Ukraine thrown into war’s bleak future as drones open new battlefront
The black box rests on the dashboard of the army truck like a talisman, its small screen flashing warnings whenever Russian drones are overhead. We’re speeding down a dark country road near the front lines outside Kharkiv.
Like many others in this conflict, the soldiers have come to hold the small device, affectionately called “sugar,” in high regard for its ability to alert them to invisible threats above.
On the truck’s roof are three mushroom-shaped antennas, part of a drone-jamming system that creates an invisible shield. This system can neutralize some of the Russian drones patrolling the sky, though not all.
“It has detected Zala Lancet Russian drones,” says Senior Lt Yevhenii, 53, from the front passenger seat, referring to one of the most advanced long-range Russian drones. “Is that why we’re driving so fast?” I ask, knowing that the jamming system isn’t effective against a Lancet.
“We’re not a priority for them, but it’s safer not to slow down because it’s very risky,” replies Yevhenii from the Khartia Brigade of Ukraine’s National Guard.
The jamming equipment disrupts about 75% of the frequencies used by drones to communicate with their operators. However, drones like the Lancet, which operate autonomously once they have identified their target, are harder to block. Due to their power, Lancets are typically used against larger targets such as armored vehicles or troop positions.
A year ago, this kind of technology was almost non-existent in Ukraine; now, it is commonplace. Drones, once a peripheral element of the conflict, have become central to both sides’ strategies, alongside infantry and artillery, as Ukraine fights to repel Russian advances.
The nature of warfare has evolved dramatically, with drones enabling precise targeting of soldiers, vehicles, and trench positions within minutes. Civilians are also at risk: about 25 drones from Russia attacked Kharkiv on Tuesday night, though most were intercepted.
In response, Ukraine’s military is deploying its own drones, with dozens operating along this stretch of the front line. One Ukrainian soldier claims they kill 100 Russian troops daily.
The last images from drone cameras are usually of men panicking, their arms flailing, and weapons firing before they are killed. The brigade’s 37-year-old drone commander, who goes by the call sign Aeneas, says that without shelter in a building, there is little chance of survival – for Russians, and his men too.
“It’s a new way or a new path in modern war. In 2022 it was only infantry war and today one half is only a war of drone, a battle between Russian drones and ours,” he says.
The move to drone warfare is a combination of necessity and innovation. Drones are in plentiful supply, even though when armed they lack the explosive fire power of artillery.
Ukraine has consistently run short of artillery shells, and its allies have been slow to produce and supply them. But a Drone Coalition of Ukrainian allies has pledged to supply the country with a million drones this year.
Russia has made its own innovations on the battlefield too, using an older technology, and the village of Lyptsi, just six miles (10km) from the Russian border, has paid the price.
It was devastated by glide bombs – Soviet-era “dumb bombs” fitted with fins and a satellite guidance system. Some are as large as 3,000kg (6,600lbs) and, when launched from aircraft, glide onto Ukrainian infantry positions and towns to highly destructive effect.
One woman named Svitlana, who was driven out of Lyptsi by these attacks, told us: “Everything was exploding all around. Everything was burning. It was scary there. It was impossible to even get out of the cellar.”
Aeneas takes us on a tour of his drone teams, embedded along the front line in Lyptsi. Every vehicle we encountered near there was fitted with drone-jamming equipment, but the jammer’s protection ends when you exit the vehicle.
It’s dangerous to be caught out in the open, so we follow Aeneas running across the rubble for cover. All the while the BBC’s own drone detector calls out calmly into an earpiece: “Detection: multiple drones, multiple pilots. High signal strength.”
Out of breath, we make it to the drone unit’s underground base beneath a ruined building, where we are introduced to two operators, Yakut and Petro. There are drones on every surface, next to a frying pan with their evening meal. They get through many hundreds of drones in a month, as most are single-use and detonate on their target.
Their weapon of choice is the First Person View (FPV) drone, which carries a payload of between 1kg (2.2lbs) and 2kg of explosives, packed with shrapnel. The drones are modified off-the-shelf models which have cameras to send video back to their remote operators. “We call them celebration drones in Ukraine. They were used to film weddings and parties before the war,” Aeneas says.
I watch on a screen in real-time beside Yakut who is fixed in concentration flying a drone manually to a target, across open fields and woodland. “He knows every puddle, every tree in the area,” Petro says.
The FPV drone approaches a building where a Russian soldier is believed to be hiding. It flies through an open window and detonates, the operator’s screen turning to static as the signal is lost. At the same time, another drone team is targeting a Russian Tigr light-armoured vehicle and scores a direct hit, captured by a second surveillance drone that’s watching from above.
The men stay on these positions, flying missions day and night, for up to five days at a stretch and spend as little time outside as possible. Their biggest fear is glide bombs: one landed nearby earlier that week, and the whole building shook. What happens if there’s a direct hit? I ask Petro. “We die,” he replies.
Aeneas shows me a recording from earlier in the week: a Russian soldier is caught in the open and the unit’s drone has him in its sights. The soldier notices it and runs for cover, hiding in a drainage culvert by the roadside. Slowly the drone lowers to its level, checking one side of the drainage pipe, then going around the other side, where the soldier is hiding. It detonates and the man is blown out, dying by the roadside. “He was divided into two parts,” explains Aeneas.
The operators are cool and dispassionate, almost clinical in their targeting and killing. They are as far as three miles (5km) away from their targets, one step removed from the immediate blood and guts of the battlefield. But encountering these weapons on the frontline is nerve-wracking.
A few days later, after dark, at an infantry trench close to Russian positions, a unit commander tells me he believes the Ukrainians have the upper hand in drone warfare, the Russians the advantage with glide bombs.
Russia also has the advantage in drone numbers: six for every Ukrainian one, although the drone teams I was with say they have the technological edge and are quicker at finding ways to counter-attack and jam Russian drones.
The trench is in a wooded copse, surrounded by fields, a thick canopy of trees provides cover.
But as we are speaking a Russian FPV drone is detected and begins to move closer to the position. The few dim lights, mostly phone screens, are turned off in the trench, and the men sit silently as the drone’s approach gets louder. We hold our breath as it hovers overhead. For what seems like an age, no one dares move. But then the drone moves on, in search of another target.
