In a damaged house, two Lithuanians take shelter with the remnants of their International Legion unit. For one, this is the third year of war; for the other, it is his first deployment to the front.
When an explosion strikes nearby, the walls shake, and a fine layer of plaster crumbles to the ground, thickening the already hazy air from a burning stove. Distant artillery strikes echo through the silent night, while Russian Shahed drones, sounding like motorcycles, whiz overhead.
With Donald Trump back in power, the United States is shifting toward negotiations at Ukraine’s expense, with the anxiety trickling down to the troops on the frontline. The war’s conclusion is starting to take shape, yet it’s still unclear in what form – peace or capitulation.
Tadas arrived just months ago after facing family issues at home. A reserved 20-year-old, he is known for keeping to himself. “I didn’t have much to lose; I was looking for meaning,” he says.
“Now, it feels like coming here wasn’t worth it,” he adds. “I’m trying to do something here for no reason. It’s clear what’s going to happen soon.”
He notes that many foreign fighters feel the same way. “As an infantryman, you don’t do much at the frontline. You sit in a bunker for ten days while they bomb you.”
He has found little heroism. Tadas spends most of his days sick in bed, surrounded by the sounds of explosions.
“It’s exhausting being stuck in this house every day, hearing friends die, unable to do anything,” Tadas says. “I doubt this will last much longer.”
‘This is reality’
The number of Lithuanians still serving in Ukraine is unclear, but some, unable to find stability at home, have returned to fight. One of them is Jara.
“I miss this – the chaos, the randomness. You don’t see this in civilian life. I miss that good exhaustion, the kind where you’re completely drained but you did something meaningful. I like what I do here,” says Jara.
He is one of the longest-serving Lithuanian fighters in Ukraine and is now one of the commanders in Tadas’ unit.
“I see the frustration, the exhaustion in others. I understand it completely. I’m tired too, but that doesn’t mean we can give up. Exhaustion differs from person to person – some have lost loved ones, which fuels their motivation to fight,” he says.
The International Legion faces the same struggles as the rest of Ukraine’s military – manpower shortages and a lack of training and resources.
Jara’s unit, for instance, was rendered largely ineffective after several were killed and injured, while others fell to various illnesses.
“This is reality. We’re not the first, and we won’t be the last [to suffer losses after a battle],” Jara says. “But we also hit back.”
Across most of the frontline, Ukrainian forces are either defending or being forced to retreat – at least until Russian offensive momentum wanes, allowing Ukraine to counterattack. Small counter-offensives are already underway near Pokrovsk and Toretsk in the Donetsk region, where Ukrainian troops have reclaimed some positions.
“When you retreat, you have to understand why – to save lives and move to prepared positions. But there aren’t any. You could be 20 kilometres from the front, and you won’t see much prepared – just a bunker here and a trench there,” Jara says.
He is now forced to defend positions he fought to reclaim several years ago.
“It’s frustrating coming back to fight for places you had already fought for. This is my second time here. I’m alive, I’m fine, but I know people who died for this tree line,” he says. “It’s demoralising. I’m not ruling out returning to Lithuania, I’d like to rejoin the military.”
Driving through the frozen countryside, we move at barely 30 kilometres per hour, transporting a Lithuanian-donated Jeep for repairs. Vehicles here break down almost daily due to rough roads and freezing temperatures.
A large part of Jara’s daily routine is just making things work – securing medicine, delivering supplies to hospitals, maintaining communication lines, and boosting morale however possible.
“I was like them when I first came, I needed someone who understood how things worked here,” he says. “The quality of the International Legion has dropped. Before, most recruits had prior military experience, but now it’s different.”
“Veterans saw what was happening and left,” he adds.
Winter war
Stories like these are common across the front. Westerners accustomed to rapid evacuations, medical support, and air support struggle with Ukraine’s gruelling war.
But such stories are so common they seem to spread among Ukrainian troops more as a self-motivating tool.
However, the fact remains – the ranks of foreign veteran fighters are thinning. Many have been killed or permanently wounded, others left after encountering corruption or other Ukraine’s shortcomings. Meanwhile, some simply grew tired – of political hesitation at home, of the cold, of watching their friends die.
“They thought they’d come here, crush Russians, film TikToks, and that would be it,” Jara says.
Instead, survival dominates their daily life like finding fuel, vehicles, and supplies. While they receive weapons and basic equipment, shortages persist – from stoves to extra rations and medicine.
Their unit is a mix of nationalities, including Poles, Americans, Colombians, and Lithuanians. Yet, most of their aid still comes from Lithuanian volunteers.
“This is a poor man’s war. We lack everything. Without the volunteers bringing us supplies, we’d be dead,” Jara says.
The question lingers: where do the millions, even billions, in aid go? Soldiers speak not just of corruption but of the sheer cost of war. Thermal imaging scopes worth thousands of euros or vehicles costing tens and hundreds of thousands can be destroyed within days. Night vision devices were left on fallen comrades.
“I don’t fully understand why they all came here – they’re all a bit strange. But I respect them for being here,” Jara says after a pause.
Winter war is especially brutal. A soldier once said it’s one thing to grab your gear in the summer and go fight, but quite another to endure -20C degrees in trenches, abandoned houses, and posts, where even slightly improper clothing can lead to frostbite and illnesses.
If wounded, evacuation might also not come. Drone threats force soldiers on both sides to wait for days before a safe window opens for extraction. Some cut-off troops have had to hold out for weeks, even months, with supplies delivered by drones.
The only solace, Jara says, is knowing that the enemy suffers the same way.
“If you’re struggling, it means your enemy is too,” he says. “Make him pay for it.”
The road back
Some Lithuanians who return home eventually find themselves back in Ukraine’s trenches. Some struggle to reintegrate into civilian life, failing to hold onto jobs. Others say Lithuania’s military won’t accept them. Some are simply overcome by the perceived banality of everyday routine.
Mykolas (name changed) oscillates between excitement about returning home and guilt over leaving the battlefield. Over three years, he, like other Lithuanians, has done as much – if not more – than many Ukrainians.
“I’m emotionally drained, which affects my physical state,” he says. “I can’t wait to go home. But I’ll leave with a heavy mind. – there’s unfinished business. If a soldier has the will to endure here for so long, how do you cross that line and say, ‘That’s it,’ and leave everyone behind? It’s hard.”
For many, unfinished business means peace – or victory. But both remain a distant prospect.
One Lithuanian soldier plans to become a K9 handler and assist in demining efforts, a necessity in Ukraine for decades to come.
“Leaving isn’t a manly choice. If Americans thought like I do, this wouldn’t be happening – three years we fought together, and now... Maybe I’m just like them,” Mykolas says.
Like at least four other Lithuanians, he has talked about going home, made plans, but ultimately stayed.
“If things get really bad, if we really start losing, I’ll come back,” he says. “At least I’ll know I did everything I could.”
