There is no Water in Yasynuvata

Published in The Greanville Post. »

The author on guard, manning a check point.

The New Partisans. Author first on left, standing.

On Monday, the 15th of December 2014, Toro, Orion and I joined the Novorossiyan Army and Battalion Vostok. We arrived at Base 4 on the outskirts of Donetsk. We filled out some paperwork and then we were taken for an assessment by a very strong and serious young soldier. He checked our weapons handling skills, made sure we knew how to field strip the AK and the SKS and had us do 40 push ups. Toro, an older volunteer was having a bit of a struggle, but we all passed. We then went to another room to get our dogtags and IDs.

Everybody in the Novorossiyan Armed Forces (NAF) has a callsign, a code name to be used at all times instead of your real name. I had given some thought to what mine would be, and had chosen the name “Witco” in honor of one of my personal heroes, Crazy Horse. His name in the Lakota language is “Tashunka Witko” and in Lakota, the word “Witko” means “Crazy”. A perfect name, or so I thought. When I said that was what I wanted for my callsign, the soldier filling out the paperwork hesitated and looked confused. Orion, who was doing the interpreting, told me that name would probably be hard for Russians to pronounce, and maybe I should choose another one. I thought for a moment and said, “OK, how about ‘Texas’ “. It worked.

It is pronounced in the Russian fashion, which is very similar to the way the Indians and Mexicans pronounced it – “Tay-HASS”, though sometimes when I get a girl giggling with delight she will change the accent and say “Oh, TAY-hass”. Many commanders and soldiers in the NAF have code names that are geographical places or features – Volga, Baikal, Olkhon. So “Texas” was a good choice, and as someone pointed out, Texas is one of the few states in the US that every Russian has heard of. Good thing I wasn’t born in New Hampshire. It probably wouldn’t be the same…

Shortly afterwards, we loaded ourselves and all our gear into a van for the trip to Yasynuvata, a small town about 20 kilometers from Donetsk. This is where the basic training center for Battalion Vostok was located. As we drove, we passed through several checkpoints and saw signs of recent battles, including a blown up bridge. As we turned off the main road, our driver pointed to the north and casually mentioned we were now in a combat zone and the Ukrainian Army was in positions about 2 km away. Well within range of tank and BMP guns. It was looking like the training we were going to get would be “OJT”, On the Job Training. And it was.

As we pulled into town, we came up to another checkpoint, manned by the new recruits from Vostok boot camp. Three guys with AK-74’s and one with a PKM machine gun stopped all traffic going in and out of town. Checking papers, opening trunks, and generally looking for Ukrop “diversants” (recon/sabotage units). With the Ukrop positions about a mile away, it was serious business. We passed through the checkpoint and shortly came to Vostok Boot Camp – an old train repair facility, surrounded by a stone wall topped with razor wire, with two more armed guards at the gate. We entered the compound and drove to the back. The first thing we saw when we got out of the van was artillery hole from an 82 mm mortar in the roof of the dining hall, and the very first thing we were shown was where the cellar / bomb shelter was. Then we were taken to the barracks.

Army barracks are not generally known for their opulence, and Vostok Boot Camp wasn’t either. In fact, it was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life up to that point, and it wasn’t the training that was hard, it was the conditions. We were crammed into a medium sized conference room that had about 40 ancient Russian Army cots with about 14 inches of space between each one. It was now cold outside, being Russia in December, so the windows stayed closed, and the smell of 40 soldiers who bathed once a week took some getting used to.

The food could only be described as horrible, and it was the same exact thing, every meal, every day – vegetable (and by “vegetable” I mean mostly potato) soup and Kashka, a cracked wheat dish with only a hint of meat. Tea was the constant drink, strong and very sweet. We washed our bowls and cups in dishwater a regular person would not wash their work boots in. It was crazy.

The toilet was a shit-encrusted shit hole of a hole, a hole in the floor that led to a hole in the ground, that was full of shit. An outhouse without a seat that had seen its better days. Like something from a Robert Rodriguez movie. And the smell there also took getting used too. It was outside, cold and dark, and you really had to watch where you stepped. So, I tried to spend as little time there as possible. I would eat only a little of the horrible food, and then have to shit only every 3rd or 4th day.

The bathing facilities were opened once a week – a Russian “Banya” with a steam room and birch branches for flaggelating yourself till you got clean. The Ukrops had bombed the water pumping station and every time we would get it fixed, they would bomb it again, so there was no running water. We got our water from nearby wells in the yards of abandoned homes. And I mean the kind of wells you see in fairy tales – with the little roof, the bucket on a chain and a crank. We got all the water for about 200 people from those wells every day. And carried it back in 20 liter milk cans.

Most of the new recruits were completely flat broke, and every time I went outside for a smoke, I would smoke one and give 5 away. For a while, I thought my new name in Russian was “Dait cigarette”, “Give me a cigarette.” But how could I refuse? These were my new comrades, some of whom I would soon be in battle with, and besides, why not pass them out? I am a Communist. I had about $3,000, and I did not expect to live to see the Spring.

I spent 3 years in the US Army, back in the early 80s, and 3 months of that was basic training. Basic training in the Novorossiyan Army was two week long. I fired a total of 12 bullets through an AK-74, (of which 10 hit the head-sized target from 100 meters.) We did PT every morning, and the first day, I puked 4 times, but I did not quit. I was 54 years old, fat and out of shape, running around with badass Novorossiyan Partisans less then half my age. But I did not quit. There were about 200 of us there, half new recruits, and half veterans who rotated between tours at the airport and training the new guys. December 2014 and January 2015 were the times of the hardest fighting at the airport. The guys who came back from the airport always had that haunted look. The airport was the grinder where all of us were going, but from which not all of us would return.

Our second week of basic training consisted of two six hour shifts per day, (noon to 6 PM, and then midnight to 6AM) manning checkpoints and guard positions. It was pretty serious business. Two guards at a checkpoint about 1 km from ours were found with their weapons gone and their throats cut just a few weeks earlier. We had a 3 man team – Orion, who spoke Russian and English, and Toro and I who spoke English and Spanish. I got the PKM,(1) and I kept it loaded and I kept it close. We spent Christmas Eve, from midnight to 6AM at our checkpoint, the same one we had come through less than 2 weeks earlier. It was getting cold, but we stayed on our toes. The local civilians really appreciated what we were doing, and would bring us tea, pastries, and sometimes a shot of vodka.

One night, a car with 4 guys in it pulled up kind of late. Orion asked the driver for his papers and then said to me in English “They are state cops”. “Cool,” I said, “Let’s have them get out and open the trunk.” And they did, because the guy with the PKM said so. And it was legit, because not all the cops in Donetsk Oblast are loyal to the people of the DNR. But I could not help thinking about how back in my old home state of Texas, the goddamned state police, called the “Department of Public Safety”, often do roadside cavity searches, looking for small amounts of drugs. That shit don’t fly in the DNR. Take a lesson from it. Here, the People’s Army search the cops. And so we did. It was a most satisfying experience.

During my training, I had earned a reputation as a good soldier, and I was approached by a couple of snipers from Суть Времени (pronounced “Soot Vremeny”, which in Russian means “Essence of Time”). Both snipers spoke Spanish. So did I. Alfonzo was from Colombia, and Mars was a Russian volunteer. Both were combat veterans, and Mars was considered to be one of the deadliest snipers in the Novorossiyan Army. Over a clandestine bottle of wine in the officer’s dining hall, we discussed political philosophy and military experience. Yes, I was a Communist, yes, I had military training from the US Army, and yes, I had some combat experience from a couple of incidents in Mexico. Would I like to join Суть Времени? Of course. But it would be a package deal, with Orion and Toro coming too. When I told Orion about it, that a couple of snipers from an elite unit of Vostok Battalion had invited us to join, he was enthusiastic. I actually mispronounced the name, saying “Sud Vremeny” instead of “Sut Vremeny”. “Sud Vremeny” in Russian means “Judgement Day”, which sounded like a cool name. We were all in. I did not know much about Суть Времени when I joined, only that they were highly regarded as warriors, Communist, and at least a couple of them spoke Spanish, so I could communicate with them. And that was enough for me.

(I have since learned quite a bit about the Essence of Time Movement, and am very proud to be a member. I agree completely with their goals and methods and truly trust and admire both the leadership and rank and file members. I truly believe it was destiny that brought me to this group, and I fully intend to maintain my membership for the rest of my life. It is a group that has the potential to change the world for the better. You can learn more about it here.)

During my two weeks at Yasynuvata, I had contracted a bad respiratory infection, a hacking cough with the neon mucous that has that hideous sweet taste when you spit it out. I was given some medicine by the medic, but it had little effect, so I just worked through it. Orion caught the same cold, and his was bad enough to be taken to the hospital back in Donetsk. Mine was just as bad, but I declined the hospital trip. Which meant I was going to the airport within the next 48 hours. I traded in my PKM for an AK-74 and four 30 round magazines. I was asked if I wanted a helmet and bulletproof vest. Well… Hell, yeah I did! I still had no idea what I would be facing at the airport, but I knew I was going to be getting shot at. I was given a marginal helmet with a broken chin strap, and an excellent Class IV steel vest, and told to be ready to leave at any time.

On the night of December 30th, I was told to be ready to go at 4AM the following morning. Orion, my only interpreter, was in the hospital, Toro would remain in Ysynavata for further training, and Alfonzo and Mars would not be returning to the airport for several days. I was on my own. I was going to be spending New Year’s Eve at the Donetsk Airport with a machine gun in my hands, and there were sure to be fireworks.

The Red Cat, the Dragon and the SBU

Published in The Greanville Post. »

The author before 18th century gun in Donetsk. (All images by the author unless otherwise indicated.)

Texac in front of the Donetsk library — now shuttered.

Texas (center) with new buddies Orion and Toro, toasting their good-bye to civilian life.

The Lenin Square in Donetsk. Statues of the great revolutionary are being defaced and desecrated all over Ukraine, especially in Kiev and Lviv, but not in Novorossiya, where the spirit of collective solidarity endures.

Members of the Vostok Battalion, the unit Texac just joined. (Wiki Commons)

When I arrived in Donetsk on December 7th, 2014, I heard artillery fire within 5 minutes of getting off the bus. It was heavy — big guns and lots of shots, but it was several kilometers away, so no immediate danger where I was. But I knew enough to know somebody was getting hit hard, and not too far away. The people around me at the bus station didn’t seem to pay it any mind, so I acted like I didn’t either. Welcome to Donetsk.

I caught a cab to the Red Cat Hostel on prospect Mira and was charged only twice the normal fare, which meant I paid about $5 instead of $2. I did not realize it at the time, nor would I have cared if I did. I got to the hostel and met Christian Malaparte, a journalist and war correspondent who was to become my guide and best friend in my early days in Donetsk.

Christian and I had corresponded before I left the States, and I was most fortunate to have him welcome me on my arrival. The Red Cat was a nice, clean place, and my bed there cost me about $3 a night. Though there were 15 beds in the Red Cat, there was just me, Christian and a strange young German guy who called himself Billy Six.

As we sat, drinking vodka, Christian gave me the rundown on the situation in Donetsk, and I gave him my first interview. Though we were in a safe place (the Red Cat is on the ground floor of a tall building, surrounded by other tall buildings, virtually impossible to be hit by artillery) the steady artillery fire, like distant thunder, was a constant reminder I was not in Kansas anymore. I had an address that was purported to be the place to volunteer for the Novorossiyan Army, and Christian offered to take me there the next day.

So the next day, we got up early, early in the morning. Even though Christian had been in Donetsk for over half a year, it took us a while to find the place – a garage with a steel door guarded by two Partisans with mismatched camouflage and Kalashnikovs. When Christian asked (in his passable Russian) if this was the place for volunteers, the guards knocked on the door, an officer appeared and after a short consultation, said “Nyet.” They gave us another address, where we got identical treatment — another “Nyet” and another address, this time to the former SBU, the former Ukrainian State Police headquarters complex, which by fortunate coincidence was only a few hundred meters from the Red Cat. As we had spent most of the day running around from address to address, we decided we would talk to the guys at the SBU the following day, so we went back to the Cat, drank vodka, ate pelmeni and the next day got up early, early in the morning.

The SBU on Prospect Mira is an interesting and imposing place, and pretty much exactly like what you would expect the secret police headquarters of a former Soviet city to look like. A complex of several tall buildings, surrounded by a stone wall topped with razor wire, and only one small gate for entry or exit, guarded by soldiers with AKs and PKM machine guns. There were bullet and rocket holes on the exterior and interior of the building, remnants of the battle when the locals had wrested control of the complex from the cops who had thrown in with the new fascist regime in Kiev. There was a yellow and blue Ukrainian flag, used as a doormat at the entrance to the main building.

We approached the guards, Christian explained I was there to volunteer, they checked my passport and said “Da”. But Christian was not allowed to enter, so I was on my own. Stepping across that threshold, I realized I was embarking on a new chapter in my life, something that would change me forever, for better or for worse. In the distance, artillery thundered.

The SBU is a perfect introduction to Novorossiyan military life. I was taken to a crowded room full of other volunteers, given a blanket and place to sleep on the floor, told lunch would be at 2 PM and told to wait. And so I waited. The lunch was very basic fare – soup and then kashka, a cracked wheat dish with just a hint of meat for flavoring. Then, back to the room to wait. Mid-afternoon, all volunteers were taken to another room for a lecture from a sergeant. As I sat there, among about 25 other volunteers, listening but not understanding a word, I wondered to myself how the hell I was actually going to pull this off.

When the sergeant finished the lecture, I heard a guy in the back say “Javier, I will translate what the sergeant said into English for you in a minute.” I was in luck! I approached and said I would like a translation as well. The young English speaker looked at me and said “You’re not Russian?” I replied that I was from the States. “What state? he asked. “Texas” “Me too!” What city?” “Austin” “ME TOO!” We then embraced, to the applause of all volunteers. And that is how I met Toro (Javier’s nickname) and Orion.

Orion was born in Moscow, but moved with his family to Texas when he was 10. He had spent most of the next 20 years just down the road from where I lived in Austin. But in spite of our proximity in Texas, we had to come to the secret police headquarters in the hinterlands of the former Soviet Union to actually meet. Toro was an older guy, a romantic idealist from Spain, not so much a Communist, but a genuine anti-fascist who was willing to put his life on the line for what he believed in. As evening approached, I explained that the Red Cat was only a minute away, and nice accomodations were available for only a couple of bucks. So we retired to The Cat, to drink vodka, eat pelmeni and get up early, early in the morning…

I used to be a weed smuggler, and one of the many useful things I learned from that vocation was patience. I would call my connections in South Texas, tell them I was coming with money and to have a load ready for me when I got there. Invariably, when I got there, the load was not there, but I was always told “They will cross the river tonight at midnight, so be ready early, early in the morning”. Sometimes this would go on for weeks. Though I don’t think there were any Mexicans in charge of the Donetsk SBU, they had perfected the same technique. We would get up, yes, early, early in the morning, present ourselves at the SBU and be told to wait. The officer we needed to talk to would arrive before lunch. At lunch, we were told he would be there right after lunch, and then, right after dinner. Every night, around 8PM, we were told the officer would not be coming today, but to be ready tomorrow. Early, early in the morning…

On the third day, Orion, Toro and I were told we would be going for a special interview at the Military Intelligence offices. We were interviewed for hours by three agents – two clean cut super fit soldiers, Sergei and Ivan, and a third guy who did not introduce himself or speak. On his black shirt, in English, was emblazoned his name… “The Dragon”. The questioning went on for hours, and it seemed they were mostly asking questions of me, with Orion interpreting. At one point, Sergei drew his Makarov pistol, unloaded it and passed it to me to see if I knew how to disassemble it. In the moment between when he drew his gun and I understood why, I had a very lonely feeling of being in a very strange place, a long way from home. I disassembled and reassembled the Makarov, and then did the same with an AK. After several hours, it looked like we were going to pass the interrogation. The Dragon got up, walked across the room, and started making some tea. Then for the first time he spoke, and Orion translated The Dragon’s question – “Do you think the US government was involved in the attacks on 9/11?” I answered in the affirmative, saying only a fool could think otherwise. The Dragon did not smile, but he nodded. It was time for tea for all of us, I passed around my American Marlboros and then we were taken back to the SBU, where we were told we had passed the questioning and an officer would be by to meet us… Early early in the morning.

And this continued on for a week. The delay seemed to stem from the fact that the SBU was headquarters of Motorola’s Sparta Brigade, a top unit in the Novorossiyan Army, but without a component for foreign volunteers. Finally, on Sunday December 14th, with the help of Christian, we made our way to the headquarters of Battalion VOSTOK. After a short interview with commanders, we were asked if we wanted to join tonight or yes, you guessed it, early in the morning. We still had our baggage at the Red Cat, had already paid for the night, and wanted to have one last good meal before we officially became soldiers. We went to an excellent restaurant in Lenin Square, a place called “Tyrol” with a German motif. We ordered a meter of sausage, liters of beer, and toasted our induction into the Novorossiyan Army. We had come here to be soldiers and fight Nazis, and that is what we were going to do. The next day, we would begin our Basic Training. Early, early in the morning. But this time for real. I had been in Donetsk for exactly one week, and I would be in the Army tomorrow.

How Much is that War Doggie in the Window?

Published in The Greanville Post. »

As the Novorossiyan militia intelligence learned, the commander of the 24th separate mechanized Samaro-Ulyanovskaya, Berdichev, of the order of October Revolution, triple Red-banner, of the Suvorov and Bogdan Khmelnitsky Iron brigade, colonel Alexander Pavlyuk ran away from the Izvarino cauldron, leaving the brigade that was entrusted to him to the vagaries of fate. This is how the ukro-fascists brought disgrace to the glorious banner of the former Iron division.

Expensive. The US and EU have spent many billions on installing and propping up their puppet proxy government in Kiev. And after the purchase, “Cry ‘Havoc!’, and let slip the dogs of war”. These traitors, psychopaths and genuine terrorists have committed countless war crimes in the East, and run the society and economy into the ground in the West of Ukraine. The billions sent by the West to Ukraine do not go to foster “freedom and democracy”, they go to line the pockets of the criminals and traitors in power, to the detriment of the Ukrainian People, both East and West. So, as the US and EU continue to fund their Dogs of War in Kiev, one must ask, “How much is that War Doggie in the window?” And what do you get for your money?

The short answer seems to be... A bunch of rich traitors and criminals. Take for example disgraced Ukrainian Army Colonel Alexander Alexevich Pavlyuk. (See below) A crooked clown and incompetent soldier, he has, none the less, in August 2015 been awarded the command of Sector “A” of the Ukrop Army, in spite of ordering the men of his former command, the 24th Brigade, to their total annihilation in the LNR (Luhansk People’s Republic) in July 2014. So, he remains a commander, in spite of trying to break into politics as a member of Tymoshenko’s “Batkivshena” Party. Even with the local Lvov mafia’s backing, his political ambitions were crushed by an even bigger criminal from Poroshekko’s “Block” Party. None the less, he has done well for himself.

video on source

Besides other considerable residential and commercial real estate holdings, he recently acquired a house in the city of Yavov costing 10 million hryvnia (currently about 440,000 dollars). On a salary of 36 thousand hryvnia a year. So, does he get his extra money from his friends in the local mafia, or does he steal military and humanitarian aid from his masters in the US and EU? Or both?

Another charming character is General Vyacheslav Nikolaevich Nazarkin (above), Deputy Commander of Army Group “West”. Promoted to his current position in spite of being accused of treason in August 2014, for commanding (from the rear, of course) a mission by 19 top commandos of the UAF (Ukrainian Armed Forces, aka Ukrop army). Attempting to sneak behind DNR (Donetsk People’s Republic) lines near Snegnoe on 29 July 2014, the UAF commandos were discovered and lost 75% of their men, killed or captured. Of the 19 soldiers Nazarkin sent on this futile suicide mission, 12 were killed and 3 captured. Was this rout due to Nazarkin’s gross incompetence, or was it perhaps treachery? After all, Nazarkin’s brother is a General in the Russian Army. Either way, his “punishment” is the same… Promotion! (One could argue that such incompetence or treason benefits the people of Novorossiya, but it clearly is to the disadvantage of the substantial proportion of ordinary Ukrainians who are not happy with the fascist boot on their necks and are facing another cold and hungry winter in northwest Ukraine. Perhaps their discontent will motivate another Maidan rebellion, this time against the fascist Kiev government. But this double-edged sword is of little comfort to a cold and hungry child or pensioner.)

The Ukrainian government and military command need all the traitors and idiots they can get. And they have plenty. As long as they know which butt to kiss, as long as they chant “Glory to Heroes” often enough, there is a place for them at the top of the current Kiev regime. If they kill a few soldiers or citizens (of Donbass OR northwest Ukraine), it is no big deal. Especially if your connections include (as Nazarkin’s do) the Chief of Staff of the Ukrainian Army, general Viktor Muzhenko, who personally pulled the strings to get Nazarkin appointed to the top position of the Ukrainian Army’s Military Police. In Ukraine, like Mexico (which also has a US-backed puppet State) the biggest criminals are the ones in government, police and military commands.

Weapons concentration near the Russian border with Ukraine. Video on source.

Which probably has something to do with why over 16, 000 criminal cases have been opened for “Desertion” by the Military Prosecutor’s Office in Kiev (A. Matios on “112 Ukraine” on 5 October, 2015). Ukrainian media (http://antikor.com.ua) reported there were over 10,000 deserters from the UAF back in June, and 6,000 more have run away in the ensuing 3 months. Of the 16,000 “Deserters”, many who took their weapons with them when they left, the secret police of Ukraine have been able to find less than 1,000. That’s less than a 7% success rate for the bumbling secret police. Congratulations, Heroes of Ukraine! Your Ministry of Internal Affairs police are as good at their job as your politicians and military commanders are at theirs! Again, a double-edged sword — from the Novorissiyan point of view, the more desertion from the Ukrop armed forces, the better. Bad for ordinary Ukrainians who are not enamoured of the Nazis.

When a government looks after the well being and the future of the people, steadily improves conditions of things like housing, medical care and education, that government is legitimate, and serves the purpose for which it was formed. When a regime comes to power through illegal and unconstitutional means, serves foreign masters rather than the interests of the people, destroys the economy, reputation and social web, while looting, raping and killing with impunity, that is not a government, it is a mafia, and should be overturned and brought to justice.It has been said that people get the government they deserve, but no one deserves to live under the yoke of fascist traitors and their foreign masters. The people of Ukraine have seen the work of the current stooges in power in Kiev, and are, I hope, smart enough to understand that the longer this junta retains power, the worse things will become, and the more difficult it will be to defeat. Soon, they will rise, and when they do, the good people of the world will stand beside them.