Crimean notebook: ‘They’ll have to break all my bones to make me a Russian citizen’

Vladimir Putin still swears that there are no Russian troops in Crimea, so their mission is to say as little as possible as they invade this holiday region in their unmarked uniforms and vehicles. It is remarkable how soon you get used to shouting questions at these heavily armed special forces soldiers while they pretend not to be Russians. They tend not to take the bait: the most you’ll get out of them is a curt ‘Nyet’. I wandered up to an officer who seemed to be in charge of seizing a Ukrainian naval base in the old Tartar capital of Bakhchisaray. He wore all black, his face hidden by a balaclava and his vest stuffed with nasty-looking weapons. ‘Can we talk?’ I asked. ‘Don’t ask stupid questions,’ he snapped, in what my interpreter said was a strong Russian accent. ‘Of course I am not going to answer them.’

The Ukrainian officers, by contrast, tell you whatever you want and then insist you take their mobile numbers. Take, for example, Colonel Yuli Mamchuk, who marched his motley force of 300 soldiers into the first Russian fire of this conflict. He happily chatted to reporters throughout the standoff. At one point his mobile rang — I asked who it was. The defence ministry in Kiev, he replied. ‘They are just telling me to do things in my best interests.’ Little wonder these officers feel abandoned by their leaders.

I have been here for three weeks, after expecting to stay three days. I brought just one pair of jeans. They split, so I bought a replacement pair, which are now so filthy I suspect they could go to war on their own. I foolishly thought I’d take out money on arrival — hard to do when the cash machines are closing down.