Running under artillery fire just 4 kilometers from Russian positions, someone calls out "FPV!" and we all dash into the treeline during a warm summer morning in June.
This scene would repeat in November—over double the distance from the front. Returning to Kostiantynivka, I watched things go from bad to worse in five months. Some call it a lost cause.
Besides Pokrovsk, this town is the last link in a defensive chain holding Russians at bay for nearly four years. Now, with Pokrovsk occupied and over 100,000 Russian troops pushing the front, Kostiantynivka remains the last pillar along the Donets Ridge.
Its fall would expose Kramatorsk and Sloviansk—the largest Ukrainian-held cities in Donetsk—and leave Kharkiv's southern flank vulnerable.
Kostiantynivka on a mapYet everywhere I looked, I found people refusing to let that happen.
I started on this axis in June 2025, traveling from Kramatorsk through Druzhkivka, then a logistical hub for Ukrainian forces. Defensive lines passed my window: barbed wire, trench gaps, dragon's teeth—spiky concrete barriers that do resemble monstrous teeth, meant to halt advances.
Damn near everyone working in Donetsk Oblast—soldiers, volunteers, journalists—has traveled this road. The OKKO gas station here became a pilgrimage spot, a last stop before the combat zone. Now I stand in its ruins and reflect on how much has changed in five months. The war has come closer.
East SOS, an aid organization, first brought me into the city. Founded in 2014, they expanded massively after 2022—humanitarian aid, temporary housing, evacuations for the elderly, disabled, pet owners, and those unable to leave.
Once sponsored by USAID before the Trump administration cut funding in early 2025, East SOS kept fighting for the most vulnerable.
Saving the vulnerable Infrared photo of the East SOS van awaiting the first civilian to evacuate // Devin Woodall 2025Our drone detectors go off every two minutes. FPV drones and KAB glide bombs are not to joke with. At our first apartment building, explosions rock in the distance as the team climbs the stairs. Today we're picking up three elderly people.
The first, a woman, says spiritedly she could have walked down herself. Carried to the van, she doesn't seem to mind. Her few belongings go in the back; her relative waves goodbye as we drive off.
Our second evacuee is an old man near the outskirts. His relatives help him shuffle into the van, tearing up as they stay behind. East SOS works on requests—a family member calls, asks for their relative to be taken to safety, whether to another family member, a temporary home, or a medical facility.
An evacuation of an elderly resident of Kostiantynivka// Devin Woodall 2025Now comes an old woman who cannot walk on her own. Her apartment is filled with water tubs carried up by others—basic utilities no longer exist here. Robbed of these, people survive in some of the harshest conditions imaginable. It takes four men to carry her down six flights. Laying her on the mattress of the van, they close the doors.
There is a fourth person who asked to be evacuated but we were provided the wrong location. After some search, we are forced to make a difficult choice. As we depart, my mind cannot help but think of one of these elderly folks waiting for evacuation and having no idea that it isn't coming. As of December 2025, East SOS no longer accepts requests from Kostiantynivka, instead evacuating from Druzhkivka.
Water delivery to the most at risk civilians in Kostiantynivka // Devin Woodall 2025Later, I join a man delivering fresh water—the only source for those who remain. We come to the southernmost street in Kostiantynivka; from here, one can see the occupied town of Toretsk. Residents arrive down barbed-wire-lined roads, pushing heavy carts of empty jugs. Older women struggle to maneuver into position, take turns filling containers, trying not to spill.
Explosions and gunfire echo as a unit tries to shoot down an FPV drone buzzing nearby. It passes the van without incident. By November, Russian forces would engage Ukrainians in street battles on this same road.
"If it seems we are crazy, it is to bring glory to God."2 Corinthians 5:13
Yeheniy “Crazy Yevhen” Tkachev in armor // Devin Woodall 2025On my second day, I join Yevheniy Tkachev, a 57-year-old aid worker from Chasiv Yar known as "Crazy Yevheniy." He's worked with Proliska, a humanitarian organization, for over a decade.
Driving through Kostiantynivka in his bright red hatchback, Yevheniy is a man of God. His approach to FPV drones is unconventional: when chased, he stops completely, jumps out, and waves at the approaching drone, hoping the Russian operator respects he's an aid worker.
Early June morning. The main checkpoint is unmanned. Unsettled, we push on to Kostiantynivka hospital, where Yevheniy delivers water and transports an elderly woman who appeared to have suffered a stroke to Druzhkivka. Her family joins us. Hospital staff checks her vitals.
More people need rescuing. We head toward the eastern side of town, closest to Chasiv Yar—one of the more dangerous areas. Explosions go off around us.
"Ya-hoo! Welcome to Ukraine!" Crazy Yevheniy yells. "We are closer to the front now—six, five, four kilometers. Maybe farther, maybe closer, who knows?"
Yevheniy delivering water to the Kostiantynivka hospital // Devin Woodall 2025We stop near the easternmost edge, explosions continuing. We fidget and watch the sky for anything hunting us. A gate swings open; the man's family emerges with tearful goodbyes, asking us to care for their loved one. It clearly pains them to let him go.
Through the town center, we pass areas that by November will be rubble. Markets abandoned, town square empty, a burnt truck smoking near the ruined train station.
Leaving town, we're stopped at a checkpoint. "How did you get into town?" the guard asks. "You were sleeping," my fixer replies. We're waved through without further questions.
After summer, Yevheniy switched to an armored vehicle marked with humanitarian stickers. In November, a Russian fiber optic drone destroyed it during an evacuation.
In the drone bunker Infrared photo of troops from the Lubart Brigade spotting a drone // Devin Woodall 2025Arriving via bumpy truck through rough field roads—my favorite mode of travel—we pull up south of Kostiantynivka with the Lubart Brigade, sent to stabilize this axis and prevent Russian advances.
Originally Azov veterans from 2014, Lubart is known for inventive technology integration. As they unload, a drone is spotted; soldiers spread out to take aim. It flies off.
We pass tunnels lined with drone parts and explosives, arriving in the bunker: a small room with silver paneling, covered in tech. This is where troops sleep, build drones, monitor targets, and fly FPVs across the front.
Inside an FPV unit bunker south of Kostiantynivka as drones are built and equipped // Devin Woodall 2025This team hits Russian positions, halts supply deliveries, picks off soldiers. Four men work, eat, sleep, pilot drones, and handle explosives in a room smaller than most bedrooms.
Orders come: target detected. The team builds a drone—carbon fiber body, propeller blades, wire harness, custom munition. Munitions vary: water bottles filled with burning liquid for treelines, shrapnel charges for infantry, explosives for stationary targets. The target is a Russian soldier crawling through a field at the team's far range.
The drone is carried to the launchpad, battery connected: off it flies! The pilot puts on FPV goggles and flies toward the target. The low-resolution camera makes spotting the camouflaged Russian difficult. As the battery dies, the drone slams into the approximate position. The soldier's fate remains unknown.
Drone pilot from the Lubart Brigade after a successful mission // Devin Woodall 2025Soon, the mission changes—Russians received new supplies. A water bottle filled with dark liquid is zip-tied to a drone, wires hot-glued on. We watch it fly over terrain that would be beautiful if not for the constant buzzing. The drone hits the treeline; camera feed goes gray. Confirmed hit.
Halfway through the hot August day, I join a Vampire drone crew. Nicknamed "Baba Yaga" by Russians, these are $10,000 heavy bombing drones with nocturnal vision cameras, moving under darkness to deliver terrifying payloads—or supplies to Ukrainian troops. Lubart has been experimenting with them during the daytime when least expected. Mixed results so far.
Lubart soldier, callsign “Forceps” attempting to activate a damaged SkyFall Vampire drone // Devin Woodall 2025They can mine positions with 3D-printed PFM-1 "Butterfly" mines. Anti-personnel mines are a two-way street: the most effective way to deny enemy advances, but the costs fall on civilians later.
This July, Ukraine left the Ottawa treaty and started using such mines. Russia was never a party. In warfare, if one side uses mines, the other must respond—or surrender a massive battlefield advantage.
Extraction under fire Infrared photo of Lubart soldier escorting me through the treeline // Devin Woodall 20255 AM. I wake in the bunker, put on armor, attach my action camera. Four kilometers from Russian lines, I need to travel two back for extraction.
Sprinting through open fields, I see the entirety of this front: Toretsk on one side, Ivanopillia and Kostiantynivka on the other. The middle is where lines must hold.
Mortar shells whistle above as we reach the treeline. A Russian assault started earlier, gaining ground near us. The morning sun beats down as a soldier yells "FPV!" We sprint into the shade, seeking canopy shelter from the little machines of death. That constant buzzing—like an RC car revving its engine. We wait for it to pass before walking on.
Closer to exfil, another sound hits our ears: thuds as a Russian GRAD rocks Ivanopillia. Explosions visible, delayed sounds a second or two later.
Extraction matches infiltration: bumpy roads, screeching tires, the whole deal. Through Kostiantynivka, we breathe easier—anti-drone nets now line the main road, installed late, only after numerous attacks. In Druzhkivka, smoke rises. An ammunition depot hit, still burning, ammunition cooking off. In November, I'd see those blocks devastated by this depot going up in flames.
The ruins of housing homes in Druzhkivka caused by a Russian attack on a Ukrainian ammunition depot // Devin Woodall 2025 "To surrender the city to you is beyond my authority or anyone else's who lives in it"Constantine XI's reply when asked to surrender Constantinople before it fell in 1453. He died on the walls. The Western reinforcements he'd been promised never came.
Five months later, holding the wing of a drone that came within 45 seconds of killing me, I worry more about Kostiantynivka's future. The battlefield changed dramatically. FPV drones blossomed into swarms threatening ever deeper past the frontline. What felt dangerous at 4 kilometers became routine compared to 10.
These circumstances require extraordinary effort—just as extraordinary as the people I met. Everywhere I looked, I saw people refusing to give up. Aid workers racing through artillery to rescue the elderly. Soldiers building drones in bunkers smaller than bedrooms. Volunteers delivering water under constant threat.
The front moved 6 kilometers closer—and there are still those who man the walls.
Devin WoodallDevin Woodall is a photojournalist and documentarian with a focus on long-term, in-depth reporting on wartime society, the ins and outs of adaptation amid the full-scale invasion, and anti-aircraft operations. Originally from a working-class background, he’s now the lead director of the documentary studio East/West FM. He currently writes, photographs, and produces documentaries on life and the human experience in Ukraine. He can be followed on YouTube and on Instagram.
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