A drone pilot at work

Friday 13 February 2026

I fly drones for Ukraine. Not always the same drone, not always the same task, and never with the same feelings. People who imagine drone warfare as clean or distant misunderstand it. The machine may be far from the hand, but the consequences are close, immediate and personal.

Some days begin quietly. I arrive before dawn, when the air is still and the light is uncertain, and I unpack equipment with the care of a watchmaker. Batteries are checked, propellers inspected, antennae aligned. These moments feel almost peaceful. The drone hums like an insect as it lifts, and for a short while I am simply a pilot, tracing rivers, tree lines and shattered farm tracks from above. From the screen, Ukraine looks fragile and beautiful. Fields lie like torn cloth stitched together by roads. Villages appear intact until you tilt the camera and see the burned roofs.

On reconnaissance missions, I feel curiosity more than fear. I search for patterns: a vehicle that was not there yesterday, tracks pressed into the snow, a heat signature that does not belong. This is the work of patience and interpretation. The enemy rarely announces himself. He hides, and I must learn his habits. When I succeed, when I spot something important before it moves or fires, there is a quiet satisfaction. I know I have protected someone I will never meet.

Other days are heavier. Armed missions change the atmosphere entirely. The drone feels different in my hands, even though the controller is the same. My focus narrows. Every movement matters. Wind becomes an adversary. Signal interference feels like a hand closing around my throat. I see men on the screen. Sometimes they are running, sometimes they are resting, sometimes they are unaware. I do not hate them in that moment. I concentrate on timing, angle and distance. Afterwards, when the screen goes blank or fills with smoke, there is no triumph. Only a sense of weight, as if something has settled inside me.

There are moments of terror that arrive without warning. A sudden loss of signal. A warning tone that tells me electronic warfare has found me. The drone drifts or freezes, and I know it may already be lost. In those seconds, I feel naked. The enemy is not on the screen but around me, unseen. I imagine artillery, counter drones, the sharp crack of incoming fire. Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes we pack and move within minutes, leaving half our equipment behind. Relief comes later, often mixed with embarrassment at how afraid I was.

There are days of frustration that feel almost banal. Mud clogs boots and cables. Software fails. Batteries arrive late or not at all. A perfect plan dissolves because a single component will not respond. In those moments, the war feels less like history and more like a badly organised workshop, where lives depend on tools that were never designed for this strain. I swear, I improvise, I learn. We all do.

Then there are days that remind me why I endure this. I watch friendly infantry advance knowing that my drone is above them, warning them of danger. I guide artillery onto a position that has pinned them down for days. Later, a message arrives through channels that are never sentimental: “Good work. You saved lives.” I read it more than once.

At night, when the screens are dark and the generators quiet, the experiences blur together. I think of the calm mornings and the violent seconds, of the beauty of the land and the damage carved into it. I think of how strange it is to know parts of Ukraine more intimately from the air than from the ground. This is not the way I imagined serving my country, but it is the way I can.

I am a drone pilot. I see far, I act precisely, and I carry the consequences with me. The machine flies, but the experience is entirely human.