"After us, no one was pulled out from there": a 'cyborg's' memories of the final days of the Donetsk airport defense.

Every year on January 20, Ukrainians honor the soldiers who defended Donetsk airport for 242 days. It was on this day in 2015 that pro-Russian militants blew up the new terminal where the defenders were located. Even after that, our military continued to resist until January 23. For their heroic defense of the airport, Ukrainian fighters were dubbed "cyborgs." In all the battles for the airport, 100 of our defenders lost their lives, and around three hundred were wounded.

One of the last "cyborgs" to exit Donetsk airport was Vitaliy Piasetsky. On the night of January 14, 2015, as part of the 80th Airborne Brigade, he arrived at position "Romeo." He volunteered for the mission, marking his first serious battle. It was Vitaliy who captured the last days of Donetsk airport in photos. The most intense fighting began on January 16, when Ukrainian forces were already "blocked" on the first floor of the new terminal.

RBC-Ukraine shares the memories of "cyborg" Vitaliy Piasetsky; below is a direct account from the soldier.

The Last Days of the Defense of Donetsk Airport

By the morning of January 16, we were already confined to the first floor of the new terminal. Separatists were above and below us. They started attacking significantly earlier today. I think they aimed to finish us off. Each of us had our own sector, working on the hotel from which the "gifts" were coming. I fire single shots; we have plenty of ammo, but it's more accurate this way.

In the evening from our post, we noticed several small holes in the ceiling. They made us uneasy, so every 3-5 minutes we checked our sector with a thermal imager and kept an eye on them.

The first grenade flies through a hole in the ceiling. No one was hit. The second one burns my cheek and near my temple with pain. Blood drips onto the first aid kit and a small "Gospel" that I found at the post and put in my pocket. Just two centimeters higher, and the fragment would have hit me right in the temple.

I feel a shard under my fingers. I patched it with a band-aid and headed towards the headquarters. Later, I recalled the words of my comrade "Festival," who said before rotation: "Boys, the lucky one is the one who leaves here as a 300."

Recently, my friend Fedya was wounded. Periodically, I annoyed "Psycho" (the call sign of medic Igor Zynich, who would perish under the rubble of the terminal on January 20, 2015, at the age of 25, Hero of Ukraine posthumously, – Ed.) with questions about whether he would survive. They later removed part of his liver, part of his lung, and his spleen. He had a cardiac arrest for 8 minutes and was given about 10 liters of blood. Fedya survived only thanks to God.

There are quite a few guys at the post; we try to set up a barricade to have cover from the grenades flying from above. We rolled over a wheel, a broken stroller, and threw sandbags on top. At least it’s some protection.

I hear something falling about three meters away. I lie on the ground and cover my head with my hands to shield from the explosion; my left thigh burns with pain again. There's no point in bandaging the wound; it will just slip off anyway.

I return to my position. I sit behind the barricade and shoot. I heard many stories later about how they were mowing down separatists in the terminal, but I never saw such a thing. They shoot at you, and you shoot back. No one just runs into gunfire. Sometimes I see some individuals sticking their barrels over the barricade and unloading a "mag" into the "white light."

Next to me stands a little guy in an unbuttoned vest. In an instant, he falls onto the boxes of grenades. I pull him behind the barricade. Blood fountains from a small hole above his right eyebrow. The injury is incompatible with life. Together with Slavik Havyanets (a soldier from DAP who was captured and freed two weeks later, – Ed.), we try to grab him with an evacuation strap and drag him through the entire terminal towards the headquarters.

At some point, instead of grenades, smoke bombs fall to the floor. At first, we thought they were ordinary army smoke grenades. But as the cloud reaches us, our eyes start to tear up, and our throats and lungs are constricted by spasms. The cough is so intense that it feels like my lungs might fly out. I rip the hat off my head and press it to my face. With a few guys, we stumble towards the first post. It should be easier here in the drafts.

There are piles of bodies writhing on the ground from coughing and vomiting. After regaining some composure, I head to the headquarters, but the gas has penetrated even there. During the gas attack, it seems like the fire dies down. Apparently, the separatists themselves had a puff of their "stuff." I take a position against the wall. We are bombarded with grenades. Many of our guys have overheated and jammed their guns due to the intense fire. Mine is still firing.

My thigh aches, but I try not to pay attention. I realize that everything is coming to an end, and the thought of my family tightens my throat, and tears well up. This is not hysteria – it’s a mix of anger and pity (waiting at home for Vitaliy were his parents, wife, and two children, – Ed.)

The moment when they started gassing us was one of the scariest. My thoughts were: "God, save us." And suddenly a breeze appeared, blowing the gas cloud towards the terrorists. Already in the hospital, we discussed this moment with the guys – all unanimously agreed that God was with us.

From time to time, RPGs (handheld anti-tank grenade launchers, – Ed.) and grenades come flying at us. We hope for an evacuation, primarily of the severely wounded and dead. There’s no sense in holding the terminal under such conditions. The enemy is in the basement and on the upper floors. Everything is heading towards us being methodically wiped out. Even then, there was a threat of blowing up the first floor from the basement.

The guys showed SMS messages allegedly intercepted by the SBU, which contained the words: "If you can’t smoke them out with gas, take 500 kg of TNT and blow them up."

Through the holes in the ceiling, the separatists throw various incendiary mixtures to hinder our possible evacuation. Occasionally, we call for artillery fire on ourselves to dampen their enthusiasm.

Soon "boxes" in the form of MT-LBs (armored transporters, the military calls them "motoliga," – Ed.) will arrive. But without cover from larger calibers for the upper floors, the equipment might be burned, and people will die.

Over the radio, it’s reported that the "swallows" have left. Two "motoligas" approach. One from the northern side of the terminal, the other from the western corner. Just as the first one unloads its troops, it catches fire from a direct RPG shot to the engine. They pull out the charred Volodya Trukha (a soldier from Ternopil region, who died on January 17 at the age of 22, – Ed.). The separatists notice the second "swallow" and begin to fire at it. The MT-LB takes off empty – with not a single wounded on board.

Realizing that the end is likely very close, I text my wife that I love her and that she is the best thing in my life. I lie down against the wall and fall into some sort of oblivion. I am brought back to consciousness by the shouts of an officer, who I then thought was a sergeant from the 90th battalion, who arrived on the burned "motoliga." "Get up, do something, or we’ll all be done for."

We gather up to two dozen. Each is assigned a sector where we must build a barricade from boxes of ammo and construction debris. We place nets in front to reduce the likelihood of grenades and RPGs hitting the barricade. Through the holes, cocktails fly, igniting the debris and ammo at the first-floor posts we had vacated. We built the barricade in time – it protected us from the fireworks.

Hope for a Ceasefire

"Sever" (the call sign of "cyborg" Andrey Shishuk, – Ed.) from the 90th battalion instills us with hope and a desire