Deserters used to be shot – now they’re coming to Ukraine’s rescue

 Oleksandr raises his first shot to his family and friends. The second is for the war to end soon.

The third, without clinking glasses, honours the thousands of soldiers killed defending Ukraine from Russia’s invasion.

“You don’t raise a glass to the fallen,” he murmurs, gripping the small horilka (vodka) shot glass in his hand.

It could be any table, in any home, of any Ukrainian city. Yet it reveals something once unusual, now increasingly common in Ukraine.

For the past year and a half, Oleksandr has not set foot out of his home. The 36-year-old is now afraid of going outside. He fears being drafted and dying in a trench.

“I feel guilty for not joining the army,” Oleksandr admits. “But I’m not ashamed to say that I’m scared of joining the infantry. The shortage of men is huge, and many new mobilised end up there.”

He is not alone. Like him, around 800,000 men have gone underground, changing address or working off the books, according to Dmytro Natalukha, head of the committee on economic development in Ukraine’s parliament.

That estimate does not include the many thousands more who rely on legal exemptions, work in sectors deemed “critical” by the state, or exploit loopholes by prolonging university studies or undergoing medical procedures to buy time.

Others, like Oleksandr, simply live in hope that their doorbell will never ring again.

“I could have left the country; my family has contacts, but I refuse. I have principles,” he says.

“I don’t expect soldiers to understand. For me, it is a way of sharing the pain with others. I do it for myself, though I’m sure my wife considers this a form of masochistic egoism.”

Therein lie the contradictions of a man and a country fighting for survival on the battlefield and at the negotiating table.

Volodymyr Zelensky’s visit to Washington, and the meeting between Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin in Alaska, showed just how far apart Moscow and Kyiv remain.

Russia demands the handover of the entire Donbas; Ukraine, real security guarantees. If Mr Zelensky needs to keep fighting, he needs more men.

So, what is Kyiv doing to confront this manpower crisis? Expanding its pool of recruits – and protecting the ones it already has.

Wearing goggles and slouched in a beach chair, a soldier, codename “Old”, hunts Russians from a dugout on the Lyman front. He and his brother, codename “Google”, are FPV drone pilots, the first in one of Ukraine’s most successful new units, the 20th K-2 Regiment of Unmanned Systems.

Between flights, they smile as they recall their last “holiday”. This is a joke among their comrades. Beyond their aptitude for killing enemies, they are known for deserting and returning.

Like them, nearly 30,000 soldiers rejoined the Ukrainian army between December 2024 and August 2025, according to official figures.

It followed a law passed by the Ukrainian parliament last November, granting amnesty to those returning voluntarily after their first evasion from the front.

Desertion is not always about running from the army. Some sought to avoid suicidal orders or shortages of weapons; others just wanted to switch brigades in a still rigid Soviet-style system, several officers told The Telegraph.

And although the vast majority of dodgers have no intention of coming back – more than 150,000 cases were recorded in the past 18 months – they remain a valuable resource for replenishing depleted units. Men who know the job, understand the problems, and need no extra time to train.

“We had all the equipment we needed, but the commander kept ordering us to destroy cheap Russian cars instead of saving the lives of our infantry in the trenches. And we didn’t agree with that,” says Google, who last year was fighting on the Avdiivka front with the 110th brigade.

The brothers joined K-2 in early 2025, one of the new drone units created by Ukraine’s high command last autumn.

Among the troops, the regiment is highly regarded for listening to soldiers and giving them new weapons and technical tools, even while fighting on one of the toughest fronts. Perhaps that is why half of the first 7,000 enlistment applications came from former deserters.

This success has been replicated in other brigades through two common elements: protecting human life and developing technology.

Mine clearance, delivery of ammunition and food, and the evacuation of wounded soldiers are already carried out with ground and aerial vehicles in many parts of the front. Robots reduce Ukraine’s demand for manpower and spark the interest of recruits in elite brigades.

Khartiia, the 13th Brigade of the National Guard, is one of them. It is also a pioneer in adopting three other solutions Ukraine has found to its manpower crisis: foreign fighters, women and recruits under 25.

“The training here is great. The pay is good,” says Astro, taking a breath in a Kharkiv forest.

“But sometimes the Ukrainians make mistakes. The army has too many civilians. We, at least, have some experience.”

A former Colombian soldier, he is one of thousands of Latin Americans who have crossed the Atlantic to fight Russia. By 2025, nearly 40 per cent of the estimated 16,000 foreigners in Ukraine’s army came from South America.

Their experience fighting against guerrillas, drug cartels, and in different foreign wars has made them prized soldiers in Kyiv’s infantry.

The incentive is strong for them too: in a Ukrainian trench, a soldier earns 10 times what he would in the Colombian jungle. “They are great fighters, but they eat a lot,” jokes Stanislav Yablonsky, Khartiia’s press officer.

The brigade’s new commander is of Cuban descent. And even one of its battalions is called “Guajiro”, in tribute to a Latin American captain of the same name who was killed in combat, and now brings together Spanish-speaking combatants.

But neither returned deserters nor foreign fighters are enough to cover more than 600 miles of active front while planning future offensives.

That is why in Ukraine – and abroad, with Washington leading – calls are mounting to lower the draft age. Currently set at 25, the cut-off is a historical anomaly, but no one in Kyiv is willing to take the controversial and politicised decision to change it.

In Europe’s 20th-century wars, conscription was set at 18, as it was in Britain at the outbreak of the Second World War. Or even lower in moments of greatest need, from Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union to Spain’s civil war.

For many, this is proof that Ukraine’s situation is not yet critical. For others, it is the last lifeboat of a state whose economy and demography cause almost as many headaches as Moscow.

But the Ukrainian military high command realised it needed fresh legs and young blood in an army with an average age of 45. So, in February, Kyiv launched a voluntary campaign to recruit young men aged 18 to 24 for the infantry.

The terms: a one-year contract, 80 days of training, a £3,700 bonus, a zero-interest house mortgage, free healthcare, permission to travel abroad and the guarantee of a year free from mobilisation after the first 12 months of service.

In the first two months, 500 men signed up, and another 1,500 were in process. Since then, no further official figures have been released, but the programme has expanded.

The scheme now includes drone pilots – obliged to commit for two years instead of one – and has multiplied the number of brigades available, from the initial six to 46.

Mala, 44, has three children, earrings with Ukraine’s coat of arms, red nails and pink lips. Her eldest son jokes she also has “balls of steel”. She does things many men would never dare.

A drone pilot with the 39th Brigade, she is one of 70,000 women serving in the armed forces of Ukraine.

Their presence in combat is still limited, but the drone war of 2025 is opening doors beyond the traditional roles of medicine, administration or communications. Mala is now deployed on the Kherson front.

“Our men don’t want to serve and say the girls are no use, but our women are stronger than many of them,” Mala says, nodding when she hears: “Ukraine has always been a matriarchy.”

But the debate has yet to take hold in Ukrainian society, even as more and more women consider joining the army. Alona, 36, has been weighing it up for months.

“Some military friends told me that women have more prejudice against the army than the army has against us,” she says.

Her biggest doubt is whether, after serving for a time, she would be able to leave. Martial law theoretically prevents it. Most contracts last until the end of the war.

When will that be? The uncertainty deters many from taking the plunge.

That is why active soldiers demand a new rotation system to balance military and personal life. But for that to happen, Kyiv’s manpower crisis needs to be resolved.

A circle that feeds on itself: without enough men and women, there is less freedom. And without freedom, fewer Ukrainians are willing to fight for it.