Diary of a volunteer: On the front line of war

Part 3: Sirens of hope

Friday 14 June, 2024

It’s 4:30am and we’ve just been released from another air raid warning and I head outside into the dawn for a walk. As I turn the corner out of the hotel carpark into the street, I see a line of police cars blocking the road. A policeman notices me from afar and tapping his finger on his watch he gives me a quizzical look. I immediately remember that we’re under curfew, which doesn’t end till 5am. I sign a quick apology and head back inside hurriedly.

Breakfast is the first time our whole team was congregated in one place. We greeted one another like old friends, a global and remote team means we rarely meet face to face. The other half of our team had just returned from the field - they were brimming with stories and reflections, advice and insight.

At 10:14am, the sirens started blaring once again. I began slowly meandering back to the shelter. A couple of colleagues indicated they would follow once they’d finished their cigarettes, and as I crossed the lobby another guest asked why I was going down again. Once down in the bunker I collapsed on a sofa - the prize seat, but I needn’t have worried. No one else followed.

A few minutes later, I could hear the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Our colleagues began pouring into the shelter, accompanied by staff and other guests, all chattering loudly over one another. My colleagues informed us that this time something had hit Kyiv, quite nearby. As they stood smoking in the sun, they’d heard the boom and felt the tremor of a bomb strike.

Suddenly no one was teasing me for being in the shelter, and that prize seat on the sofa felt rightfully mine.

We were in a race against time between the end of the raid and our departure time for the Book Launch event, the primary reason for our visit.

Finally, free of the monotonous drone of the sirens, we filed outside to wait for our cars. This would be our first opportunity to see the MOAS ambulances up close and personal. Two of our stock supply vehicles, neon yellow and emblazoned with MOAS branding, pulled up to the front of the hotel and our drivers climbed out to meet us. One of them was immediately recognisable as Igor, one of the characters from the MOAS Ukraine book, Sirens of Hope. He smiles broadly, his signature beard bobbing up and down as he greets us.

Independence memorials sit side by side with contemporary counterparts

On the way to the book launch we stop at a park, home to several memorials from the war of independence from the Soviet Union, gained as recently as 1991. It is so clear to us, standing at those monuments, that history is repeating itself in the most callous and heart-breaking way possibly. Tanks from the battle for Kyiv are displayed in front of monoliths listing the main cities of the Soviet Union - these have been covered by camouflage netting, a symbol of Ukraine’s break from their past and pride in their independence.

Behind the tanks, a mural of statues in dark marble. They’re scenes of war: men lead battalions of tanks, guns raised, eyes dark under rudimentary helmets. Young women load guns, carry ammunition and tend to the wounded. Further into the tunnel the elderly protect the shadowy figures of children, emaciated and afraid, with wide eyes, crouching behind their grandparents, melting into the walls. All the faces have an expression of resolve to them, a shared determination, a righteous countenance of rebellion and duty. All but the children.

Visiting local memorials to remember lives lost, including children as young as 14

Above all this towers the Mother Ukraine, a Soviet era statue symbolising victory in the Second World War. Made of titanium and weighing over 560 tonnes, Mother Ukraine stands 62m tall, shining in the midday sun. In 2023, the Soviet insignia on her shield was replaced with the now eponymous trident, representing Ukrainian sovereignty and independence.

We file back into our cars, feeling humbled by the rich history of a country once again at war.

Once at the event we make ourselves useful. The MOAS HQ team is always at its best when busy. We navigate news crews as guests arrive, partner organisations, military representatives, hospital staff and politicians. At the side of the room a table is piled high with copies of the Ukrainian language publication of Sirens of Hope, a book curated using testimonials from our front-line teams, all Ukrainians, who describe their experiences of the conflict, outlining both their personal stories as well as their memories of the medical evacuations they conduct from the front line on a daily basis. It is a moving depiction of professionalism in the face of great personal sacrifice. The MOAS patch affixed to the front of each copy has become a manifestation of the work they undertake and is a source of great pride for each of our 150 medics and drivers working at bases all along the conflict zone to the east.

The event itself was emotional. A panel discussion introducing the work MOAS does, and the history behind the book is a familiar pre-amble for the personal and moving scenes to follow. Our Founder, Christopher Catrambone, opens the event with his Ukrainian right-hand man, Gary Shekhtman, standing beside him. The book’s editor, Justin Marozzi, presents the project and then is joined by MOAS Medics Yurii and Inna, the Deputy Health Minister of Ukraine and the Lt Col of the Medical Service of the Command of the Medical Forces, for a discussion of the value and placement of MOAS’s work as a humanitarian organisation. Following the panel, we watch as two military representatives present Chris and Gary with plaques to thank them for their dedication and investment in Ukraine’s emergency medical system.

Preparing inventory at base and rgetting ready to deploy

The final portion of the event leaves everyone in tears. Not a single dry eye remains in the room - politicians dab their cheeks, averting their gaze, MOAS staff belie their professionalism, turning their heads to hide their welling eyes and the simultaneous translation is interrupted by a catching in the throat. This is the moment that Lieutenant Oleksandr ‘Biker’ Voznyi steps onto the stage, supported by his wife and his walking aids. The lights dim and a video begins to play on the screen above him. It’s GoPro footage from his brothers in arms showing the moment that the Ukrainian military medics declare they don’t think they will be able to save him. A shell explosion has destroyed his legs, ripped out a portion of his back and damaged his spine. He has already been brought back following six cardiac arrests. He has lost too much blood and despite the desperate efforts of his team and the medics, they are losing him. At this moment, the MOAS ambulance arrives and takes over, the MOAS medic in charge declares that he is not prepared to make Lieutenant Voznyi’s children orphans and his wife a widow. He begins CPR and proceeds to keep Oleksandr alive for the four hours it takes to reach the nearest comprehensive hospital. The Lieutenant will have another cardiac arrest en route and spend the next year undergoing painful and extensive rehabilitation. His wife sits beside him, weeping, as videos of their children sitting on her husband’s hospital bed flash across the screen. His daughter is around five years old, blond and blue eyed, hair tied up in bunches, wearing Disney pyjamas. This could be my daughter, through my blurry eyes all I can think is, that could be Grace.

The Lieutenant then speaks of his year-long search for the medics who saved his life. It has taken him this long to discover that it was MOAS who was there that fateful day, and now he will finally be reunited with the ambulance crew who brought him back to his family. The family and the MOAS team embrace, they exchange words of gratitude and encouragement. The medics are clearly moved - they do this tireless work on a daily basis, never expecting thanks; never expecting to shake the hands of the men they save, never knowing if their patient outcomes are all that they fought so hard to ensure. The MOAS teams on the frontline of this crisis have evacuated over 45,000 critical patients since the launch of the MOAS mission. They haven’t lost a single one to date.

We stay and pack away as guests mingle and enjoy a traditional lunch. I wish we could have stayed longer, but we can’t. Tomorrow, we head to one of the bases approximately 50km from the line, to meet our frontline teams and accompany them on patient transfers, we need to be in good form.

This is my motivation for breaking up the party and extracting my team members from the embrace of their colleagues, but as the drivers anxiously herd us into the waiting vehicles, muttering to one another in Ukrainian, I remember the curfew. We need to be back at the hotel before midnight, before the first siren sounds, before the police begin to clear the streets. I head up the stairs to the doors of the hotel just minutes before midnight, a sinister Cinderella story without the promise of a happy ending.

Part 4 will be published next week