Commander Twig and her girls pull into a café near the Zaporizhia front and order non-alcoholic mojitos. In the distance is the occasional thud of outgoing artillery. The word “killing” implies murder, which would be wrong, says Twig’s comrade, Titan; she prefers to call her job “liquidating Russians”. The five-strong unit is one of a small but growing number of all-female drone crews. Genitals are irrelevant to flying drones, notes Maria Berlinska, a campaigner for military women.