Arrow Rock Literary Journal

Content Warning: Violence of war

“There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity.” – Ernest Hemmingway, 1929
                                                — the introductory quote from 2000 Meters to Andriivka (2025)

“Film how beautiful I am.” his eyes tired, sunken in from the weight of all they’d seen as he stood across from the cold, sleek lens on Pira’s headgear. Not quite six feet under–yet–but surrounded by dirt and roots all the same in that trench.

“That’s exactly what I turned it on for.” The hint of a smile was faint in Pira’s speech.

The stationary partners, machine guns, clung close since the living were scarce to come by—guns came by the dozen.

The dull screeching of sirens sung monotonously in the distance symbolizing the demise to come.

It seemed like it only took ten minutes for everything to unfold.

He sang so softly, it was just above a whisper, like a father calming his infant while mother rests. Had he experienced that peace before war?

            Another blast.

Instead of shielding their eyes, they shield their cigarettes from the dirt and debris.

“How long can we put up with this endless humiliation?” Grumbled a voice over the radio.

He turned the camera to show his eyes—eyes that would soon close forever—the sky before a twister.

            A drone.

All they could do was shoot at it and hope it wouldn’t take their breath away—and then another blast. Farther away. The smoke reached for the sky, stretching out once it escaped the drone and gathered more souls with it.

            Pira crossed the barren land. Trees once lush and full, now dead and brittle. There is no green here, just shades of gray and brown.

            “Fara. Morty. Friend.”

            “Come on, brother, get up!” His partner’s desperate pleas drown out the sirens and the booms.

                        “Live!”

            The only reply is silence.

He saw a phantom breath and hope filled his chest—what sort of pain did he feel when Pira said, “Fara and Morty have been killed” over radio? Did it bring him to reality that his friends—no, brothers—were gone? Or did he continue to beg for help to stop the bleeding on a vessel whose heart no longer beat?

            “Five minutes. We’re coming for you.” said a voice over the radio.

Was there hope? A glimmer of light on the horizon of the haze-filled destitute land that flickered for a moment? Did the hearts hammering with fear and adrenaline skip the smallest beat at the thought of being rescued?

            Drone after drone after drone.

Was the hope fading with the smoke along the skyline?

Endless firing, explosions, and dust-filled entities drug along the horizon that came seemingly from nowhere. The trees around had dropped their branches and sprouted thorns to protect themselves from war.

Then was it reignited again once the tank broke through a smoke plume?

            One team out, the tired crew in.

            “Get inside. Get inside. Get inside.” the brothers cry.

They waited for their brothers far behind them. This mistake was fatal.

            “We’re stuck.”

Mud their captor, wheels imprisoned. More booms.

            “Go! Get out.”

The sirens wail in agony. The men cling to their guns rather than one another.

            They try to flee—another boom—Bors is hit.

                        “Bors get in the hole!” Pira cried.

The screams, oh, the screams. The scattered flock retreated to one hole.

“What happened to him, brother?”

“Arms and legs…” the medic muttered, working away on Bors.

“My right arm is also shattered.” he stated so casually, his eyes distant from the shock that now possessed his body.

“The right arm.” the medic confirmed bluntly, the clock’s run out for questions.

“And the left one, too.” Bors pleaded.

“Your left one isn’t bleeding.”

That meant he won’t be tending to the left arm there on what will soon be a graveyard. His legs are broken too. The only options left for Bors are either to be carried or to be left in his pre-dug grave.

“Help me.” Bors begged.

“Huh?” Pira replied.

“Help me, please.”

His eyes were glazing over, he stared ahead blankly. He knew there was nothing anyone could do, but he begged his brothers anyway.

Another brother strut across the field, bombs shooting overhead but he walked unphased—his mind would not allow him to recognize the danger and finality of his fate. He hopped in the hole with his brothers, “Moroz and Baldy are wounded.”

Lightning cracked in the sky yet the sound of the thunder could not be heard over the explosions as violent humanity has deemed Mother Nature no place on the battlefield.

            “Boys, we need to move it.” a brother urged.

They’re vulnerable in their shallow pit, they all know it. No one wants to leave their brothers and so they stay far too long. They looked at Bors.

            “I’ll carry you.”

Bullets chased each other through the air like fairy lights flickering off wings.

            “Russians are finishing off our guys.” a brother urged the others to move again.

The wounded were not safe. Those who were staying still were less so. They move too late. Another explosion hits. Pira, the filmed guide to the barren battlefield, cries out.

            It’s dark for a moment.

            “That’s it, boys. It’s my leg.” Pira sighs in defeat.

He tells them to leave him. He’s deadweight. They hesitate.

            But then they go.

            And then so does Pira.

            But they return for his body camera once the air stills.

Men with names. Men with families. Men with lives. Lost to the greed of another. Names echoed in dust-filled skies then silenced by the fire of violence.

And we watch behind the comfort of a screen, always consuming but not always giving back.

            ~ parker coyne

Inspired by and quoted directly from:
Chernov, Mystyslave.“2000 Meters to Andriivka.” YouTube. FRONTLINE FEATURES. The Associated Press. Uploaded by FRONTLINE PBS. November 25, 2025. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nf4Cgy56slU