yar has begun.
Jonathan Stumpf was born in Virginia and raised in Germany. He went to sea as an engine cadet. During an extended period of shore leave, he enlisted in the U.S. Army. He was stationed in Bavaria as an infantryman and subsequently studied history, archaeology, and religious studies in Heidelberg, Cluj (Romania), and Leiden (Netherlands).
