In the vast expanse of southern Ukraine, the complexity of a sniper mission begins to unfold. From the moment it commences until its unforeseeable conclusion, every action taken is dedicated to the grim task of ending another human life.
Yet, this somber reality is rarely acknowledged. Therefore, it was unexpected when, amidst a mission with a group of Ukrainian snipers inside a partially demolished building, one soldier decided to openly share his ethical calculations regarding the killing of Russian troops.
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He was breaking the unspoken rule.
A mile away, the frontline awaited. The snipers peered through the scopes of their rifles, patiently anticipating movement. In the distance, the relentless staccato of machine gunfire echoed. Hunger gnawed at me, so I consumed a cold chicken nugget procured from a gas station many hours earlier.
Since 3 a.m., my colleague from The New York Times and I had been awake. We had squeezed ourselves into two trucks alongside the sniper team, embarking on an arduous journey that lasted much longer than it seemed. We traversed treacherous back roads and shattered bridges, ultimately arriving at the front line.
Thirteen years prior, I had led a sniper team consisting of seven Marines and a Navy corpsman during my service as a U.S. Marine corporal in southern Afghanistan.
Perhaps, it was that experience that convinced the Ukrainian snipers to allow me to join them. They trusted in my familiarity with the craft, and despite the language barrier, I grasped the gravity of the situation: the detailed instructions, setting up a concealed position, the dreary monotony interspersed with spurts of intensity endured while surveilling the same area for hours or even days, armed with rifles engineered to deal death from a distance.
The solider in the stairwell, a Ukrainian sniper referred to as Raptor, appeared especially fatigued as he elucidated his thoughts. Prior to the war, he had engaged in competitive shooting, honing his skills on paper and steel targets.
Now, it was different. He was aiming at human beings. At such extraordinary distances, it took several seconds for a bullet to traverse the air, penetrating clothing and flesh. During the recoil of his rifle and the adjustment of his vigilant eye within the scope, framing his own act of violence, Raptor remained haunted by his actions.
“I’m not proud of this,” Raptor began, speaking deliberately in English.
Overwhelmed and cautious, I refrained from taking notes, only jotting down his words afterwards: “Killing someone… I’m not proud of this.”
In any conflict, violence consumes those involved and those who observe from afar in different ways. Russia’s unrelenting invasion of Ukraine has been characterized by unspeakable brutality, including the decimation of cities by relentless bombardment and the existence of mass graves. Astonishingly, the world seems to have grown accustomed to this abrupt surge in death and destruction.
The exchange of casualty figures, often inflated, meticulously controlled, and impossible to verify, between Ukraine and Russia has become analogous to the trading of sports scores. Videos depicting combatants falling prey to drones, gunfire, and artillery circulate, serving as digital tokens showcasing the brutalities of the battlefield.
However, none of this alters the grim reality that entire generations in Ukraine and Russia are slowly succumbing to death.
As is customary in war, the combatants seek solace in the hierarchical structure of modern military service to alleviate the psychological repercussions of their own violence. Ukrainian soldiers comprehend that their defeat equates to surrendering their homeland to an invader.
“We kill not out of malevolence, but out of duty,” Raptor confessed.
His introspection possessed a lucidity that had taken me years to attain. How could he speak of pride and duty amidst the chaos of war? There was simply no time for such reflections in a warzone.
Yet, Raptor stood before me, grappling with a topic we never broached in Afghanistan. He was shattering the fourth wall, breaking the silence.
“I think of the people on the other side,” he expressed. “Perhaps they did not choose to be here, but they are here nonetheless.”
Raptor was delving into the layers that sniper cultures often shun. During my own deployment, there were rare moments when I contemplated the humanity of the Taliban, at least in conversation. We had conditioned ourselves to perceive the Talibs as mere targets, devoid of individuality. Our lives revolved around killing them before they had the chance to kill us.
It would take years for me to comprehend the extent to which we had been indoctrinated. Raptor, on the other hand, had a profound understanding, enough to articulate his thoughts to a foreigner in the confines of a stairwell, surrounded by the distant thumping of artillery strikes. He recognized that he was taking the life of another human being and earnestly attempted to explain why.
“I don’t want to kill, but I must. I have witnessed their atrocities,” Raptor continued, his purpose as both a moral agent and a warrior intertwined with the unspeakable acts committed by Russian forces throughout the war. For Raptor, the reason for squeezing the trigger was clear. However, for myself and my comrades, even after years passed, the motivations behind our choices to kill remained elusive.
Our involvement in an ill-conceived counterinsurgency strategy left us stranded in the midst of chaos, protecting a corrupt government that crumbled soon after the United States withdrew. We fought to safeguard one another. This conviction became our guiding principle, the only semblance of clarity we could summon in the puzzle concocted by our politicians in Washington. We stumbled through our exhausting existence, reciting our lines until our tours were over and we were discharged.
Now, haunted by our own slaughters, we are painfully aware of the details and the violence we unleashed under the banners of “nation-building” or “winning hearts and minds,” as instructed by our superiors. Our failures cast a shadow over everything, leaving us speechless.
I couldn’t help but envy Raptor and his team, especially after witnessing my own defeat in war. That was the trap, the alluring initial dance with the concept of a “good kill.”
As dusk enveloped us, Raptor’s mission concluded without a single shot fired. An hour-long car ride later, we found ourselves back in the parking lot of the same gas station where I had obtained my unsatisfying meal earlier that day. The sky loomed ominously overhead, casting an oily black hue. The feeble light from the rest stop seeped through the crevices in the sandbags secured to its windows.
Raptor and his fellow snipers inquired if we desired dinner. Then, in a manner befitting tired tradesmen who had fallen short of completing their job, they apologized for a day devoid of any kills.
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