Fear in No Man’s Land: The Day My Car Was Hit by Russian Artillery

The objective of my report was to reach the so-called “zero zone”, that is, the “no man’s land”, a strip of territory between the front lines of the Russian army and the Ukrainian army. I wanted to go there to show what was happening to the people of the village of Kamyanske, who had been coming under fire for days.

But on the way there, the road was bombed and the car I was traveling in was hit by an artillery shell, possibly fired by a howitzer or a heavy mortar. I abandoned the vehicle along with fellow journalists and we waited for over an hour for the bombing to end.

Fortunately, we were not injured, but we experienced the terror of the Ukrainian civilian population, who have been subjected to this type of episode on a daily basis since February 24th.

The journey began at the city limits of Zaporizhzhya, where the Ukrainian military had set up a checkpoint fortified with barricades and anti-tank obstacles. There, I received a lift from two journalists, the Spanish Fran and the Ukrainian Koss. They were going to the same location, had an armored car and kindly offered to take me with them.

In conflict areas, carpooling is encouraged by the military and competition between journalists gives way to camaraderie and solidarity.

After checking documents and press licenses by the military, we started our way along the M18 road, which connects Zaporizhzhya to Melitopol – a medium-sized city that has been in Russian hands since the first weeks of the war.

The Kamyanske region is 80 kilometers from Melitopol and about 230 kilometers from Mariupol, where the last Ukrainian forces in the region hold out at the Azovstal steelworks – an 11 square kilometer industrial complex and more than 20 kilometers of underground tunnels.

Villages like Kamyanske are the main transit route for thousands of refugees fleeing Russian-occupied Ukrainian territory towards Zaporizhzhya, the region’s largest city. But villages like Kamyanske represent one of the most dangerous parts of the refugees’ journey – as they are the scene of clashes between the two armies.

We were taking the opposite route to that of refugees and internally displaced people. We found dozens of them on the road, most of them stopped at Ukrainian army checkpoints. Refugees had tied white cloths to car door handles and antennas to distinguish themselves from military personnel. Our car had the word press written in large letters in English and Ukrainian (the word is also understood by Russians).

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But as we moved away from Zaporizhzhya, the road began to empty and the Ukrainian villages deserted. We passed two more checkpoints. In the second, the Ukrainians not only checked our documents, but also searched the car. Before releasing us, a Ukrainian officer approached and said: “From here, you are on your own, do you understand that we cannot protect you?”.

He only released our car after making sure we understood. We entered “zone zero”.

Koss quickly drove the armored SUV down the deserted highway. A few kilometers ahead, we saw a large area with deep Ukrainian trenches, dug alongside the highway. There were two tanks, possibly T-72 main battle tanks, protected inside armored shelters (holes in the ground camouflaged where the tanks are positioned only with the cannon out). There were also Javelin missile launchers and heavy machine gun nests. On the highway, three soldiers guided the few passing cars.

From that point on, we were sure we were in no man’s land.

On the highway, there were numerous circular black marks that pointed to where they had fallen by artillery shells. In the middle of the track, we dodged a crater that contained an unexploded howitzer grenade in the center. All the danger signs were there, but we kept driving with the certainty that at any moment we would see Kamyanske – where we would find destroyed houses and villagers hiding in basements.

We’ve spotted another Ukrainian checkpoint. There, a soldier insisted on checking vehicle documents, causing a small line of four cars. I lowered the camera as it is not allowed to film checkpoints under Ukrainian martial law.

The soldier started shouting, signaling the four vehicles to turn around, but the cars could not maneuver because of a large number of anti-tank obstacles – which are cross-welded train tracks over a meter high. They are called porcupines here.

I looked out the right window and saw the same soldier running desperately towards a trench, stumbling and rolling on the asphalt. A paralyzing cold coursed through my body in a millisecond.

Despite everything I saw, I couldn’t believe what was happening. I heard the whistle of the final part of the flight of an artillery piece and, when I turned my head to the left side, I saw the projectile touch the ground less than ten meters from our car, generating a dry bang. The grenade lifted a cloud of debris from the ground, brown in the center and gray on the sides, which reached the height of a house. The car’s window shattered instantly. It was a Russian artillery attack and we – civilians in four passenger cars – were the target.

Koss reacted quickly and accelerated the car to a small brick house. “When the car stops, let’s all get out,” Fran shouted. She just had time to grab the camera, the vests and ballistic helmets that were in the trunk-not that they would make any difference against artillery shells. I ran with Fran to the little house and we took shelter against the walls. I lost my glasses on the run.

Minutes later, Koss, who was in the military before becoming a journalist, appeared in protective gear. We dressed as quickly as possible, and when we turned on the cameras (which had been turned off because of the checkpoint), we could hear the whir of another artillery shell. We dropped to the ground and stood there listening to more gunshots.

At that moment, the worst comes to mind. I cursed myself for leaving the medical kit at the hotel, but remembered I had combat tourniquets in my jacket pockets. I hung them on a strap of my bulletproof vest, praying I wouldn’t have to.

There wasn’t much shelter in the area, we just had to lie on the ground and hope the next grenade didn’t hit us. The feeling is of total helplessness and fragility. Any change in howitzer or mortar aim or a variation in the wind can decide who will live or die. There is no type of protection.

Dozens of civilians died near Kiev in or near their cars as they tried to flee their bombed-out neighbourhoods. The terror I felt must be similar to what thousands of Ukrainians are experiencing every day here.

The Russians appeared to be in the Kamyanske region trying to advance towards Zaporizhzya. They were now aiming at the Ukrainian trenches. I saw the clouds of earth and debris rise from that region over and over again.

I thought we could return on foot so we wouldn’t be spotted by the Russians, but the last Ukrainian fort was miles behind – it didn’t seem like a feasible idea.

After about an hour the bombing ceased and we agreed to drive back the way we had come. “Let’s go,” shouted Koss. Within seconds, we were rolling down the road again. I didn’t see the soldier or the other cars. My colleague accelerated the SUV to full throttle. All silent in the car.

We found an overpass and hid near the pillars. We stayed out of the car for a few minutes, trying to hear for new shots, but all we could hear was the sound of the wind. Some firefighters had also sought shelter there and we greeted them.

A few moments later – which seemed like hours – we were back on the road. When passing through the previous checkpoints, the military sympathized and asked if we were all right. We said yes and continued.

Those Russians had aimed at civilian cars, not military positions. Now there was no one talking to me, me and my friends had been the targets. I had heard that the Russians didn’t mind shooting at the press, but I had no idea that they would direct their artillery on us and other non-combatants.

Arriving safely at the hotel and seeing the damage to the car, I felt the adrenaline and the joy of having survived. Koss, Fran and I hugged each other.

I knew that, as dangerous as that was the nature of our work, in a few weeks I would be back in my Brazil, and this trip into the darkness of war would become part of a memory of the past. But unfortunately it will not be so for Ukrainians.