“For 72 days I was electrocuted, beaten, not allowed to eat or sleep”: how Russian convicts are driven to “meat-grinder assaults”

RU

The interviewees' names have been changed.

Doomed to death: inmates as cannon fodder

The Russian army has suffered incredibly high personnel losses since the first day of its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Among the reasons are poor coordination and planning. But as Russian prisoners of war and deserters have confirmed, an even more important factor is their commanders’ indifference to the human costs of accomplishing tasks assigned from the top. The approach to fighting has led to the development of “expendable” Russian infantry, whose only purpose is to carry out “meat-grinder assaults,” in which the overwhelming majority of the participants will inevitably die. At the same time, as the last year has shown, this tactic does not bring any large-scale achievements, and its final goal is not clear. Yet the top military brass is visibly in no hurry to change it.

In the first months of the full-scale war, Russia's huge losses looked to be unintentional. Starting from the summer of 2022, however, a division became apparent: some soldiers were used for suicidal assaults, while others remained on the second line and performed different tasks. The split occurred at the time when Russian troops were first reinforced with inmates recruited by Yevgeny Prigozhin's Wagner private military company. Detachments formed from convicts became “expendable material” in the attacks. One of the bloodiest offensives involving their participation was the Battle of Bakhmut, where, according to rough estimates, more than 17,000 Wagner fighters were killed. Soon the Ministry of Defense also began dragging prisoners to the frontline, and after Prigozhin himself was eliminated in August 2023, the state completely took over military recruitment in Russian prisons.

At first, inmates were lured into the war with the promise of a pardon from Putin and a return home after six months at the front. This was how dozens of people who committed brutal murders were pardoned in 2022 and 2023. Now, however, the rules have changed. Putin's pardon has been replaced by release on parole, and the mandatory stay at the front is now unlimited: prisoners must sign a one-year contract with the Ministry of Defense, and upon expiration, it is automatically renewed, just like with regular volunteers.

The process of enlistment for recruited prisoners looked as follows: first, they were assigned to a military unit and then redeployed to other units, mainly specialized divisions called “Storm Z,” which the Russian command used as expendable material, sending them to the most impassable and heavily shelled areas of the front.

The procedure is still in place, albeit with a few adjustments: starting in September 2023, recruitment to Storm Z ceased, and ex-prisoners have been assigned to new units labeled “Storm V.” As the recruits' relatives have written in Telegram chats, Storm Z was formally outlawed, and its members never received any benefits, while Storm V has been deemed as legal.

As time went on, such units ceased to consist solely of former inmates — they also began to be used as punishment squads for regular army servicemen guilty of transgressions such as failure to follow orders, refusal to return to the front line, fighting with other soldiers, and abuse of alcohol.

As former inmates who fought in Ukraine told The Insider, service in such units is often deadly. Even calling it “military service” is a stretch: only a fraction of prisoners make it back alive, and those who do often suffer torture and beatings at the hands of their commanders. The rest are killed in “meat-grinder assaults,” are subjected to summary executions, or commit suicide to avoid dying a more gruesome death.

Booze, prostitutes, and bribes

“Our unit was there to scare the mobilized and volunteers,” says Grigory Kirsanov, one of the prisoners who fought as part of Storm V. “We had a deep hole nearby. Newcomers were beaten and thrown into the pit until they came to their senses. And then they would join us as we built dugouts, dug trenches, cleared the area, and carried in logs.”

Grigory enlisted for the war from St. Petersburg's penal colony IK-4. He was sentenced to five and a half years on a drug dealing charge but had served only nine months before signing a contract with the Ministry of Defense. According to Kirsanov, he went to war to “absolve himself before the state” — and also to learn the truth about what was happening:

“They gathered us in the assembly hall and gave us a big lecture, saying we would become heroes, clear our conscience, and so on. To be honest, I enlisted, hoping that my criminal record would be expunged and there would be nothing in the files. I didn't realize exactly in what capacity I was going there. I thought we'd be equal to the rest of the soldiers. We were promised we would be servicemen of the Russian Federation. No one mentioned that we would be sent to the slaughter.”

The prisoners were promised a one-year contract, followed by a return home and a “clean slate” — with large payments from the state and no criminal record. But things turned out differently: “We were told we would be released, that the contract would expire, and that would be it. I had my doubts, but I wanted to hope it was true. I was right to doubt after all. No one was just going to let us go. No one paid us, either: instead of the promised 200,000 [rubles, or $2,000] I only got 20,000, and for my last tour, I received nothing at all. The only benefit I saw was the one-time payment, and it wasn't paid out in full either: I got 700,000 [rubles] instead of the promised 910 grand.”

Recruited inmates hardly ever received military training, which was not always provided even to mobilized troops or volunteers. The available training activities were more of a formality — and were provided for pay:

“We were brought near Luhansk and assigned to some base alongside mobilized and contract soldiers. Those who paid their commanders went to the firing range, while I and probably five other guys refused to pay and simply stayed at the base. When we moved to Belgorod Region, everyone went to the firing range. We threw a grenade once, so as not to blow ourselves up, fired a couple of magazines at the targets — and that was it.”

The prisoners were also given uniforms, but not the entire set, so they had to pay extra to get everything they needed:

“The commanders were just pumping money out of people. Everyone received a lump-sum payment: some sooner, others later. And the commanders started extorting this money to buy us uniforms. Those of us who paid were left alone. And those who refused pay were forced to work for three or four men.

We were issued body armor, of course, but it was impossible to move around in it. I bought my own body armor and outfitted my first-aid kit with bandages and tourniquets because I wasn't issued any. I also bought pain pills but forgot about the anesthetic shot. We were supposed to have one at hand, but as I understood, it contains narcotics, so we were told it was best not to use it. In any case, no one gave it to us we headed out. To sum up, I bought boots, a uniform, an armored vest, and a first-aid kit myself, but the machine gun, helmet, and combat kit — ammunition magazines and a couple of grenades — were provided to us.”

According to Kirsanov, soldiers were sent to buy uniforms in groups, and many used these outings as an opportunity to buy alcohol, which was strictly prohibited:

“Every day five or six men were chosen and sent to town for armored vests, good uniforms, or construction materials. Those who left made arrangements with their commanders to get some unsupervised time. Others would go to a nearby store and buy alcohol there.”

The consequences of drinking were indeed nasty, recalls Grigory: “Those who drank at the base were immediately beaten. And our guys got an even harsher treatment [than the delinquent mobilized]. I once saw a company commander notice a soldier at the firing range carrying a bag of liquor. There was vodka, cognac — a whole bag of it. The commander pushed the soldier to the ground, pulled out a knife, and stuck it in his hand.”

However, despite the harsh punishments, many prisoners got drunk anyway, and according to Kirsanov, even went to prostitutes: “When everyone had already gone to bed, some of the convicts went to the red lights district, so to speak — they snuck out of the base, hailed a taxi, and went to town to have some fun.”

“The commander pointed an assault rifle at them and said, 'Get going, you c*nts, or I'll shoot you myself'”

In the two years of the full-scale war, the Russian army has never learned how to break through fortified defensive lines, and the use of “expendable infantry” did little to improve the situation: with enough troops at their disposal, commanders, many of whom are poorly qualified and barely familiar with the techniques of warfare, simply throw them into “meat-grinder assaults” without a clear plan and with no support. As a result, the number of casualties in the Russian army continues to increase (by late October 2024, Russia's confirmed war losses killed exceeded 70,000), and Russian forces struggle to capture even small settlements.

In such assaults, most “expendable” fighters end up dead, be it the mobilized, newly-recruited contract soldiers, or convicts. Thus, in July 2024, the 41st Separate Assault Brigade of the Armed Forces of Ukraine reported that inmates from Storm V units were assaulting Chasiv Yar, and a month later a prisoner from a similar unit complained he was about to be sent “to the very furnace where he will die.” And this despite the fact that he could not walk without crutches and was almost blind in one eye

After making his complaints, the man was detained by military police, but no legal proceedings followed: the prisoner was put in a pit, beaten, had his crutches broken, and was eventually sent to the front lines. The fact of heavy losses in such “furnaces” was confirmed by many former Storm Z fighters. In one example, former prisoners from the Kaluga Region said that of the 230 recruits in their company, only 38 survived.

Grigory Kirsanov had to survive a “meat-grinder assault” as well. On May 24, 2024, he and other prisoners were sent to Shebekino, in Russia’s Belgorod region, and then to the border, where they continued on foot to the Ukrainian town of Vovchansk:

“On May 25, we were dropped out of Ural [trucks] and split into groups of ten. They told us to keep a distance of 15-20 meters between the groups and sent us on our way. We had to walk about 10 kilometers. As we went, some pushed forward, and others lagged behind. Eventually, although I started in the middle (my group was twentieth or so), I ended up with no one behind me, as shelling had begun and the others had fallen back. Only two groups entered the city [before us], and then it was us — a crew of six.”

According to Kirsanov, there were no precise instructions from the command, no coordination, no communication, and no vehicles, even though they had been promised as reinforcement. He and his comrades were left to their own devices:

“We had ‘guides’ telling us where to go. All the time, things were exploding around us, and drones were flying above. No radios, no maps, no phones, nothing. As we made our way along the timberline, one of us was shot in the shoulder. We bandaged him up. I gave him a couple of pills. We waited for help. A limping elderly man came in, saying he’d been here for about two weeks, and that was it. He said he was in charge of evac and that our comrade should follow him. They left, and we were on our way, too, moving in short runs from one shelter to another.

This was how we reached the first house. Inside, there were seven or eight 'guides.' They told us there were too many of us in the house and that we had to find another place. We went into the next basement, which was 15 meters away, and stayed there. We spent the night, without food or water, and in the morning we went to look for water.

As soon as we came out, we were immediately pelted with bombs and grenades. We wanted to hide in the basement, but the entrance was blocked with debris, so I suggested we hide under the trees. We lay down — one under one tree, the two of us under another. And then I look at my leg and realize it's sticking out. I decided to tuck it under me. I had barely moved it when an explosion made a crater 15-20 centimeters deep exactly where my foot had been. I looked up, and there was a kamikaze drone. I'd only had time to reload my assault rifle when it went off — luckily, no one got hit. And then we were running again. One of the fighters fell behind, and the two of us ran into a barn and waited for the drones to fly away. The infernal buzzing never ceased.

We could only hope the drone wouldn't drop anything on the barn roof. Had a grenade gone off inside, we'd have been dead, because the barn was full of rakes, shovels, and saws. But eventually, the drones flew away. We ran another 20 meters and found a well-fortified basement with several mobilized troops already hiding in it. There was tomato paste in the basement, which we used for water, and some moonshine, which my comrade instantly began to chug. We stayed there, waiting for someone from our unit to reach us.”

Kirsanov, his companion, and the mobilized men spent two days in the basement before other groups from their company and the three remaining members of Kirsanov's group caught up with them. They learned that their commanders had been wounded and were being evacuated to Russian territory:

“One of the group members, with the call sign 'Rush,' said he was taking charge. He said we were to occupy a building 100 meters away: 'You'll see it, the one with a dead dog outside.' As soon as we got inside, there was a strike, and the walls began to crumble. Four others ran to the shed on the left, and I dashed to the one on the right. The drones were buzzing again, and then I heard a bomb drop on the other barn. My comrades got away. I said we should retreat to the basement, but when we got there, everyone had left, so we decided to move on. One of our comrades fell behind.

We saw him again later, lying on the ground saying he was 300 [army slang for 'wounded']. He started running alongside me but then dropped to the ground. I don't know what happened to him. It might have been his liver, or maybe something else. I tell him, 'Come on, there's only 50 meters left.' And he goes, 'I can't.' He'd been drinking for two days straight — all that moonshine in the cellar.

Eventually, he crawled to us. The entire right side of his back, his right leg, and his buttocks were all full of shrapnel. We bandaged him up. I gave him pain pills that I don't think helped him at all. We spent a day and a half in the basement. I tried to motivate him, yelling at him to get up and go. Of course, the right thing to do was to take him on my shoulders and run. But, first of all, you've got an assault rifle, body armor, helmet, and it's all quite heavy. Secondly, I wanted to come back alive, because I'd told my parents I would. And to be honest, my life was more valuable to me than the life of some drunk who'd told me earlier his life would end there. As he'd said himself, ‘My life's over. I have nothing to lose.’ But once he was wounded, he started yelling that he wanted to live.”

After some discussion, Kirsanov and his comrades decided they had to get to the factory, where the wounded and the commanding officers were located:

“We decided that two of us would go to get stretchers and water at the factory. I don't know what kind of factory it was, but it looked like a tire factory because there was a lot of rubber everywhere. The road wasn't easy. It took us a long time to get there from our position, as even 50 meters is a long way when shelling never stops and 'birds' [drones] are flying above us all the time.”

“We moved out at 00:00, when shelling was the heaviest. I had a comrade three or four meters ahead of me. All we had to do was run — no other thoughts. As we're running, I hear the 'birds.' We ran 50 meters or so and stopped by a cemetery to catch our breath. There was just one tree, already leafless, so we stopped near it.

I told my comrade: 'Run.' He took off, and after I'd walked a couple of meters, I heard an explosion. I don't even know how to explain how I felt. I saw my comrade fall to all fours. My ears were ringing wildly. I yell to him, 'Get up, let's run,' but of course, he doesn't answer.

I ran on for about 50-70 meters and stopped. The fatigue must have started to kick in. I looked at my leg and saw it was covered in blood. That's when the pain started to build. I saw a house across the road and headed there. I could hardly carry the assault rifle and was using it as a crutch instead. Inside, I went down into the basement. I saw some moldy canned fruit and made myself drink the liquid because I was suddenly feverish and panicking. The only thought I had was 'I'm about to die.'

I didn't know how seriously injured I was. I started to lose strength and could hear a drone circling the house. I bandaged myself up, applied a tourniquet, and realized I had to start moving towards the factory. I stuck to the bushes. As I walked, I looked at our soldiers' corpses. Finally, I saw a large building and realized it was the factory. At the same time, I heard gunshots. I started shouting: 'Guys, 300 [I'm wounded], help!' I was drooling all sorts of fluids — blood, snot, tears. No one came out. I saw a pile of rocks and behind it was a backyard. Somehow I made it there, climbing over the rocks. I saw a door, and two men finally rushed to me and pulled me inside. Then we walked to the place where the wounded were kept. They patched me up. One of them, with the call sign 'Psycho' — I can't thank him enough — bandaged me, gave me a painkiller shot, and said: 'Well, you must've lost a liter of blood.'”

Kirsanov stayed at the factory for three days, during which several wounded convicts tried and failed to persuade the command not to send them on new assaults:

“We were literally cannon fodder for them — go and die. While I was lying in recovery, guys with injured arms and legs came to the battalion commander. The commander pointed an assault rifle at them and said, 'Get going, you c*nts, take up your positions or I'll shoot you myself!'”

According to Kirsanov, once he'd gotten a little better, he was sent to the evacuation point alone and on foot:

“They woke me up in the middle of the night and said, 'You can walk, so go.'” I said: “Guys, I can't even walk to the toilet.” And they're like, 'No, you're alright, get going!' I asked if I could at least get a painkiller shot. They gave me an injection and said, 'Here's your group, go there, they will explain to you where to go next.' We reached the next building, where there were other soldiers. They said, 'Walk 700 meters to the arrow.' I thought I could do 700 meters. Then we met more people. They said there was no evacuation here, so we walked another kilometer, then another three — which became ten, eventually. We covered the entire distance on foot despite our injuries.

Finally, I was sent to a military hospital near Belgorod. It was not even a hospital — just a former children's summer camp that was being converted into a hospital. They had only just brought in beds, and there wasn't any medical equipment yet. I spent a week there, after which they put me on a train to St. Petersburg, and then to Pskov.”

After treatment, the former prisoner hoped to get some leave. He did not get it:

“The doctor said that my injury didn't make me eligible, although I had a torn muscle. I had a large hole in my left thigh, plus shrapnel wounds in the knee and groin. So I went to the department chief and arranged with him to give me at least two weeks of physical activity exemption when I got to the unit.

When I arrived at the unit, nobody cared much about this exemption. The first thing I saw was the wounded building a barracks. I was shocked. Soon I got down to sorting my paperwork: I applied for Veteran of Combat Operations, started seeing doctors, but all they did was refer me to more doctors. Eventually, I returned to the unit, said I had to go to the military hospital in Pushkin, and went home.”

Beatings, torture, and suicide: “I was beaten, stripped naked, and kept in a cage for three days”

Quite soon, Storm Z and later Storm V units ceased to consist solely of former inmates. Instead, they became a place of exile for ordinary servicemen who had gotten in trouble with the command. This was how Anatoly Kurnikov, a mobilized soldier first assigned to a medical company as an anesthesiologist, ended up in Storm Z. According to Kurnikov, he showed up at the military enlistment office after threats: in a phone call, he was told that if he did not obey the summons, his family would “start having problems.”

“I said right away that I wouldn't kill anyone, no matter what they did to me. They tried to pressure me, then got off my back and appointed me chief nurse of an operational and dressing platoon. They made the decision after talking to me. I'd read a lot about pharmaceuticals, so I had some general knowledge. Otherwise, I'm just a regular guy. A doctor in Kostroma took me under his wing, and I worked with him. I practiced on live subjects, so to speak,” Kurnikov says.

After training in Kostroma, Kurnikov was sent to Nyzhnia Duvanka in the Luhansk Region, where he and his comrades set up a makeshift ICU in an abandoned house: “We treated heavily injured fighters. On the humanitarian line, we requested equipment. As soon as everything was set up, the medical company was quickly dispersed, and the equipment was taken away.”

When the company was disbanded, Kurnikov was strongly encouraged to take officer training:

“I tried to refuse, but they hinted to me that if I didn't go, they'd shoot me, and that would be it. So I went, studied for three months, and was given the rank of junior lieutenant and a diploma as a tactical unit commander. After that, I was returned to the same regiment in the Luhansk Region. I was appointed tank platoon commander, but my platoon existed only on paper. In reality, I was in charge of a motorized rifle platoon.

Five days after I arrived, the assignment came in to give the guys ammunition and send them out on a mission. I refused to do it. I mean, I didn't have to go myself. I could launch a drone, watch them from afar, and give orders via radio. But the point is, I wasn't going to kill anyone, so I sabotaged the whole thing.”

After Kurnikov refused to carry out the order, the battalion commander sent him “for correction” to a basement in Zaitseve:

“For 72 days I was electrocuted, beaten, not allowed to eat or sleep. Everything was simple. You're told: 'So-and-so, out,' you go out — and five of them kick you, then hose you with cold water for an hour and a half. Then they electrocute you a little and send you back to rest.

There were 400 of us in there. Soldiers are kept for four or five days, but as an officer, I was held there for 72 days. Finally, a major arrived and said I was assigned, with 40 more soldiers, to join the Storm unit of a brigade in the northwestern military district.”

According to Kurnikov, every single prisoner from Zaitseve ended up in Storm units: “They sent them to different units. After surviving so much torture, people were broken, depressed. They didn't ask questions anymore and did as they were told.”

Along with ordinary mobilized soldiers, delinquent inmates were also sent to Zaitseve:

“They were kept in a different part of the basement. Most convicts were thrown into the basement for disobeying orders. It was in the Kupiansk sector. Here’s what happened: when reporting about this sector, the high command claimed the seizure of particular areas. They had already received medals and orders for something that had not happened. And when this came to light, 'meat-grinder assaults' began — very real, very tough, and in the complete absence of artillery. The command had no understanding and no idea of how fighting is conducted at all, and former prisoners began to refuse en masse.”

Kurnikov was assigned to the 25th Assault Brigade, which was a place of no return. Fighters were dying both in “meat-grinder assaults” and from abuse at the hands of their own commanders:

“I arrived and again immediately said I would not kill anyone. They beat me up a little and tied me to a tree. It is a popular punishment in Storm units: an incentive to think about how to live your life. Some people were tied up to die that way, but in reality, you won't stand there long enough to die — a drone will get you sooner.

The company commander came to me in the morning and said, 'What's your act?' I repeated that I would not kill anyone, that I had an award for saving the wounded — a medal 'For Merit in Military Medicine.' He sent me to the medical commander. He told me I could handle the evacuation if I paid him 100,000 [rubles, roughly $1,000]. That's what saved me. I wired him the money, and from January to mid-March I was engaged in evacuation as a group commander.”

In January, Kurnikov was injured: “We'd just arrived when a drone got us with a VOG [fragmentation round] — the guys were hit, but I barely got a scratch. The only thing is that a piece of shrapnel flew in, changed its trajectory at the back edge of an armor plate, and damaged my joint. I still have that shard in my hand, in addition to the post-concussion syndrome. I climbed into the van and we drove off, but when we arrived, they told me: 'You are a medic, so take care of yourself!' And that's what I did. I wasn't allowed to go to the hospital.”

A month later, Kurnikov finally got some medical leave. Only a hospital could issue documents confirming his right to receive payment for the injury, and the command wanted to claim part of the money for itself: “I had no money at all. When someone went to Russia, I asked them, 'Buy me cigarettes, buy me this and that.' He brings it and says, 'Give me the money.' I say, 'Bro, I've got nothing. Can I have the cigarettes, though?' So they proposed to me: 'Let's register your injury and split the payment: give us one million [rubles], and keep two for yourself.' I agreed.”

However, Kurnikov never got any paperwork for the payment — it only took the hospital officials 20 minutes to reject his application and dismiss him. A month later, he was told that his medical career was over and he was being reassigned to an assault unit:

“In March, the guy I'd been replacing all this time arrived. He'd been in Moscow, hanging out and getting paid, and I'd been doing his work for free. Once he got back, I was no longer needed. I was told, 'Pack up and move to the front with everyone else — to do the storming.'

Since I'd been around for a while, and I was an officer, I walked up to a soldier and asked him to drive me there. I told everyone I'd ride closer to the front, but I’d decided to take off. It didn't work out. Military police caught me and took me to the brigade headquarters. At the brigade headquarters, I was interrogated by an FSB officer. I told him what was going on there: that they were extorting my injury payment, that I'd bribed my way into my position. I thought they'd put me in jail, but they didn't. They beat me up, stripped me naked, and kept me in a cage outside for three days. It was two degrees [Celcius, or 35.6°F].”

After being kept in the cage, Kurnikov was introduced to the chief of a howitzer division, who tasked him with monitoring discipline among the soldiers, in addition to doing other minor chores:

“I still had not been paid any money. I felt like they were going to wait until everything blew over and then shoot me, as they'd originally planned. At some point, a crew of UAV operators joined us. One had an acquaintance in the Investigative Committee, and he said he could get me out of this brigade. The price tag was a million [rubles, or $10,000]. I didn't have that kind of money. I borrowed 400,000 [rubles] from friends, transferred it to him, and waited two and a half months. Then the Investigative Committee in Luhansk came to pick me up. At first, my commanders refused to let me go, saying I was gone. They only gave in after hints that there would be trouble. But I was made to understand that if I said anything while on leave, they'd shoot me once I came back.”

In Luhansk, Kurnikov learned that he had been listed as missing for a long time, which was why he had not been paid:

“I was told that I'd be an interrogator, helping investigators conduct interrogations of servicemen suspected of criminal offenses. And so I did, but I never got paid. Through the Investigative Committee, I learned that on the very day that I was sent to the Storm unit, Dec. 29, I was reported missing in action.

That's when the pieces of the puzzle fell into place: recently a brigade commander received the Hero of Russia title for an assault without losses. Well, that's how you do it — with soldiers already listed as missing. All the guys that are thrown into such assaults are already considered MIA when they are sent on the mission — especially since no one pulls out the corpses. If you take a walk along the forward positions, bodies are lying there in three layers. Bushes had grown through some of them by winter, meaning they'd been there since summer.”

“We had a team that was [retrieving the fallen], but they were not allowed to work properly. The commanders kept distracting them with all sorts of nonsense. It's easier to declare everyone MIA.”

Suicides are not uncommon among Storm fighters either:

“Many shot themselves right in the base area. One committed suicide barely 20 minutes after arrival, and I was the one to bag him. Such cases were abundant. The unit is notorious — just being there puts a lot of strain on you. Many realized that they could die in agony, and so they chose a different path. No two deaths are alike. There was a guy who was buried alive in a dugout. It took him five days to die. The whole time, you could hear him on the radio. Of course, no one wants to die like this.

What saved me was that I'm a street guy myself, ran away from home a lot. Plus I have experience in the ICU, where I learned to treat the wounded as an object, so I didn't sweat it. I saw a guy blow himself up on a grenade right in front of me. Even though he'd only been lightly wounded on the assault, he didn't want to go back. Others would go into a dugout or someplace else, and all you heard was a single shot. A soldier would come to me and report that such-and-such had shot himself. I'd say, 'Right. Let's go get a bag.' Guys like him will at least be buried, but many will not.”

Both interviewees managed to leave the war zone. At the time of publication, they are outside the territory of Russia.