“We broke into homes, looted supermarkets, acting like savages”: Confessions of a Russian Marine who fought in the Kursk Region

RU

I ended up on the front lines just a few weeks after the mobilization was announced [in Sept. 2022]. Officers from the National Guard showed up outside my house, handed me a draft notice, and took me to the enlistment office. There, I was pressured into signing a contract. They claimed that mobilized soldiers would eventually be switched to contract service anyway, but if I signed right away — I’d have time to prepare and pack properly. Mobilized recruits, they said, were sent out immediately with no preparation. That’s how I found myself in Primorsky Krai, where I completed a month of training at a military range. From there, I was deployed to Volnovakha and later to the area near Novomykhailivka, where we were thrown into what they called a “meat grinder assault.” Out of a hundred men, only seven survived. I was seriously injured during the assault — shrapnel tore through my left thigh, chest, and knee. I tried to secure leave to avoid being sent back to the front, but it was hopeless. My initial report was torn up, and I was told to stop trying. I then filed official complaints with the military police and the prosecutor’s office. This led to a hearing where representatives from various units decided my fate, but they ruled against me. I even wrote to the presidential envoy for the Far East and the president’s secretary, but it didn’t help. Instead, my complaints triggered harsh inspections that disrupted the entire unit. In retaliation, I faced threats — lockup, fabricated charges, even being abandoned on the battlefield. They tried everything.

Eventually, I was told I’d be sent back to the front. I didn’t resist — there was no point. Refusing would just mean getting beaten or imprisoned and sent there under guard anyway. It was easier to agree. In late August 2024, I was deployed to the Kursk Region and stayed there until mid-October, when I was hospitalized after being wounded again.

On August 25, we were taken to Belgorod. The plan was to advance into the village of Glubokoye, but we never made it — the counteroffensive started. They redirected us to Kursk instead. We were given two days to relocate, another two or three to settle in, and were then sent straight to the positions.

Our first stop was in Lgov, far from the front line. Locals were still living there at the time, and they probably still are. My job was to help with logistical tasks — moving supplies, ammunition, unloading several Ural trucks, and preparing houses for the commanders. The area was a mess, with rotten floorboards, broken doors, iron beams, and bricks everywhere. We must have cleared out several tons of debris to get the place in order.

They worked me to the bone, barely giving me time to eat or sleep. To make things worse, they confiscated my documents — passport, military ID, and even my phone.

Then they sent me to Glushkovo. By that point, the place was deserted — the locals had evacuated, and everything was in ruins. In Glushkovo, they stationed me at the command post to wait for my turn to be sent to the front lines. That’s where I met my company commander. Within the first day, he beat me several times, just because I was new. His deputies joined in to help him.

I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink, and I could only sleep if given permission — which amounted to about three hours. If I tried to eat, they’d ask, “What, did you come here to eat? Why are you even here?” — and then they’d start beating me. If I tried to drink tea or water, it was the same: “What, did you come here to gulp down water?”— followed by another beating. They hit with their hands, but these weren’t ordinary guys — they were tough. One was a boxing champion, the other practiced hand-to-hand combat. They hit hard. Everyone stood around watching, and there was nothing I could do. When I tried to resist, it only made them angrier.

In Glushkovo, where the locals had evacuated, leaving everything as it was, looting began. We broke into apartments, raided pharmacies, smashed windows in supermarkets — we acted like savages. The tree lines are now littered with supermarket carts, empty product packaging, and wrappers. The woods are completely trashed.

The commanders ordered us to do this but framed it as if it was something we needed to do for ourselves, making it seem like breaking into apartments and looting stores was our own choice. For instance, they’d claim we needed to break into an apartment to find slippers or blankets to sleep on. But then it turned out we were actually fetching a bed or nightstand for the commander. We’d haul out whatever equipment they wanted — laptops from one place, a TV from another.

Whenever we broke into an apartment, the commander would inspect it to see what was there. If he spotted a bed, he’d say, “I want one like this. Bring these two down to my place.” So we carried them down. The next day, the commander might call me to sit with him, with his deputy nearby, and then say something like, “Why are you scavenging like that?” What could I say? He was the one who ordered us to break into apartments and haul out a bed for him, right? But suddenly, we’re the ones being accused of scavenging. How do you even respond to that?

Everything we looted was for immediate use; what happened to it afterward, I don’t know. Once they were done with something, they’d toss it. If a carpet got dirty, they wouldn’t bother cleaning it — they’d throw it out and take a new one from another apartment. Satellite dishes were removed and set up so the commander could watch TV.

Stores were completely trashed. A grocery store was looted entirely within the first week — nothing was left at all. We didn’t have enough supplies, not just food but other essentials too. For example, our generator, which powered everything, was crucial. We needed it to charge batteries for drones, power antennas, and keep the drones operating around the clock. That required constant fuel and oil for the generator, but even those requests were ignored — just like the ones for food and water.

There were times we had to sneak food because eating was forbidden. I remember once they brought in about seven boxes of rations. The commander ate, grabbed the remote, and said, “I’m going to fly now; you have four hours to sleep.” I asked, “Can we eat?” He replied, “Have you earned it?” I explained everything I had done that day, but he just said, “No, you haven’t.”

I used to go to the guys in the neighboring assault brigade to get some food — they treated people better there. They’d share food, give me cigarettes, sometimes a whole pack or even two! And while walking through the apartments, you could always find something. If the commander wasn’t around or wasn’t paying attention, you’d sneak into the kitchen, spot a can of stew, and quickly eat it. In about twenty seconds, you’d grab what you could and move on with whatever you had to do. If the commander saw you though, you were in trouble.

After a day of beatings in Glushkovo, I was sent to a tree line near the village of Vnezapnoye to help out a platoon leader with the call sign “Chip.” He was the boxing champion I mentioned earlier. Working with him was tough — if something didn’t go his way, he’d just beat you up. I had a friend who went missing, and I think it might’ve been because of him.

With “Chip,” our job was to fly drones — the Mavic, specifically — but I made it clear to both him and the company commander that I had no experience with drones. I didn’t understand how they worked or what to do with them. They just said, “You’ll learn.” I thought it was strange since we had trained operators in the unit, but I couldn’t say no. If I did, it would just lead to another beating.

I went to “Chip” alone. They told me, “Go, he's over there.” All my movements were accompanied by drones, sometimes more than one. At night, the Baba Yaga drones would arrive, along with the FPV drones, and during the day, we’d be hammered by artillery, drones would fly over, machine guns could reach us, and we’d get hit by RPGs. Meanwhile, “Chip” would sit in the comfort of his trench in the tree line. He assigned me to handle logistical tasks: make sure the generator was working, bring food and water. But first, he made me dig trenches. We were allowed to sleep for only three hours, and the rest of the time was spent digging. By morning, the Baba Yaga drones would constantly fly overhead, dropping bombs. One guy got grazed several times, and I did what I could to treat him. Before me, “Chip” had another soldier who was responsible for receiving and launching the drones. He moved slowly, and “Chip” would beat him up for it. He moved slowly because he had a leg injury and couldn’t walk fast. We were just beaten for everything. Every blow drew blood. “Chip” broke my buddy's ribs, but didn’t send him for evacuation — he made him keep working. Luckily, I was transferred out of there quickly.

In a month, I was transferred six times. I was constantly digging or hauling something. We were only allowed to sleep three or four hours, while the commanders could sleep for ten hours — but not us. So, for the entire month of September, all I did was move from place to place and dig. Most of the time, I was sent to help with something — pick something up, move it — and I was always on the move. Wearing body armor and a helmet made it even harder. If you didn’t meet the deadlines, you got punished for it.

At the end of September, I was assigned to a Mavic drone crew and trained literally from scratch. They gave me a few instructions and told me, “Just try it.” For every screwup, they threatened to hit me with a shovel — it was always at the ready. I got lucky because I lied and said I had never flown a drone before. The truth is, I had flown a little, just to get a sense of how it worked. At home, I had a program on my laptop and a basic understanding of it. If I hadn’t done that, I would’ve definitely got the shovel.

Simulators are one thing, but real-time is completely different. They’d say, “Let’s take off,” and they didn’t care about the wind, weather conditions, or if electronic warfare jammed the signal — any of that could affect the drone, break it, or make me lose it, and for every lost drone, I’d get beaten. Luckily, I only lost one. If the commander lost a drone, it was fine, but if I lost one, it was a big problem.

I’d “take off,” watch, return, change the battery — and repeat. This could go on for up to a day. The commander could take a nap, eat, or relax with his phone, but I wasn’t allowed to. I’d fly, fly, then they’d say, “You have four hours to sleep,” so I’d eat first and then sleep. Sometimes I only got two hours of sleep, sometimes even sitting up — in the trench, of course.

In the 155th brigade, there's a UAV platoon that trains operators on the Mavic and FPV drones. But when the new recruits arrive and see how they’re beaten for every mistake, they try to get WIA as quickly as possible to escape. I heard some even throw grenades at themselves or shoot themselves in the leg — anything to get out. They get wounded and leave. That's why they ended up putting me on the crew with no training — no one wants to join that platoon.

That's when they started sending me on foot for reconnaissance, eight kilometers deep into unknown territory, with just a helmet, armor, and a rifle. I’d go, find out who was there, check if our guys were around, and then report back.

The first time I got wounded, it was in my cheek and shoulder — a drone dropped a payload. My shoulder got messed up. I think they were aiming for a nearby crew, but I got hit instead. A guy with shrapnel wounds was evacuated, but I was left at my position. The flesh on my shoulder was torn open like a rose. They patched it up with tape and said it would be fine. I spent two weeks in trenches treating myself. Of course, the wound got infected.

I tried to change the bandage every day, found some antibiotics, and used iodine to treat the wound. I did what I could, but the opportunity wasn’t always there — rain, mud, everything was covered in dirt. No one gave me any special treatment; I just got less sleep. They told me I hadn’t earned it.

After that injury, I was taken back to the command post in Glushkovo. They interrogated me about how I got wounded and kept me there for several days without proper food or water. I had to scavenge along with everyone else. After that, they sent me back to the positions, closer to Vnezapnoye.

On October 11th, I was injured again, this time closer to Obukhovka — I went to meet the drone. There was a drop, and I got hit, with shrapnel tearing up my left leg and arm. For being wounded, I got beaten.

At first, I ran to some guys from a neighboring brigade because I knew it was better not to go to my own. They bandaged me up, treated the wound, washed off the blood, and cut my clothes. Then I went to my platoon leader, who took me to the company commander. As soon as the commander saw me, he started hitting me right away. Then he stopped, said, “Let’s take this somewhere private.” We went down to the basement. He pulled out a weapon, loaded it, pointed it at me, and said, “Tell me how you got wounded.” I explained, but he said, “You're lying — what drones, there were no drones.”

The commanders were always hiding — in bunkers, in basements — while all the burden fell on me and other guys like me. They didn’t believe our reports of incoming drones with payloads, even though we constantly reported that drones were flying and guys were getting hit. The platoon commander yelled that I was lying and that I had thrown a grenade at myself. “What kind of a grenade?” I asked.

For example, RDGs [smoke hand grenades] are shaped charges. They don’t have shrapnel as such — they cut through flesh with metal. There’s also an F-1 grenade, cast iron, which explodes more powerfully. If I’d thrown that at myself, some part of me would’ve been blown off. I told them, “A grenade doesn’t match the damage,” but they didn’t believe me.

After the interrogation, they took me to a nearby vegetable garden and threw me into a basement for a day. I lay there without food or water. The next morning they came and said, “Alright, get ready for evacuation.” But the company commander still didn’t believe me and sent a report to the unit to get a case opened against me, claiming I faked my injuries. I said I was ready to tell everything to the investigator.

They took me to the medics, who gave me first aid: removed the bandages, cleaned the dried blood, and put on a new patch. Then they sent me for evacuation to a local hospital in the Kursk Region, and later to a civilian hospital.

There were many conscripts near us. They were also getting killed or wounded, but just like us, they stayed at their positions. When I walked around, I would ask the guys how things were going, and I talked to the conscripts too — to those who survived, but there were very few of them.

Only a few made it out, and the survivors weren’t sent home — they were thrown back into the fight. Those who were seriously wounded often died on the battlefield because medical help couldn’t reach them. But if someone survived, it meant they stayed in service — some with injuries to their legs, arms, or stomachs.

In September, there were new assaults, and the guys worked together more or less smoothly. When I flew my drones, I could see that the Ukrainians were abandoning their positions, leaving everything behind and running away, but they were shot as they fled. Anyone trying to surrender was also gunned down.

By the end of the month, when the Ukrainian counteroffensive began from the direction of Pavlovka and Lyubimovka, more and more troops were sent there: border guards, Ahmat fighters, the 106th, 110th, 83rd — everyone was headed that way. And, of course, the 155th as well. They were sent on brutal “meat grinder assaults” and were wiped out immediately. The next day, they would go in again and died, and the cycle kept repeating, over and over.

Now I’m in the hospital, trying to find a way out — I absolutely don’t want to go back. I’ll do everything I can to get leave, to push for it. I’ll try to work something out with the doctors to have myself discharged or downgraded — anything to avoid going back to that hell.