It’s a windy spring morning in the south of Ukraine. My friend Alexei Stoyanovsky and I have just met up with two drone pilots, Ruslan and Dmytro (their names are changed to protect their identity), but are running late because my overnight train was, ironically enough, subject to a drone delay. We’re in a rush to get to their forward position as they fly their drones, or birds as they’re commonly known, as early as possible to avoid the exposing glare of the sun.

Dmytro is driving us towards the Kakhovka Reservoir which shrank in size after the Kakhovka Dam was destroyed by the Russians on 6 June 2023. That same September, I was fortunate enough to visit the reservoir from a village, Vyshchetarasivka, and walk along the sandy basin full of newly grown silver birches and larches. Now, however, such a trip is impossible as the whole area is besieged by drones.

Dmytro parks in a village because a Russian spy drone has been detected hovering nearby. He buys us tea and points out with a laugh that the cups say ‘Life is Good’, even though we’re heading straight into danger. As we wait, he presents me with the Motanka doll, given to him by a child, that he has kept tucked against his chest as an amulet on missions. Ruslan shows us a drone detector which is like a large walkie talkie, explaining how it beeps if a drone is in the vicinity. Its screen can relay exactly what the Russian drone is seeing.

‘If they’re seeing you, you’re in trouble,’ says Ruslan (whose callsign is Cobra) with dark understatement.

Ruslan, Dmytro and Alexei discuss the growing drone attacks and Russian aim to invade the city of Zaporizhia.

‘If the war comes to Zaporizhia,’ says Ruslan, ‘it’s all good for me as it means I can come home to protect it.’

He and Dmytro are modest about their courage, insisting, ‘We Ukrainians have bravery in our DNA.’ Under their helmets, they sport punkish Oseledets in homage to the Cossacks. Finally, Dmytro receives news that we’re good to go and ushers us back into the pickup.

‘If there’s a drone overhead,’ he instructs, ‘we’ll hit the brakes, I’ll shout out something in Ukrainian, and we’ll all open our car doors and start running in a zigzag in opposite directions. Okay?’

It occurs to me that, encumbered by my heavy flak jacket and helmet, I’m like a human tortoise. Fear strikes me that I’m the most likely target out of the four of us.

‘But what if my helmet falls off when I run?’ I bleat.

‘I don’t think you should worry about that,’ Ruslan answers wryly. ‘Just keep running till you hear the drone hit something. We’re obviously doing our best to protect you, but you have to look after yourself too.’

It settles me to accept that I’ve made my choice to be here. The car speeds up on the potholed road and my helmet crashes against the headliner. We pass newly leafed poplars and willows, mistletoe balls perched in their heights like lookouts; a village lies on a hill to our left. The biggest reason Ruslan and Dmytro operate here is to protect such settlements from an attack across the river. They may occasionally have to risk their lives in evacuating villagers who have stayed in order to keep the land Ukrainian, but overall they say they’re inspired by civilian resistance. As we turn onto a dirt track, Alexei and I are told to hold on tight to the seats in front on this white-knuckle ride. ‘Look at that!’ Ruslan exclaims, pointing to a Soviet red flag on a roadside grave, and all three speculate sadly that it was probably planted by an older man harbouring nostalgia for the USSR.

We skid to a halt at the edge of a field, barrel out, and run up an incline. At the top, we rush down some wooden steps into an electric-lit corridor. This trench was constructed last autumn, the walls lined with grey felt and wire netting. More steps lead down into darkness and Ruslan uses his torch to light our way. We find ourselves in a small room with a camp bed and a black stove from which a trench candle emits some warmth. It’s only at night, when the smoke won’t reveal their position, that they burn wood. Two operators are sitting in the control room – Pavlo navigates the drone and Vasili is in charge of the drone’s camera. We are shown a google map charting recent Russian drone activity, a cluster of red circles marking some of the attacks on nearby locations.

It’s launch time. Vasili carries the grey Ukrainian-made reconnaissance drone, known as a wing, out of our trench. It has a wingspan wider than his outstretched arms. Ruslan crouches with his rifle monitoring the sky while Alexei and I are told to stay in the trench’s mouth.

‘Too many people gathering outside is a target,’ explains Ruslan.

Vasili revs the engine, checks for vibrations, and then pulls the drone back tightly on the elastic lead held by Pavlo. It flies into the blue sky like a kite before the lead drops to the ground. Back in the dimly-lit control room, the hi-tech screens contrast with the flickering stove which could easily belong to an old clay-built cottage from a century ago. Worlds and eras collide during war. It is incredibly discomfiting to witness the return of trench warfare. In my own family, my mum’s cousin knew all about its perils. Her father came back to his farm in Dundrum after WWI only for his lungs to have been so badly damaged by trench gas attacks that he was an invalid for the rest of his life.

Alexei and I squeeze in between the wall and the chairs. Dmytro’s laptop shows the drone’s increase in altitude and kilometres as well as its equilibrium in the strong winds. It crosses the Kakhovka Reservoir and Vasili uses his console to survey occupied territory. Fortified bunkers form a visible line across the riverbank and, just ahead, is the perimeter of the

Zaporizhia Nuclear Power Plant (ZNPP) and its cooling towers. While this is primarily a wind test mission, it’s possible to make out military activity in a neighbouring patch of white-blossomed bushes.

‘A Russian cannon,’ says Vasili, zooming in on it. ‘And two soldiers next to it.’

The two soldiers turn and beetle away.

‘They must have been told we’re onto them,’ says Dmytro.

It’s distinct proof that the Russians are hiding weapons behind the ZNPP in order to target Ukraine which can’t safely return fire. It seems ridiculous that the International Atomic Energy Agency isn’t constantly reporting violations since we are witnessing one at this very moment. On a regular basis, Grad artillery is unleashed from Enerhodar’s riverbank towards the cities of Marganets and Nikopol.

When our drone soars towards a nearby coal and gas-fired power plant, a white interceptor drone suddenly flies upwards, followed by another, another and another. I can almost hear ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ from Apocalypse Now playing in the background.

‘They’re either hunting us,’ says Dmytro, ‘or it’s a coincidence and they’re about to attack a village.’

He reports the Russian drones to command control, then lifts our drone far above them. As it escapes and heads back to us, Dmytro points out the village, Dobra Nadiya (Good Hope). I’m excited to see it since my refugee friend Lera cherishes her own good hope to return there one day. Soon, the drone detectors give the all-clear for landing. A small parachute brings the drone to earth and Vasili sprints after it, raising dust in the dry field.

‘Go, go, go,’ Ruslan urges Alexei and me, and we race back to the car. As we drive away at high speed, the detector beeps alarmingly. Dmytro laughs to discover that it’s because of another detector in the glove compartment.

Back at the pilots’ house in a village, the kitchen is rough and regiment flags cover holes in the plaster. They hand us some chicken and rice; the tubs of military-produced yoghurt that accompany it say, ‘Thank you for your incredible work.’ Ruslan picks up one of the cats wandering around and says with a grin, ‘Kitten farm.’

He tells us his experiences of working with female drone units.

‘They’re more committed and focussed whereas we boys tend to be more relaxed. To be honest, the girls perform better than us.’ However, he’s dedicated enough that he plays a computer game every day ‘to improve the sensitivity in my fingers and my attention span.’

We talk about art. Both Ruslan and Dmytro were theatre makers before the war, and have had to diversify into music and poetry. As I write poetry too, I joke with them that from now on I’d like them to call me Tara Shevchenka, the Irish version of Ukraine’s national poet, Taras Shevchenko.

Joking aside, they accept that the army is their ‘main occupation now as Russia won’t stop until it’s broken,’ but Dmytro cites the Renaissance period where great art flourished amid long-standing conflicts. He himself has adopted the knightly motto of ‘create, love and shoot’, believing that art and war are perfectly compatible.

‘If I didn’t write about the war. I’d be incomplete. It would be like cutting pieces off my own body, like self-harm,’ he says.

‘For me, it’s about looking for parallels,’ muses Ruslan, ‘rather than writing directly about the war. It’s about comparing our situation with history, the Bible and mythology.’

‘Like the moral lessons of Arthur’s time or Troy,’ adds Dmytro, nodding. ‘Our artistic vision is to give Ukraine values that are anti-corruption and European in nature, to develop our cultural identity.’

‘Don’t you limit yourself artistically,’ Alexei asks, ‘if you’re responsible to the nation?’

‘No,’ says Dmytro, ‘I don’t see any limitation. If we win, our war will serve as an example to others for ever.’

We walk out into their sunny garden to say our goodbyes. As far as the future goes, they both believe that Ukraine needs more wide-scale support to defeat Russia, but are satisfied that Russia can do nothing to counteract the current mid-range and deep drone strikes. They’re convinced that if they keep holding Russia to a stalemate on the battlefront, it will eventually crack and attack the Baltic nations who are prepared for such an eventuality.

‘The Russians have an aggressor mentality,’ says Dmytro. ‘Sooner or later they will get frustrated.’

The beauty of the land they are fighting for suddenly distracts Ruslan.

‘Look at our pear tree,’ he says proudly, breathing in the scent of the blossom as the wind shakes the outstretched branches.