The Road to Bakhmut
by Gary Clifton
“Bernie, this air tastes salty.” At nearly sixty, Gordon McKeen was exhausted.
“Well, Gordon, it’s salt mines up the wazoo here.” Bernie Wolinski, frail and out of breath, struggled with his load of cameras and gear. “Makes me wonder why the hell the Russians want this place, Donetsk, bad enough to take the losses we’ve just seen.”
“Putin has his eye on Bakhmut, north over there.” Gordon gestured. “They use Donetsk as a staging area, then all they gotta do is move fifty miles, cross the Bakhmutka River, lose another three or four thousand troops and still not have squat.”
Dimitri Rigozhin, walking in the rear, spoke up in his broken English. “Russian is stupid animal.” He shifted his AK47 from shoulder to shoulder. “We see dead general, left by his comrades to rot.” Dimitri’s bearded ferocity made gauging his age impossible. Hired as mission security, he had executed three wounded Russian troops they’d come across. Each time he’d prefaced his atrocity by declaring that Russian soldiers had murdered his wife and daughters. A Ukrainian, he was indispensable because he spoke some limited English and seemed willing to shoot anyone he didn’t like.
All three moved wearily, knees bent as men must do to walk downhill. They waded across a small stream and began the trek up the next mountain.
Gordon raised his hand. “The Ukrainians have retreated to that bluff... setting up a couple of pieces of artillery. They need twenty.” He pulled his white press placard from his gear. “Gonna wave this and hope they don’t shoot.”
Dimitri bellowed up the slope in Ukrainian.
Bernie chuckled. “He says we’re from the BBC, and if any motherless pig shoots at us, he’ll kill them all. He says he’s fearless.”
Bernie had grown up in the Manchester area, of Polish-speaking parents. Somehow, perhaps through neighborhood osmosis, diminutive little Bernie could speak passable Ukrainian and Russian.
After an hour-long uphill struggle, they found a group of about fifty Ukrainian troops, standing around the two artillery pieces. Gordon crested the hill waving his white placard. An officer, filthy, his collar showing a single bar, approached.
“Lieutenant, do you speak English?”
“It’s Captain, sir. We don’t have the proper bars. English, yes, I live in London one time.”
“I’m Gordon McKeen of the BBC. Our mission is to show the world the atrocities of the Russians.”
A tall, pale, very dirty man, an American M16 slung over his shoulder, approached and spoke in Ukrainian.
Bernie said, “He says we look like Russians and he hates Russians.”
Dimitri spoke angrily in Ukrainian, then turned to Gordon. “Gor-Don, I say, my family killed by Russians in Maninka. No call me no Russian.”
The officer said, “He is Bobich. His family was murdered also. His mind is damaged. I would shoot him now, but we need to move these two cannons.” He pointed with his chin.
Gordon said, “Russians moving on the far bluff. Why not shoot?”
“Only have eight rounds.”
The slanting sun reflecting off the mountaintop three hundred yards away, which presented a beautiful panorama of nature’s splendor, was alive with Russians.
Bobich spat in English. “You look like Russians, by God.”
Dimitri leveled his rifle and said in English, “We no dammed Russian. Maybe you Russian, comrade? Why you talk English? Russians do English in school.”
Gordon raised his hand and gestured to the glut of Ukrainians. “Don’t shoot, Dimitri.” He motioned, and the three walked a distance. The officer followed, then Bobich, his eyes insane and angry.
Bernie said, “Gordon, I’ll give this goofy arse an MRE. He’s gotta be hungry.”
Gordon grimaced. “Show we have food, and the whole regiment might be all over us.”
The officer drew a Makarov pistol. “I must shoot this man, now.”
“No, no,” Gordon spat. “We’ll move further down the bluff, maybe get some photos of the Russians across there.”
“Gordon, I’m too damned beat to walk much farther.” Bernie pulled a flask from his backpack and took a long pull. The odor of whiskey wafted out
“Dimitri Rigozhin does not get tired or know fear,” the bodyguard declared. “Shoot crazy dog Bobich. He maybe shoot anytime.”
The officer snatched Bobich’s M16 and slung it over his own shoulder.
Gordon said, “Captain, we’re moving over the mountaintop.” He hurried away, Bernie and Dimitri following warily.
The officer stood, appearing distressed. Bobich raised a fist. The officer, still holding his Makarov, herded Bobich back toward the troops lounging around in the mountain dust.
Two hundred yards found a slight depression, allowing the three men to rest behind a large rock and open an MRE apiece. The spot provided a view of the Russians massing up across the valley.
Bernie studied the Russians through binoculars. “Geez, Gordon, the Ruskies got an arseload of artillery. Must be thirty guns over there.
“Yeah, and lots of ammo.”
A rifle round exploded atop the sheltering rock, inches from Bernie’s head.
“Russians?” Bernie hit the ground hard.
“Hurt?” Gordon asked.
Bernie touched his head, his hand coming away bloody. “Ricochet... Only a scratch”
Dimitri leaned around the rock. “Crazy man, Bobich. I go back and kill—”
“Calm down, Fearless,” Gordon said. He gestured: “Russians, we need to get farther over the mountain.”
As they moved away, the ragtag group of Ukrainians came back into view. Bernie studied the men with his binoculars. “None looking this way. Prolly forgot us.”
A Ukrainian cannon fired a round across the void, striking well below the massed Russians.
All the Russian guns seemed to fire at once. The barrage lasted about a minute.
Bernie passed the binoculars around.
Gordon said softly, “Nothing left of the Ukrainians. Just bare ground.”
“Bobich didn’t like Russians,” Bernie said.
Gordon replied, “Guess they didn’t like him, either.”
Dimitri shrugged. “No need kill Bobich pig now.”
Copyright © 2023 by Gary Clifton
