Francis Farrell
There was already little resembling a road in front of the driver by the time the old pickup truck’s headlights were shut off.
From here up until the drop-off point, he navigates by memory only: the crescent moon hanging over this part of Donetsk Oblast isn’t enough to illuminate the mangled dirt tracks that lead to the zero line.
Passing on by radio that he has turned on the truck’s electronic warfare device, the driver carefully navigates the darkness to the sound of tired, bent brake discs rubbing on the wheel.
Then, the transfer: greetings of “Wish you health” (Ukrainian military salute) exchanged with the waiting soldiers on their way out to the shift change, backpacks and rifles thrown in the back of the truck.
Finally, a short, brisk walk begins, along a line of dead, burnt-out trees decorated in faded green summer foliage.
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