Марія Бровінська War 16 June 2026, 09:10

"When you're a clerk, you don't hear explosions, groans, last words. You don't see blood, wounded bodies without limbs and with their insides ripped out." Mobilization diary from an IT worker in Threads — about changes in the mentality of the army, front-line cities, and losses

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 .

In the second part of the AIT man’s confessions and discoveries, he talked about the BZVP, «NATO shots on the lips,» and «playing stormtroopers.»

In the third part of the diary, the AIT member shared his thoughts on why those who were converted to the military did not flee the army, how different the conditions of service are in the staff and infantry, and weapons in the blanket.

The fourth part of his observations — about intimidation in the army and the redeployment of the unit — is not without surprises .

Today we are publishing the fifth part of the frankness — about intimidation in the army, losses, and life in a front-line city.

A city where anxiety was almost never turned off

I was brought to a new frontline city. It was smaller and more dangerous: FPVs and KABs fly there quickly, sometimes «petal» mines are dropped (due to their characteristic shape and color, they are almost invisible in the grass), and news about the arrivals in this city and community can only be seen in local Telegram channels, they are so frequent. At the entrance to the city, we entered an anti-drone «tunnel»: the road was covered with a net on the sides and top. On the sidelines, you can often see half-burned, broken houses.

«What, are you scared?» the commander asks with a smile, driving at 130 km/h.

«That’s fine,» I answer him with the same smile.

«But that’s normal. You’re not in the infantry, you’re not in the assaults. And that’s it.»

I looked on Google Maps to see what was interesting in the city. Compared to the past, it was culturally, socially, and economically poorer: a couple of historical monuments and churches, a small park with a square, a well-preserved stadium, a trio of cafes, and an ATB.

The nearby lakes were probably still covered in ice, as were the broken local roads. To my surprise, the city was alive, and the streets were filled with young people: loud teenage girls in baggy pants and bright makeup looked no different from the usual Kyiv girls, and boys, even in such weather, raced along the roadway. Young couples with children and students appeared from time to time among them.

They walked around the city center with coffee in hand and talked about everyday topics, while the air raid siren almost never went off and was louder than anything I had ever heard before. But more than anyone else (perhaps even more than the locals) there were military personnel in this city.

It seemed like they were everywhere: in regular cars, in pickup trucks with electronic warfare on the roof, in stores, at the train station, in cafes, going to headquarters with documents, resting after leaving positions — even without uniforms, they were easy to recognize by some sign: in their clothes, in their accessories, or simply by their faces.

I thought about how many people, by their own will or not, are here and in other frontline cities of Ukraine at this moment. About how each of them is kept by something (or someone) in the greatest danger and uncertainty than anywhere else. How this person, outwardly as fragile as everyone else hundreds and thousands of kilometers away, inside can have a multitude of attachments, responsibilities, fears and beliefs that force them to test fate, to expose this fragility to the explosive and clanging sky every day, and despite this, continue to live and believe as if they were cast from steel and would withstand everything.

On changes in the military psyche

Commander: «They should put me in a madhouse after the war.»

Coworker: «Sometimes you just think, 'Let the f*ck fly in, let it all just end, and then f*ck as you want.'»

Me: «One lack of freedom for me has simply changed to another. Only here they can still send me to the infantry.»

Changes occur gradually and imperceptibly. Strange and scary thoughts that never existed begin to insidiously seep in and creep to the surface. At first, they are recognized as alien and quickly rejected, but as with the Overton window effect, with time and the influence of certain factors, they take root like parasites and can become a part of our «self»: at first unacceptable, then radical, so that we can remain with them in a state of conflict and struggle, or surrender and accept them as the norm, as another option for being (or non-being).

A particular life is only as valuable as the person values it. The first quick, completely senseless deaths of many people I had known for only a few months and had just met had an unexpected effect on me.

It seemed that if you understood what war was without the drug of propaganda and romanticism, you would be able to control your feelings when the ripe fruits of this war fell at your feet.

It seemed like you needed a strong emotional attachment to a person for it to have a lasting effect on you.

I seemed to be much more stable and self-regulated.

It seemed.

I ask myself: what can make a unit commander voluntarily take his own life? Pressure from command, a sense of guilt for wrong decisions, financial responsibility for property worth tens of millions of hryvnias, lack of normal sleep, rest and nutrition, personal problems, mental disorder, all of it? No one will ever be able to say for sure, because usually by the time these questions are asked (if they are asked at all), it is already too late.

Our mental suffering is somewhere on a limitless spectrum and is always subjective. Therefore, it is often difficult for us to understand what another person is feeling and how bad they may be. Especially when the person is seen as a resource, not as an individual, with their own history, fears, and dreams.

Evening. I lie on a bed in a cool apartment hundreds of kilometers from the home I cannot return to. I cannot leave the city without permission, I have no reason to resign from service. I can be sent to the assault with a single order.

What still belongs to me? What do I have control over? Do I have the strength to have the remaining control? Not always. In the meantime, I force myself to serve, to exercise, to take vitamins, to eat well, to read, to write, to smile, to think, to endure, to make plans for the future and to hope. Sometimes it works out.

First casualties and a better understanding of the war

Our guys were preparing for their first outing: they marched in groups of 2-3 people, went to the training ground, and once they had training in tacmed. My short conversations with them were quiet, so quiet that it was difficult to call them conversations: cigarettes were smoldering, and we were silent most of the time. Behind the jokes and smiles on their faces, sadness and anxiety were visible.

The first groups had already been formed: young men, middle-aged men, and some already had gray hair on their temples. Almost everyone spoke Russian or Surzhyk, but here and there you could hear the Ternopil or Ivano-Frankivsk dialect. While I lived with the infantrymen, I saw one of them, holding a silver cross in his hands, reading prayers in his tiny prayer book every morning. About three weeks later he died. Few people knew the details of the operation. It was supposed to be an assault on an occupied village, 15-20 fighters in a group. The task was to gain a foothold.

As far as I know, our guys were reassured as much as possible, which, as it turned out, was actually a cover-up of what everyone should have been preparing for, both morally and in tactical planning.

When you’re a clerk, you don’t hear explosions, groans, last words. You don’t see blood, wounded bodies without limbs and with their insides ripped out.

These horrific scenes are hidden behind the innocent numbers opposite a person’s name in the evening report: 200, 300, and 500.

I look at this report and I can’t believe it: so many familiar names with one of the numbers after them, the most of all 500 (missing or body could not be collected or identified). Among them are guys I had just seen and talked to. And the next day the report was blank, as if nothing had happened.

Over time, I was told that the entire group was covered by artillery and FPV (as they say, three per person), that the operation was almost doomed to failure from the very beginning, that it could have been planned more wisely and many lives saved, that the guys put up a good fight before death. All the training and knowledge in the world could not have saved them from a direct hit by shells.

Once in the news I came across statistics of combat clashes, which highlight a positive trend of increasing their number, where the Armed Forces of Ukraine counterattack, not defend themselves. A great opportunity to rejoice for those who do not know what the human cost of these assaults is, do not see what results they bring, except for +1 in the list of counterattacks, which are reported to the higher leadership as a strategic success. For them, these are the same numbers on paper: general, well-visualized and skillfully veiled.

But there is no place for a person and his life in them, just like there are millions of other soldiers who died in their own war, who no one remembers anymore, and for whom there is no one to avenge.

Yes, if the enemy kills a soldier’s body, and time kills his memory, then war kills his individuality, turning his entire life into another inconspicuous number in someone’s endless unread reports and dry historical chronicle.

“This is Schrödinger’s military cat: until an official (or not) order, you are both in the infantry and not.” A new part of the mobilization diary from an IT guy in Threads — about intimidation in the army with a grenade in the barracks and redeployment

"Don't worry while you're with me - you won't go to the infantry. I'll tell you when you have to go to the SZCH." We continue to publish a mobilization diary from an IT guy from Threads - about the motivation to serve in the busified, the difference in service conditions for staff and infantrymen, and weapons in a blanket

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

"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