1/2 He survived an attack by six FPV drones, despite losing both legs. And just when he thought it was the end, he simply pulled out some sausage and cigarettes. Roman—call sign "Herodotus"—celebrated his 30th birthday at his position; instead of a cake and a candle, he had a crust of bread and a match. Two and a half weeks later, he went out at night to retrieve a package. On his way back, he stepped on a mine. He shone his flashlight and saw that his foot had been shredded to pieces—his toes curled up like tubes and seared. He took a pair of scissors and trimmed away the mangled tissue. He applied two tourniquets to himself—so tightly that his damaged bones could be heard crunching. A day later, a ground robot arrived to evacuate him; along with the wounded soldier, it was also carrying the body of a fallen scout. Then the sun began to rise, and an enemy drone spotted the robot. A strike. His right leg was shredded, his body armor caught fire, and his weapon and radio were completely destroyed. He found an intact helmet, put it on, and crawled toward a nearby tree line. His left foot was gone, and he had to use his hands to reposition his right leg. His first thought was: "I survived back at the position, only to die here—and no one will ever find my body." But then he told himself, "Hell no! I survived that, and I’ll survive this, too." Another FPV drone arrived and struck from the side. Herodotus took cover under some bushes. Suddenly, he heard the company commander’s voice: "Get up and follow me!" It turned out to be our drone, equipped with a loudspeaker. The commander was guiding it like a beacon. Then came perhaps the strangest scene of the war: an enemy drone circled slowly, searching for him, while Herodotus crawled along behind it—staying out of the camera’s view. The drone struck from above. He was left dazed. A piece of shrapnel hit the back of his head but didn't penetrate the skull. Meanwhile, the drone’s battery got tangled in his hood and caught fire. Herodotus tossed it aside and crawled into the thick grass. The company commander called out through the loudspeaker: "Herodotus, show yourself—if you’re still alive!" He crawled out into the open. A package containing water arrived. Then a second one. A third. And then, landing right next to him, came another—filled with sausage, bread, and cigarettes. He devoured the sausage, had a smoke, and even managed to forget about his legs for a moment. He had thought this would be his final meal—but it turned out it wasn't. He even considered loosening his tourniquets and bleeding out, just to end the suffering. But then he remembered—he had promised his mother he would return. Gritting his teeth, he tried to figure out which way to crawl. Luck was on his side: the wind picked up, making it impossible for the enemy drones to go out hunting. Then, a few dozen meters away, voices rang out: "Herodotus! Herodotus, for f***'s sake, where are you?" It was three scouts. One of them couldn't hold back: "Holy f*ck! How the hell are you still alive, you son of a b*tch?" Herodotus just joked: "You didn't come back to 'double-check' me, did you?" They carried him on their shoulders for two and a half kilometers. Then they went back for the man who had been killed—and carried him out, too. Both of his legs had to be amputated. But Herodotus takes it in stride—even with a sense of humor. "Look at what I’ve got instead of legs," he says with a smile, lifting his stumps and singing out, "Tra-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!.." "What am I supposed to do—cry? I’m alive, so things should be fine. Life can turn into a total sh*tshow, but we’ll pull through." Everything will be alright—nobody abandoned me. Not my family, not my girlfriend. As soon as he got a signal, he called her and said, "I’ve lost both my legs." She replied, "Oh, God!" He asked, "So, what—you don't love me anymore?" She shot back, "Are you an idiot? I’m coming over there to beat you up..."