Марія Бровінська War 27 April 2026, 12:02

"Individuality is not needed. And the more of you there are, the lonelier it is." Mobilization diary from an IT guy from Threads — about BZVP, "NATO lip shots" and "playing stormtroopers"

In Threads, a mobilized IT guy with the nickname oncceuponatime_dude keeps a diary about how he ended up in the army. We’ve already told you about his experience from «gentle busification» and a night in the CCK barracks to his first day in the battalion .

This is the second part of the confessions and discoveries of an AIT member, which we are publishing with his permission. Here the author talks about the BZVP, training to serve as an assault rifleman and infantryman, the mood at the training center, and the impossibility of solitude for even a minute.

My surprisingly human BZVP

The beginning. We arrived at the BZVP at the worst time of the year: the beginning of winter with mud up to our ankles. A month later, this mud was covered with snow, then ice, and finally returned to its original sloppy state. It was a newly formed training center from our military formation, that is, fully controlled by its leadership and with military instructors from the internal battalions. Perhaps that is why our expectations were exceeded in terms of conditions: 24/7 telephones, a careful attitude towards our physical abilities, and freedoms not inherent in general NCs.

A tent for 30 people with two stoves was to become our «home» for almost two months.

The first week we lived without a shower (it hadn’t been built yet), without a toilet nearby (there were only pits without cubicles), and no tasty food (we didn’t know the reason for the daily «paste» and undersalted dishes, but then something changed).

As we were told, after the BZVP, the battalion needed us alive and able-bodied. Of course, there was no concern in this: it was pragmatic «humanism,» but at least some. With the permission of the sergeant attached to us, someone who was old or had illnesses would often remain on duty in the tent: chopping wood, cleaning, heating the «bathhouse» for the platoon; others could not wear body armor, not squat with a sore knee during the evacuation, and not spit out their lungs during the rukhanka.

But to my surprise, the strongest coughs were among the young, healthy guys. We were not completely cut off from civilization: our sergeant allowed us to go to the nearest stores in small groups every day (energy drinks, coffee, and roasted seeds were the most appreciated, while I bought sweets, fruits, and milk, which I was lacking). We were given three whole weekends for the New Year holidays, and we celebrated the New Year with our platoon in a separate tent with a TV (few people listened to Zelensky’s greetings, so they switched it to some New Year’s show), kebabs, salads, and non-alcoholic beer. However, there was still a sense of sadness and longing in the air.

Such conditions have psychologically relaxed many, giving them hope for humane treatment, basic respect, and support even after their studies.

Perhaps that is why, despite the fact that the territory of the NC was not guarded, there were no BZVP in our platoon, although everyone was busified.

However, over the course of 50 days, we learned more about our future fate and positions, the time until actual participation in the war was running out, and moods gradually changed.

Some withdrew into themselves, spent more time alone, quietly thinking about the SZCH upon their return; others, on the contrary, became more and more aware of their infantry or assault future, asking instructors about everything: from berets and tuning on the AK, to mental preparation for the first combat clashes. They became more serious, but in a sense they also calmed down, because they resolutely accepted what was now inevitable for them personally.

BZVP, snobbery, and other «masculine things»

At the BZVP, the days passed quickly and almost unconsciously, the nights even faster and completely unconsciously, so the evenings were the only time left for myself and my true self, and the role of a rookie soldier could be hidden under my sleeping bag at least until the next morning. Tired, with a sore back, I wrote down everything, from events to sensations and thoughts, because I knew that I would forget important details on which memory and reliving of experience are built.

Looking at the men around me, I visually discovered a different «male existence,» often new and unusual to me, sometimes unpleasant, and sometimes even touching.

The almost toothless, red-faced, and slurred-spoken mechanic Vitaliy (a fictitious name), for whom I set up his first smartphone and PrivatBank, now buys me treats at the store and categorically refuses to charge me for it. Vitaliy is quick-tempered, easy to irritate and provoke into a fight, but with me he is gentle and trusting.

He is often mocked because his cognitive functions seem to have suffered from the amount of alcohol he has consumed in his life. Nevertheless, he is well versed in mechanics and agricultural machinery, so he can skillfully repair most breakdowns. He tells me stories from his life: those that I have been able to decipher by ear and catch the sequence of events, cause either grunting laughter, or horror, or strong sympathy for his fate.

In civilian life, Vitaliy and I are people from different dimensions, we have absolutely nothing in common — from interests and values to tastes in food and music. There are almost no scenarios for our intentional meeting. I, with a humanitarian education, a middle manager in an international IT company, with European senses and worldview, look down on people like Vitaliy, do not share and secretly despise his primitive way of life. But two months have passed since we live in the same tent, often dine together, are single, dig trenches, and help each other out in everyday life, and I see a different Vitaliy. Not a mechanic, an alcoholic, and an ignorant person who cannot correctly name the year in which we live in public when stressed. I see Vitaliy as a man who sweetly communicates with his daughter on the phone, jokes funny, buys me treats because he feels gratitude, and smiles sincerely with a full, toothless mouth.

I feel mutual gratitude, warmth, and am gradually imbued with a friendly and somewhat universal kindness towards him.

And most importantly, I realize that his life, no matter how far from my idea of a decent and pure life it is, has the same value as mine. Now I don’t look down on him. We are opposite each other. And although we will again be as far apart in civilian life, our military destinies will diverge very soon, and the equality of our position that was on the BZVP will disappear again, somewhere inside I still stand with him on the same rung. And that’s wonderful.

Homo Militaris: Social Darwinism on the BZVP

During two months of training, our tent team of 30 busified men went through its anthropological evolution: from primitive tools (an axe and a gas burner) to a chainsaw and an ecoflow with a kettle; from primitive military language to numerous abbreviations and jargon; from fragmented, disorganized units to formed groups and a clear hierarchy.

Personally, I was struck by how quickly many men accepted the new role of military personnel and got used to it, at least outwardly: they epically posed for photos with AKs and RPGs, put them on the screensaver in green and sent them to relatives and friends, adopted army slang, jokes, and habits, and especially how naturally and with pleasure those who were appointed as commanders of detachments and platoons built a leadership hierarchy.

There was a feeling that these were not civilians who had been busified a couple of weeks ago, but military personnel with experience: their movements (a little more relaxed than in ordinary life), tone (more dynamic in volume and softness depending on the rank of the interlocutor), commands (impossible a couple of weeks ago, now they sound loudly, often with irritation, and most importantly, are carried out by others without complaints), military uniform (it’s just strange and scary how military uniform suits some people), and even facial expressions (already a little rough, simplified to a few basic emotional states) organically fit their new positions and responsibilities, as if the hidden, uncouth male nature had come out and found its pixel embodiment.

At the same time, the reputation of each member of the group was formed and evolved, where everyone, regardless of civil or material status, age, and education, was equal in rights, responsibilities, and daily routine.

Here is a living example: let’s call him soldier Andriy. He starts out with everyone on an equal footing, has basic respect, and is perceived adequately. But during the BZVP: a botched (in other words, it won’t work) machine gun + failure to admit one’s guilt is one (the first bells and suspicions); then a superficial attitude to training and an absurd misunderstanding of the seriousness of one’s situation are two (an informal permission for disrespect and devaluation); and finally, a too-dirty machine gun on the final inspection at the end of the BZVP + failure to admit one’s guilt is three (confirmation of hypotheses and consolidation of the status of an outsider by the majority of the group).

Loneliness, solitude, and libido

I wake up at night from screams:

— Bitch, it’s freezing outside, damn it, why the hell are you saving this firewood? He will teach you how to drown, damn it?! I just circle there, and this is the top shelf!

— But the firewood is wet, what shall I do?

«I fucking put everything dry on top today on purpose, are you blind?!» — But they are gone!

— Bitch, I’ll find something dry now and then I’ll beat you in the ass for your cunt!

It’s hard to find a moment when you’re alone on the BZVP. Even at night.

Contact at three, at six, again at three, at nine and at twelve. Conversations, screams, a painful, lingering cough (from smoking, a cold or the kind that happens with pneumonia), snoring (deaf and stringy, jerky like a broken engine, or thin and whistling. You could make a whole classification), and tick-tocks, which, fortunately, I never come across in the feed. Movement, breakfast, classes, lunch, shooting, dinner, rest — you are all together, there are always many of you, and you are part of a big whole.

Individuality is not needed. And the more of you there are, the lonelier it is. At least that’s how it was for me.

Somehow, the forced loneliness and the desire for solitude coexisted and did not contradict each other. If the first was insurmountable, the second could be solved by a walk in the forest. However, the cold, back pain and extreme fatigue kept me in bed most of the time. I put on headphones, wrote, or talked to my beloved, and tried to forget, at least for a short moment, where I was, not to think about what awaited me next (uncertainty was the hardest thing). I was more active than usual in throwing money at animal shelters, I was more emotional. Taking on a small financial guardianship over someone smaller and more vulnerable must have given me confidence, a sense of meaning and a sense of belonging to something good.

There was almost no sexual desire (I think it shifted into other self-preservation instincts, such as a greater appetite, sound sleep, and physical endurance that I had no idea about).

After all, this kind of «solitude» was possible only in icy toilets, and only late at night, which could discourage all desire and strength to go there. Or, if there were such brave people (and I am not among them), quietly at night, while everyone is sleeping. For the absolute majority, the topic of masturbation was an occasion for jokes and ridicule, so it was not discussed openly. And if someone watched porn, they did it with headphones. And for that, thank you.

How we were trained to be infantrymen and stormtroopers

«Men, listen carefully, because you will all be there.» Such phrases from the instructors insidiously licked into the very subcortex and were not accepted as reality. Where am I? How did I end up here? Will these training trenches really change into real ones in a couple of months? I really didn’t want to believe it. I had hoped until the last that I would be taken to the headquarters somewhere. At least that’s what they promised me. But you can never trust the words of a man in uniform.

Not always because she is deceitful and lying, but also because her fate (like yours) depends on another person in uniform, with a few extra stars on their shoulder straps. We were trained as infantrymen and stormtroopers. Emptying (practice with weapons without cartridges) and shooting took about 60% of our time, and the med 30%, and everything else, like engineering, communications and topography, was an «interesting bonus». We disassembled a machine gun, broke a NATO training grenade launcher, caught sand-filled bottles from energy drinkers with our heads during classes (one took off his helmet and regretted it very much, because the bullet was impressive).

For the past few weeks, we haven’t been able to get out of the icy, snowy trenches. We had to run with cover to get to the trench, then move in pairs and competently clear positions and cover while grenades and rockets were flying at you.

This was our final task. Few people passed it without criticism. Most of our platoon was neutralized while playing.

There was no urban (practicing combat operations in urban areas) or drone classes at all, which many people didn’t like.

We also went on a march, where we tried to apply all our knowledge at the same time: the task was to establish ourselves at a point near the enemy. Someone was given coordinates and a compass, and he had to lead the group. Someone got into an idle stretch, a conditional 200. Along the way, we practiced various tactical movements, took cover, and reported information to others by radio. Contact 9!

Unexpected fire, two wounded, we provide them with assistance, retreat to cover. With losses, we reach the point, two scouts continue, hiding under the trees from the drone. Everything becomes somehow childish and frivolous when it comes to fire, or rather, as they were called, «NATO lip shots»:

«Pam-pam, pam-pam-pam! I killed you, it turns out!»

— So where, are you a sniper? There were 150 meters here. I also shot at you, you are at least wounded.

«I was in hiding, you couldn’t even see me!»

Psychologically, many men returned to their childhood, perceived it as a game, enthusiastically shared their impressions, the number of «killed», the skill of camouflage, a well-placed tourniquet. But after the combat order, everything became more real, and for many this «game» ended too quickly.

"Do you know that you are already 200? Have you already bought yourself a black package?" In Threads, a mobilized IT worker keeps a diary of his service in the army - about communication with the CCC, thoughts on the SZCH and IT experience in the non-digital system of the Armed Forces of Ukraine

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