What It Feels Like When a Russian FPV Drone Attacks a Reporter—and That Reporter Is You

This story contains vivid descriptions of warfare, injury, and death, including a firsthand account of a drone attack. Reader discretion is advised.

It is still daytime, and the neon green light of the OKKO petrol station at the main exit of the city is just starting to illuminate the industrial grey. This is the place to enjoy a creamy latte and eat a vertical hot dog before risking your life. When they are in a good mood, the attendants will paint a small smiley face with mayonnaise on the tip of the hot dog. 

My thoughts about this are mixed. 

It looks, first of all, like a grinning penis. Then, I find happy-themed meat products quite bizarre, even for my taste. And third, it seems somehow very sobering that this is possibly the last impression of civilization you see before driving to war.

150 KG of explosives

We get into the minivan. It is loaded up to the brink with ammunition. 

“If you die, it’ll be fast,” are the commander's last words. He gets into the front. The car begins to reverse, and someone yells: “Ukraine or death.”

20 minutes later, we are speeding down the open road in the overloaded minivan. We cross the magic line. Behind us, the Ukraine of hot dogs, jokes, love, and life. In front of us: the other Ukraine. The destroyed, ravaged land. It smells of smoke and gunpowder. It tastes like dry meat, rations, and energy drinks. 

Some come back intact, some broken, and some in a black bag.

The commander hits the brakes. “OUT!” he screams. Ambush. 

The Russian drone was sitting around 100 meters in front of us by the side of the road—waiting. It soars into the air, and I hear the buzzing. I don’t look up, but jump out and dive into the brush by the side of the road. You have two hopes in this situation. Actually three. One is that the propeller gets tangled in the bushes, and the drone falls. Two is that the pilot chooses the car, or someone else, as their target. The third option: You shoot it down. 

The commander bravely picks option three. The Russian pilot sitting at the other end of the fiber-optic cable—option two. 

Poised 15 meters behind the car, the commander fires, misses, and the drone smacks into the windshield and explodes.

Remember the 150 KG of explosives in the back? In this moment, I do. I freeze, standing parallel to the minibus. Between me and the explosion—15 meters and some trees. I don't move, I don't fall to the ground. I look to the left, and watch. Like a buffoon. Or like someone who knows that his buffoonery has brought him to this point. I think to myself: How ironic. I have done everything, everything possible to get this access, film this story, and now I am here: at the point where everything, absolutely everything, is out of my control. 

It's 2025, Autumn. On a field. The killer robot is attacking. This is it. The last moment of my life.

But God has other plans.

“Chicken Flies Backwards Through 800 Obstacles in 10 Minutes”

In the deepest end of the treeline, I find cover. I finally manage to fiddle the netgun out of its holster. We were gifted it by the producers while filming a story about this nifty new system. It is a black 3D-printed handgun. Looks almost like a Glock. You screw on a large, silver frame that holds a black net. In the barrel, you load a specially designed cartridge. When you pull the trigger, the gas accelerates the small 18 metal cylinders, packed in a circle around the steel frame. The net then shoots out and expands to around 16m2 of hope. If you aim correctly, you can knock down an FPV at up to 30meters. Sounds easy, but there are a couple of caveats. Even if hit, the drone will still fall towards you. The net will weaken, but not halt its trajectory. And when it hits the ground, it might still explode. So you gotta hit it, and dash the fuck out of the way. 

The commander and another soldier get the bags out of the smoldering car. There is a good chance this was not the last FPV, and we are at the beginning of a manhunt. Until the evacuation point, it's a couple of kilometers on foot. Over open field and road. The situation is, to be frank, pretty fucked. The flying killer robots are as fast as a cheetah on speed, and the size of a chicken, but a chicken with a Red Bull advertisement deal. The YouTube video with 39 million clicks is titled: “Thread the Needle. Chicken Flies Backwards Through 800 Obstacles in 10 Minutes. Unbelievable.”

Before I can make the first step, a soldier points at the ground. “Don't move! Mine!” Meticulously hidden in what looks like a natural patch of high grass, visible only in its most rudimentary contours, is what they call a ZM-ka. I'll spare you the technical definition. If it goes off, we will finally meet God after all. I step over the mine, trying not to let my heart fall out of my ass and detonate the deathtrap underneath. It is the beginning of a sweaty and arduous field trip. We leave five meters between us, we turn, we twist our necks, scouring the sky as the sun sets.

Mon ami

We walk, and sweat, and walk. Somewhere between the horizon, the treeline, the silhouettes of the others panting through the sinking sun, I see my friend Antoni. Antoni Lallican, the French photographer who died just a couple of weeks earlier. Exactly like this, by a drone, on a field.

I see Antoni dancing, without a t-shirt, his helmet loosely poised on his head. Dancing to no music. Antoni, with his wife in a headscarf, giving the thumbs up. Antoni with blonde hair. I see the last images I ever saw of him: lying on the field, his leg ripped off, his insides pouring out onto the dust.

Somehow, we make it to the evacuation point. We wait in the dark at an abandoned bus stop. Drones buzz overhead. Ours, theirs? Who knows…

At last, a pickup comes and brings us back to the petrol station. “Are we still in the zone?” I shout through the night air. The soldier next to me shouts back: “As long as you're not in Poland picking strawberries, you are still in the zone!” 

He is right.

In October 2025, three journalists were killed in Russian drone attacks: French photographer Antoni Lallican and Ukrainian reporters Olena Hramova and Yevhen Karmazin. As of November 13, 2025, at least 138 media workers have been killed since the beginning of the Russian full-scale invasion of Ukraine. The casualties include 21 media professionals who died while carrying out their duties and 10 media workers killed as civilian victims, according to verified data from the National Union of Journalists of Ukraine (NUJU) and the International Federation of Journalists. 107 journalists and media employees were killed while fighting in the Ukrainian Armed Forces.

Russia’s drone pilots don’t care if you’re holding a gun or a camera. They come to kill.

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