Ukrainian drones don’t just kill. They deliver oatmeal cookies.

Pavlohrad: The orders started coming in around 7:30 on a Thursday morning — ordinary shopping lists under extraordinary conditions.

Smoked bacon. Oatmeal cookies. Mayonnaise. Mashed potatoes.

Copy that, radioed the commander.

The customers were Ukrainian soldiers in front-line bunkers and trenches, requesting airdrops of provisions by drone. Ukraine has mastered such deliveries out of dire necessity, giving new meaning to drones in a war where they are synonymous with death and destruction.

“We try to make it a bit nicer for them, to lift their spirits, so they don’t feel too down out there,” said a soldier with the call sign Lesyk, who packs parcels for drone drops in the eastern Dnipro region.

“Even small things matter,” he added.

With attack drones now dominating the battlefield, front-line movements carry exceptional risk. That has made it harder to send supplies to front-line soldiers, a challenge that Ukraine has increasingly tried to meet with unmanned aircraft. Soldiers describe catching deliveries of water, power banks and other essentials dropped by drones under the cover of night.

Much of the work is done by heavy Ukrainian-made Vampire drones, which can easily switch from killing enemy soldiers to delivering creature comforts. They can fly in harsh weather, and the Ukrainian military says they are harder than other drones to shoot down.

The Russians call the drones Baba Yaga, after the child-eating witch in Slavic folklore who hunts at night. When they are dropping treats, some Ukrainian soldiers call them “mama drones.”

Cigarettes. Wet wipes. Coffee. Shawarma. Even a chocolate hazelnut birthday cake. Lesyk’s unit, known as the Da Vinci Wolves, tries to fulfill all requests. It aims for daily drops and same-day service, something even Amazon can only dream of for now.

Zhurba, a 22-year-old soldier who, like others interviewed, gave only his call sign in keeping with military protocol, goes shopping every day with a list compiled from radio orders. He brings the items to a narrow room that serves as a pantry and packing facility.

Lesyk, 29, stood in the room one recent morning with five waist-height canvas bags at his feet. He faced a countertop covered with Sharpie markers and unfilled bags. A small whiteboard, affixed to a cabinet hanging above, listed front-line positions and troops’ requests.

Each bag is unique, based on soldiers’ specific requests, Lesyk said, scrawling the name of a position on a fresh sack.

He said he had never heard the term “mama drone.” He laughed when told that others called work like his “Santa Claus.”

“You could say that,” he said with a twinkle in his tired, puffy eyes.

His hands did not stop as he spoke: grabbing loaves of bread and cans of Red Bull, shaking out the next bag. After each item was dropped into a sack, he wiped the corresponding request off his whiteboard with a gray-gloved finger.

He had been doing this work for a month, recovering from a wound sustained in front-line fighting. Because of that experience, Lesyk said, he knows how far “something nice” can go for soldiers in forward positions.

“You can’t sit there on dry rations for long,” Lesyk said, chucking onions into a sack.

During the winter, when the sacks absorb moisture from falling snow, they can be packed with no more than about 10 kilograms (22 pounds) of goods. If a bag comes in underweight, Lesyk drops in packs of Camel cigarettes and handfuls of wrapped candies.

It’s nice, he said, when soldiers come back from positions and say, “So it was you who kept sending us sweets.”

Since Vampires drop parcels from a height, liquids must be packaged extra carefully — or they can explode. Other items run the risk of getting smushed. Clementines get stuffed into Pringles cans. Sandwiches and cabbage rolls go into takeout containers, wrapped with extra plastic for cushion.

Like any last mile delivery service, this is a carefully choreographed production. The parcels must be packed and loaded into a car by noon to be driven to waiting trucks that speed through tunnels of anti-drone nets to a position closer to the front line. There, the parcels are placed on unmanned ground vehicles that shuttle them to the forward positions of Vampire pilots.

Unlike the sounds of other drones, Lesyk and other soldiers said, a Vampire’s buzzing elicits glee — not fear — from Ukrainian troops.

“The guys can tell the drones apart by sound,” Lesyk said. “The enemy doesn’t fly these,” he added.

Around 7 one recent evening, Vampires took flight in the dark, loaded with Lesyk’s packages. Feeds from their cameras showed small red pinlights on the ground below, beacons for drop points. Soon a parcel, appearing white through night-vision cameras, tumbled to the ground. The feed showed a soldier pop out to retrieve it.

“Thanks for the gifts, really nice of you,” came a message across the radio. “Roger that. Love ya,” the command post responded.

Soon, the next day’s orders started coming in.

Water. Apples. Newspaper. Crushed buckwheat. Instant noodles. Sugar. Condensed milk. Loose-leaf tea. Toilet paper. Onions. Hand warmers — lots.

Copy that, a commander radioed back.