Last week, 14 Lithuanian volunteers, described as "giant and strong," heard that their unit was conducting elite training where one could learn in one morning what would take two weeks elsewhere. So, the 14 were accepted into combat drone training and evacuation under fire. The instructors divided them into two groups of seven, gave clear instructions under the protection of the tree line, and led the first group to the snowy moor.
Once there, they were subjected to "an exercise simulating real war to push their capabilities to the limit." Upon witnessing it, the seven Lithuanian members of the second group refused to participate in the next round.
This is all the information we have from this training to which EL MUNDO has been cordially invited to participate. Of course, we have accepted. Such experiences are rare. Our companions are veterans of the unit Peaky Blinders (or Gostri Kartuzy, in Ukrainian), known to the readers of this newspaper from previous visits by this reporter. They are currently on leave in their city, Kharkiv, and want to get back in shape.
An anonymous artist has composed a song about these Ukrainian Peaky Blinders in which he sings: "We will decapitate with our blades all the pidars [maricones, in Russian] who come to occupy our land." Olexander Spitsyn, brother of Anton, their deceased founder, picks us up in a car where that melody is playing at full volume alongside Georgiy, the other officer of the unit. The image of these two soldiers is on large posters throughout the city. Together, we drive on a road covered with anti-drone nets to a place only they know.
- We are going to a field near the front. It's a good place to practice.
- Every day, some Russian drones pass by there. More and more each time. But we are already used to seeing explosions and shots. They don't catch our attention. With the Peaky Blinders, adventure is always guaranteed, and today will be no exception.
It doesn't catch their attention, but one would lie if they said they are not afraid. There is something intriguing about such a proposal: trying to understand what it feels like when an FPV drone advances towards you like a predator or when another one launches a grenade from 30 meters high. Above all, it is interesting to know how soldiers should respond to that threat and what dangers they face in this war. When we arrive, we hide the car under some trees and already see two other vehicles well camouflaged with nets.
Georgiy is in a hurry. He gives very clear instructions on how to survive a drone attack: "When you advance, do it silently. No conversations. The drone can be heard, and the first thing you must determine is where it is and its type, because each model poses a different threat. Shout three times so your comrades can see it. Once you have located it, never lose sight of it. Walk backward aiming at it with your weapon and shooting to try to bring it down, but do not run in panic. Look back for only two or three seconds and then focus on it. Defend yourself. If you perceive it is launching a grenade, you have four or five seconds to take three long steps and throw yourself to the ground, always with your head at the farthest point. If you do it right, you will gain seven or another meters of distance that can save your life."
In the field, without the protection of the trees, we are made to run 300 meters through the snow to the chosen point wearing bulletproof vests and helmets. With the effort, the first drone of the day appears. We shout three times, and my companions aim their AR15 rifles and start shooting at the drone. "Move, davai! (let's go)," shouts Georgiy. But it is challenging to walk backward in the snow and try to keep track of that devilish contraption that runs faster than your eyes.
It doesn't take long to release its payload, so my companions shout, and we try to follow the instructions: three long steps, one, two, three, to the ground. What the instructors hadn't mentioned is that the grenade has explosive material (but no shrapnel), so besides leaving a two-meter black crater in the snow, the detonation sprays us with frozen chunks of earth, leaving us deaf and dazed for a few seconds. Georgiy says, "More distance, spread out from each other." Lying on the icy snow, we try to stand up again and run in different directions, but in those seconds, the drone launches its second payload, landing three meters away. Again, the explosion shakes us. "You just died, journalist!", says Georgiy, who requests through the radio to kill another drone, and another, and another...
As we expected, now that we are exhausted, they are going to make the game more challenging. They inform us that one of the veterans is supposedly injured, and we have to evacuate him under fire. So, two members of the Peaky Blinders apply a tourniquet to his leg and bring out a rollable and dragable stretcher, where they place the heaviest soldier in the unit, estimated to weigh at least 100 kilos, who pretends to be in terrible pain shouting "blyat," that versatile insult that works in Russian and Ukrainian and can be translated as "damn." Meanwhile, the rest of us have to watch the sky and pretend with real or imaginary weapons that we are capable of facing those devilish devices.
We pull the wounded comrade with his legs sunk in the snow when Olexander, the unit leader, fires his AK12 inches from my ear while hurling unrepeatable insults. My companions once again throw themselves to the ground as another wave of detonating grenades approaches. They don't kill you, but they are frightening, so I try to move away, although within seconds, they are upon us. Adrenaline is pumping, we chew on cortisol, and the cold air at 10 degrees below zero burns our lungs. At this point, it is very challenging to look up at the sky and know where the drones are. Boom.
We have not covered even 80 meters of the 300 we have to walk with the wounded to the tree area when kamikaze drones are also sent after us. The pilots of these drones make their propellers almost touch our helmets while other comrades try to shoot them down. The danger of friendly fire is evident because it is easy to lose orientation in this snowy moor and end up shooting at a person while following the drones in flight. But we are here to play, and the instructors keep shouting and shooting into the air alongside us like possessed to multiply our stress for when we have to face a real situation, which will be soon for the exercise participants.
We also didn't know that the kamikaze drones they use have explosives at the tip and explode upon impact, like those used in combat, but without the shrapnel that would fill our bodies with hot metal fragments. One of them falls a meter away from a soldier, creating a smoke cloud, before another grenade fired from a Mavic explodes behind him. At that moment, in this snowy moor, the conditions of the Ukrainian battlefront, the deadliest in the history of human conflicts, are replicated.
When we manage to transport the wounded to the evacuation point, we are so physically broken that for a few minutes no one speaks. A taste of vomit rises in our throats. There is no oxygen in the world that can feed our lungs. Our ears are blocked by the explosions. Lactic acid knots our legs and arms, and when we finally set off again, we feel how trembling replaces strength. One may boast of years of devouring CrossFit classes, completing triathlons, or competing every weekend in Hyrox races, but a morning of training with the Peaky Blinders puts you in your place. Throughout the encounter, about 10 drones of two types were used, recharged and launched repeatedly against us. Only two were shot down.
Just when one thinks the party is over, an unexpected guest appears, a consequence of training near the so-called annihilation zone or combat area. A distant buzzing breaks into the sky. At first, I think it's a new surprise from the Peaky Blinders, but the concern on their faces seems real. Olexander shouts: "Tse pidarskiy dron" ("It's a drone from the maricones," as they call the Russians). Some grab their weapons, while others seek shelter in the densest area of the tree line. With racing pulses, I follow them and do the same, but the one next to me tells me to move away, that we are too close and an easy target. A hail of shots begins to try to bring it down while I hug the trunk of a tree, in the ridiculous trust that it won't see me. But the Russian drone pilot has another target beyond us, and the device flies over us without incident.
As if nothing had happened, the members of this strange brotherhood return to normality and serve themselves tea. A new recruit joins us, eager to be part of such a select group of soldiers, one of the most revered and yet strangest units in the war, as it is made up of a core of old friends from Kharkiv who have taken the use of attack drones to another level, and who have probably caused more casualties to the Russian invader despite being so few in number. They are a family: to join them, one not only has to pass courses like this but also have to get along with them.
Olexander orders to dismantle the camp when there is no energy left for anything else. In the car, speeding once again, he asks:
- I told you we are happy blowing things up and promised you an adventure. Did you have a good time?
- Mmmmm. Yes.