A customer in the Winston Churchill Cafe and cigar shop – the unlikely refuge on Dobropillia’s leafy Shevchenka Avenue – describes the mood with a sobering clarity: “Everyone respects Churchill here; he is a symbol of resistance. If he were alive now, the war probably wouldn’t have happened.”
Two weeks of Russian military escalation have hollowed out this frontline town, and Dobropillia’s mayor has issued a mandatory evacuation order as indiscriminate attacks intensify.
Earlier this week, Putin’s forces breached the nearby Ukrainian defence line, pushing roughly 10 miles north-east of the town to within six miles of its perimeter. The grinding advance has sown panic amongst those still remaining.
The Churchill Cafe stands, for now, as one of the last vestiges of normal life. Outside, the streets are empty or thinning; inside, the atmosphere is tense, the chatter hushed, as patrons scroll their devices for updates.
Most of Dobropillia’s 28,000 residents have fled westwards. Vehicles laden with belongings race past, a desperate bid to outrun drones that may scour the skies.
“Three weeks ago, this was a normal, thriving town,” says a customer, surrounded by photographs of Britain’s wartime leadership. People are fearful and no one agrees to share their name.
“They started hitting us with artillery and glide bombs, now drones are hitting cars and pedestrians. Everything has changed in the last three weeks; it is no longer safe,” he says.
The current offensive appears designed to seize as much territory as possible before a Friday peace summit between Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin in Anchorage, Alaska.
Extra Ukrainian brigades have been deployed to repel the incursion, though reports suggest the Russians have yet to be expelled.
They are increasingly employing small, hard-to-detect Diversionary-Reconnaissance Groups (DRGs) that slip through overstretched defensive lines before retreating into the surrounding shadows.
The incursion carries strategic consequences beyond Dobropillia, threatening to sever Pokrovsk and Dobropillia from Ukraine’s Donbas strongholds of Kostyantynivka and Kramatorsk.
“It is stressful for everyone, of course. It is not pleasant to hear these things,” says the woman at the till. “This is a place where people can gather to get news; events are moving so quickly. I am not sure how much longer I can stay open.”
In the town square, scarred by the site of a massive ballistic missile attack, the European Snack Store remains open between two shops destroyed in the blast.
Ivan, 49, the store manager, recalls his brush with danger: “I hid under the counter when the attack happened. I was lucky; my neighbours were not.”
He foresees a difficult future: “Business is slowing down; it’s too dangerous here. I’ve had enough, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
He has already moved his business, once from Pokrovsk and now plans to relocate westward to Petropavlivka. “The future for Dobropillia does not look good. Pokrovsk, Bakhmut, Avdiivka, this is the playbook,” he says, alluding to other towns reduced to rubble and then occupied.
Anna, 33, is hurriedly stocking up groceries. “The situation is getting worse, and the shelling is intensifying. I’ve already moved my children to Dnipro. I’m only here for my job at the post office, but I’ve asked for a transfer.
“I want to live without the threat of shelling and drones. I’ve lived all my life here; everything I own is here, but the Russians are forcing me to leave. I am not scared, I am used to it.”
Despite all, some intend to stay. Among them are the elderly, the less mobile, and essential workers who have no obvious alternative.
On a bench under some trees to protect him from drones, Roman, 27, who works in the local coal mine, says he will remain for now: “It’s my job; I have nothing else.”
He concedes, however, that the Russians have “completely destroyed” other mines they have captured.
Most apartments lie empty.
Maria, 78, emerges from her doorway: “All my neighbours have left; I will stay. I have my apartment and a cat. Everything I own is here. We are a strong nation; our defenders will not let them in. I am alone, but I am not afraid.”
Back at the Churchill Cafe, the sound of distant booms punctuates the arrival of Artem, a soldier with Ukraine’s 25th Airborne Brigade, who steps inside with bags slung over his shoulder.
“This will be my final coffee here. I’m moving out of the town and my apartment further west,” he says, weary but unbowed.
He has little appetite for Friday’s possible breakthroughs in Alaska: “Putin does not want peace; he wants this town and all of Ukraine.”
He adds: “I see no end to this war. It’s sad to see my home likely become the front line; Russia will destroy it.”
