Soldier of Fortune Magazine The Journal of Professional Adventurers
by Jonathan Stumpf
“At what range can a tank engage targets with reasonable accuracy?” I asked. “About six kilometers,” the captain said. The Russian tank was two kilometers away.
Lozova is a godforsaken place in eastern Ukraine. Since the city was partially evacuated as a result of the war, its bleak Soviet-era apartment blocks have taken on an almost ghostly appearance. The countless crows circling above the town – repeatedly targeted by Russian missile strikes – make Mario and me think of Hitchcock’s The Birds. A thunderstorm breaks overhead. We find shelter wherever we can. A filthy stray dog huddles beside us to escape the driving rain. We wait.
Several hours later, a young lieutenant and his driver, who must be at least 70 years old, arrive to pick us up. The lieutenant’s callsign is “Robot,” and it suits him perfectly. A true nerd, he first studied mechanical engineering and later sociology, yet he seems painfully awkward around people. He avoids eye contact at all costs and is almost obsessively careful not to say the wrong thing. A junior professorship in engineering would seem a better fit than command of half a platoon of recruits. Yet command them he does, drawing heavily on the experience of his Argentine sergeant, “Messi.” Messi’s group includes another Argentine, three Brazilians, an American, a Briton, an Australian, and a Taiwanese volunteer.
The Taiwanese volunteer barely speaks a word of English, but the Australian, covered in prison tattoos, speaks fluent Mandarin. Mario and I are stunned when the Aussie effortlessly translates back and forth. He is the last man in the group we would have expected to pull off such a feat.
(All photos, Jonathan Stumpf)
“Denver,” from Colorado, looks slightly out of place among the heavily tattooed veterans, including a former French Foreign Legionnaire. Twenty-five years old, fresh out of college, he looks like the ideal son-in-law. He is also the tallest man in the group and therefore volunteered to serve as the machine-gunner. The U.S. Army would not take him because of some prior medical condition. The International Legion rejected him as well, for lack of military experience. After a long and winding journey through Ukraine, he finally ended up here, with the 49ers.
Until a week before our visit in early June 2022, the battalion had been a purely volunteer militia, named after the irregular formations of Transcarpathia that existed shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War. Because the unit had distinguished itself since the beginning of the Russian invasion, it became the first volunteer formation to be absorbed into the regular army. Since then, it has carried the designation 49th Infantry Battalion, and its soldiers have received contracts, standardized uniforms, and regular pay.
Since April 6, the unit has held its assigned sector around Barvenkovo and Virnopillya without surrendering a single meter of Ukrainian soil. That record has led the Ukrainian military leadership to tolerate the battalion’s unusual structure, because its commander holds only the rank of lieutenant rather than the lieutenant colonel’s rank normally associated with such a command. The unit is by no means lacking experienced officers. We are told there is even a colonel serving among the volunteers as an ordinary rifleman. In fact, nobody except Robot wears rank insignia.
READ MORE from Jonathan Stumpf: On a Razor’s Edge: Trapped Under Fire in Ukraine
After an uncomfortable night in sleeping bags on a hard floor, we head first to Barvenkovo and then on to Virnopillya with the commander. At the wheel is Rossil, 38, sporting a short black beard and, in civilian life, probably destined for a career in auto racing. He drives the four-wheel-drive Mitsubishi across muddy farm tracks and through grain fields as if there were a trophy waiting at the finish line. In a sense, there is: one’s own life, as we soon discover.
Upon reaching the front, we receive a detailed briefing at the command post. We are surprised by the degree of trust extended to us journalists by the staff. It is the first morning in weeks that the positions have not been under constant Russian artillery fire. A dud shell from the previous day remains embedded directly in front of the building’s entrance – a sizable one at that. No one is quite sure how to interpret the Russians’ unusual behavior. Normally they fire everything they have from across the line, unlike the Ukrainians, who face ammunition shortages. Perhaps it is the calm before the storm.
We are particularly impressed by the old captain who walks us through the tactical situation over a map table and by a man known simply as “British.” He spent nearly three decades as a businessman in the United Kingdom before returning to his homeland at the start of the Russian aggression. He now commands the English-speaking volunteers in this sector.
Men from 28 nations serve in the unit, including one German. British is undoubtedly the staff officer with the most distinctive features. He is missing a finger on his right hand, but when I shake his hand in greeting, I do not ask how he lost it.
When the old captain points to a spot on the map and says, “There’s another Russian tank here with a clear field of fire across this sector,” I ask, “At what range can a tank engage targets with reasonable accuracy?”
“About six kilometers,” comes the reply.
“But we came in along this road. That’s only two kilometers away.”
British gives me a meaningful look and nods. “It’s happened before.”
Had we noticed the burned-out vehicle at the edge of the woods, he asks. We certainly had. We had to drive around it.
The battalion’s ability to withstand overwhelming Russian numerical superiority for so long is due in part to its excellent drone reconnaissance. Shortly after the general briefing, three sweat-soaked soldiers enter the command post. They have just returned from a drone mission. The footage is immediately reviewed.
“Here – that’s a new Russian tank position,” the nerdy drone specialist exclaims excitedly as he zooms in. Even with the naked eye, we can see a Russian soldier trudging back toward his tank with a roll of toilet paper in his right hand.
“He was taking a dump!” I shout, laughing.
Everyone else bursts out laughing as well.
Later that day we meet the British medics “Conor McGregor” and “Moth.” Moth, 33, spent seven years as a medic in the British Army, while 23-year-old Conor had no military experience whatsoever when he decided to travel to Ukraine and help. By now he has probably saved more lives under fire than many combat medics with a decade of service. Injured in the back by flying debris, he should really be taking it easy, but he does not.
“They will never get me. I’ll never be caught alive,” he says, pointing to his pistol before adding, “That’s why I carry a pistol.”
Also part of the team is a friendly American woman of Polynesian and African descent who looks as though she has lost a great deal of weight in a very short time. The Ukrainians owe these three medics a dramatic reduction in mortality among severely wounded casualties in this sector, from 70 percent down to 30 percent. At the moment, they are simply irreplaceable.
The former school building in Virnopillya has been almost completely destroyed by artillery fire, but in the basement the men of the 49th have made themselves at home and continue to endure the grinding bombardment. Slogans of victory and perseverance cover the walls. Beside them hang drawings made by the soldiers’ children. Meals are prepared. Sick and wounded men are cared for.
Because only friendly artillery is firing at the moment, we venture into fighting positions near the enemy lines. Accompanying us on this brisk stroll along the front is a tame billy goat the Ukrainian soldiers have named Kadyrov. By late afternoon, when we climb back into the Mitsubishi, Russian artillery is slowly beginning to awaken from its slumber. Multiple detonations can be heard. A column of black smoke rises roughly 200 meters away. I duck instinctively and, for the first time, am genuinely glad to be wearing a helmet. The driver remains unfazed. He narrowly avoids a dud shell lodged in the roadway.
“That thing must have landed just now,” Mario mutters.
That evening we come under fire again in Barvenkovo, although the impacts are not especially close. Late that night we finally return to Lozova and spend another night on the hard floor.
The next day, as Robot, Messi, and the other foreign volunteers move up to the front, we have at least a vague idea of what awaits them. We embrace every one of them warmly. No one knows how long their deployment at the front will last. I call after them:
“Don’t get yourselves killed!”
We hope they all return alive and unhurt, but we know that in this war, the odds are very much against it.
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, 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).
