Latest news with #Oleh
The Irish Sun
16-05-2025
- Health
- The Irish Sun
Inside jaw-dropping secret hospital on Ukraine front where doctors save hero soldiers' lives with surgery & amputations
RACING into action like a finely tuned F1 mechanic team, medics rush to save the life of yet another soldier blasted by a Russian drone. But this is no ordinary field hospital, perilously close to Ukraine's front line. Advertisement 6 The Sun was granted exclusive access to a top secret Ukrainian hospital underground on the front line 6 23-year-old Oleh was treated at the hospital after suffering concussion and burns to his arm, neck and face This is one of the most jaw-dropping innovations of the three-year-old war — an underground hospital 20ft beneath the surface to protect surgeons from Russian shells. And The Sun saw first-hand how the facility — the only one of its kind in Ukraine — is saving lives daily. We watched as a paramedic raced into the unit's triage bay in a Land Rover Discovery carrying a soldier injured in a drone grenade attack that killed two colleagues. As the 12-strong surgical team leapt into action, the shaken paramedic told us: 'There was a group going to an assault on foot. I heard about it on the radio and went to their position. Advertisement READ MORE ON UKRAINE 'They were brought to my vehicle and I drove here. "There were four of them, two were injured. I think two are probably dead.' The patient, a 23-year-old called Oleh, had suffered concussion and burns to his arm, neck and face. He was rushed into the hospital's red zone where the two operating rooms are on permanent readiness for the most seriously injured, who sometimes need amputations or open-heart surgery. Advertisement Most read in The US Sun Oleh was given painkillers and sedatives as staff — who moments earlier were playing Jenga in the rest area — cut off his military fatigues. Russians hunted down by Ukraine drones as Putin breaks his own ceasefire Life and death They then treated his burns and hooked him up to a monitor to check his vital signs. They also performed a fast protocol — an ultrasound scan of his chest and abdomen for internal injuries. And although he was struggling to catch his breath, Oleh was keen to tell his story. Advertisement Wearing a neck brace and speaking from under a gauze face mask, the bearded soldier later told The Sun: 'We came under fire. We hid in a dugout. They started flushing us out from there with drones. 'After that, they dropped gas . We couldn't stay there any more, so we had to run. There weren't any major shelters. We hid in some bushes. 'As soon as we got into the bushes, either an FPV [First Person View drone] flew in or something was dropped from a drone. My comrade was killed. I survived. 'I was heavily concussed. I lost orientation a bit and couldn't move. Then I started crawling on all fours to another set of bushes, where my other comrades were. Advertisement 'I crawled over to them, and then drones started circling over us again. Another FPV drone hit my comrades. Then just two of us were left. "After that, a vehicle came for us. I made it out. That's already something. Two of my comrades were killed.' 6 Surgeons battle to stabilise patients who arrive needing urgent help in the secret facility The second soldier injured in the attack — a 22-year-old — was brought in soon after Oleh, as another 4x4 came tearing out of the darkness. Advertisement The doctors are sometimes alerted by radio that a patient is coming in, but such is the chaos of the battlefield that the first indication is often when they hear the roar of a vehicle approaching. Clearly in pain, the second patient moaned as nurses tended to the shrapnel wounds that peppered his back and arm. The men's patient numbers — six and seven, meaning they were the unit's sixth and seventh that day — were written on the back of their hands. And medical cards were filled in with their personal details, the unit they were with and their initial medical assessment. Advertisement Oleh's card was placed on his stretcher as an ambulance arrived to take him to a traditional hospital 40 minutes away in a safer zone. It was just 55 minutes after he had arrived. This hospital was built because during the bombing we decided it's much better underground than above ground. It is a game-changer for us in terms of safety . Hospital commander Eugene Antoniuk Head of surgery Yurii Palamerchuk, 52, yelled 'Good luck' as the young soldier was driven away for the next stage of his treatment. Yurii added: 'We work fast and work as a team. There are no extra words or actions, we focus only on what we need to do for the patient.' As politicians inch towards a ceasefire deal, the grim reality of daily life in this cutting-edge field hospital shows just how brutal this war is. Advertisement "It took four months to build and opened towards the end of last year. The medics are based frighteningly close to the front line so injured soldiers can be admitted in the 'golden hour' — the period when initial treatment can be the difference between life and death. That puts the team well within the reach of Russian missiles. Their new subterranean base has been shelled at least four times, but thanks to its depth and the fact the walls and ceilings are lined with 18in-thick tree trunks, no one was hurt. Advertisement The hospital's location in eastern Ukraine is classified information. The Sun team — under strict instructions not to take any external photos that may give away its position — were driven 30 minutes past tank defences and checkpoints on the way to the front line. We pulled off the road on to a track towards what appeared to be crumbling, disused farm buildings, but which were a previous field hospital destroyed in a bombing. The track dipped underground into the triage bay, which is adorned with two flags — a Ukrainian one and a Union Jack that was presented to one of the team when he attended a military surgeons course in the UK. Advertisement 6 The hospital's location in Ukraine is top secret to protect it from Russian bombings As well as the operating rooms, the hospital has an intensive care unit, sleeping quarters, staff rest area, kitchen, offices and bathrooms in six metal barrels buried underground. Hospital commander Eugene Antoniuk, 42, said: 'This hospital was built because in the time of bombing we decided it's much better underground than above ground. "This is a game-changer for us in terms of safety. In terms of medical care for the patient it is exactly the same — the same equipment, the same operation tables and the same medical staff. But we are all safer. Advertisement 'Every day we're receiving patients, but it's very hard because they are targeting our medevacs [evacuation vehicles] with drones. 'Shepherd's pie' 'So it is mostly only at night or in bad weather that we receive patients, when it is safer for the medevac. 'This area has been shelled more than 20 times — this shelter maybe four or five. 'In military life it becomes normal, like having a morning cup of tea. Advertisement "It's very routine. If the bombing happens when we are treating a patient, we can't stop. "One time the surgery team was working in helmets and armour because we needed to save a patient. 'They are all great surgeons who work here. They are good guys. They are my friends. 'Some of our surgeons have studied in England, which is nice because Britain is very supportive of Ukraine. We are receiving very big support from Britain.' Advertisement 6 A Union Jack flag hangs inside the facility in tribute to the support the surgeons have received from the UK Mykhailo Mazur, 27, is one of those who attended a military surgeons course here. He said: 'We saw a little bit of England and had fish and chips, which were wonderful, and some shepherd's pie. 'There is wonderful support from the British people. Your people are ready to help us and we are inspired by that.' Advertisement Head of surgery Yurii, formerly a paediatric surgeon in civvy street, joined up within days of the Russian invasion in 2022. He said: 'At that time it was important to save the lives of our soldiers who were defending our country. 'The surgery was heavy — as hard as the war. The large number of injuries, the damage, they always influenced everyone emotionally. It was hard for everyone.' The dad of three added: 'When I'm recalling my past, how I was working with children and in paediatric surgery, it gives me some warmth and makes me feel better. Advertisement 'I have a dream that this will all be over soon and I will go back to that.' Anaesthesiologist Serhii Koniukh, 44, oversees patients' care throughout their time in the unit. He showed us the fridge which contains two and a half pints of blood for each of the blood groups, but revealed that at critical times staff also donate themselves. He said: 'I have donated three times and my commander has donated four times. Advertisement 'The blood we have here is donated by people who want to help. 'If there is a big bombardment and we need more then the government puts it out on social media and people always respond.' Patients don't stay in the unit for long — two to three hours is normally the longest, by which time they are stabilised and can then be transferred. If they make it here alive then the chances are that they will survive, although some will have life-changing injuries. Advertisement Serhii, a major in the Ukrainian armed forces who also served as a medic when Russia invaded Crimea in 2014, added: 'Seeing people without arms and legs is the hardest thing. 'Recently it was the 80th anniversary of VE Day. People said, then, never again. But it is happening again. 'As for a ceasefire, we wait for a miracle. Until then, only Ukrainian people can protect our country.' As Serhii spoke of his hopes for the future , his colleagues watched the ambulance leave with Oleh safely on board. Advertisement And with that emergency dealt with, it was back to their unfinished game of Jenga. 6 Staff have facilities to relax during their down time before carrying out life saving operations
Scottish Sun
16-05-2025
- Health
- Scottish Sun
Inside jaw-dropping secret hospital on Ukraine front where doctors save hero soldiers' lives with surgery & amputations
Click to share on X/Twitter (Opens in new window) Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) RACING into action like a finely tuned F1 mechanic team, medics rush to save the life of yet another soldier blasted by a Russian drone. But this is no ordinary field hospital, perilously close to Ukraine's front line. Sign up for Scottish Sun newsletter Sign up 6 The Sun was granted exclusive access to a top secret Ukrainian hospital underground on the front line 6 23-year-old Oleh was treated at the hospital after suffering concussion and burns to his arm, neck and face This is one of the most jaw-dropping innovations of the three-year-old war — an underground hospital 20ft beneath the surface to protect surgeons from Russian shells. And The Sun saw first-hand how the facility — the only one of its kind in Ukraine — is saving lives daily. We watched as a paramedic raced into the unit's triage bay in a Land Rover Discovery carrying a soldier injured in a drone grenade attack that killed two colleagues. As the 12-strong surgical team leapt into action, the shaken paramedic told us: 'There was a group going to an assault on foot. I heard about it on the radio and went to their position. 'They were brought to my vehicle and I drove here. "There were four of them, two were injured. I think two are probably dead.' The patient, a 23-year-old called Oleh, had suffered concussion and burns to his arm, neck and face. He was rushed into the hospital's red zone where the two operating rooms are on permanent readiness for the most seriously injured, who sometimes need amputations or open-heart surgery. Oleh was given painkillers and sedatives as staff — who moments earlier were playing Jenga in the rest area — cut off his military fatigues. Russians hunted down by Ukraine drones as Putin breaks his own ceasefire Life and death They then treated his burns and hooked him up to a monitor to check his vital signs. They also performed a fast protocol — an ultrasound scan of his chest and abdomen for internal injuries. And although he was struggling to catch his breath, Oleh was keen to tell his story. Wearing a neck brace and speaking from under a gauze face mask, the bearded soldier later told The Sun: 'We came under fire. We hid in a dugout. They started flushing us out from there with drones. 'After that, they dropped gas. We couldn't stay there any more, so we had to run. There weren't any major shelters. We hid in some bushes. 'As soon as we got into the bushes, either an FPV [First Person View drone] flew in or something was dropped from a drone. My comrade was killed. I survived. 'I was heavily concussed. I lost orientation a bit and couldn't move. Then I started crawling on all fours to another set of bushes, where my other comrades were. 'I crawled over to them, and then drones started circling over us again. Another FPV drone hit my comrades. Then just two of us were left. "After that, a vehicle came for us. I made it out. That's already something. Two of my comrades were killed.' 6 Surgeons battle to stabilise patients who arrive needing urgent help in the secret facility The second soldier injured in the attack — a 22-year-old — was brought in soon after Oleh, as another 4x4 came tearing out of the darkness. The doctors are sometimes alerted by radio that a patient is coming in, but such is the chaos of the battlefield that the first indication is often when they hear the roar of a vehicle approaching. Clearly in pain, the second patient moaned as nurses tended to the shrapnel wounds that peppered his back and arm. The men's patient numbers — six and seven, meaning they were the unit's sixth and seventh that day — were written on the back of their hands. And medical cards were filled in with their personal details, the unit they were with and their initial medical assessment. Oleh's card was placed on his stretcher as an ambulance arrived to take him to a traditional hospital 40 minutes away in a safer zone. It was just 55 minutes after he had arrived. This hospital was built because during the bombing we decided it's much better underground than above ground. It is a game-changer for us in terms of safety . Hospital commander Eugene Antoniuk Head of surgery Yurii Palamerchuk, 52, yelled 'Good luck' as the young soldier was driven away for the next stage of his treatment. Yurii added: 'We work fast and work as a team. There are no extra words or actions, we focus only on what we need to do for the patient.' As politicians inch towards a ceasefire deal, the grim reality of daily life in this cutting-edge field hospital shows just how brutal this war is. "It took four months to build and opened towards the end of last year. The medics are based frighteningly close to the front line so injured soldiers can be admitted in the 'golden hour' — the period when initial treatment can be the difference between life and death. That puts the team well within the reach of Russian missiles. Their new subterranean base has been shelled at least four times, but thanks to its depth and the fact the walls and ceilings are lined with 18in-thick tree trunks, no one was hurt. The hospital's location in eastern Ukraine is classified information. The Sun team — under strict instructions not to take any external photos that may give away its position — were driven 30 minutes past tank defences and checkpoints on the way to the front line. We pulled off the road on to a track towards what appeared to be crumbling, disused farm buildings, but which were a previous field hospital destroyed in a bombing. The track dipped underground into the triage bay, which is adorned with two flags — a Ukrainian one and a Union Jack that was presented to one of the team when he attended a military surgeons course in the UK. 6 The hospital's location in Ukraine is top secret to protect it from Russian bombings As well as the operating rooms, the hospital has an intensive care unit, sleeping quarters, staff rest area, kitchen, offices and bathrooms in six metal barrels buried underground. Hospital commander Eugene Antoniuk, 42, said: 'This hospital was built because in the time of bombing we decided it's much better underground than above ground. "This is a game-changer for us in terms of safety. In terms of medical care for the patient it is exactly the same — the same equipment, the same operation tables and the same medical staff. But we are all safer. 'Every day we're receiving patients, but it's very hard because they are targeting our medevacs [evacuation vehicles] with drones. 'Shepherd's pie' 'So it is mostly only at night or in bad weather that we receive patients, when it is safer for the medevac. 'This area has been shelled more than 20 times — this shelter maybe four or five. 'In military life it becomes normal, like having a morning cup of tea. "It's very routine. If the bombing happens when we are treating a patient, we can't stop. "One time the surgery team was working in helmets and armour because we needed to save a patient. 'They are all great surgeons who work here. They are good guys. They are my friends. 'Some of our surgeons have studied in England, which is nice because Britain is very supportive of Ukraine. We are receiving very big support from Britain.' 6 A Union Jack flag hangs inside the facility in tribute to the support the surgeons have received from the UK Mykhailo Mazur, 27, is one of those who attended a military surgeons course here. He said: 'We saw a little bit of England and had fish and chips, which were wonderful, and some shepherd's pie. 'There is wonderful support from the British people. Your people are ready to help us and we are inspired by that.' Head of surgery Yurii, formerly a paediatric surgeon in civvy street, joined up within days of the Russian invasion in 2022. He said: 'At that time it was important to save the lives of our soldiers who were defending our country. 'The surgery was heavy — as hard as the war. The large number of injuries, the damage, they always influenced everyone emotionally. It was hard for everyone.' The dad of three added: 'When I'm recalling my past, how I was working with children and in paediatric surgery, it gives me some warmth and makes me feel better. 'I have a dream that this will all be over soon and I will go back to that.' Anaesthesiologist Serhii Koniukh, 44, oversees patients' care throughout their time in the unit. He showed us the fridge which contains two and a half pints of blood for each of the blood groups, but revealed that at critical times staff also donate themselves. He said: 'I have donated three times and my commander has donated four times. 'The blood we have here is donated by people who want to help. 'If there is a big bombardment and we need more then the government puts it out on social media and people always respond.' Patients don't stay in the unit for long — two to three hours is normally the longest, by which time they are stabilised and can then be transferred. If they make it here alive then the chances are that they will survive, although some will have life-changing injuries. Serhii, a major in the Ukrainian armed forces who also served as a medic when Russia invaded Crimea in 2014, added: 'Seeing people without arms and legs is the hardest thing. 'Recently it was the 80th anniversary of VE Day. People said, then, never again. But it is happening again. 'As for a ceasefire, we wait for a miracle. Until then, only Ukrainian people can protect our country.' As Serhii spoke of his hopes for the future, his colleagues watched the ambulance leave with Oleh safely on board. And with that emergency dealt with, it was back to their unfinished game of Jenga.
Yahoo
28-04-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Kyiv bids farewell to 17-year-old Danylo and his parents, victims of Russian attack
Kyiv says goodbye to the family who died in the massive Russian attack on the night of 23-24 April – 17-year-old Danylo Khudei, as well as his parents, Viktoriia and Oleh. Source: Suspilne Details: Hundreds of people gathered for the ceremony at the Baikove Cemetery crematorium, as reported by Suspilne. The family lived in the Sviatoshynskyi district of Kyiv, on the first floor of the apartment building that was hit by a Russian missile. Danylo's younger sister, Yana, survived and is in the hospital. The teenager also has an older sister. "Yana is now in the hospital; the best doctors are taking care of her. She is conscious, but her leg is broken, the ligaments in her other leg are torn, and her rib is broken. She is now in a stable condition. She really wanted to come yesterday, she even started getting up despite the pain, forcing herself. She actually got up yesterday. The doctors said it was not necessary and did not let her go," said Andrii, a friend of the family. He lives next door to the apartment building destroyed by the Russian missile and admits that he too was injured in the attack. He remembers the deceased family with great fondness. "It was an incredible family. They were such people that you could even go to their house without calling; they were happy to see you. Uncle Oleh always said: "If you need anything, just tell me and I'll come". Dania also helped out a lot when I was feeling unwell. He would run and buy medicine and bring it to me," says a family friend. Danylo's teachers and fellow students came to say goodbye to Danylo, Viktoriia and Oleh. He was studying at the Kyiv Aviation Vocational College, majoring in Aviation and Rocket and Space Engineering. Danylo's friend Oleksandr says that he wanted to become an aircraft electrician and restore Antonov An-225 Mriia. Many people came to say goodbye to the victims. Photo: Suspilne. Kyiv Friends say that the 17-year-old boy was fond of sports and loved aviation. Danylo's friends say that his father was a military man: he served as a tanker from 2022, was later injured and underwent rehabilitation. Two weeks before the tragedy, he came home, said Danylo's group curator, deputy director of the college, Dmytro Shevchenko. Russian attack on the night of 23-24 April: what is known On the night of 23-24 April, Russia fired 215 missiles of various types and drones at Ukraine. Most of them were used to attack Kyiv, where an entire neighbourhood was damaged. On the morning of 25 April, rescue workers completed search and rescue operations. The attack injured nearly 90 people and killed 12 others. The Russian missile took the lives of brother and sister, 21-year-old Nikita and 19-year-old Sofiia. They were the children of Yaroslav Kozlov, a neurologist at the University Clinic of the Kyiv National University. Later, it was reported that the number of victims of the attack on the capital had increased to 13 people – on 28 April, Tymur Tkachenko, Head of the Kyiv City Military Administration, said that a 45-year-old man had died in hospital from burns. He is survived by a young daughter and a 6-year-old grandson. Support Ukrainska Pravda on Patreon!
Yahoo
12-04-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
No truce on Ukraine's hidden front
The first time I met Stork, he was sawing off a foot. The second, bandaging a boneless shin. The third, this April, he was underground, watching security cameras, waiting for something to move. He only sees the sun once or twice a day when he climbs the stairs from the basement where he sleeps and works. The building, once home to an ordinary Ukrainian family, now serves as a military field hospital near the country's northern border with Russia. The battlefield paramedic's job is to treat the wounded that have been ferried in from the front in Vovchansk, a Ukrainian town just a few kilometres from Russia's Belgorod oblast, where President Volodymyr Zelensky confirmed for the first time this month that Ukrainian troops have been active. Stork's goal is simple: keep the wounded alive long enough to reach the next hospital. Stork and his unit are a long way from the sofas of the Oval Office, the corridors of Brussels and the hotels of Riyadh, where talks on ending the war have taken place in recent months between US, Ukrainian and Russian delegations in recent months. Russia has said it is willing to agree to a ceasefire, but has shown no sign of ending its onslaught. There are fears, meanwhile, that the Trump administration could force Ukraine into a deeply unfavourable deal, having already piled pressure on Ukraine to sue for peace by cutting off aid. In the meantime, the war grinds on. Stork has grown numb to the blood of the wounded; their screams and the horrible silence that precedes their deaths. There's a predictability to it that he can handle, one that can't now be said of politics. 'I don't feel comfortable with the US any more. Not since the elections,' he said, filling out patient charts after an hour spent disinfecting wounds and dressing burns. Oleh, the unit's lead surgeon, scoffed at the idea that Putin wants peace. 'Peace? What peace?' he said, petting his dog. 'Putin has his plans for the invasion. He never changed them.' He is the one who made the decision to relocate the operating theatre closer to the front line. It was taking too long for the wounded to reach the previous site, so Oleh gave the order – set up a new facility underground to keep his comrades alive. He made that call in the autumn as Donald Trump moved closer to re-election, boasting he could end the war in 24 hours. Meanwhile, Mr Zelensky pushed his 10-point victory plan to his allies. 'Our president also said we'd liberate most of the occupied territories in 2023,' says Mykola, an anaesthetist in his fifties who has spent the past three years in uniform. 'And yet, here we are.' Oleh used to work in a hospital in Kharkiv. Now he works with soldiers instead of civilians, in a narrow room heated by a wood stove. Rest is precious and doesn't last long. 'Get up! We've got work!' shouts a voice between bunks. Doctors and paramedics spring from their mattresses and push aside the curtain that separates their makeshift dormitory from the operating room. Caked in mud, three soldiers clamber out of a medevac vehicle wrapped in an anti-drone cage. Two are on their feet. The third, Andrii, lies motionless on a stretcher, his limbs, neck, and face burnt raw after flames swept through his trench. Serhii, another soldier, looks down at his flayed, blistered hands. He opens his eyes wide, but his lips won't move. A yellow crucifix rests on his chest. When he believes painkillers are going to run out, he screams. The enemy is not what scares soldiers most. The unknown is. Mykhailo, an artilleryman with the same brigade operating nearby on the front line, sits underground beside an old Soviet howitzer, waiting for the order to fire. He wears an American flag on his vest. 'It came with the backpack,' Mykhailo shrugs, lowering his head as his comrades snicker. Overhead, rats scurry across the roof, scratching at the plastic. Still smiling, Anatoliy, the squad commander, turns back to a laptop, pointing to a cluster of trees on the screen. Where most would see mud and branches, he spots old enemy positions, tyre tracks, and weak points in the Russian trenches – no zoom needed. 'They're here to take this forest,' he mutters. 'How many men they've sent… it's a scary thought.' He and his men, one of eight brigades redeployed to Ukraine's north-east to stop Moscow's offensive in May 2024, have spent over a year in this position. Putin's goal was to capture Vovchansk, advance towards Kharkiv and batter Ukraine's second-largest city with artillery. It didn't work. Nearly a year on, Russia doesn't fully control Vovchansk, a town with less than 20,000 residents before the full-scale invasion. Today, it lies in ruins, five kilometres from the Russian border. 'Kursk helped take the pressure off. August and September were really quiet,' says Anatoliy. Still, he doesn't think it's time to counter-attack. Russia controls around 100 square kilometres of the Kharkiv region here. 'Better to keep defending,' he says. 'Attacking costs too many lives.' Yet Kyiv recently opened a new front near Belgorod, not far from last summer's incursions into Kursk. In justifying the move, Mr Zelenksy said, 'The war must return to where it came from.' Whether the aim is to buy time, tie down Kremlin forces or keep Putin away from the negotiating table, Moscow now faces hard choices. On March 31, Russia announced a mobilisation wave for 160,000 more troops. But it's not just manpower they're short of. 'Since New Year, most of their assaults are on foot,' says Anatoliy. 'Armoured vehicles? You barely see them. They're just sent to die.' Credit: Ukrainian 225th Separate Assault Regiment He flicks through drone footage of Vovchansk, now a town reduced to rubble. On American support, and how it might affect their military capacity, Anatoliy stays cautious. 'I know they've sent a lot of weapons. But I've never seen any of it. Here, we fight with Soviet equipment.' Yet they've held the line. Will the storm return here, or will they be sent to plug holes in another front? None of the five soldiers in the dugout knows. In their minds, the only certainty is that no ceasefire will last. Even as a Ukrainian delegation prepares for a new Washington visit next week. Wrapped in fresh bandages, Serhii asks for a cigarette with a gesture, just before the second evacuation begins. His name is the only word he has spoken. He won't say more until reaching the hospital. The poor road conditions and thick mud prevent ambulances from reaching this forgotten place. Only buggies, armoured vehicles, and medical 4x4s take the risk. Stork pushes the stretcher and checks the catheter before closing the medevac door. Serhii lies still, dazed by morphine and exhaustion. Within minutes he's asleep, rocked by the jolting ride. Last night's rain has started to dry, but the track remains slick. Fog offers the driver some cover, but everyone in the vehicle knows that evacuating a wounded soldier in daylight is tempting fate. Until each side lays down its weapons, they have no choice. This is war in Ukraine. Here, peace is just a rumour. Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
Telegraph
12-04-2025
- Health
- Telegraph
No truce on Ukraine's hidden front
The first time I met Stork, he was sawing off a foot. The second, bandaging a boneless shin. The third, this April, he was underground, watching security cameras, waiting for something to move. He only sees the sun once or twice a day when he climbs the stairs from the basement where he sleeps and works. The building, once home to an ordinary Ukrainian family, now serves as a military field hospital near the country's northern border with Russia. The battlefield paramedic's job is to treat the wounded that have been ferried in from the front in Vovchansk, a Ukrainian town just a few kilometres from Russia's Belgorod oblast, where President Volodymyr Zelensky confirmed for the first time this month that Ukrainian troops have been active. Stork's goal is simple: keep the wounded alive long enough to reach the next hospital. Stork and his unit are a long way from the sofas of the Oval Office, the corridors of Brussels and the hotels of Riyadh, where talks on ending the war have taken place in recent months between US, Ukrainian and Russian delegations in recent months. Russia has said it is willing to agree to a ceasefire, but has shown no sign of ending its onslaught. There are fears, meanwhile, that the Trump administration could force Ukraine into a deeply unfavourable deal, having already piled pressure on Ukraine to sue for peace by cutting off aid. In the meantime, the war grinds on. Stork has grown numb to the blood of the wounded; their screams and the horrible silence that precedes their deaths. There's a predictability to it that he can handle, one that can't now be said of politics. 'I don't feel comfortable with the US any more. Not since the elections,' he said, filling out patient charts after an hour spent disinfecting wounds and dressing burns. Oleh, the unit's lead surgeon, scoffed at the idea that Putin wants peace. ' Peace? What peace? ' he said, petting his dog. 'Putin has his plans for the invasion. He never changed them.' He is the one who made the decision to relocate the operating theatre closer to the front line. It was taking too long for the wounded to reach the previous site, so Oleh gave the order – set up a new facility underground to keep his comrades alive. He made that call in the autumn as Donald Trump moved closer to re-election, boasting he could end the war in 24 hours. Meanwhile, Mr Zelensky pushed his 10-point victory plan to his allies. 'Our president also said we'd liberate most of the occupied territories in 2023,' says Mykola, an anaesthetist in his fifties who has spent the past three years in uniform. 'And yet, here we are.' Oleh used to work in a hospital in Kharkiv. Now he works with soldiers instead of civilians, in a narrow room heated by a wood stove. Rest is precious and doesn't last long. 'Get up! We've got work!' shouts a voice between bunks. Doctors and paramedics spring from their mattresses and push aside the curtain that separates their makeshift dormitory from the operating room. Caked in mud, three soldiers clamber out of a medevac vehicle wrapped in an anti-drone cage. Two are on their feet. The third, Andrii, lies motionless on a stretcher, his limbs, neck, and face burnt raw after flames swept through his trench. Serhii, another soldier, looks down at his flayed, blistered hands. He opens his eyes wide, but his lips won't move. A yellow crucifix rests on his chest. When he believes painkillers are going to run out, he screams. The enemy is not what scares soldiers most. The unknown is. Mykhailo, an artilleryman with the same brigade operating nearby on the front line, sits underground beside an old Soviet howitzer, waiting for the order to fire. He wears an American flag on his vest. 'It came with the backpack,' Mykhailo shrugs, lowering his head as his comrades snicker. Overhead, rats scurry across the roof, scratching at the plastic. Still smiling, Anatoliy, the squad commander, turns back to a laptop, pointing to a cluster of trees on the screen. Where most would see mud and branches, he spots old enemy positions, tyre tracks, and weak points in the Russian trenches – no zoom needed. 'They're here to take this forest,' he mutters. 'How many men they've sent… it's a scary thought.' He and his men, one of eight brigades redeployed to Ukraine's north-east to stop Moscow's offensive in May 2024, have spent over a year in this position. Putin's goal was to capture Vovchansk, advance towards Kharkiv and batter Ukraine's second-largest city with artillery. It didn't work. Nearly a year on, Russia doesn't fully control Vovchansk, a town with less than 20,000 residents before the full-scale invasion. Today, it lies in ruins, five kilometres from the Russian border. 'Kursk helped take the pressure off. August and September were really quiet,' says Anatoliy. Still, he doesn't think it's time to counter-attack. Russia controls around 100 square kilometres of the Kharkiv region here. 'Better to keep defending,' he says. 'Attacking costs too many lives.' Yet Kyiv recently opened a new front near Belgorod, not far from last summer's incursions into Kursk. In justifying the move, Mr Zelenksy said, 'The war must return to where it came from.' Whether the aim is to buy time, tie down Kremlin forces or keep Putin away from the negotiating table, Moscow now faces hard choices. On March 31, Russia announced a mobilisation wave for 160,000 more troops. But it's not just manpower they're short of. 'Since New Year, most of their assaults are on foot,' says Anatoliy. 'Armoured vehicles? You barely see them. They're just sent to die.' He flicks through drone footage of Vovchansk, now a town reduced to rubble. On American support, and how it might affect their military capacity, Anatoliy stays cautious. 'I know they've sent a lot of weapons. But I've never seen any of it. Here, we fight with Soviet equipment.' Yet they've held the line. Will the storm return here, or will they be sent to plug holes in another front? None of the five soldiers in the dugout knows. In their minds, the only certainty is that no ceasefire will last. Even as a Ukrainian delegation prepares for a new Washington visit next week. Wrapped in fresh bandages, Serhii asks for a cigarette with a gesture, just before the second evacuation begins. His name is the only word he has spoken. He won't say more until reaching the hospital. The poor road conditions and thick mud prevent ambulances from reaching this forgotten place. Only buggies, armoured vehicles, and medical 4x4s take the risk. Stork pushes the stretcher and checks the catheter before closing the medevac door. Serhii lies still, dazed by morphine and exhaustion. Within minutes he's asleep, rocked by the jolting ride. Last night's rain has started to dry, but the track remains slick. Fog offers the driver some cover, but everyone in the vehicle knows that evacuating a wounded soldier in daylight is tempting fate. Until each side lays down its weapons, they have no choice. This is war in Ukraine. Here, peace is just a rumour.
