Language matters: How evacuation teams at frontline distinguish friend from foe

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One body. Three attempts. Ten days

Druzhba village, Donetsk Oblast. July 2024. We were tasked with retrieving the body of Magnit—that was his call sign—and his brother-in-arms from their position at the front line. The worst part is how they died. The guys were ambushed: trying to hide from Russians, they went into a basement. The yard, where that house with the basement stood, was set ablaze. The roof collapsed, blocking their exit. They suffocated.

Due to intense fighting, we couldn’t evacuate the bodies right away. The soldiers were temporarily listed as missing in action.

Our evacuation team initially couldn’t figure out where this basement was. We only knew roughly it was near a neighboring position.

We barely found the right yard. The next challenge: extracting two bodies, both heavy. Magnit weighed over 100 kilograms. Pulling him from the basement and climbing out on rain-soaked ground was tough. Plus, a recent downpour had buried the ruins. Four of us managed, just barely. We left the yard with stretchers, but 300 meters out, the enemy spotted us. Mortars flew—no chance to break through. We left Magnit there.

We tried again a few days later, but another shelling forced us to leave the body under a tree and hide in a basement 150 meters from the front—second line, you could say. We knew mortars wouldn’t reach us there and waited for the following night. A Russian drone watched us constantly. Once, it dropped something incendiary on the house. Boom—the building was ablaze. 20 minutes later, we realized everything above was burning. Going out under mortar fire wasn’t an option, nor was suffocating, as the Russians hoped. Soon, smoke filled the basement. We lay on the floor, covering our faces with wet rags. Breathing.

No one panicked out loud, but inside, everyone probably thought we were done as the smoke thickened. Somehow, we made it out. The house burned to ash, but concrete slabs reinforced with railway tracks—common in that area near the railroad—saved us.

About a week later, when the enemy lost interest in the area and stopped watching it, we went a third time.

Finally, we carried Magnit to the evacuation point, from where he was taken home.

His brother-in-arms was retrieved another time. It went smoothly because it was raining—perfect weather for such operations: drones can’t see us.

But in a year, we’ve had rain like that only twice.

Topographical incompetence kills

I’ve been fighting since July last year, briefly in the infantry. One day, the company commander radioed that an evacuation team was forming to retrieve fallen guys. My brother-in-arms Dima Tertyshnyk and I volunteered. I agreed because I knew the deceased. We’d lived in the same house a month earlier. One was Stanislav, worked in an archive somewhere, calm, level-headed. The other, Oleksiy, was outgoing, always itching to go somewhere.

Those were my first losses.

Back then, I felt some emotions, but later realized they’re pointless. No sense in them. If I let every death hit me, what would become of me? We even avoid sentimentality in conversations—war’s no place for it. We just say: going to work.

Although once, there was a story. Two guys were wounded, their brothers-in-arms moved elsewhere, and called us for help. dmytro had his own task, but I was to guide a wounded guy from a tree line—walking but disoriented from a concussion. I got there, and there were two: one lying, clearly not making it, a shard in his gut. He looked at me, pleading: “Don’t leave me.” He died in my arms. That’s hard to recall; I thought he’d haunt my dreams. The other I supported, his arm around my neck, and we slowly left the tree line.

Our main job is evacuating the dead and wounded. We go as a group, usually two or three, sometimes four.

Each mission is full-on reconnaissance: gathering intel from various sources, talking to drone operators, unit commanders. We need to know who we’re retrieving, from where, their condition, and how they died. Terrain, weather, time of day, enemy positions—everything’s considered.

We head to the position on foot: vehicles are loud, easily heard. Plus, they’re prime targets for the enemy. A small group might get three mortar shells; a vehicle gets everything. Any armored personnel carrier or light tractor is a noisy, visible target, quickly spotted by sound. In Toretsk, we saw the enemy set an ambush. Russians waited for our guys, tracking them from Kostiantynivka. Ten minutes before our vehicle appeared on the horizon, the sky was full of enemy drones.

Plus, the terrain is often mined, impassable due to total destruction. You might drive in, but rolling back out is less likely.

Sometimes, we walk 2-3 kilometers one way to retrieve a soldier. We carry minimal gear: tourniquets, weapons, sometimes backpacks with food and water for infantry holding positions.

Every mission is dangerous. You step out of a dugout, and God knows if a drone’s watching now, will spot you later, or if they’ll start shooting or mortar shells will follow. We don’t have “evac team” labels, but even if we did, the bastards wouldn’t care.

On a new front, you first study the terrain: hills, woods, village streets. Topographical incompetence is deadly. I know two cases where soldiers couldn't navigate their way out of a paper bag and paid with their lives.

Since we move at night, you can’t use a flashlight, so we scout routes at dusk, when it’s gray. Soldiers call it “sirka”—perfect time when enemy aerial recon is blind, but you see everything. We also check where to run and hide if shelling starts.

Now, near Pokrovsk, it’s harder. Less greenery—Russians burned it all. You can’t approach the front through woods. You move in open terrain, no cover from drones. Everything’s bare.

That’s why our guys retreat. Nowhere to dig in. The bastards leave scorched earth behind, burn everything ahead, then advance.

Moses at war

We carry tourniquets because sometimes we need to adjust them on the wounded. Once, a guy applied his own, but we saw it wasn’t great. That’s common: you need to tighten or reposition it.

But those who can’t provide basic self-aid have no chance.

Soldiers must protect their abdomen. A tourniquet on limbs stops bleeding—people survive. A vest stops chest hits. But a shard the size of a matchhead in the abdomen kills in two to three hours from internal bleeding. Only surgery saves them, not at a stabilization unit, but in a hospital. Evacuating someone in two hours is impossible. Unreal.

So, ballistic protection is critical, at least for vital areas. It won’t stop a bullet, butit  saves you from shrapnel—the most common injury.

Before, an experienced medic joined our group, expertly bandaging beyond tourniquets, giving meds. That increased chances of getting a guy out in better shape for faster recovery. Now, medics don’t go out—they’re too valuable, preserved.

We evacuate more wounded than dead. Sadly, as we retreat, many fallen stay on lost ground.

We try to retrieve the wounded fast, but right after a fight, it’s impossible. We wait for the right moment and dusk. It matters where they are: at the front, crawled away, or reached a certain point. Our drones watch and know their location. If lucky, we get them in hours; sometimes, it takes three days. Not all can wait out.

Since tourniquets last a few hours, many guys lose limbs. But they’re alive. After we extract the wounded from the fire zone, medics assess them, provide first aid, and relay info to the rear. Then, evacuation vehicles take them to a stabilization unit or hospital.

Sometimes, we go out nightly. Other times, there’s no evacuation work, and I act as a guide, or “Moses,” as they say. I lead soldiers to positions or out, exhausted after fights, forgetting the way. Sometimes, they go on one route and must return another.

Language matters

It’s not just our evacuation teams at the front—Russian ones are there too. Identifying friend from foe to avoid friendly fire is the challenge.

Everyone talks; no one moves silently. And language matters.

Once, we found a construction cart and moved along asphalt, then a field. The wounded guy we needed was halfway between our positions and the enemy positions. He waited three days, with a drone delivering water. That’s how he survived. We put him on the cart, pulling it through snow and mud. 50 meters from asphalt, a mortar hit, signaling more, closer. We left him—your life comes first—and ran for cover. Normally, the enemy doesn’t shoot at one wounded guy; they wait for others nearby. While we hid in a trench, he crawled, yelling: “People, help! [in Russian]” We knew it was him. But if we didn’t? We’d report to command, a “bird” (drone—ed.) would check, or if close enough to see, we’d open fire.

Another time, walking through a village at night, chatting, a voice from bushes: “Guys, how do I get there?” What if we’d spoken Russian?

In another spot, we lost one of our guys in pitch darkness. He lagged; we searched, called out. Soon, our drone operators said someone was crawling near their position, close to enemy trenches.

We nearly struck, then heard Ukrainian. It was our lost brother-in-arms.

There are cases of Russians jumping into our trenches, stories of smoking together, not realizing who’s who. They call us bastards too, by the way.

My conscience is clear

No one thanks us, no one talks about our work’s importance, no feedback—war’s not for praise. We don’t discuss it among ourselves either.

My motivation is simple: save the wounded so they live, retrieve the fallen so families can bury and grieve. If my work honors a son, husband, father, brother—that’s enough to feel I’m doing right.

As my father says: someone has to do it.

To families of the fallen who think the brigade does nothing to retrieve the Heroes’ bodies, I say: that’s not true. We know where everyone is, and at the first chance, we evacuate. These are our people; we don’t forget them.