A PICTURE OF GOD

By Collin Patrick Zelli

An American War-Photo Journalist, Yosyp Mikhailo, travels to Ukraine

to document the unending conflict between invading Pro-Russian Atheist
Extremists and the defending Ukrainian Religious Extremists, as well as
the Agnostic civilians who refuse to leave their homes.

intro_
An American War-Photo Journalist, Yosyp Mikhailo, travels to Ukraine
to document the ongoing war between Atheist Extremists and Religious
Extremists, and all those caught in between. In years prior, the Russian
Invasions of Ukraine have led the Russians to complete domination of
the region, but in September of 2022, a rebellion of religious Ukrainians
began and they worked to defend their religion and earn their freedom.
Many Pro-Russian Ukrainians have been recruited by the Russian
Military to work as civilian scouts, and informants for the Russian
Military. These people are the atheistic rats who are intimidated by the
Russians and are mere peasants. The Anti-Russian Ukrainians who are
religious insist that there is nothing that God cannot do, and refuse to
take up arms against the Russian Military. Despite the fact that their
families are slaughtered in the middle of the night like cattle hunted by
wolves, they believe that they may be saved even up until the moment
they are herded out the back door of their homes into the field to be
executed. They believe that God will overcome the Russians minds at the
last moment and show them some mercy. The Atheistic Anti-Russians are
want no part in the war and seem to almost dismiss the idea of its
existence. Because they dont believe in a higher power, they have
absolutely no hope and await their deaths.
This is what the world has come to.

chapter_1_

Tuesday, November 21st, 2023

The artillery fire is never-ceasing. This refugee bunker is shaking
constantly. It has been now over 84 hours since I last got actual sleep.
The refugees here are unequipped, untrained, frightened, and confused.
They know nothing about their future, but they know that death is
closing in on them. I just hope I am lucky enough to survive this and
maybe save a few of them along the way.
These people - they are useless. Six of the nineteen refugees I share a
room with are addicted to some kind of zombie drug, and four of them
are alcoholics. The drug is by far worse than alcoholism. Something
along the lines of Krokodil. One man had to have both his legs
amputated due to the extremely hazardous effects of the drug. Another is
going through severe withdrawal.
These living conditions are not good. The mud has now risen from two
inches deep to roughly 9 inches. The blood pollutes the thick muck and
turns it a repulsive reddish-black. If there was ever a way to describe the
smell of death, this is most certainly it.
An old woman sleeps in the corner of this poorly constructed wooden
bunker and holds her to dead sons in her arms. I managed to sneak a
picture of it. The one on her left died from a mortar shell hitting within
meters of his left leg, which completely obliterated that and his left arm.
His shirt was riddled with holes and through those holes, his rib cage was
completely exposed, dry blood covered that area. The other son had a
gaping hole where his left eye was, and the inside of his head almost
looked hollowed out. The rest of his body looked as though it had been
severely beaten and he had been dragged by a vehicle for several miles.
These people have endured such cruelty. I wonder if maybe I will be

spared by a much calmer, quicker death, or I will have to endure the

same as these evacuees.

I closed my journal, sat up on the pile of rags I called my bed

and headed forward through the tunnel that connects my bunker to the
secondary defense bunker about thirty yards down the tunnel from the
makeshift barracks the refugees and I decided to call home.
My ears were still ringing from a previous firefight, and my plate
carrier now sat slightly crooked on my chest due to a small bulge in the
bottom left corner. The round that hit me there was a big round, but I was
lucky that the sniper that hit me wasnt a great shot and was quite a
distance away. I struggled to maneuver through the mud and the dying,
and finally reached the secondary defense bunker. I heard screams of
frustration and kept moving toward the center of the room which held the
commander of this sector as well as his two immediate subordinates, who
were both confused lieutenants.
A 7.62 hit the ceiling with a snap and a sentry by the small
opening in the wall screamed ! [Sniper!] and immediately
three other sentries in the room ran towards the two other openings
which faced southeast. When the round hit, I barely reacted at first, but
then I realized I should probably get down so the sniper doesnt get the
satisfaction of unknowingly killing a former US Marine, and current
photo-journalist. I dropped and tactically, but regretfully, rolled through a
puddle of blood and a little mud (the secondary defense bunker is more
elevated and at one of the highest points of the entire base/trench
system). After the sentries returned fire, the entire southeastern horizon
opened up fire, as if one hundred people were pointing flashlights at our
position. The commander looked determined but he almost seemed to
know that this defense point was a lost cause. He stared at the map with
an rock solid look on his face but there was something in his eyes that
told him its time to relax, because its over. His subordinates screamed
questions at him, but he acted as though nothing was happening. He sat

down in the decaying wooden chair behind him and took out a sidearm. I
photographed the situation as he blessed himself, and one subordinate
sank to his knees and held his face, as if he were about to cry. The other
one rushed to the commander and pleaded to keep giving orders and stay
in the fight.
, , ! [God, please forgive
me!] were the commanders last, barely audible words. The sound of his
sidearm was hidden in the sound of the sentries AK-47s, but one sentry
turned around realizing gunfire was coming from their six. He realized
the commander had just committed suicide and one of the lieutenants
was fumbling around for the sidearm, about to kill himself as well. The
sentry then threw his AK to the ground and sprinted toward the LT
blaring ! ' ,
! , !
ourselve !
! [No! If you kill yourself, God will not allow you into his
kingdom! You see we must accept our fate! We must defend ourselves
right until the last second! There is still hope!].
I decided I was going to head back toward the barracks that
held some of my belongings as well as the dying evacuees. Then the
entire tunnel collapsed and there was a massive explosion which knocked
me back a few feet and flung me to the mud. As I tried to get up I was
lost in the beautiful night sky. As I lay there, I heard nothing. I felt
nothing. I felt as though I was finally at peace with myself and
everything around me.
I stared at the constellations which were so clearly visible in
the desolate Ukrainian countryside. I picked out Orions Belt and smiled
to myself as I remembered the second last night before my final
deployment to Afghanistan in 2013. My wife and I spent the night
outdside. It was a rather chilly August night and the mosquitoes were
constantly flying around disturbing us. I could almost feel her soft lips
and sweet voice but she slowly faded out.

As I closed my eyes and thought tried to accept that I was

finally dying, I regained my hearing and opened my eyes to hear another
volley of artillery and mortar strikes devastating the position all around
me. Something told me I needed to get up right then and there. I didnt
want to question how I was still alive, I just decided I would crouch in
the shattered logs and try to determine which direction would be a safe
retreat.
I moved my right arm to grab a hold of a piece of log and help
myself up but then I saw that it was covered in my own blood. I piece of
one of the logs which had once been the bunker was sticking out of the
underside of my forearm and blood was quickly pumping out. I had seen
and treated worse before and so I only went into a mild panic. I tore my
backpack of my back and ripped my trauma kit from the Velcro MOLLE
straps that were on the back of my pack. I grabbed my battle dressings
and wrapped my arm tightly. I avoided using a tourniquet because I
didnt want to have to risk choking off my own arm and later having to
amputate it. It was still functioning so I only applied pressure and
wrapped it. It did however hurt like a bitch and the chunk of wood that I
pulled from the wound was at least five inches long and an inch and a
half wide. This was comparable to the gunshot wound I received on my
final deployment, except I was shot in the side of the left leg, and
somehow the bullet went through.