07/17/2026

Incoming missiles at 4am, death by the roadside, racing between safe houses in a Land Cruiser called Daisy… Boris Johnson’s terrifying (and top secret) journey to the Ukraine frontline

• BY RICHARD PENDLEBURY
• PHOTOS BY JAMIE WISEMAN

Bombs, cheese binges and a groin protector… Boris’s hair-raising undercover trip to the heart of the war.

When Boris Johnson decided he wanted to see the Ukrainian conflict up close, he asked the Mail’s Richard Pendlebury to take him on what became a surreal and nerve-jangling trip fraught with danger.

‘For goodness’ sake, pull it up over your chin,’ I bark for the third or fourth time since leaving Kyiv. The subject complies, good-naturedly. An olive-green Ukrainian military balaclava I’d bought for the purpose of disguising former British prime minister Boris Johnson is adjusted to my satisfaction.

Boris pictured here with a copy of his book found on sale in a petrol station

His Mr Punch profile, I’d realised, is almost as distinctive as his famously out-of-control blond thatch. Recognition by strangers, however well-meaning, could put us all at even greater risk on this journey to Ukraine’s eastern frontline. To my further, possibly woke, exasperation he now bellows – in those distinctive fruity tones – what has become his balaclava-donning mantra: ‘Burka! Burka! Burka!’

In Kyiv, when I’d first presented him with the headwear as a fait accompli, I’d made the mistake of explaining that it would serve the same purpose as the all-encompassing Islamic robe. In other words, in public, no one must see what lies beneath. I roll my eyes. He chuckles like a naughty schoolboy. Yes, Boris Johnson is heading for the kill zone.

Boris journeys to the frontline of the Ukrainian / Russian war, deep into the area known as the kill zone

Until very shortly before it happened, having sole charge of Mr Johnson in one of the most dangerous warzones in the world would have only occurred in a late-night cheese binge-induced fever dream. Even now, after the event, it still seems a little unreal. Did I really watch him play two furious games of table tennis at 2am in a snow-covered anti-aircraft position? Or take him beyond the dubious safety of the Orikhiv highway drone nets, to better examine a pick-up truck which had just been hit – fatally – by the Russians? Or goggle as this successor to Asquith, Churchill and Thatcher loudly translated ‘erotic’ advice from the problem page of a Ukrainian woman’s magazine, while a frontline battalion HQ staff fell about laughing around us? We’ll return to late-night cheese binges. Because they too are part of this very strange odyssey, which has now been turned into a 90 minute-long television film to be shown on Channel 5 on July 24.

Cameraman Jamie Wiseman, translator-­fixer Oleksandr Kositushenko and I have covered the war in Ukraine since the full-scale Russian invasion began. Much of that time has been dedicated to shooting the Frontline and Crossfire combat documentary films for the Daily Mail’s YouTube platform. These videos have now been watched around 40 million times globally.

Mail photographer and cameraman Jamie Wiseman, one half of the team making the paper’s successful film series ‘Crossfire’ with writer Richard Pendlebury

Mr Johnson has also seen our films, it seems. Through a third party we were asked earlier this year whether we would accept him as a supernumerary on our next trip. His request is not quite as odd as it sounds. Mr Johnson was the first major Western leader to visit Ukraine following the invasion. He also pledged significant military and financial support.

Yet despite regular semi-official wartime visits since, he’s never ventured further east than the government buildings and five-star hotels of the Ukrainian capital. For security reasons, like other foreign VIPs, he hasn’t even stayed ‘in country’ for longer than a few hours. We’re told he’d like to see what the war on the ground really looks like. Would we take him?

It is not a decision to be decided lightly, for several reasons. Going into the kill zone by ourselves in a 25-year-old Land Cruiser called Daisy, which was bought in Milton Keynes for £10,000, is responsibility enough. Mr Johnson is one of Russian President Vladimir Putin’s most outspoken critics. To this day, Kremlin propagandists blame him for starting a war by criminal Western Europe against innocent Russia.

Then there is the question of personal politics. Neither Jamie, nor I, supported Brexit, with which Mr Johnson is synonymous. Yet his support for Ukraine is praiseworthy and, we will come to realise, utterly genuine. Jamie and I foreswear any discussion of domestic politics for the duration. In any case, it will be interesting to have charge of an ex-PM. So we say yes.

This is no official trip. No one except those in a very small inner circle is to know about it beforehand. Or even during. Even the UK Government will only be told at the last moment. In planning emails, we refer to him as ‘Diana’, after another famous ditzy blonde.

Over four years of war we’ve built relationships of trust with Ukrainian military units all along the 600-mile frontline. We’ll choose a couple of friendly brigades as hosts, and warn the commanders that we’re bringing a British VIP to visit. Only shortly before arrival will we tell them it’s their superstar foreign cheerleader. And demand that on no account should his identity and presence become more widely known until the balaclava is whipped off for the last time. What else can we do?

Mr Johnson’s armed Metropolitan Police protection officers – who guard all former PMs – are not allowed to accompany him into Ukraine. Health and safety, apparently. Local bodyguards will look after him between the Polish border and Kyiv. But for 72 hours thereafter Jamie, Oleks and I will be largely responsible for his well-being, accommodation and what passes for safety.

I’d never met Boris Johnson. Two weeks before we leave, I’m invited to do so at his Oxfordshire home. On first sight he’s as eccentric and unkempt as his reputation suggests: fetching firewood in long shorts and a steepling bobble hat. He’s charming but seems preoccupied. His study suggests what I will come to recognise as his inherent chaos.

Against an ornate stone fireplace an air gun is propped, a half bottle of Scotch on the mantelpiece. The floor is covered in papers, and unwashed dinner plates are piled on occasional tables. We drink tea and eat biscuits ‘baked by Carrie’ as we discuss the plan. Afterwards, he drives me back to the railway station in a spectacularly decrepit and untidy people carrier.

Two days before he leaves for Poland, he’s fitted out at home with XXXL helmet and body armour – which includes a groin protector – by a former SAS officer who will be monitoring our trip from London. There’s only so much one can do. The reckless use of social media – livestreaming of convoys, equipment, and positions – has led to countless deaths in this war.

Boris is fitted with a flak jacket by a Ukrainian commander

Just one fan announcing Mr Johnson’s exact location to the world, and who knows what might drop out of the sky and put a full stop to everything. The balaclava is not a Remainer prank to be played on the Brexit king. In any case, it’s February on the steppes. It’ll be bloody cold.

We rendezvous for lunch at a chic restaurant in central Kyiv. Along with a host of other European politicians here to mark the fourth anniversary of the invasion, Mr Johnson has travelled by sleeper train from Warsaw. Unlike the others, he won’t be returning to the Polish capital later today.

This morning, he’s been speaking at a conference at the Hyatt. He’s accompanied to the restaurant by an old friend, Vadym Prystaiko, Ukraine’s former foreign minister and ambassador to the UK. They gossip about Zelensky and Trump. But the meal also proves to be an instructive demonstration, if not an early warning, of the Boris effect.

A waiter is so star struck he drops a glass water jug, which shatters deafeningly. The famous chef bounds out of the kitchen in his whites to beg for a souvenir selfie. On the menu are mummified bees. The maître d’ assures Mr Johnson, ‘We did not kill them, they died naturally during this winter.’ Mr Johnson gamely obliges with a mouthful. He then makes a joke about Ukraine needing a Plan Bee.

Earlier, I had passed the visiting British Foreign Secretary Yvette Cooper being shown the memorial wall to Ukraine’s military dead at St Michael’s monastery. Aside from me, no one recognised her. There was no bee-like buzz.

In Ukraine, Boris Johnson just can’t do incognito. Walking with him back to his hotel after lunch is like being in a rock star’s entourage. Pretty girls sashay ahead of us, filming him over their shoulders. Another puts her hand on her heart as he passes and simpers, ‘Thank you for your support, Mr Johnson.’ Bearded tough guys stop to pump his hand, tears in their eyes. A jogger runs towards us, clocks who he is just as he passes, trips and, as he falls, exclaims, ‘Oh wow… it’s… Boris!’ In this far-flung corner of Eastern Europe Boris-mania still exists. I’m glad we have the balaclava.

That night, in a dry run for our trip east, we take him to visit the ‘Left Bank’ Voluntary Formation of the 112th Territorial Defence Brigade. They are an air-defence unit stationed on the edge of a village an hour’s drive outside Kyiv. His shaven-headed local security detail trail us, in a black luxury vehicle.

Boris Johnson pictured outside Kyiv, where he met soldiers from a ‘Dad’s Army’ unit of air defence volunteers

We’ve filmed the unit several times over the last six months. I hadn’t told Yuri, the commander, who I was bringing tonight and Mr Johnson’s arrival causes a minor sensation. These are part-time soldiers, who for 24 hours each week leave their day jobs behind to become their home city’s first line of defence against nightly Russian Shahed drones and cruise missile attacks.

A wave of 20 Shaheds has been plotted heading our way from Russia. Mr Johnson is driven to one of the gun truck firing positions, in a snow-covered field. It’s a lovely winter’s night, with clouds scudding over a full moon. But the temperature is well below zero and Mr Johnson has neglected to wear the long johns that were bought for him by his chief of staff. As a result, he is ‘bloody cold!’

He watches the triangular red Shahed symbols move across the map on the gun crew’s digital tablet, muttering expletives. But then the drones turn south, away from Kyiv, and we return to the warmth of the hall. There, Mr Johnson devours several varenyky – pumpkin dumplings – and plays two games of table tennis against Yuri, coat off, blond mane flying. I can tell he wants to win. Indeed, I have to call time, or else he’ll be playing all night. And in a few hours the trip to the kill zone begins.

Snow falling, we leave central Kyiv, his local security detail, and the Ukraine he knows, behind us. Our ­destination is Zaporizhzhia oblast, where the frontline is ­hottest, some nine hours’ drive and 400 miles to the east.

Stopped in morning rush-hour traffic, he begins to mumble something about bread. Our VIP companion has the capacity to ­surprise and entertain. I hadn’t known he’d studied Russian at Eton and now he’s translating what’s written on the back of a bakery van in front of us. ‘Our bread makes the ideal toast,’ he recites, delightedly.

Mid-morning, we stop for coffee at a busy petrol station. Mr Johnson wants to stretch his legs. ‘Balaclava!’ I command. ‘Burka, burka, burka!’ comes the response. Now he can wander round the forecourt shop as if he’s wearing a cloak of invisibility rather than disco lights. Then comes a yelp of delight. In a book stand among Dora The Explorer adventures and romantic fiction, he’s found a copy of his biography of Churchill, translated into Ukrainian. I buy it and he spends the next hour lost in his own prose before his chin drops on his chest and he’s asleep.

Seven hours later, we stop at another petrol station, where I buy cheese and Snickers bars for emergency rations. Nearby, an elderly Lada saloon driven by a soldier in battledress is refusing to start. Our balaclava-clad superhero swings into action, pushing the Lada backwards and forwards across the forecourt before it finally bump starts.

Not knowing who has helped him, the soldier shakes Mr Johnson’s hand. The Lada splutters away. ‘When I was young, I owned a Fiat 128, which that Lada was based on,’ he chuckles. ‘Awful car!’

The light is fading as we reach the edge of Zaporizhzhia city, some 20 miles from the frontline. We’re now on the fringes of the kill zone – within striking distance of Russian kamikaze drones. For almost an hour we wait for our military escort in an otherwise deserted rural lane off the highway. They’ve been delayed by enemy action and, because of our guest, I feel we are too exposed here.

But then, as day becomes night, my friend Makar, the deputy commander of the First Battalion of the 65th Mechanised Brigade, and Daria, our former field produ­cer, now a soldier in the 65th, arrive. Mr Johnson is transferred to their ­military vehicle, so he won’t have to pro­duce documents and be ­recognised at army checkpoints. Loose lips sink ships and former PMs.

We are booked into an Airbnb-style apartment on the eighth floor of a Soviet-era apartment block in the city. This close to the frontline, hotels are targets for Russian missiles. Mr Johnson would in any case be recognised by staff. He’s enthused, again. It reminds him, he says, of when he stayed in Romania in 1989.

Oleks tells him we’re now in rocket artillery range of the ­Russians and Mr Johnson blanches: ‘You’re not serious?’ Even so, pizza can still be ordered to the door. ‘Deliverooski,’ our guest quips. He plumps for a pepperoni pizza and as we debate sauces I think, ‘This is so surreal.’

We also drink a bottle of wine and the intention not to discuss ­politics wavers and fails. He predicts Reform has reached its high-water mark and will soon ‘go phut’. ­Allegations of Nigel Farage’s racism at school are all too believ­able. ‘And the child is the father of the man.’ Then he retires to his room to deal with a ‘book deadline crisis’. The sound of gentle snoring can soon be heard.

At 4am he alone is woken by the sound of incoming drones, anti-aircraft fire and then the slam of ballistic missiles hitting a nearby apartment block, much like our own. At least one person is killed and a number of others wounded in the blitz. The war has come to Boris Johnson’s door.

Boris surveys the wreckage of a train hit by Russian drones in Kharkiv. The strike, in January 2026, killed six people and injured many more

In the morning, we find that our guest had then risen, gone to the fridge and eaten all of the communal cheese and giant Snickers bars. ‘I thought it was fair game,’ he protests, a little shamefaced. ‘It was hard to know what was more terrifying. The sound of Jamie snoring or the thump of Putin’s missiles.’

On our way out of the city towards the frontline, we pass a shopping street which had been hit hard by the night’s attack.

‘What is the point of attacking a ­supermarket!’ he rages. ‘Putin is the most intergalactic prat!’ Then: ‘Why can’t the Ukrainians just punch through the Russian lines to ­Mariupol?’

‘Wait until you see how it is on the frontline and you’ll ­understand,’ I reply.

Our day is spent along the main highway to the embattled fortress town of Orikhiv. It’s one of the most dangerous roads in Ukraine. One drives for tens of miles under and between green netting, hung from roadside poles. This provides passing traffic with some protection against Russian kamikaze drones. All journeys are undertaken at maximum possible speed. Mr Johnson does not protest the risk. He wants to see, and what he sees, appals. ‘Something must be done,’ he mutters.

We stop in the devastated village of Komyshuvakha, where a food shop is still operating. But we have to leave almost at once because of a glide bomb alert. Drone-jamming equipment turned on, Makar then drives Mr Johnson to where the twisted and burned remains of an army pick-up truck lie beside an un-netted side road. It was hit the day before by a Russian Lancet drone. ‘Christ,’ says the former PM, with feeling, as we cruise past. The soldiers will not tell us what ­happened to the occupants. It’s not hard to guess. This is the kill zone writ large.

By supper, eaten in another abandoned cottage, the Mr Boris secret is clearly out. A stream of soldiers come to pay homage. If they’re puzzled by his fist-pumping cries of ‘Dobra, dobra, dobra!’ (Good, good, good!) and ‘Come on!’ they are too polite to comment.

The deputy brigade commander also drops by and tells him, ‘Putin won’t visit his own troops in the occupied territory, but you have come to the kill zone. You are a great figure for us. Thank you.’

That night, at battalion HQ, he’s talking to General Volodymyr Shvorak when a soldier comes in and remarks that a Shahed has just passed low over the roof. The margins between life and sudden death are indeed small here.

The following day we return to Kyiv. Along the way, Mr Johnson helps fix a puncture, then writes his Daily Mail column in longhand at 90mph. On arrival, there is more Boris-mania. But he’s clearly exhausted, and a little dejected.

‘I just wish I could do more,’ he confides. In Ukraine he feels his loss of power more than ever, it seems. No foreign politician of his standing has ventured so far into the kill zone, as far as I’m aware. Brexit notwithstanding, that’s earned my respect.

• Editors note: I was unable to transfer some photos and video for this article

https://www.dailymail.com/news/article-15975995/Boris-Kill-Zone-secret-Ukraine-trip.html

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