As Russia closes in on Pokrovsk, battle for key city enters its final act

Editor’s Note: In accordance with the security protocols of the Ukrainian military, soldiers featured in this story are identified by first names and callsigns only.

POKROVSK, Donetsk Oblast – Light rain and the dying light of a cool summer evening accompany the Ukrainian drone team’s preparation to begin their shift.

The men are silent as the military pick-up truck, full of drones and other supplies, turns off the village track onto the main road south into Pokrovsk.

Every trip in and out of this fortress city in Donetsk Oblast is a roll of the dice with death. There are ways of reducing the risk of a strike from above, but none are foolproof in the war of summer 2025.

Driving in at dusk or dawn used to be a good bet, but no longer: Russian drones are by now watching in the air 24/7.

Drone detectors and electronic warfare can be life-savers; two members of the team are glued to their devices from start to finish. But it doesn’t matter how many frequencies you cover, if the Russian drone is running on a fiber optic cable, both are useless.

Anti-drone nets seem helpful, but enemy drones simply need to find the entrance or create one themselves to strike a vehicle. The result is visible in one section: the net droops in the middle of the road, and not too far along, a group of soldiers can be seen walking toward Pokrovsk on foot.

The evening rain – normally the strongest obstacle to drone flight – proved promising, but by the time the frantic drive begins, it has reduced to a drizzle, and will be no savior.

The only universal recourse is speed, but that’s hard to maintain when the road is riddled with so many burned-out cars.

The most dangerous part is the railway line, slowing down the car’s progress without offering any cover from view. This time, the car makes it across without incident.

Beyond that, in the grey-green tones of a gloomy summer evening, a landscape of destruction opens before the eyes: Entire nine-story apartment buildings blackened by fire, others with great chunks blown out of them by Russian glide bombs –all a testament to the months of the fighting for Pokrovsk.

“Is that a new hit?” asks 31-year-old Bohdan, callsign “Zub,” from the front seat, looking at one building to the left. “I could swear it looks more messed up than last time.”

After Russian forces first approached the outskirts of Pokrovsk in fall, this proud coal-mining city became the rock upon which the Russian army dashed itself against.

Head-on assaults on the city proved bloody and fruitless, while attempts to outflank Pokrovsk from both east and west were also stopped in their tracks over winter.

Over spring, Russian forces made new advances on the eastern flank of the city, and as of mid-July, now threaten to cut off logistics routes from the city of Dobropillia in the north.

With U.S. President Donald Trump openly expressing frustration with Russia’s unwillingness to make peace and setting a deadline to reach a deal with Ukraine by early September, Moscow is aiming to make the most of this time,  to surge forward on the battlefield over the rest of summer. In the Donetsk Oblast theater, Pokrovsk is the first big prize.

In what could be one of the last visits by journalists to the city, the Kyiv Independent spent 24 hours in Pokrovsk, embedded with a first-person view (FPV) drone team of Ukraine’s 68th Jaeger Brigade.

Free hunting

By the time the pick-up swings into the sleepy yard of a residential district, the late summer dusk has truly arrived. A short flurry of faces, red torch light, boxes and bags tossed back and forth, and the shift change is done in a heartbeat.

Before getting some rest for the night, the three-man drone team sets up their equipment to be ready for the next morning’s work.

Arming the first batch of FPV quadcopters with batteries and bombs is 26-year-old Tadei “Teddy,” a native of Lviv with a quiet temperament and round-rimmed glasses.

Before the full-scale war, Teddy and his brother played music together in the streets of Ukraine’s western city of Lviv. Now, they both serve in the 68th brigade’s drone battalion, named the Hornets of Dovbush after Ukrainian folk hero Oleksa Dovbush.

The first flights begin right before the crack of dawn, a time when Russian logistics are often most active.

Wrapping himself in a blanket as he sits down in front of the screen is 24-year-old pilot Vladyslav “Venia,” heavily tattooed and with a striking deadpan face well-suited to the hipster neighborhoods of his native Kyiv.

The third member of the team, Zub, operates a retranslator drone, a must have for flying long distances out of a city like Pokrovsk.

With the first drone ready to take off, Venia dons the ubiquitous goggles and transports his eyes into the quadcopter's camera, quickly soaring above the city’s mangled landscape.

From these positions, the team’s preferred way to work is known as “free hunting”: finding and engaging targets without first receiving them from aerial reconnaissance teams.

“Free hunting” allows the team to fly a lot further behind enemy lines, catching Russian logistics unawares and reducing the time between spotting and destroying a target from several minutes to a matter of seconds.

This time, Venia’s hunt takes his drone to the occupied city of Selydove, 15 kilometers southeast of Pokrovsk and now an important logistical node for Russian forces.

This is ideal territory for “free hunting”: far enough from the zero line for Russian vehicles to feel safer driving in, but not far enough to truly be out of reach for a competent Ukrainian FPV team.

Sure enough, a target is spotted: a Soviet-era UAZ army van better known in these parts as a “loaf.”

Hearing the drone approaching, the driver slams on the brakes and three Russian soldiers jump out, giving Venia a clear approach at the car.

As the drone’s video feed cuts out, Venia removes his goggles and takes a short breather.

One downside of “free hunting” is that without an escorting reconnaissance drone, there is no way to confirm the hit immediately.

“There are no emotions,” said Venia of his work.

“If you hit something on the move, or hit a juicy target like a Grad (multiple rocket launcher), then maybe you feel something – but not with this everyday stuff.”

Few brigades have held the line in the Pokrovsk area for as long as the 68th, which was moved here from Luhansk Oblast in the first half of 2024.

The most active work of the Hornets of Dovbush came in fall last year, when Russian forces attempted to overrun Selydove in a frontal assault.

Since then though, the increasing saturation of drones in the sky has seen both sides adapt, stretching out the grey zone and doing one’s best to stay out of sight and out of reach.

Now, Venia said, infantry assaults are mostly stopped by bomber drone squads working much closer to the zero line, while FPV teams focus on logistics and communications targets.

“Since Selydove, they have understood that if they try an armored attack in our sector, everything they have will burn,” said Venia.

“They stopped trying, they only come by foot now.”

Ultimately, Selydove fell in October without much of a fight, after Russian forces cut off the last roads Ukrainian forces used to reach the city.

Now, a similar fate is looming for Pokrovsk.

Soldiers from several brigades fighting in the area noted Russian forces had gotten better at targeting weak points in the line of defense, those held by less combat effective, less-coordinated brigades without much infantry or a strong drone unit of their own.

Once those units are pushed back, the flanks of brigades like the 68th are often compromised, even if the defense in their own sector was holding firm.

“I didn't think they could make it this far,” said Venia.

“The situation was stable at first when we arrived, but the brigades on both our flanks buckled at one point, and we had to keep falling back.”

Twilight zone

In the yard outside the building, as drone after drone of the Dovbush Hornets begin their short flights toward the Russians, local civilians can be seen passing by – sometimes by bicycle, sometimes on foot, sometimes in pairs, mostly alone.

Back when Pokrovsk was further in the rear — as recently as a year ago — the city thrived off its status as a hub for Ukrainian soldiers, who coexisted in constant interaction with the local population.

Now, in what could be the final act of Pokrovsk’s existence as a city under free Ukraine, soldiers and civilians return to their scripted roles, rarely crossing paths.

As soldiers like Venia, Teddy, and Zub work night and day, hundreds of kilometers from home, to pin the enemy down in the outskirts, the remaining local residents of Pokrovsk have assumed an age-old rhythm of survival.

Crouching suspiciously under a tree by the building’s entrance, 30-year-old Oleksii is buried in his phone, leeching off the soldiers’ internet connection.

Oleksii, who speaks in perfect Ukrainian, lives in a nearby basement with his parents and younger brother after the family apartment was destroyed in a Russian strike.

“There is nowhere to go, and no money to live off,” he said. “Living life as a burden is not for me.”

Oleksii, as did all other civilians the Kyiv Independent spoke to in Pokrovsk, declined to give his last name when asked.

There is not much the soldiers can do about civilians seeing their take-off position, and the risk of their location being handed to Russian forces hangs over every interaction. Though tensions can flare up, servicemen and civilians tend to stay in their lanes, aware of the threat to safety that escalation could bring.

“They are surprisingly calm,” said Teddy of the locals.

“Some of them are aggressive, but most are polite, good people. I don't know what keeps them here... a strong attachment to their homes, I guess.”

In 2025, more so than ever, the long arm of Russian drones makes the lives of civilians in areas this close to the front line more isolated than ever.

Unlike during the battles of Bakhmut and Avdiivka in previous years, when volunteers and police could evacuate civilians from practically under the nose of assaulting Russian troops, only the bravest still make the drive to Pokrovsk now.

The acute danger to any humanitarian aid was already clear by winter, when British volunteer Edward Scott lost an arm and a leg after a Russian drone deliberately struck his van on a routine civilian evacuation mission to the city.

But despite the desolation the city has faced, once inside, islands of life can be seen around every corner in Pokrovsk’s Soviet-era southern neighborhood.

On a bench outside one five-story apartment building, two elderly women take in the fresh air on a bench. To their left are rows of freshly-planted roses, the floral symbol of Donetsk Oblast. To their right, a black cat named Pirate munches freshly-laid dry food.

“What do I want more than anything? To be honest, just to die sooner rather than later,” said 84-year-old Olena.

“I've already buried my son, my daughter, and my husband, but I can't go to the cemetery anymore. Now I'm all alone. I just want to die and to be buried here outside my home.”

Speaking about the right and wrong of Russia’s war with residents like Olena is often a confusing and fruitless endeavor.

On one hand, those civilians who stay in Donbas cities like Pokrovsk until the very end are often stigmatized in Ukrainian society, and assumed to be zhduny, best translated as those waiting for the Russians’ arrival.

In reality, when mixed with attachment to home and a general degradation in one’s mental state and connection to reality, the lines that could otherwise be described as national loyalty become heavily blurred.

“Our defenders? They are not defending us, our city is being destroyed,” said Olena, her voice crescendoing into a spontaneous, hazy train of thought.

“They are mocking us... If there is still a window in one piece, suddenly boom boom and it's gone. How can you do that to people?”

Of the residents seen and spoken to inside the city, none were as young as Oleksii – and with that youth came at least a little self-awareness of the surreal grey zone that his life had become.

“I just got used to it. I feel like if I go somewhere where it's normal, I'll find it strange and uneasy,” he said, before heading back to his family in the basement.

“Maybe my head's not in place anymore, I don't know.”

Cat and mouse

As the day continues, so does the drone team’s work – a steady rhythm of flight after flight, with time in between for coffee, a quick lunch, and some social media scrolling.

A few more hits are scored on cars in and around Selydove, but most of the targets are now a lot less glamorous: finding and hitting the dugouts and antennas of Russian drone teams.

Over the spring, the stakes of the cat-and-mouse skirmishes between drone units were raised when two of Russia’s most elite drone units, Rubicon and Sudny Den (“Judgment Day”), were deployed to this part of Donetsk Oblast.

“We could tell that a gangster unit had arrived in our area of operations,” recalled Venia, “in a day they torched eight of our cars.”

In the afternoon, headquarters notifies them of a new target: a Russian Starlink dish on a position in a small gully to the south.

The radio horizon in that direction means the team can’t hit it from their position with a standard FPV drone, but they have a specialized tool just for this type of mission: the notorious fiber optic drone.

Having prepared the bulky quadcopter — complete with two large batteries and a 15-kilometer spool of optical fiber — Teddy sets it up on the launchpad in the yard: an old wooden chair.

Russia continues to maintain a major advantage in its use of the unjammable fiber optic drones, while only the best Ukrainian drone units use them regularly.

“The difference is obvious, they have the state backing them, they have a factory for optical fiber,” said Venia.

“We, on the other hand, are still in a testing phase, buying stuff from different manufacturers and using what we can get our hands on.”

Enjoying a perfect image right up until the target, Venia hones in on the enemy Starlink dish. In this case, the drone used costs less than the target, but if it means temporarily putting a Russian drone team out of action, it’s worth it.

“It’s very varied,” said Venia of his experience using fiber optic drones, “sometimes you get eight hits out of eight flights, or you can have the cable snap and lose connection – because of weather, obstacles, but most often, because of badly rolled spools.”

The hit on the Starlink is confirmed by a nearby reconnaissance drone, and comes with a bonus: three Russian soldiers, visibly disorientated, emerging from a nearby dugout – now a target that other friendly drone teams can continue hitting.

A matter of time

Having just started their shift, Venia, Teddy, and Zub will stay on for six more days; passage out of Pokrovsk is offered by a neighboring drone team that is finishing up their own stint.

Walking through the rubble-strewn streets lit up by the evening sunlight, Venia recalls the thriving city that the brigade first arrived to over a year ago.

“We always used to come into Pokrovsk to eat and rest after a mission,” he said, “the guys would meet their relatives here, there were plenty of places to go for a walk.”

“There was the occasional missile strike, but apart from that, it was a beautiful, peaceful city. By now, Pokrovsk has become like a home for me. I feel like I've been here for 10 years, not one – I know every street like a local.”

Screeching around a street corner, the getaway car arrives on the spot in a split second, and just as quickly, begins its escape from Pokrovsk.

From the rear tray of the beaten-up Mitsubishi pick-up, Volodymyr “Master” keeps an eye out for Russian drones, ready to shoot down any that dive on the vehicle from behind with his rifle.

“A wing!” he shouts, raising his weapon at a distant black shape in the sky, clearly distinguishable from the swallows by its steady flight. “It’s aiming at us!”

For a split second, the drone does seem to begin its descent, but then turns away.

Before long, the car is cruising up the main road to Dobropillia. Master breathes a sign of relief and lights up a cigarette as the sun sets over the fields to the west.

This time, they were lucky, but with the threat to this route only growing with every kilometer that Russia gets nearer, luck can only go so far.

Two weeks after the Kyiv Independent’s visit, Venia, Teddy, and Zub’s team was targeted by a Russian fixed-wing drone on the same route.

Narrowly avoiding a direct hit, their car and equipment were damaged, but the team escaped without injuries.

“The city is holding, but you can see what is happening on the flanks,” said Venia.

“The enemy is approaching from the side and looking to cut off the main road in. If they get much closer, we will simply have to withdraw.”

“Unfortunately, it's just a matter of time, and once it happens, they can take the city itself without much of a fight.“

Note from the author:

Hi, this is Francis Farrell, the author of this piece, written after a rare and tumultuous trip into a city that may soon be cut off for good. A bit of a different message from us today. We’ve reported from over 30 front-line trips — often relying on cars rental from one lovely but slightly insane company that lets journalists drive them into a war zone. Having our own vehicle would make our field reporting quicker, safer, and truly independent. We’re currently fundraising to make that possible. Want to support or learn more? Contact our donations manager at l.shmidt@kyivindependent.com. U.S. citizens can make tax-deductible donations through our 501(c)(3) partner.