by Ekaterina Lymarenko
[REGNUM] The search for missing persons was established in the Kursk region relatively recently, about a year ago. The unit the Regnum news agency correspondent spoke with has been working here for two years. They are rescuing both our soldiers and fallen civilians and Ukrainian Armed Forces fighters who breached the border here in 2024.
People join the unit for various reasons: some fought and received injuries that prevent them from participating in active combat, some are transferred from their units, and some young fighters join immediately after signing a contract.
"When you find your own, it's for the soul, but when you find VSSU officers, it's just work."
Today, a search party is heading to the location where, according to bomb disposal experts, the body of an elderly woman remains lying in a forest plantation.
The wake-up call is scheduled for three in the morning, and departure is at four. The early departure is simply explained: they need to make it to a new, unexplored settlement where the team will search for civilian bodies. They need to get there quickly so they can sneak in and return. The work time is reduced to just a couple of hours.
We race past the village at speed. The Ulan combat all-terrain vehicle has no windshield, replaced by a film that inflates at speed. Here and there, broken, multicolored fences with holes in them flash by: on some you can see the faded sign "People Live Here," on others a fresh one—"No Corpses."
At the wheel is a commander with the call sign "Krug "—an experienced soldier whose combat history took place not far from here, in the Darino area, and later in Kondratovka. He previously served in the Ukrainian army. But that was before 2013, and when the events leading up to the Maidan began in Ukraine, he left. He then left for the Donetsk People's Republic (DPR) to fight for his own people.
The situation in the area where the search teams are currently working has changed rapidly in just the last two or three weeks. The Ukrainian Armed Forces in the Kursk region are now experimenting with drones powered by artificial intelligence, and the search team has already had a chance to experience firsthand how the Hornet attack UAV operates.
"Two weeks ago, we were driving along the 'road of life,' almost to the landing, when a soldier standing in a lancer 'in full view' radioed that we were being followed. I looked around: nothing. But it turned out he'd circled us and crashed into us head-on. We just managed to bail out."
The drone passed within half a meter—the Ukrainian Armed Forces aren't attacking the back seats, but the driver's seat. The commander says the Ukrainians know that search and rescue teams are working in these areas. And, of course, they're well aware that the soldiers are recovering everyone, including the bodies of fallen Ukrainian militants. But they still regularly hunt for their groups.
"But they never really spared their drones on us. In early April, four drones were dismantling one of our cars! We saw the 'birds' flying in, looking for us. They couldn't find us, and then, boom, they hit the car."
The squad's work is akin to detective work. Before going anywhere, it's necessary to assess and understand the battlefield situation. Before the search, the commander gives a brief briefing to the soldiers:
"We're working according to our usual pattern: we split into teams of five and move through the comb-like planting. A pile of junk, branches cut down by artillery, abandoned electronic warfare equipment—that's our area of ​​expertise; they might be waiting for us there. And let's not forget the equipment. Remember how long that APC stood there? And for some reason I stopped and peered under its belly—and there it was. My brother was lying there. Waiting."
Both Krug and some of the fighters from the unit in these areas have personal recollections: they entered the Kursk region in 2024 and pushed the Ukrainian Armed Forces back to the border. Many of their comrades remained missing in action. Therefore, one can hear the following dialogue between them about the village where the search is to take place:
— I even remember how they cleared it out; we were the first to enter on motorbikes.
- Well, I saw your motorbikes already burned out, we cleared the mines there.
At the designated spot, a blue polka-dotted cloth is visible, and a red scarf is nearby. This matches the bomb disposal team's description. Only the bones remain of the body; everything else has rotted away. And one can't help but wonder how long she must have spent alone in this forest before the search party came for her.
The soldiers determine that the deceased appears to be an elderly woman, her body bent almost in half, as if she had lain down and curled up. There are also some oddities: the remains are headless. However, this could be explained simply—wild animals carried off the remains; that happens. The men, wearing special gloves, transfer the body to a prepared black bag, marking it, while muttering quietly:
" She must have run here, wanted to hide in the forest, but something overtook her here. Or maybe she had a heart attack. Anything can happen."
— It seems to me that the body could have simply been dumped here.
I distract Krug from examining the scraps of fabric, from which he is trying to figure out whether there was anyone else here.
— What's the difference for you between raising our fighters, civilians, or Ukrainians?
"It's a feeling of satisfaction. When you find your own, it's a joy, but when you find VSAS officers, it's just work. We often find them shot. You can always tell what happened by the chest injuries. They're usually buried near the surface—because our civilians did the burying. It's their testimony that's how we find them: once, seven bodies were found in a single grave. It's certainly a difficult experience when you're looking for just one, and then there are so many."
Krug interrupts his story, calling out to someone on the radio: "Why are you silent? Are you going for the million again?" He explains with an awkward smile: "That's what we mean by 'three hundred.' They're giving out a million there. You probably don't find it funny, excuse me, but we need humor around here. And exactly this kind of humor."
— Is it harder to raise civilians morally?
"Yes, the day before yesterday they raised a 93-year-old grandmother. She was a child during the last war, but didn't survive this one. She and her daughter ran out of the cellar, and then Baba Yaga flew at them. At some point, the daughter ran ahead, and Baba Yaga took her revenge on the grandmother. The daughter is devastated now, of course, crying: 'I abandoned my mother.' But I explained to her yesterday during the identification of the body: what good would it have done if you had stayed? They'd be raising the two of you now."
Since the search for missing persons here is relatively new, the system can't yet be called ideal: what seems logical in planning theory may prove pointless in practice. For example, a group always follows the coordinates from which the missing person last contacted their family. But this point is usually in the rear or on high ground: the soldier simply found a way to reach loved ones and then departed for what turned out to be their last mission.
In addition to their usual methods, the soldiers are also trying new ones, such as using specially trained dogs. A soldier with the call sign "Pechnik" is in charge of the dogs in the group ; his two charges, Dina and Shum, follow him closely. Shum searches for mines, and Dina is currently being trained to detect remains.
Although dogs are man's best friends, they are a source of ironic debate within the troop, whether they are truly useful or not, or whether Pechnik simply loves them. He becomes indignant when his friends are slandered:
— You saw Shum find a mine the day before yesterday, didn’t you?
"I didn't see anything. You found it, and he just sat down next to me," the commander egged him on.
- So it was he who gave me the signal, the head!
You can understand Stovemaker. He and Shum have been fighting together for five years now. As soon as he was ready to join the SVO, they gave him a puppy—they said, teach him to detect mines.
At first, the dog didn't quite understand what was required of him, treating the tasks like a game. He'd detect mines, but he'd bring them back to his owner in his mouth like a toy. It took a lot of effort to hold his mouth shut to prevent an accidental detonation. But they managed to train him out of it.
Shum accomplished his greatest feat in the fall of 2022 during the retreat from Krasny Liman. The unit was surrounded, and the only escape route was through a minefield. There were many wounded, making movement difficult. But the dog managed to lead the group around the mines, despite suffering a shrapnel wound himself.
"We were in the hospital together, in the same room. And the worst part was, the nurses brought him all sorts of treats, but not me! " Pechnik laughs. " He never shared his noise with me; I only got the injections. But we got the award together later."
MOM NATALIA
The soldiers are returning "home" to a nearby village after their search. When they first arrived and were looking for a place to stay, the village head advised them to contact Natalya Petrovna. She's over sixty, a strong, efficient woman. Before the Ukrainian Armed Forces arrived, she had a farm with nearly 90 cows, and she managed everything herself.
Her husband was killed by a Ukrainian drone, and both sons are now at the front, volunteers. They tell her they're serving behind the lines. And she tells them the village is safe. A typical Russian family. Now the soldiers call her "Mama Natalya," and she comes to see them off and make the sign of the cross as the Ulan departs.
"I asked what their missions were, and the commander answered so vaguely: 'Our missions are unpleasant.' I even tensed up. Try to guess what he was talking about. And then I found out they were searching for the dead. I even went and argued with him: 'How can you talk about your job like that? It's unpleasant! Look at you! You're bringing your loved ones home. What could be more important?'" That's how she now recalls meeting the search team.
Natalya Petrovna could have been considered a wealthy villager, but she gave all her houses that weren't damaged by shells to the military. Except for one house, which she built specifically for her son and his family. She didn't let anyone in there.
— And you wanted to save your son’s house, right?
Natalia throws up her hands and makes her eyes wide :
"What?! Absolutely not. The last thing I needed was to think about myself during a war. Come on, now you'll understand why I didn't give him to them."
So we're walking, and along the way she gives me a short tour. Waving her hand up the street, she shows me where her cows graze, to the left she points to a village reached by the Ukrainian Armed Forces, and at the turn she says matter-of-factly:
"And here, my husband was killed by a drone. You know how the military hates civilians who stay in their homes until the last minute and don't evacuate. So, those stubborn civilians—Vasya and I. I felt sorry for the cows. Eighty-seven of them, I knew each one by name, and each one came running to me when I called. The drones kept flying through the village, and I was trying to figure out how to get through so I could milk the cow. But at the end of August, we finally decided to leave, like everyone else—for a couple of days. And then—a drone."
Natalya Petrovna suffered a concussion and was only able to return home six months later. She already knew that only three heifers from the herd of cows remained alive, the rest having been mutilated by shrapnel. Her dead cat and dog were waiting for her on the doorstep; they had died at their usual feeding place.
That's when Natalya decided to help the soldiers. She started with something simple—laundry. She hung the boys' washed socks and underwear on the radiator and set an alarm every two hours so she could wake up and turn the clothes over—she needed dry ones by morning. "One of the boys moved me to tears, even though I didn't know him yet. I came across these little black soldier socks with designs on them—boats and cars. I identified their owner—it turned out he was 19 years old."
At first, the sons dissuaded him from helping the military:
"'Don't take any chances, Mom, to hell with those soldiers, the Ukrainians will kill you for this,' my son Sasha told me," Natalya recalls. "It was such a storm in my soul. I said to him, 'How can this be, son? Are those peaceful old ladies helping you? Bringing you food? Really?! So there's nothing to it. I'm doing my job.' Everyone usually talks their sons out of war, but I was immediately proud of mine."
After the loss of her husband, she was prescribed serious sedatives, and then health problems began – hallucinations, insomnia, depression.
"A doctor from Voronezh, a student, only 21, cured me. He started giving me IVs and gradually weaning me off my medications. Honestly, I was surprised he'd taken such a liking to the old woman. And then he said I looked like his mother. He was from an orphanage, but before he went off to the front, he went and found his biological mother, and we talked. And here at war, I look exactly like her. It's such an irony, I was born in an orphanage too; my mother took me in when I was just 9, and I went to work as a milkmaid. And my son almost ended up in an orphanage, too."
Natalya Petrovna's firstborn, Sasha, was born weak and often ill. Her mother-in-law and first husband insisted on giving the child away. Natalya, young, succumbed to persuasion and pressure, and took her son to an orphanage. Two days later, she returned for him. The doctor greeted her and smiled: "I never registered him; I knew you'd come back. People like you always come back." Natalya went straight from the orphanage to the registry office, filed for divorce, and nursed her son back to health: he's now fighting in the war and is in good health.
We finally reach her son's house. A neat, one-story building, from a distance it might be mistaken for wood, but that's just the paint job. The house itself is solid brick, with a funny weathervane on the roof.
The views from here are, of course, stunning: the house sits on a hill, offering views for 30–40 kilometers. Indeed, the house itself is also visible from this vantage point.
"Now do you understand why I didn't let anyone in here? The guys were arguing with me, thinking I was keeping them out out of village greed. But I told them straight out: 'Then bring me some mines, I'll blow it up.' Their eyes widened. But I really did decide to plant mines in the four corners and blow the whole place to hell. So they'd see I didn't mind, but not at the cost of my own life. They'd just moved in then, they hadn't gotten used to it yet."
Natalya Petrovna walks around her property: she points out the bathhouse with a hole in the roof, the gazebo burned by a drone, and the gap in the fence where she barely managed to hide from the shelling.
Then we sit on the terrace, the evening fog spreads across the plain, Natalia lights a cigarette and continues talking:
"Before the war, I wasn't like that at all. I didn't connect with people; my whole life was work. And then, it was like something inside me flipped over. Even back then, when people were driving through our village to Sudzha, I knew there were Ukrainians there! I stretched a rope across the road and put up a sign saying why people weren't allowed there. And I went and stopped people myself, and they were also on their way to their cows! And yet, I still managed to save some."
Natalya, without finishing her cigarette, puts it out on the wall:
"That's enough. Just don't tell the boys I smoked. I promised them I'd quit, but I still haven't."
BRING A FRIEND HOME
That evening, the soldiers discuss plans for future searches. The squad's main objective now is to reach the nearby village of A. It's dangerous there, but for them, it's a matter of honor. A soldier with the call sign "Lesnik" (Forester) has gone missing there, along with his comrade Kran. They had fought together for four years, but then their paths diverged—Lesnik was transferred to search and rescue due to injuries, and Kran became a ground attack pilot.
Kran was a strong warrior and had found himself in difficult situations before. Although he hadn't fought in that peaceful life—he first ran a business, then became a bricklayer. And in 2022, he volunteered to defend his homeland. The forester says, "War called him."
There was an incident where Kran spent 45 days in Vovchansk, the only one in his group to survive and carry a wounded soldier. He later told his fellow soldiers that during a close-quarters firefight, the VSV soldiers offered to let him surrender and promised to keep him alive, shouting from the trench, "We need desperate men like you!"
He was also listed as missing in action then, but Lesnik sensed his friend would return. Then Kran's mother managed to contact the commander and learn how her son had disappeared. Then there was hope that he had survived and would return home.
But this time, Lesnik knows his friend won't return—he's been gone for nine months. And Krana's fellow soldiers said they thought they saw his position being covered.
— Is it difficult to look for someone you knew?
— It's hard to know that he's not at home.
The forester promised his friend's wife that he would definitely find him. Searchers, if they know someone is waiting for them, always search the coordinates provided until the very end. Soldiers recall an incident when they were searching for a commander. His fellow soldiers pointed out the spot where he was last seen alive—he had stayed at the point to cover his unit. But no matter how hard they searched, nothing happened. Then they thought to check a nearby pond, thinking he might have tried to hide there from the shelling. That's where they found him.
Unlike other units, search teams don't have their own special patches: after all, this type of near-military art usually contains either humor or references to military glory, and their work doesn't fit those definitions. But the soldiers themselves found patches that fit the meaning: "Cargo 200—We're Together."
To all questions about the feelings this kind of work evoked in them, the soldiers answered dryly, briefly, and without sentimentality; they had long since become accustomed to death. But as we were saying goodbye, the commander said thoughtfully, "You know, in a sense, we're raising ourselves."
This is the main meaning of their difficult work. They understand that the people they search for today could be anyone of them tomorrow. That's why they search as if they were searching for themselves. So that every missing person can return to where they are needed and find their final resting place.