Soviet artillery and American ammunition to seize a key mine from Russia

In early 2025, Russian troops seized control of a coal mine crucial to Ukraine’s steel industry. This mine, located on the front line of the disputed city of Pokrovsk, in the Donetsk region, is one of the main targets of the 203-millimeter howitzer shells fired daily by Soviet-made 2S7 Pion self-propelled guns by members of the 43rd Ukrainian Artillery Brigade. Odin, the nom de guerre of the 23-year-old commander in charge of four of these guns, displays on his cell phone screen, in real time, the enemy positions they are firing on, which are being flown over by Ukrainian reconnaissance drones.

They’ve been out of Soviet ammunition for over a year now and have to rely on U.S. supplies. What if Washington stops sending it and they run out of stock? “We’re going home,” says Kondor, a 25-year-old battery commander.

The reality is that, without this ammunition, the 2S7 Pion could no longer be deployed on the front line, as there are currently no NATO-compatible rounds that can replace Soviet or American ones, according to unit leaders. “Going home” is a figure of speech, as Odin, Kondor, and their comrades, around a dozen of them, have already received training in Germany that qualifies them to operate other systems such as the PzH 2000.

For the moment, neither Odin nor Kondor are clear about the stockpile of material supplied by Washington in Ukraine’s arsenals. Kyiv has increased its arms production in the last three years, but, compared to the world’s second-largest army, it still relies heavily on foreign support.

Last January, Kyiv’s military authorities had enough U.S. stockpiles to last six months. Amid a diplomatic back-and-forth and threats from President Donald Trump, they haven’t ruled out those stockpiles expiring soon. The White House, Kyiv’s main external supporter, has repeatedly stated recently that it may back down if talks to end the war don’t progress. Ukraine signed an agreement with Washington this month for the exploitation of its subsoil and hopes that, as a businessman, Trump will maintain his involvement in the conflict, even if it’s purely for economic gain.

Kondor and his men (seven soldiers and a former firefighter now serving as a medic) have been in the position since February without any relief. There is no team to replace them, they say. “Far from civilization,” he laments, but immediately adds: “It’s forbidden to be tired here.” The group listens to him. Some nod, docilely accepting the sad reality; others console themselves with having gone to the post office in recent days to pick up some packages aboard an old Lada car, which, like the artillery piece, they also hide under the trees.

They all live in a pair of bunkers dug underground, sheltered by the tree line that serves as a parapet for the position between muddy runways. They kill time however they can, because in war, dead hours abound. “Coffee and shooting,” one of them sums up the bulk of the activity. Several of the younger soldiers suggest a visit to the farm. Next to one of the shelters, in a wooden ammunition crate covered with plastic, a bored quail is incubating a solitary egg. “The farm!” one of them shouts by way of explanation.

The 2S7 Pion, over 10 meters long and weighing 45 tons, leaves its hiding place, dug into the ground and covered with camouflage netting, several times a day. It only emerges when superiors, from a command center, give the order to attack. In just a few minutes, the crew starts it up, puts it in place, and, once they have confirmed the coordinates kept in a notebook carried by Kondor, they train it on the designated enemy position. At the cry of “Cannon!” from one of the soldiers, the projectile, loaded by three men a few moments earlier, is fired amid a roar that forces those present to cover their ears if they are not wearing ear protection.

They repeat the operation four, five, or six times before the engine roars again and they place the armored vehicle, manufactured in the mid-1980s, back in its lair. The original Soviet ammunition weighs about 110 kilos and has a range of about 35 kilometers (22 miles). The shells they use now, sent by the United States, weigh about 85 kilos with a range of between 15 and 17 kilometers (9.3-10.5 miles).

Position changes, Odin explains, occur for two reasons. One, when they are detected by the Russians and are directly attacked. Two, when the front line is altered. For example, if Russian troops advance, they have to retreat to maintain the necessary firing distance from the battery.

The commander confirms that they are about 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) from Russian positions and that their target today is the invading troops’ logistics facilities in the area occupied by the towns of Pischane and Shevchenko, southwest of Pokrovsk. On one of the rare occasions when they have been able to announce progress, the Ukrainian army managed to dislodge the Russians from the village of Kotlyne in late February, in the same area where the coal mine is located.

The Russians are still at these facilities because they provide cover from Ukrainian artillery, Odin explains. “Our objective is to continue bombarding to open the way for the infantry and allow them to recapture the mine,” one of the pillars of coke production (a coal-derived fuel used in metallurgical furnaces), he emphasizes. The facilities belong to the Metinvest company, a giant owned by oligarch Rinat Akhmetov.

Steel production has suffered a severe blow with the destruction of the country’s main plants during the Russian invasion. Ukraine was previously a major steel producer and exporter, but has witnessed a drop of more than 70% in production, according to Reuters.

For a couple of hours, the vehicle carrying Odin and his driver, Sasha, along with the reporter and his interpreter, has to idle en route to the S27 Pion’s position due to the presence of a Russian Zela-type reconnaissance drone in the sky. “There can’t be any rush either to enter or to leave. We don’t keep time for that,” the commander calmly comments from the copilot’s seat. Meanwhile, the conversation revolves around, among other things, the possibility of a truce coming to fruition. Odin says he gets most of the news from Sasha, a 44-year-old native of Kyiv, who keeps him informed and elevates him to the status of political analyst. “I’m not an optimist, but a realist,” the commander clarifies. He doesn’t believe anything will come of the current contacts sponsored by the United States and Europe.

“Yesterday we saw seven Shahed drones [Iranian-made and used by Russian troops] fly over our heads. That doesn’t reflect any desire for a ceasefire on the other side,” the commander comments. It’s all “bullshit,” Sasha adds from behind the wheel of the vehicle, while playing solitaire on his cell phone, waiting to continue along the road. The driver alternates between that screen and the small device confirming the presence of enemy drones. And Odin returns to the attack: “A Zela has us blocked here while peace talks are supposedly taking place.” “Peace and ceasefire,” he adds, amid skeptical laughter.

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