The fuel crisis in Russia is no longer a slow bleed; it is a haemorrhage. British intelligence has confirmed that Ukrainian strikes on Russian-occupied territories—specifically fuel depots in Donetsk and Luhansk—have pushed Russia’s logistical capacity to the edge. This is not war as a game of chess. This is war as a gut punch, and Russia is gasping for air.
Consider the irony. The Kremlin, which for two years has boasted of its Soviet-era reserves and its ability to outlast the West, now finds its own tanks and trucks running on fumes. The strikes, carefully calibrated to hit the nodes of supply rather than the front lines themselves, reveal a Ukrainian strategy that is both surgical and savage. It is a page out of the playbook of ancient sieges: starve the enemy of his means, and the fortress will fall not to the battering ram but to the empty belly.
The numbers are telling. British intelligence reports that Russian fuel losses in the occupied territories have risen by 40% in the last month. This is not a statistic; it is a sentence. A modern army without fuel is a corpse with a gun. The Russian military, already plagued by corruption and poor morale, now faces the prospect of abandoning equipment or relying on donkey carts. Yes, donkey carts. Reports from the front suggest that in some sectors, Russian troops have resorted to using horses and mules to move supplies. We are witnessing a regression to the 19th century, a military that once terrified the world now reduced to pre-industrial logistics.
Let us not mince words. The fuel crisis is not merely a tactical inconvenience; it is a strategic catastrophe. Without fuel, Russia cannot maintain its artillery barrages, its armored columns, or its air support. The offensive in Kharkiv, already stalled, may become a rout. The loss of fuel depots in occupied Crimea—yes, that crown jewel of Putin’s ambition—means the Black Sea Fleet is now a sitting duck. And in the Donbas, the grinding advance that Russia has pursued for months is now at risk of collapsing into a retreat.
What does this mean for the war? It means that Ukraine, far from being on the back foot, is now dictating the tempo. The strikes on fuel are a form of economic warfare, a declaration that Russia’s ability to project power is finite. It is a reminder that even the largest army is tethered to its supply lines. And those supply lines are now burning.
The parallels to the fall of the Roman Empire are unavoidable. Not the sack of Rome, but the slow decay of an overstretched power that could no longer feed its legions. Rome’s decline was not sudden; it was a series of small cuts, each one a little deeper, until the empire bled out. Russia today is a patient hemorrhaging on the steppes of Ukraine. The fuel crisis is the latest gash, and the Kremlin’s doctors—the generals, the oligarchs, the propagandists—are running out of bandages.
And yet, the West should not celebrate too quickly. A wounded bear is dangerous. Putin, cornered and desperate, may escalate in ways that defy logic. The fuel crisis could trigger a panic, a reckless use of tactical nuclear weapons, or a full mobilization that turns Russia into a garrison state. But for now, the news is clear: Ukraine is winning the war of attrition. The strikes on fuel depots are a masterstroke, a demonstration that this war is not about territory alone. It is about who can sustain the fight. And Russia, for all its bluster, is running on empty.
So let the historians take note. In the annals of this conflict, the destruction of fuel depots in occupied Ukraine will be remembered as the moment when Russia’s war machine began to sputter and stall. The question now is not whether Russia can win, but how long it can survive its own defeat.
