
By Paul Beesley
Next morning, and the Editor, is down with a mild case of food poisoning, so he is excused duties. Edward and I have a couple of visits to make.
The first, involves a tousled, young officer whom we had met yesterday. I’ll call him Alex, and he lives in a tumbledown cottage with a shower that only gives cold water. He has, just now got a plumber in to fix this. The plumber installed a second shower – which only gives hot water. He shares the cottage with a young, one-legged soldier who refused a discharge. He has a collection of “trophy patches,” including ones from Wagner, and Akhmat “Tik-Tok” fighters.
“That’s funny,” I quipped, “I thought they ran too fast.”
He was being trained up to act as his Brigade’s psychologist. He will have the task of sorting out the men’s psychological problems. I would have liked more time in order to ask him about this role and what kind of training he receives.
As for Alex, he had told his CO, that he could get some drones. The CO, was skeptical but we all went along to see. What we saw was the base of the local model aeroplane club. These were radio-controlled aircraft of the kind you see in the British countryside, flying off mown, grass landing strips and were modelled on small, private aircraft, such as Pipers and Cesnas. They were about 4 feet long and had small, i/c., piston engines.
They were not high-tech, carbon-fibre, quad copters but they undoubtedly flew. The CO, made a selection of two, carefully unslotted the wings for transportation, and took them off to be “militarized.” Alex’s stock, rose accordingly.
While this was going on, Alex told me about his actual job.
Ever wondered what happens when a soldier is killed? You may think of some sober funeral, or the informing of next-of-kin, but the reality is more complex.
Alex was a professional soldier before the war and re-enlisted on day 1. After a few months, he was invited to handle casualty processing.
Basically, the procedure is this:
A soldier is killed and Alex must approach his Battalion, to collect documents – passport, I.D tag, his “Green Book,” (a log of service, training, postings and a general I.D.), as well a brief report from his immediate superior officer. He then views the body and removes any military gear, collects and logs both these and the documents and places the body in a body-bag.
This last can be a problem, as good bags cost between 13 and 18 Euros and they are hard to come by. The Editor’s recent article about corruption is a case in point. There are stories of warehouses in Lviv, full of body bags, while at the Front, they must make do with something you would leave out for the dust men.
Next, bodies are driven to the rear in dedicated vans – only 2 per van. More could be taken, but I know from experience that bodies are hard to shift and to have 2 tiers of shelving would need special fittings, or even some kind of lift. This would be expensive.
Signing off the deceased has two parts: the first is civil, and is done by the civil police. The body is then taken to a collection point, where an army doctor formally signs the man off. Next, upon receipt of the collected documents, an officer produces an “Evacuation Card.” Copies of documents are retained by Alex. The Evac’ Card goes to the “Social Help And Mobilization Office, and Alex, sends them the address of the cemetery closest to the soldier’s original “Mobilization Point,” – the place he was inducted into the army. The Office, handles the funeral and informs the Next of Kin.
Alex’s work does not end there, as he has to liaise with the family to sort out any problems of offialdom, such as applying for death benefits. There is actually a dedicated social network for N.O.K. Alex, also has to advise on matters such as when a soldier is missing, not declared dead. There is also the matter of formal identification of undocumented soldiers (by tattoos, birthmarks, DNA, etc.)
The length and complexity of the process suggests a holdover from old, peacetime practices – probably inherited from the old USSR.
Alex came round to the Hostel, and we invited him to use our showers. Meanwhile, Edward, and I had to buy over 20 kilos of meat.
Edward, is a professional barbecue cook. He cooks for men on the Front. We were going to fill up some ammo boxes of chicken wings, pork steaks, crisps and fresh fruit. Some volunteer, Ukrainian, delivery drivers added sweets, energy drinks, smoked sausage and various “comforts”. The cooking took hours. The barbecue was a small, garden type and although 2 feet across, Edward only lit a pile of charcoal as big as my outspread hand. The meat was not placed directly over it. Everything got 30 minutes on the barbecue before getting finished off in the kitchen oven. The chicken wings were surprisingly tender but, unlike the pork, needed seasoning and a dollop of BBQ sauce. The supermarket pork came with it’s own marinade.
I packed cardboard boxes with foil, filled them with cooled, chopped meat and placed them in the ammo boxes. We backfilled with the rest of the goodies. At about nine-o’clock, a sergeant came for them.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” I said. “particularly, as I am tired of filling these boxes!”
He saw the funny side.
There was a feast there – enough for an entire company.
I cleaned the kitchen (we had faithfully promised the village ladies,) and then it was time for our dinner. The new dentists had arrived but they (six of them, including wives, helpers etc.), preferred to dine by their caravan, under the bright stars. We joined them for cognac and some sort of strawberry beer.
Next day was Sunday. I thanked the village ladies for looking after us and then, went to the little church amid the sound of church bells and air-raid alarms.