Victory can look desolate.

It does inside the eastern Ukrainian town of Lyman, retaken from the Russians at the weekend. The deserted debris-strewn streets are lined by boarded up or burnt-out buildings. Metal sheeting dangling from smashed roofs is buffeted by the wind. Few civilians venture out. We counted almost as many dogs as people - though the population was around 20,000 before the war.

The handful of civilians we met seem shell-shocked by months of bombardment, and uncertain their ordeal is over.

The only surge of life was a convoy of Ukrainian troops riding high on top of armoured personnel carriers, waving and cheering, as they headed out of town, along a road bordered by pine forest.

They roared past evidence of the human cost of Russia's defeat.

The bodies of five dead Russian soldiers lay near each other, now bloated, and contorted by death, but once somebody's husband or somebody's son.

They were in full uniform, with boots still on, as if they might somehow return to the fight. They appear to have been cut down together as they tried to flee.

Nearby we saw a heap of discarded Russian uniforms, sleeping bags, and ration packs. There was an army backpack with a name written on it. We don't know what became of its owner.

Two young volunteers from a Ukrainian humanitarian group were working carefully and quietly, numbering the bodies, and looking for anything that might identify them.

They were kneeling just metres away from mines scattered along the roadside, their dark green colour camouflaged by the grass and leaves. They are a lingering threat from an enemy that has been driven into retreat, or as Russia's defence ministry put it, was "withdrawn to more advantageous positions". That statement has a familiar ring to it after the domino of Russian routs last month in Kharkiv province in the north-east.

Later the volunteers manoeuvred the remains into black body bags and drove them away - some of Russia's fallen soldiers finally leaving the battlefield.