"There were 240 of us in the group. Seven were captured. The rest are Cargo 200 (killed)." Andrei from Vitebsk, the 'can opener man', became one of the seven lucky ones

Andrei Lapatniou. Screenshot from video: osbbelpol / YouTube

Andrei Lapatniou was born and lived in Vitebsk. He graduated from the Vitebsk State College of Light Industry and Technologies. He has two young daughters, but he is divorced from his wife.

Lapatniou worked in construction firms, bakeries, the "Marko" factory, and a fruit and vegetable processing plant. He had problems with the law. He has more than a dozen administrative offenses for drunkenness. Also four convictions – for drug use under Part 1 of Art. 328 and for violating the regime. From 2017 to 2019, he spent time in penal colony No. 12 for repeat offenders in Orsha.

During the 2020 protests, Andrei was in his hometown, but did not participate. He says he simply "observed from the sidelines."

Read the article with Lapatniou's earlier story: A 33-year-old drug addict from Vitebsk, used as a "can opener" on the front, was captured by Ukrainians

The man went to war in 2024. However, he does not disclose the specific circumstances:

"It just happened... I simply couldn't get to Europe, there were problems. And I ended up in the war through Luhansk."

In Luhansk, he voluntarily signed a contract. The man claims he received almost $2500. He cannot explain his motives for going to fight: "it just happened."

After training, Lapatniou was assigned to his specialty, obtained during his conscription service, as a senior radiotelephone operator. However, instead of working in the rear, he had to participate in large-scale assaults in open terrain.

The Vitebsk native describes modern warfare as a zone where a soldier has almost no chance against technology. According to him, in open areas spanning eight kilometers, artillery or small arms combat loses its meaning, as people are massively destroyed by drones and minefields even on approach.

"After a rest, I went on a combat mission. I survived purely by accident, by misunderstanding. (...) There were only 240 of us in the group. Seven were captured. The rest are, most likely, 'Cargo 200' (killed — NN). (...)

[Drones] drove us into a pit, three, maybe five [meters deep]. There was also a wounded person from our group there. He had moved forward a bit earlier. A guy with no foot, bandaged, tourniqueted. He only managed to say that we needed to get out. And that was it. After that, they covered us.

We died quietly, like in a DDT song," Lapatniou recalls.

Andrei notes that recruiters promise around 20-25 thousand dollars, but "no money is worth a life," and urges Belarusians not even to think about participating in the war:

"From my own experience, I do not recommend it. My advice is — don't come here. This money is not worth it. The chances of survival are very small. The survival rate is only 2%, and what kind of survival is that, I'm in captivity anyway. 'Cargo 200' is only half the trouble. But if you lose your legs and arms and are confined to a bed for life and can't even die, that will be a huge problem. Such people exist."

Reflecting on his future fate, Lapatniou expressed surprise that the Belarusian authorities are not pursuing an exchange of prisoners of war – their own citizens, while releasing political prisoners.

"And why do you think that is?" they asked him.

"Because we are f***ing useless to anyone," the POW replied.

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