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Telegraph
3 days ago
- Politics
- Telegraph
Thailand and Cambodia cannot afford this war – but neither is prepared to give an inch
The tank screeches as it rolls into the ad-hoc military base before four battle-weary soldiers jump out to re-inspect the hefty vehicle. Around them, the thud of artillery fire reverberates, a near-constant reminder that the forested front line is just three miles south. This is not the image that comes to mind when most people think of Thailand. But since Thursday, when simmering tensions over a long-disputed border with Cambodia ignited into open conflict, these troops have been at the forefront of clashes that have claimed 33 lives, including children. Lt Nitipon, who gave only his first name, told The Telegraph in Sisaket province on Saturday: 'You can hear two sounds right now – one is from artillery fire, the second is from the rocket launcher. It's coming from both sides… all I can tell you is that we are protecting our sovereignty.' The Thai soldier added that while his unit had no intention of ceding ground, they had not escaped their battles unscathed. 'This is the duty for me as a soldier, and I'm very proud to do my duty… but of course I don't want the war to go on because it only brings losses,' Lt Nitipon said. 'People in our unit have been injured and are in treatment right now at the field hospital.' On Saturday, Thailand and Cambodia traded fresh accusations and heavy artillery fire as the conflict between the south-east Asian neighbours entered a third day, with few signs of imminent de-escalation on the ground. In Sisaket – where even the normally ubiquitous 7-11 convenience shops had closed their doors in eerily quiet border towns – military trucks tore down the deserted roads leading to the front line. Throughout the afternoon, The Telegraph heard the frequent boom of artillery. Clashes also spread further west to coastal regions on Saturday, where Thailand's navy joined the fight, despite continued international calls to cease violence, including an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council on Friday. Donald Trump, the US president, wrote on social media on Saturday, referring to tariff negotiations: '[We] do not want to make any Deal, with either Country, if they are fighting – And I have told them so!' But while both sides have talked of peace, Thailand prefers bilateral talks and Cambodia favours international arbitration. Each has also claimed that the other has undermined armistice efforts by continuing to attack civilians, and criticised the use of assets including F-16 jets and rocket launchers. Tita Sanglee, a Bangkok-based associate fellow at the ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute think tank, said: 'I think the Thai military is [trying] to weaken Cambodia's military capabilities before negotiating. 'But my sense is that the fighting will be contained along the border, but will be quite intense. The two sides are at odds over how to resolve disputes, but it's not in their interest to escalate this geographically, partly because of tourism and economic interests.' Bitter spats between the two rivals are not new, with much of the animosity dating back to differing interpretations of a colonial-era map, leading to disputed ownership of ancient temples. But the latest violence is now bloodier than the previous major outbreak, between 2008 and 2011. On Saturday, Cambodia's defence ministry said at least 15 people have been killed so far, while Thailand has put the death toll at 20. In all, 21 civilians have lost their lives across both countries, including an eight-year-old. Thongdee Nimit, 67, said perched on a red plastic chair in the evacuation centre where she's been since Thursday: 'This is the heaviest fighting that I remember. 'The warning came and not even three minutes later – boom, boom, boom. 'It was so scary, and all the soldiers were coming saying 'get out', 'get out'. It wasn't like this at all last time.' Ms Nimit is among thousands of evacuees sheltering in a covered concrete schoolyard, where they are sleeping and eating on mats with little refuge from the humid weather. In all, officials estimate that more than 138,000 people have now been forced to flee their homes in Thailand, plus a further 35,000 in Cambodia. Yinh Ya, an NGO executive who fled Cambodia's Oddar Meanchey province after witnessing heavy shooting, said: 'We left the home and just evacuated the people out, we left out animals and our assets.' 'We're worried because they [Thailand] have used drones and jets to attack the military along the border already,' he told The Telegraph by phone, laying blame squarely at Bangkok's door. 'Even though there has been tension for months, everyone here was shocked by how fast it all happened. There is a lot of fear.' Animosity between the two nations re-emerged in May, after a Cambodian soldier was killed in a skirmish on the disputed 508-mile border. But relations truly imploded after two groups of Thai soldiers were injured by landmines on Wednesday. Thailand claims the ordnance was newly laid, but Cambodia says they are leftovers from a final stint of fighting during the murderous Khmer Rouge regime. Still, soon after the incident, both sides downgraded relations, expelled their neighbour's ambassador and recalled embassy staff. Then on Thursday, heightened tensions ignited into deadly clashes – both sides blame the other for starting the violence. Yet the embers of war are also being fanned by strongmen politicians in Bangkok and Phnom Penh. Escalating tensions have mirrored a rapid decline in relations between Hun Sen and Thaksin Shinawatra, two former prime ministers whose children now hold the role. Or at least, Thaksin's daughter Paetongtarn did – until Hun Sen leaked an audio of a call last month where she kow-towed to the Cambodian leader and criticised her own military, a major red line in Thailand. She has since been suspended, and Thailand plunged into a political crisis. Analysts attempting to explain Hun Sen' s motives for unravelling a once-close friendship – the two men had called each other 'godbrothers' – say it may be linked to a crackdown by the Thai government on scam centres in Cambodia, or because of Thaksin's push to legalise casinos in Thailand, which would threaten business across the border. But through the fighting, he has succeeded at bringing the country together against a common enemy, said Mu Sochua, the head of the opposition Khmer Movement for Democracy. She told The Telegraph: 'His tactic is working… it's like a big wave of outrage,' 'There's nothing to stop this nationalistic sentiment at this moment.' A similar outpouring has been seen in Thailand, where local media have also reported attacks on migrant workers. In Bangkok, one motorbike taxi was seen with a sign on his back on Saturday saying he would 'not accept orders from Khmer/Cambodian people'. Yet, despite his attempts, Thaksin may not be able to capitalise in the same way as Hun Sen, a largely authoritarian figure who has significantly more power domestically. Peter Mumford, the head of the Eurasia group's south-east Asia office, said: 'The military skirmish puts further political pressure on… Paetongtarn and likely emboldens their conservative opponents.' 'If the security or domestic political situation worsens, speculation about a military coup will grow – though we are not there yet.' Yet in Sisaket on Saturday, few were thinking about national politics. Instead, weary residents too anxious to sleep amid artillery fire just wanted life to return to normal – though they, like the soldiers, felt Cambodia was at fault. Pawana Apaisila, a resident, said: 'I cannot sleep at night because I'm just thinking about what's happening and our home. 'None of this is worth it. But then, if we cave to them [Cambodia], I think they will keep wanting more. I am a Thai citizen, I feel we cannot keep losing our land to them.'
The Guardian
18-07-2025
- Health
- The Guardian
In Gaza I saw the suffering of children and the heroism of health workers trying to save them
Heroism is no longer an abstract concept to me – it looks like Ali, who once spotted a quadcopter circling Al-Aqsa hospital in central Gaza, where he'd dropped me off less than an hour earlier. When the first airstrike slammed into the building, Ali ran: not away from danger but towards it, risking his own safety for mine. That morning, as subsequent strikes rattled the walls around us and as I phoned my sister ('Tell Mum and Dad I love them heaps – just in case'), Ali remained by my side. Seldom in history have healthcare workers been called upon to risk their lives simply by reporting for duty. I am not referring to people such as myself – the internationally mobile staff who fly freely in and out of crisis zones, quietly reassured that safety awaits us at the end of our assignments. We return home to security, to family and, sometimes, to applause. Occasionally we are even lauded as heroes. But 'hero' is a label I reject. It does not belong to me. It belongs to those who don't have the option to leave: the Palestinian healthcare and humanitarian workers who have reported for duty every single day for 650 days under siege. Working alongside them has been the greatest honour of my life. And the children we care for – they too carry their own brand of heroism. I think of Nayla*, a 10-year-old girl who came to our field hospital after an airstrike. Her limbs were shattered – and the pressure generated from the shock wave was so immense that her stomach and small intestine had perforated. Her mother, along with her brother, had died in the same strike that left her small body riddled with holes. By then the blockade had ensured our supplies were reduced to critically low levels. Rationing the fuel to run our operating theatres, short on surgical supplies for her fractures and gastrointestinal repairs, and without the specialised nutrition needed to keep her alive, Nayla fought. She was so malnourished that her wounds refused to heal. Infection invaded her bones. The night Nayla awoke from her coma I lay awake in my tent, listening to her screams – she cried for a mother who would never come. Then there were the young siblings, lying side by side. Their bodies had been torn apart by shrapnel and the fragments embedded so deeply that the surgeons had to dig them out, one by one. Just a few feet away lay the bruised and mottled body of a four-month-old orphan. His leg was encased in plaster, after having been broken before he could even learn to crawl. There would be no one to carry him – he had already lost both parents in a separate airstrike two months earlier. These stories were not exceptional. I heard them over and over – different voices and faces, but each story marred by the same injustice. What I witnessed in Gaza was not war – it was a massacre. In among this grief were the myriad staff who had been stripped of their homes and families – yet still travelled from the funerals of their own children and the rubble of their homes to care for the injured and dying. One doctor risked his safety walking four hours each way to complete his 24-hour shift, after airstrikes had rendered roads impassable. A small number even had a brief opportunity to flee in the early weeks of the war. They refused. They chose instead to farewell their families – perhaps for the last time – then quietly returned to their posts. A cursory glance at the reported data shows how real the risk is. Conservative estimates show that airstrikes, shelling and gunshots have killed more than 1,580 healthcare workers and almost 18,000 children. These are not just statistics. They are people I knew. They are the people who stayed. If our leaders allow this to pass without consequence or condemnation, it reveals a disturbing truth about what we are willing to accept: that the execution of healthcare workers and the slaughter of children has become our new norm. The steps needed to save these children – and the workers risking their lives to care for them – are not just nebulous ideals. Australia must demand an unequivocal end to the blockade and weaponisation of aid. The fortnight prior to my departure from Gaza, the specialised nutrition that Nayla had needed initially wasn't available in a single medical facility across the strip. I learned today that she will go on to have her leg amputated. We must demand an end to the bombing of hospitals and bulldozing of ambulances. Al-Aqsa hospital has been targeted with airstrikes yet again since I was last there. Not a single ministry of health hospital remains fully functional. We must demand a permanent ceasefire so that doctors and nurses can care for victims of war, without laying down their own lives. When I think about heroism in the context of sacrifice, I think about Rifaat Radwan, one of 15 Palestinian emergency workers found buried in a mass grave. He was shot while trying to rescue others. Just before he died, he recorded his final words: 'Forgive me, Mama … This is the path I chose to help people.' His words echo those of my colleagues when I once pressed: 'How do you keep going? Aren't you exhausted?' She looked me in the eye, calmly: 'Of course we're tired. But this is our life now and this is probably how I die. If we die, we'll do it saving as many lives as we can.' They are the real heroes. They are the ones who stay. And they deserve more than our silence. * Nayla is a pseudonym to protect patient confidentiality Thienminh Dinh is an Australian specialist emergency physician and was the medical activity manager in Gaza for Médecins Sans Frontières
Washington Post
15-06-2025
- Health
- Washington Post
Ukraine's field hospitals keep getting hit, so they are moving underground
Just a few miles from the front line in eastern Ukraine, almost 20 feet below the surface, the day begins with a brief five-minute exchange between two surgeons — a father and his son. They embrace, swap a few words about the night shift and that evening's Champions League soccer match, then part ways again — one to rest, the other to begin another 48-hour shift in the underground field hospital where they work. Viacheslav, the father, is a trauma specialist with combat experience dating back to 2015 and the war against Russian-backed separatists in Luhansk. His son Andriy joined his medical unit in 2023. Once they worked together in a district hospital to the west, in a small town near the Moldovan border. Now they work underground. When Andriy arrived for his first stint as a combat surgeon, there was little time for reflection. 'I just worked,' he said. It was here that he performed his first amputations — sometimes five in a row. 'After the fifth one, it really got to me. But people adapt. Then shelling starts, and you don't even flinch. You just think, 'It won't hit here.'' But often it does, and that's why they sought safety in the earth. The hospital is a prototype, a new approach, after years of what the Ukrainians characterize as the systematic Russian targeting of their medical facilities. Everyone there had stories of medical colleagues killed after a field hospital was hit: Denis, killed by an Iskander ballistic missile; Kolya, killed by a guided bomb. 'Medics are especially vulnerable,' said Lt. Col. Yuriy Palamarchuk, the head of the hospital's surgical unit. 'They're not hiding behind armor. In field evacuations, they think of no one but the wounded. The Russians know this — they hunt medics. It's targeted terror.' Russia's Defense Ministry did not respond to a request for comment about targeting field medical facilities, which is a war crime. Capt. Oleksii oversees the facility, which he said they built on their own with the help of donations after other facilities near the front lines were hit. He commented ruefully that they should have done this years ago. Like the surgeons, he spoke on the condition that his last name not be used to preserve his and the hospital's anonymity. 'If we'd assumed from the start that Russia wouldn't fight by the rules, maybe we'd have built differently. Back then, we used NATO-style field hospitals — modular, clean, visible. Too visible. They were easy targets.' 'Command centers have long been underground — with generators, comms, protection. We asked: If that works for battle control, why not for saving lives? And it does — no one had done it systematically,' Oleksii said. He hoped the example of his hospital would be picked up by the government and built elsewhere. For now it is the exception. The structure is a combination of wood and metal barrels sunk into the ground — but not with concrete, which the medics fear would have attracted too much attention from Russian surveillance drones. Palamarchuk said the hospital has endured several near misses — explosions within 10 to 20 yards. 'We felt the shock wave from the front row — doors skewed, floors sagged — but we kept working.' He noted that the damage around the site is extensive: 'Six bombs fell nearby last month. All surrounding buildings are destroyed — but the hospital stands.' Not for lack of Russian effort, however. They believe the Russians know something is here. Already a flight of the dreaded glide bombs — massive Soviet-era ordnance with crude guidance systems and immense destructive power, known as KABs — landed nearby. 'Either it was random, or a very precise coincidence,' Oleksii said. 'No direct hit.' But they know the structure can't withstand a KAB with its more than 500-pound warhead. 'That would destroy everything. But artillery, shrapnel, near misses — that we can handle.' At the heart of the hospital lies the triage platform flanked by two operating theaters and then a recovery area. There are no beds as the patients don't stay for long and are sent on as soon as they are stable. 'We stabilize, operate and resuscitate. But we don't hospitalize. No beds. No overnight stays. You wake the patient up — and send them out,' Oleksii said. 'If we have enough vehicles, we can take 200 to 400 people a day.' That night, everything was calm. The silence underground was so deep it was easy to forget that war raged just a few miles away. In the rest area, someone was on the PlayStation. Another medic read a book in the freshly cleaned operating room. A few were already settling into bed. Just as darkness fell, a signal announced an incoming evacuation vehicle, but it was being tailed by a Russian drone. The team waited calmly as the vehicle maneuvered to lose the tracker. Inside the vehicle were three lightly wounded soldiers. They walked on their own into the intake area. Their uniforms were removed — whether stained with blood or caked in mud — and replaced with pajamas and soft pink slippers. The slippers drew laughter, even amid the pain. Andriy Dmytruk described his unit's narrow escape from a drone strike. Ordered to retreat, he fled through one house. Just as he got inside, an explosion shook the walls. Smoke and dust filled the room. Lights cut out. 'I couldn't breathe,' he said. He fled to another building and then another as explosions went off around him. Inside, he threw a rug over a table and crawled underneath. Drones buzzed overhead. He powered off his phone to avoid detection. Then came the smell — sharp and acrid. He wet a scarf with bottled water, tied it over his mouth and nose, and stayed still. His eyes burned. He thinks he lay there for at least two hours. When the noise faded, Dmytruk escaped and found his comrades. It took nearly a full day for them to reach the evacuation point, where they were finally transported to the hospital. They arrived courtesy of 58‑year‑old paramedic Oleksandr Smolyar, who before the war spent 31 years in prison medicine and since 2022 has worked on front lines in Donetsk, Kherson and Zaporizhzhia. He appreciated the new underground hospital. 'You drive in for a second or two — you're indoors. Above ground, you're visible — a target,' he said. His profession was running out of people, he lamented, and where once two medics would handle an evacuation, now it was just one. When everything quieted, distant explosions resumed — walls trembled, earth fell from wooden beams above. The medics were already asleep, as though they hadn't treated half a dozen wounded just minutes before. Everyone knew, however, that more casualties would be on their way as the weather warmed and the summer fighting season began once more. 'Everyone says Russia will try again, but they already are. As soon as the weather warmed up — the pressure started,' Oleksii said. 'Everything is shifting in our direction. And not in a good way.' Yet amid all the fighting, whispers of peace talks persist — statements of ceasefires or negotiations. Meanwhile, shifts in global politics are destabilizing supplies. 'One charity told me plainly: Since the new U.S. president, purchases have gotten harder,' he said. 'They can still send bandages, syringes. But advanced, higher‑tech gear? Not anymore. There's no money.' The hospital has a laparoscope, allowing for minimally invasive surgeries — but sterilizing its delicate camera requires a plasma sterilizer, not a conventional autoclave. 'A regular autoclave can be found. But plasma sterilizer? Without it, the camera needs replacing every year.' 'These high‑tech items are outside the standard budget,' Oleksii said. 'There was a time when those same funds could help with things like this. Now they can't. We haven't stopped, but it's become much harder to move forward.' Natalia Chernokoz, an operating room nurse, wants the war to end — but not at any cost. 'Maybe negotiations,' she said, 'but only on normal terms. Not just surrender.' She fears a premature peace could lead to another cycle of violence. 'Like we make a deal — and then in a year, it starts again. There need to be some guarantees.' She thinks of the children already affected by the war. 'We can't let it touch another generation,' she said. 'They need to see strength,' she added, referring to the Russians. 'I don't think anything else gets through.' Viacheslav admits he's nearly out of strength — but as long as he's still here, it means there's something left. He dreams of returning home with his son. Waiting for them are his wife, two daughters, elderly mother — and a house in need of some care. 'A gate that needs fixing. A faucet that leaks. Something to prop up by the porch,' he said, smiling. Since 2023, he's kept a ritual: a daily game of solitaire. 'If the cards fall right — it's time for demobilization.' This year, they seem to be falling into place. 'If not,' he said with a laugh, 'then next year. It's already the third year like that.' 'Today was my daughter's last day of school,' he added. 'I watched the video. And it was enough.'
Arab News
01-06-2025
- Health
- Arab News
Saudi interior minister reviews Hajj infrastructure, honors security forces
RIYADH: Saudi Arabia's Interior Minister Prince Abdulaziz bin Saud bin Naif has opened a field hospital in Arafat, which is operated by the ministry's General Administration of Medical Services. The 100-bed facility is equipped with advanced medical technology and staffed by specialized teams to deliver rapid emergency care for pilgrims, the Saudi Press Agency reported. Prince Abdulaziz has also launched a smart health bracelet system for security personnel, enabling real-time monitoring of vital signs and giving automatic alerts to command centers to enhance medical readiness. The minister also attended a ceremony honoring Hajj Security Forces and was briefed on operational readiness during field exercises featuring specialized vehicles, aviation units, and crowd control systems. Lt. Gen. Mohammed Al-Bassami, the director of public security, said the Saudi leadership had mobilized all resources to ensure the safety of pilgrims, noting strong coordination had led to outstanding results. The minister also reviewed infrastructure upgrades at the holy sites, including phase two of the Mashaer pathway which boasts eco-friendly rubber flooring to ease movement and reduce heat. He inspected new shading and cooling systems at Namirah Mosque designed to improve comfort during prayers. His tour concluded at Mina's new emergency hospital, which has expanded urgent care capacity, with its services meeting global standards. Prince Abdulaziz also visited the Hajj Media Operations Center with Salman Al-Dossary, the minister of media, and received briefings on unified media coverage. He viewed the Hajj media hub's Hajj Window and Transformation Exhibition, which showcases the services of 11 public and private entities.
The Sun
16-05-2025
- Health
- The 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. 6 6 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 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 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 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. 6
