"They won't reach us."
The story of conscript Artem Dobrodumsky, who wanted to "pay his debt to his homeland" and move on with his life, but died near Kursk.
Artem Dobrodumsky practiced karate and graduated from the cadet corps. But unlike his classmates, he didn't want to be a soldier—he enrolled in a naval academy. He had many plans: getting married, working at sea, and building a house. All that remained was to complete his military service. But Artem never returned home: a week after the Ukrainian Armed Forces invaded the Kursk region, he burned to death in a dugout after a drone strike. "NeMoskva" tells the story of Artem's life—and how war kills even those who didn't intend to fight.
Artem Dobrodumsky died without ever entering combat. He likely didn't even have time to see the enemy—a Ukrainian drone had landed in his shelter first, his relatives say. An explosion and fire ignited, and the bodies of everyone inside were charred beyond recognition. This happened on August 13, at the end of the first week of the Ukrainian Armed Forces' invasion of the Kursk region. Artem had been transferred there from Pskov in late May.
In November 2024, Dobrodumsky was expecting to be discharged, and in December, his own wedding. His fiancée, Natasha, was already choosing her dress. He had proposed to her before joining the army, when he himself hadn't even turned twenty-one.
"He had a good example—his parents, their strong family," says Natasha. "And that's what he strove for, too: stability, one person for life. That's why he insisted on preparing in advance."
Artem generally took life seriously, the girl recalls. That's how he was taught—he had graduated from the cadet corps and then from the naval college in Rostov-on-Don. After graduating, he dreamed of moving to Krasnodar, working at sea, and building a house.
Artem was buried in his native Kamensk-Shakhtinsky on October 15, two months after his death. His family spent most of that time waiting for DNA test results. "If it doesn't show anything, we'll accept what we have," the military told the family.
Natasha still hasn't chosen a dress for herself.
The champion and his mascot
Artem Dobrodumsky served in the Airborne Forces. He was readily accepted—he had been practicing karate since childhood. His older sister, Katya (there's a ten-year age difference between her and her brother), shows him childhood photos, in which he's covered in medals.
His father, Andrey Dobrodumsky, introduced him to karate at the age of eight, and Artem was hooked. Katya remembers her brother running every morning, hitting the punching bag, and doing pull-ups on the bar.
At first, Artem attended a club in Kamensk. Then his father found him a better coach in neighboring Shakhty, 75 km from home.
"When he asked to join us, I didn't believe him at first," says Yaroslav Sturov, head of the Shakhty sports club "Georgiy Pobedonosets." "But Andrei Ivanovich replied, 'That's our problem; we're ready to come to you anywhere.'"
Artem's father didn't deceive his coach—for several years, the boy never missed a single practice without an excuse. Three times a week, Dobrodumsky Sr. would take time off from the factory where he worked as an electrician and drive his son to fights. They were also inseparable at competitions.
"Andrey Ivanovich was like a talisman for us," recalls Yaroslav Sturov. "We traveled together to Moscow, St. Petersburg, even Odessa. And he was always there, recording Artem's fights on camera."
And there was plenty to record—Artem was winning one tournament after another. In 2013, here's a photo of him after yet another victory. published local newspaper "Peak".
"This gold medal is Artem's thirty-eighth, won at tournaments of various levels," the article says.
As a teenager, Artem won several times at the East-West International Martial Arts Olympics and was a prize winner at the World Cup and the European Championship.
“There were never any funny incidents with him: where Artem is, there is discipline,” asserts Yaroslav Sturov.
"I decided to take a civilian career."
In 2014, at age 13, Artem's discipline was even greater—his father and coach, after conferring, sent him to study (and live) at the Shakhty Cossack Cadet Corps (SCCC). Artem's sister recalls that the elder Dobrodumsky considered himself a Cossack and wore the uniform.
Their mother wasn't opposed to the move. Artem also agreed—it was easier to attend karate training in Shakhty. At first, the boy was allowed there despite the strict, military-style daily routine at the school: wake up at 6:30 a.m., exercise, cleaning the grounds, breakfast, and then hours of classes. Bedtime arrived at 10:00 p.m. But gradually, the routine won out, and Artem abandoned karate.
He only went home on weekends.
"Order, uniform, regulations—he liked that," Yaroslav Sturov asserts. "His father hoped his son would become an athlete, and then follow a military career, becoming an officer. Artem had those same thoughts, too."
Dobrodumsky studied at the School of Military Culture and Sports for five years. He wasn't a top student—he even got C's. However, from his very first year, teachers recognized his leadership qualities, according to those in the cadet corps.
"He was the 'senior cadet' in his class," recalls vice principal Irina Chertova. "Essentially, he's the same as a commander—responsible for maintaining order in all aspects of class life, and in the absence of the educational officer, he acts as their deputy."
At the end of 2023, a scandal erupted at the ShKKK – local media сообщили, that the corps director, Vitaly Bobylchenko, assaulted a cadet during a physical education class. The boy suffered a broken finger and bruises. Later, former cadets and teachers statedthat violence at the ShKKK was supposedly considered normal. The corps' leadership denied these allegations, and the institution underwent several inspections, but no criminal case was ever opened. Bobylchenko initially received a reprimand, and then got Medal for "contribution to the development of patriotic education."
A classmate of Artem's from the cadet corps insists he never encountered anything like this. For him, the officers-educators were "first and foremost teachers," and Artem served as "an example for everyone."
Deputy Principal Irina Chertova explained to NeMoskva that the cadets at the corps are being educated "in the traditions of pre-revolutionary and modern officer corps."
"This means that a future officer must be able to do everything. Ride a horse, be smart, have military training, and dance."
Artem Dobrodumsky was capable of all of this. But unlike most cadets, he did not pursue a military career. In 2019, shortly before graduation, his father informed the corps leadership that his son had decided to pursue a "civilian career."
He didn't go into details.
"People's opinions can change over time. Everyone's trying to protect their children," Chertova reasons. "Maybe they decided Artem wouldn't pass the Unified State Exam [for admission to a military university]. Or there was something family-related. But Artem liked the military school, and he wanted to keep studying."
Artem's sister Katya says her brother simply changed his mind—he was already interested in becoming a sailor. She insists it was impossible to force someone else's opinion on her brother.
— He had a core: whatever he decided, that’s how it would be.
Asking his father about this won't be possible: in November 2020, Andrei Dobrodumsky died under strange circumstances—he went fishing and disappeared. His body was found in a local pond only four months later. No signs of foul play were found. His funeral was held on April 1st, in a closed coffin.
"He would have been a great sailor."
At this time, Artem was already studying to be an electromechanic at the Rostov Maritime College (part of the Institute of Water Transport, IVT named after G. Ya. Sedov).
The death of his father was a tragedy for him.
"He was really upset, he cried, he couldn't sleep at night," says Yegor Saloid, Artem's classmate and dorm roommate. "I really felt sorry for him."
Here, too, Artem's classmates remembered him as a "diligent, goal-oriented guy." He was also an average student, but completed all assignments on time. Yegor Saloid remembers Dobrodumsky taking notes diligently, in a perfectly neat handwriting.
But Artem was not a recluse either.
"He loved hanging out with girls and smiling at life, looking up at the sky. He was my friend—kind, honest, and generous," Yegor admits.
He communicates with "NeMoskva" while at sea. Artem didn't have time to work full-time at sea, only completing training internships. The first of these was on the sailing vessel "Khersones" in Sevastopol. But Yegor is confident that his friend would have become a "classy sailor"—he had all the makings.
Artem’s sister, Ekaterina, thinks the same.
"He absolutely loved that uniform. He wanted to sail abroad, and he had a pretty good command of English. I never thought my brother would go to sea. I was sure he'd get seasick. I asked, 'Are the waves making you feel sick?' And he said he was fine."
In the summer of 2023, Artem defended his thesis—by this time, he was already renting an apartment in Rostov with Natalia. They had met a year earlier. Artem treated her with great affection, constantly picking her up and walking her to work. One day that summer, after a water park and a trip to Vkusno, Artem got down on one knee at home and proposed.
"Natasha," she answered without hesitation. "We applied through Gosuslugi."
And in the fall of 2023, Dobrodumsky, with a light heart, went into the army—as he expected, for just a year.
“He took it calmly: ‘If it’s necessary, then it’s necessary,’” says his sister.
After the army, he could focus on his career. Upon leaving, Artem enrolled in the same Institute of Higher Technical Education, where he studied correspondence, in the Faculty of Marine Transport Engineering. They offered academic leave during his service.
But Artem did not return from the academy.
"Paratroopers don't abandon their own"
According to relatives, Dobrodumsky served without problems, complaining only about poor food. He was offered a contract, but Artem refused, and his commanders didn't press him.
"Being tied to the army wasn't his thing at all," Ekaterina is convinced. "He just needed to go there, do his duty, and that's it, put this year off. Get on with his life."
Artem's main challenge in training was parachute jumping. He'd been afraid of heights since childhood. When he started flying, he shared his fears with his sister.
"I told him, 'Well, don't jump, you're not being forced!'" she recalls. "And he said, 'Well, of course, I have troops like these, I can't refuse.' And he jumped."
Ekaterina laughs—Artem later admitted to her that he "almost shit himself" the first time. But the second jump was scarier—because he knew what he was getting into.
At the end of May 2024, Artem and his fellow soldiers were sent to the Kursk region. This didn't bother his family: the border region was still peaceful. Artem didn't specify where exactly he was or give any details. He did hint, however, that he was there "unofficially."
The parachute jumps and training stopped. Now Artyom spent all his time digging trenches and building defensive positions. He only had enough energy for food. His sister joked that Artyom was so skilled with a shovel now that he'd dig up the entire garden when he got home.
"I'll never touch it again in my life!" Artem laughed.
On August 6, he wrote to his sister that Ukrainian Armed Forces soldiers had breached the border and invaded the Kursk region. He asked her not to worry and to reassure his mother.
Then Artem began communicating less frequently. He wrote sparingly: missiles and drones were flying, there were casualties, many had been captured. He didn't show any concern, only encouraging words: reinforcements had arrived, the stronghold was strong, and anyway, they wouldn't get there.
But Katya was still worried. She asked her brother: could they get him out of there, since he was a conscript?
"What are you talking about? Paratroopers don't abandon their own. Where would I go? I'll be here until the end," Artem replied.
Two days before his death, Dobrodumsky deleted his correspondence. His family doesn't know how he lived during those final days.
Artyom was right: they had indeed never reached their position. The drone struck the dugout while the soldiers were sleeping after duty. The bodies of four men were found in the ashes. Artyom, along with the other soldiers, was burned beyond recognition. No personal belongings remained—even their metal body tags had melted. Dobrodumsky's family was told the drone was likely loaded with an incendiary mixture.
The conscript never entered into combat.
"The lines there are terrifying."
On August 14, Katya was getting ready to visit her mother, who had been living alone in her parents' home since her husband's death. After leaving, her daughter called to let them know she was coming. A wild scream came over the line, as if her mother had been stabbed. At the end, Katya barely made out the words: "Artyom is dead."
It turned out that men from the military registration and enlistment office had come to my mother's home. Without introducing themselves, they asked her first and last name and briefly relayed the tragic news. There were no condolences offered; instead, the woman was invited to report to the military registration and enlistment office the following day. Having finished, the men left.
Katya is still outraged by this attitude.
"Who gave them the right to notify me like that? What if she has a heart condition? She was home alone!"
The family's last hope was that it was a hoax and that scammers had come to their home. So they rushed to the military registration and enlistment office immediately. But they only confirmed the sad news. They told them to wait for the body to be brought in and asked them to "keep me informed" if anything became clear.
A few days later, my sister and mother were invited to Rostov's TsPOOP 522—the center for receiving, processing, and dispatching the dead. It's located on the grounds of the district military hospital, where the bodies of soldiers killed in Ukraine are transported. The women were shown photographs from the dugout. They "twisted them, turned them over," and, predictably, didn't recognize anyone.
Now, only a DNA test could help. Artem's mother took a paid test to speed up the process. Such tests aren't available in Rostov, so the biopsy was sent to St. Petersburg.
"There was a key phrase—that it's very difficult to identify epithelium for DNA testing in fire victims. I asked [the military investigator], 'What if we can't identify it?' He said, 'Well, let's just go with what we have.'"
Katya didn't know when it would be time for their analysis. She'd been told it would take between three and six months. As she left the hospital, she saw crowds of people also arriving for identification.
— The lines there are terrible, so everything takes a very long time.
"That's how things worked out."
Private houses with slate darkened by time, overgrown trees, and a dirt road stained with asphalt: this is the street in Kamensk, where Artem Dobrodumsky grew up. It's a two-hour drive from Rostov, and half an hour from the border with the LPR.
Kamensk has less than 100,000 residents, but it still makes the news. not infrequentlyDrones are regularly shot down over the city. Or not: at the end of August, a drone crashed in a neighboring village. lit up oil depot. Smoke from the fire spread for kilometers around.
But Kamensk residents mainly complain about the quality of water in the taps (from there it often it's pouring Brown sludge) and garbage. This is evident even after a short walk—the uncollected piles immediately catch your eye. Meanwhile, the lampposts are sometimes painted in the colors of the Russian flag.
I meet Artem's sister, Katya, and his fiancée, Natasha, at a local café. They come together to save time. They're both very busy. Katya has been on maternity leave for a long time and has three children, the youngest of whom is two years old. After her brother's death, the kids have become her salvation—they keep her from falling apart, she says.
"But when I'm alone, I can't control my emotions. They come over me, I cry, and then somehow I move on."
Natasha works full-time as a receptionist at a local hotel. At first, she wanted to move to Krasnodar, but Katya persuaded her to stay—and now she sometimes comes to visit and helps with the children. She and Artem haven't gotten married yet, but Natasha uses his last name on social media.
Dobrodumsky's mother is not speaking to journalists; according to relatives, she is grieving deeply.
Despite Artem's death, his sister and fiancée say they have no complaints against the Ministry of Defense. But only because Artem died on Russian territory. If the conscripts had been sent on a "special operation," Katya insists, questions would have arisen.
"It just worked out that way—the enemy was advancing on our land, and Artyom was defending it," she reasons. "Yes, as a sister, I can ask: why weren't the conscripts withdrawn? But on the other hand, he took an oath. I took one too—if anything happened, I'd be called up, and I wouldn't be able to run away."
Katya explains that before maternity leave, she worked in the "criminal system" and held the rank of warrant officer. She is certain that her brother had no connection with the "special operation": he wasn't interested in it and didn't discuss it with his family. Artyom was a Russian patriot, but he wanted a normal life, and this wasn't his war, her sister asserts.
Katya also believes that her father, had he been alive, would not have gone to Ukraine. Even though in 2014, he himself delivered humanitarian aid to Donbas with the Cossacks.
"What's there to fight for? If they'd come here, then yes. But as it is, what's the point? Everyone wants a peaceful sky above their heads; no one needs war."
Artem's family has not yet received any compensation for his death—the military registration and enlistment office only promised to reimburse their funeral expenses. However, his relatives are entitled to the full range of compensation granted to mobilized and contract soldiers, says military lawyer Maxim Grebenyuk. Not counting regional allowances, this amounts to at least 13 million rubles—the "presidential" payment, a one-time allowance, and insurance premiums.
If there's no compensation, the family will go to court. But right now, something else is more important to Artem's family: they dream of him being nominated for a military award. This will show that his death "hasn't passed without a trace."
"Yes, he wasn't running around there with a machine gun, he wasn't killing the enemy," Katya explains. "But I really want my children to see that medal and be proud of their uncle. My eldest son asks, 'Why did this happen? Why was he there?' And I answer, 'Son, he was defending his homeland. What else can I say?'"
While the award is still unclear, the St. George the Victorious sports club is keeping Artem's memory alive in its own way: at the end of August in Shakhty held A karate tournament was held in his honor, along with other fighters. According to Yaroslav Sturov, Dobrodumsky is the fourth club member to die in a "special operation." A year ago, for example, Denis Shkuro, Artem's friend and tatami partner, was killed. After serving in the army, the young man was mobilized—like Dobrodumsky, he died before the age of 23.
"Why, my dear?"
The Dobrodumskys waited a month and a half for the DNA test results. This was difficult for the family: they had experienced a similar story with their father when he disappeared.
"And you know, Artyom really is there [in the morgue]. We wrote to the commander: 'Maybe he was captured'? No, he's definitely dead. And this anticipation is killing me. I'd love to bury him already, say goodbye—but alas," Katya worried.
…On the morning of October 15, the Dobrodumskys' courtyard is full of people. Many of them hold candles, shielding them with their hands. They gaze at the sealed coffin, draped with the tricolor. On a nearby table are flowers, a paratrooper's beret, and a photo of Artem.
This is a farewell to him.
The priest reads the funeral prayer. Four cadets stand guard at the coffin. One of them feels dizzy from standing there for so long, and Vitaly Bobylchenko, the director of the cadet corps, offers him some smelling salts.
Dobrodumsky's mother and grandmother are crying, sitting on stools. The grandmother tries to stand several times. Once she does, she falls limply against the coffin.
“Why did this happen to you, my dear!..” is heard through the sobs.
A man in a Cossack uniform asks for a candle so he can pray again in the evening.
Artem's friends give farewell speeches.
A local military recruitment office employee also speaks up. He promises the Dobrodumskys assistance "at any moment" and expresses deep gratitude to the mother for her son's rise "to defend against the genocide of Russians and Ukrainians in Donbas."
Having said this, the soldier steps away. A woman in the crowd turns, looking for him.
"He got away?" he says angrily.
This is Natasha's mother, who also came to say goodbye to Artem. Dobrodumsky isn't the first loss in their family; her brother died in April. He signed a contract with the Ministry of Defense and went missing. His body hasn't been returned to his family yet.
As Artyom is lowered into the ground, the guards fire into the air. The orchestra plays the national anthem.
The "Alley of Heroes" at Kamenskoye Cemetery is already full. Soldiers are now buried a little further away, near the outbuildings. Dobrodumsky's family was also offered a plot here, but they declined.
Artem was buried where they thought it was right - next to his father.
The material was prepared jointly with the publishing house "Punctuation Signs".
