In Kramatorsk, the last city in Donetsk Oblast still under Ukrainian control, the situation is deteriorating week by week. Located about 15 kilometers from Russian positions, the former industrial city is subjected to indiscriminate bombing and attacks on a daily basis, while more than 50,000 civilians are believed to still be living there1. To rescue the victims, the State Emergency Service, which includes the fire department, faces all kinds of dangers.
DRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!! “Oh! What’s going on? What’s burning? Where?” Chief firefighter Vladyslav Serhiiovych, 25, who has short hair and an athletic build, rushes out of the barracks dormitory. The alarm calling them to action has just sounded. Within a minute, the men on duty get dressed and jump into an off-road tanker truck equipped with nets. Crammed into their bulletproof vests, wearing their military helmets, first aid kits strapped to their belts, they had been waiting near the huge furnace in the neighboring hangar. The doors slam, the engine roars. I shall come back the interview Serhiiovych. But for now, it’s full speed ahead. The goal is to not lose sight of the flashing lights.
A few roars of the engine later, surprise: the cause of the fire has nothing to do with the war—a soldier who left a blanket on an electric radiator. “You might think we often deal with this kind of fire, but 80-90% of our work is related to the war,” a firefighter says on the fly. The streets of the residential neighborhood, lined with fiber cement roofs and pale brick facades, are too narrow for the truck. Orders fly. The men connect the hoses at light speed and finally tackle the fire.
The storm is coming
Suddenly, a soldier watching the scene raises his voice. “My friend—my friend! No pictures, please.” The man is trying to be polite, but his tone and gestures betray his anxiety. Until the spring of 2025, Kramatorsk was relatively safe. Today, gliding bombs, Shahed-type kamikaze drones, rockets, and missiles rain down daily on this rear base of the Ukrainian army. On winter nights, the glow of the explosions sometimes sets the clouds ablaze. The soldier, who is probably resting after returning from the front, fears that a photo might reveal the location of the house he shares with his comrades.
When asked about his missions in such a context, Captain Serhiiovych answers without emphasis. With his hands behind his back, he does not leave the ‘rest’ position for a second during the half-hour interview.
“We face a large number of alerts due to constant bombing. Secondly, […] people—that is, civilians buried under the rubble—are constantly in threatened areas […]. You understand, we have specific instructions and sometimes we have to interrupt our work to take shelter.”
Targeted by FPV drones
Interrupting work is a difficult decision for these men, who are intimidated by the prospect of an interview, to the point that they discuss at length which one of them will volunteer for the task but who, in the field, face danger without losing their composure. “In our unit,” says the captain, “a vehicle was hit by an FPV [kamikaze] drone. And this is not an isolated case—it happens in other units as well. So we consider ourselves targets.” As a result, jammers and detection systems have been installed on emergency vehicles.
These systems are expensive and energy-intensive, and they cannot protect rescue workers from all FPV drones: those guided by fiber optics are immune to jamming, and their use in the Russian army is increasing. Against this threat, the only defense is the nets installed on vehicles, which are supposed to trap drones before impact. In recent months, Russian FPV drones have been able to reach the city and the main roads connecting it to free Ukraine, disrupting logistics. “We are constantly adjusting routes to avoid the threat of drones. This applies to both personnel rotations and fuel deliveries,” says Colonel Oleksii Samisko, 43, deputy commander of the Kramatorsk Emergency Service, whom we interviewed by phone.
For now, the number of FPV drones reaching Kramatorsk remains limited—limited enough that we can estimate their number. In Kramatorsk and Sloviansk, the neighboring town, Colonel Samisko says, “there are days when up to five vehicles are destroyed [by these weapons].” The situation is even worse in other towns in the oblast, such as Druzhkivka, where Kramatorsk rescue workers sometimes have to go to help their colleagues.
Tandem strikes
Rescue workers also face another practice of the Russian army: tandem strikes. A Shahed-type drone is sent to a target; another follows a few minutes later to kill the rescue workers—a practice that constitutes a war crime, as does the targeting of civilians in general. When asked how many times he has encountered this practice, Captain Serhiiovych remains laconic: “I’ve lost count.”
This type of strike led to one of the most trying missions faced by the captain and his colleague, 32-year-old Major Stanislav Baldin, deputy head of media relations for the oblast’s emergency services.
Until the bell rings, the latter listens attentively to the captain’s words, nodding silently and adding a few comments here and there. On December 1, the major said in a telephone interview: “A [Shahed-type] drone struck a nine-story residential building […]. Two women were trapped in their apartment. Rescue workers began rescue operations, carefully clearing the rubble piece by piece. At first, things were going fairly well: residents were being evacuated and helped to open doors so they could access their apartments. The weather was starting to get colder. Then a second drone attack took place.” As a result, operations were interrupted, a fire broke out, and one of the two women could not be rescued. “I think the repeated drone attacks disoriented us and delayed our efforts,” the major said firmly. “When the second woman was found, she was buried under the rubble.
If the second attack had not taken place, I think she could have survived.” That day, Major Baldin participated in operations for nearly 14 hours straight. The next day, as the work continued, he adds, ”I captured a striking image: a little girl gently swinging on a swing, with her mother beside her. And about 15 meters away, another woman was kneeling, crying, because one of her loved ones had died. The contrast—between the innocence of childhood and deep grief—is something that stays with you for a long time.”
Constant tension
For now, Captain Serhiiovych’s teams have only suffered a few injuries. Not all units in Kramatorsk are so lucky, as Colonel Samisko explains. “The hardest thing is losing your friends. Even harder is bringing their bodies back to their mothers and organizing the funerals. Looking into the eyes of their mothers, widows, and fathers when young men—people you worked with, people you knew personally—are gone. The pain is indescribable.” Strangely, his tone of voice betrays no emotion.
“Personally, I wasn’t ready at all—I mean, morally, I wasn’t prepared,” says Captain Serhiiovych, in his usual martial tone. “What our psychologists tell us,” explains Major Baldin, “is that we are all in a state of overwork […]. Many details that would shock others no longer affect us in the same way—it’s become routine.“ When asked about his feelings, 27-year-old firefighter Mykhaylo Novik—a handsome young man who is “always chosen to be in the photos”—is more reserved. “It doesn’t matter how brave you are, when a rocket or a Shahed [drone] flies overhead, it’s scary for everyone. Later, you can laugh about it, but at the time it’s truly terrifying.”
Just the right distance and cohesion
Far from their families, wives, or partners, many of whom have been displaced in Ukraine or have found refuge abroad, each has their own method of coping with the daily pressure. For firefighter Novik, sleep, music, sports, fishing, and socializing are key to “taking a break from it all—and it helps,” he stresses. Major Baldin says he recharges his batteries through what he and his loved ones ironically call “FaceTime parties,” i.e., video calls. Originally from Bakhmut, in the oblast that has been occupied since the summer of 2023, he has no choice if he wants to reconnect with some semblance of his pre-war life. “These are the same people I used to spend my evenings and weekends with in Bakhmut. Now we only communicate through screens,” he sums up without emotion.
Things are a little simpler for Colonel Samisko. Until December 2025, he explains, his 16-year-old son was a refugee in Hamburg with his mother and sister, while his wife and children visited their father in Kramatorsk every six months. Then, the colonel continues, “during one of those visits, [he] said to me, ‘Dad, I’m staying with you.’” Since then, father and son have been living in Kramatorsk. “Helping him with his homework and checking his exercises helps me detach myself from the reality around me,” he says, before adding that he has also taken up cooking. “I’ve learned to make borscht, pancakes, donuts, French fries, and fried fish. Time passes, and for a few minutes, everything seems to be back to normal.”
Outside of these private moments, the solidarity shown by the rescue workers among themselves plays an essential role. ”In our profession, we can’t do without it. We have to help one another, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to cope,“ emphasizes firefighter Novik. “Humor also plays a big part,” adds Major Baldin. “Even at difficult times, we joke around with each other. It helps to release tension and divert [our] attention from the negative emotions and stressful events we face.”
Equipment: progress, but only one ladder truck
In these trials, the emergency services have not been forgotten. Our interviewees say there are sufficient personnel, although rescue workers remain on call and some have joined the army. Like Major Baldin, many men have retreated to free Ukraine as Russian troops have advanced since 2022. As for the budget allocated by the state to the Emergency Service, it has been “increased several times,” notes the colonel, which has finally allowed rescue workers to modernize their equipment. In addition to this state support, there is also support from volunteers and Ukrainian and foreign organizations, whose funds sometimes make it possible to purchase additional equipment.
“We are 80% equipped,” continues the colonel, noting that some essential equipment, such as ladder trucks, is still lacking in the Kramatorsk units.
“Ideally, we would need two or three, but for now we only have one,” he says gravely, before sharing his frustration. “There are situations where you can see a person trapped under the rubble. They are alive. They are communicating with you. But you can’t reach them because you don’t have the right equipment. That’s the most painful experience: knowing that someone is alive and being unable to save them in time.”
When asked about the reforms he believes would improve this situation, our interviewee broadens the question to the functioning of Ukrainian institutions more generally. “In 2014, when our territories were occupied, the entire hierarchical system collapsed. For a while, all institutions were completely paralyzed,” he recalls, before pointing out that the same situation occurred again in 2022. “Decision-making should not be centralized solely in the capital,” he believes. “Local authorities must be empowered to act without waiting for instructions from Kyiv.“
Serving in spite of everything
Despite their extreme working conditions, the Kramatorsk rescue workers are determined to stay at their posts. ”Who else, if not us?” Captain Serhiiovych asks with chilling realism. “I’m staying here because my job requires it […]. My duty is here. My family is in a safer region, which puts my mind at ease,” sums up Major Baldin, who plans to continue his career in the emergency services, even when the war is over.
Skeptical about the outcome of the ongoing negotiations, he finds it difficult to imagine a peaceful Ukraine. “At the very least, I would like my family to be reunited and to see my loved ones more often […]. And, of course, I would like to have a home of my own again. I lost my house. My family lost theirs too. I would like us to have our own place again—a family home, our own space, our corner of stability and peace,” he says. After fleeing Bakhmut with his family, he settled in Pokrovsk, a city in the oblast now 90% controlled by the Russian army.
Even though he believes the war could last several more years, Colonel Samisko is looking further ahead. “When victory comes—and I am convinced it will—I would like to pass on the skills and experience I have acquired to my young colleagues or to foreign partners. After that, I plan to retire, take a well-deserved rest, and devote myself to beekeeping.” This is not the colonel’s first experience of war. In 2014, he continued to serve for six months as a paramedic in his hometown of Horlivka after it was conquered by pro-Russian separatists supported by the Kremlin. Clashes with Ukrainian loyalist fighters were raging at the time. He took refuge in free Ukraine. Part of his family has remained in occupied territory and Russia ever since.
Antoine Laurent is a freelance journalist. A contributor to the Swiss bimonthly Echo Magazine, the Italian media Osservatorio Balcani e Caucaso Transeuropa, and other publications on a more ad hoc basis (Le Courrier de Genève, Linkiesta, etc.).
Footnotes
- It is difficult to give exact figures. In July 2025, the governor of Donetsk Oblast reported that there were approximately 53,000 civilians in the area, compared to more than 150,000 before the invasion began in 2022. However, in early January 2026, the Ukrainian news site Mezha reported a figure of 79,000 inhabitants, compared to more than 200,000 before 2022.