“Just don't bury me yet, Katia”: Stories of the wives of marines who defended Mariupol and are now prisoners of war

The Ukrainian authorities do not give out the exact number of prisoners of war. Their relatives and loved ones choose whether to make their personal history public. Olha, Kateryna and Alona are the wives of marines from the 501st Battalion which, up until the full-scale invasion, was based near Shyrokyne in Donetsk Oblast.

However, a few days before the full-scale war started, the Russians intensified their attacks, and on 24 February they began an offensive. The Ukrainian command ordered the marines to redeploy to the village of Myrne near the Azovmash plant. Within just a few weeks, the situation had become critical.

Ammunition and provisions were not being delivered. They had to melt snow and drain water from the radiators. There were no bomb shelters in the village, and Russian air raids were rapidly destroying the buildings.

On 4 April, the Ukrainian fighters finally ran out of ammunition and were captured by [Chechen leader Ramzan] Kadyrov's forces near the Illich Iron & Steel Works.

There have been seven POW exchanges since the beginning of 2023, but not a single fighter from the 501st Battalion has been released. Their wives and mothers attend coordinating staff meetings, write appeals to various organisations, and try to reach the president. All they ask is that these heroes who fought to the last bullet should at last be included in the prisoner swaps.

Kateryna, Olha and Alona told Ukrainska Pravda. Zhyttia the stories of their loved ones, who have now spent a year in captivity.

"I'll come back if you give birth to three sons."

Olha's husband Nazar (his name has been changed) has served in the Marines since 2015. He worked hard to gain the Marines beret, training constantly and trying to be a role model for his younger brothers.

Olha and her husband have been married for six years, but Nazar never talked about his service much with his wife. Olha jokingly notes that her best chance of learning something about it was when they met up with friends who were also in the military. The wives would talk to each other, and the husbands, despite promising not to discuss work, did just that.

"I saw his eyes light up when he started to talk about work. His comrades were also passionate about what they were doing. I wanted my husband to stay at home for at least a year, but he devoted himself to his calling.

He said he wanted me and our future children to live in a free country. And with each of his rotations, I hoped it would be the last one before he went back to civilian life," she says.

Olha and her husband

Before the invasion, Olha and Nazar's home was in Berdiansk. In 2021, Olha was diagnosed with cancer.

She could have gone abroad or to Odesa for treatment, but she chose Mariupol - the city closest to her husband. The command also made concessions and allowed Nazar to take his wife home after chemotherapy. "On 16 February, we were talking and he asked if I wanted to visit my friends in Poland.

When I said no, he didn't give any explanation, and he didn't insist. But he told me to pack a suitcase. I was still wondering: why Poland, why the suitcase?

My next doctor's appointment was scheduled for the beginning of March," Olha recalls. On 22 February, Nazar came home for just three hours. A few days before, when they had a video chat, Olha had noticed that he looked tired.

He said they were often made to get up due to the alert. "My husband looked very tired; he wasn't well. But the most important thing was that he brought the car home because the command had ordered him to.

My beloved promised we would figure something out with the treatment, and everything would generally be fine. I was used to trusting my husband's word, so I didn't ask any questions," Olha says. On 24 February, Olha was awakened by a call from a friend who said the war had started.

"I was so surprised, because there's been a war going on in Ukraine since 2014. And then I read the news and tried to call my husband, but he didn't answer. He called in the evening and told us to move to a safe place.

He confirmed that the war had started, but I felt calm because I knew he was holding back the enemy. And then my hell began - Mariupol. My husband began to call much less often, once or twice a week, for one or two minutes.

They had no internet; they didn't realise what was happening right across the country," she says. Olha tried to find the most upbeat news to tell Nazar. "I always had my phone in my hand because my husband might call at night, in the evening, or early in the morning - whenever he got the chance.

The occupiers had already jammed the connection, so my friend and I used to wait around near a bank where the Wi-Fi still worked," she says.

Shared photos warm Olha's soul

Olha notes that it was cold in late February and March 2022, so she and her friend used to take turns running home to warm up before coming back. Both of them were desperately hoping for a call or at least a text. "My husband called me for the last time on 26 March.

And in those two minutes [of the call], I tried to tell him the latest news, to support and reassure him. He was feeling positive and said we'd be going on holiday to Crimea in the summer. No one expected to be captured.

I asked him to make sure he came back. He said he would if I gave birth to three sons. My husband tricked me because he knew that ordinarily, I wouldn't have agreed to that," the prisoner's wife says, smiling warmly.

Olha recalls that when she learned her husband had been captured, she burst into tears, but felt relieved that he was alive. "I've only seen him briefly in one video. He's standing there, and I can see one eye slightly open and his eyebrows, with a hat and hood pulled over.

If anyone else watched it, they would never recognise him, as you can't see his lips or nose or anything. Just one eye and part of the hat," she says. Olha received confirmation of her husband's status as a prisoner of war four months later.

But she had to make huge efforts to obtain this, attending over a hundred meetings with various levels of management, senior officials, and commissioners. "A video with my husband in was posted in January. I didn't cry.

Yes, he has lost weight, but he is unharmed, he still has two arms and two legs. And there is rage in his eyes, not despair. And that's great, because there's nothing worse than losing heart.

My beloved is holding on," Olha says. Olha's husband will turn 30 in the summer, and she is really hoping they will celebrate his milestone birthday together.

"Just don't bury me yet. Be strong"

Kateryna's partner Oleksii signed his first three-year military contract in 2017.

He served in the airborne assault troops and then resumed his civilian job as a lawyer in Donetsk Oblast. "He cared deeply about his fellow soldiers and kept in touch with them; they were like family. But he tried not to talk about his service.

Only funny stories, or about how he had to sit with wet feet in a trench knee-deep in mud. He also told me how to work out how far away a shell had landed by the noise and whistle it made. I assume Oleksii had PTSD, because he'd lost brothers-in-arms during his service, but he avoided talking about it," Kateryna says.

Kateryna and Oleksii

Oleksii signed another military contract in November 2021, this time with the 501st Marine Battalion.

They were stationed near the village of Shyrokyne in Donetsk Oblast. He considered it his destiny to defend the country and protect his family. "I was due to arrive in Mariupol on 24 February, and we were planning to finally get married on the 25th.

Oleksii called me on 13 February and said that we were definitely going to get married, but we'd have to postpone the trip for a while. Guys were already being recalled from leave, and there were reports on TV that the enemy was massing equipment and troops," she recalls. Katia [a short form of Kateryna's name - ed.] says her future husband promised her that their big day would not be postponed for long - only for a few weeks at most.

"He gave me a full briefing over the phone on 24 February, particularly what to do during attacks and where to hide, and told me to tape over the windows. But a few days later, he insisted that I leave because the war wouldn't be over any time soon. I kept hoping to the last that it would be like it usually was - they'd scare us a little and then leave us alone," says Katia.

She last spoke to her husband on 5 March. "Oleksii warned me that he might go missing or stop getting in touch. I remember what he said to me: 'Just don't bury me yet, Katia!

Be strong, everything will be fine'," Katia recalls. One of Oleksii's fellow soldiers sent Katia a message on 20 March saying her beloved was fine. "From 5 to 20 March I was praying, going to church and lighting candles for him.

I just didn't allow myself to think that he might die," she says.

How Oleksii changed during the full-scale war

On 5 April, Katia found a video on one of the Russian propaganda channels showing Russian troops capturing marines. Then she saw her Oleksii. "It was a terrifying sight because he used to be tall, almost 2 metres tall [6'5"], and well-built, but with a tummy.

Before the invasion he weighed about 120 kilos [264 lbs]. And in the video, he was emaciated and skinny. But he was standing so straight, and I thought, thank God, at least he wasn't injured," says Katya.

At first, the Russians took the prisoners to the Olenivka POW camp, then they split them up and took them to different camps across Russia. Katia last knew about Oleksii's whereabouts in February; later he was transferred somewhere else after a POW exchange. "The Red Cross and the aggressor country confirmed him as a prisoner of war a few months later.

But they're a very lazy organisation because instead of telling me about Oleksii, they call me asking if I know anything about my partner. Families have to collect information themselves, bit by bit," Katia says. One of Oleksii's comrades-in-arms was released.

They'd been in the same cell together. He told Katia that Oleksii had been on the battlefield near the city of Mariupol, and there was no connection and no time to make phone calls. There were non-stop attacks, and he had to stay alert to stay alive.

Mariana Mamonova, a medic from the 501st Marine Battalion, also provided some information about Oleksii's condition. She described Oleksii as a very good person. She also noted that he had been injured, with three pieces of shrapnel in his leg and one under his eye.

However, he had been patched up before he was captured by the Russians.

"I had a bad feeling. Though not bad enough to imagine him dead"

Alona's husband Andrii served in the military for some time before the full-scale invasion. His active pro-Ukrainian stance led him to join the army immediately after graduating from university.

The couple lived in Berdiansk. "Serving was his whole life, not just a job. The marines have a motto: Always faithful.

The guys stay true to it. Most of our friends were other marines from Andrii's unit. I saw his eyes light up when he was promoted or invited to go on training exercises," Alona says.

She adds that in the days leading up to the invasion, the air was thick with tension. Her husband reassured her that everything would be fine. "I've talked to a lot of military families.

Half of the husbands told their wives ahead of time: pack your things and be ready. For us, it was the opposite. The guys were certain that they would repel any enemy attacks, because they had a lot of experience and training behind them.

My husband texted me around five in the morning: 'Maybe you should pack your bags, darling.' But I was running on adrenaline and decided to stay a while and wait it out. I spent a month under occupation, and only then was I able to leave," Alona recounts.

Alona and Andrii. Photo from the archive

Alona started volunteering in 2014.

When people started to arrive in her city from Mariupol [fleeing the Russian attacks on Mariupol - ed.], she set up a humanitarian aid hub. They couldn't get hold of any supplies, so people just shared what they had with the new arrivals. "I've only talked to my husband a handful of times since 24 February.

He called from numbers I didn't recognise to tell me he was still alive. My husband never asks me for anything and never admits [what he is really going through]. But in late February or early March, he texted me: 'Sweetheart, we're somewhere near Mariupol, we have nothing, no food, we've been told to get into our cars and leave when we're ready.' He asked me to help them in my capacity as a volunteer: to find some food for them.

He sent me a list [of what they wanted] and I started looking for someone who could find the food and deliver it to them," Alona recalls. Berdiansk was already occupied at the time and the Russians were jamming communications; it was hard to get any information from the outside. Alona found someone [to help her], but there was nowhere they could buy food.

Even money didn't help. "Later I found out that somehow, someone had been able to deliver at least some food to them. My husband wasn't in touch with me for a long time.

I had a bad feeling. Though not bad enough to imagine him dead," Alona says. Andrii called Alona one night in the middle of March.

He was in hospital. He called from someone else's number: her phone lit up with a photo of another man and a child, a name she didn't recognise. "It took me a few moments to realise it was my Andrii.

I could hear he was in good spirits, he was joking and smiling. He told me that he had a bullet wound to his shoulder blade and sent me a photo of it. It was an open wound, and he told me there were no medical supplies.

I suspect he might have given his away to someone else," Alona says.

Joint adventures of spouses

In the hospital, Andrii had internet access for a few days. The couple stayed in touch. On the fourth day, however, Andrii warned that he wouldn't be able to talk.

He explained that he had to walk quite a long way from where he was to send a text or call Alona. After that conversation, she would get an occasional text or call from Andrii's brothers-in-arms, telling her he was all right. Alona last spoke to her husband on 28 March 2022.

She told him she was going to evacuate to Ukrainian-controlled territory. Andrii told her to be careful and to let him know when she got there. "My husband insisted that I delete our text conversation, but I figured out a way not to.

I just couldn't delete my five-year archive of our shared memories, photos, texts. Now I have at least something: I can listen to the voice messages he sent me. When I read through his messages now, I get goosebumps.

He wrote: 'I will stay here until the last drop of my blood, because I am here to defend you, to defend my friends, my family, Ukraine.' He was definitely not planning to surrender," Alona says. On 1 April, she made her way to the city of Zaporizhzhia. A few days later, she travelled onward with a couple of friends.

A week or so later, one of Andrii's former brothers-in-arms sent her a video of the Russians taking some marines prisoner. She recognised her husband. After Mariana Mamonova was released from Russian captivity, she said that Andrii had not only been wounded in his shoulder blade, but also had shrapnel wounds to his legs.

The first of his leg injuries was minor, and he hid it from everyone around him. When he was wounded again, the doctors found the first injury, still unhealed. A year after Andrii's unit was taken prisoner, Alona still has no confirmation from the Russian side that her husband is being held in captivity.

She did not receive confirmation from the Ukrainian military until March 2023. Alona says she has asked every Ukrainian prisoner of war who has been freed about her husband. She was able to find out where he was last held: in a penal colony deep in the belly of the aggressor state.

The prisoners seemed to have been treated reasonably well there, and were even given painkillers. Then her husband and other Ukrainian prisoners were transferred somewhere near Moscow. What the conditions are like there, or how the Ukrainian prisoners are being treated, no one knows.

Viktoriia Andrieieva, Ukrainska Pravda. Zhyttia  Translation: Yelyzaveta Khodatska, Artem Yakymyshyn and Olya Loza

Editing: Teresa Pearce