A viewpoint from our Driving Ukraine driver and correspondent, Sam Puzey.
I recently returned from war-torn Ukraine. It was my second time in the country, having previously traveled there in May of this year.
Two years and eight months on since the start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine by Russia, we hear firsthand accounts from a group of humanitarian workers who traveled there to deliver aid, the soldiers who are still relentlessly defending the front lines, and the wounded who have given everything for their country.
I work with the organisation “Driving Ukraine”, whose focus is on delivering high quality medical evacuation vehicles from the UK to Ukraine. From there, the pickup trucks, 4x4s, and ambulances which we take are used as casualty evacuation vehicles to save lives and limbs of the wounded on the Eastern front. Every nine minutes, an evacuation attempt of a wounded person is made in Ukraine, and this is largely done using donated vehicles.
Driving Ukraine is a grassroots organisation which started in Oxfordshire. It has raised more than £850,000 and transported 144 vehicles over 34 convoys, showing no sign of slowing down. When I asked Fynn Watt, the organisation's founder about where he sees the future, he said “We want to do what we can, and it’s always been that way, we are always looking for people to get involved, and it’s amazing to see the hundreds that have stood shoulder to shoulder with us for Ukraine these past challenging years".
Next, the mission. We departed early on a Saturday morning, this convoy comprised three pickup trucks, an ambulance, and nine British volunteers. The demographic of people who volunteer to drive to Ukraine varies wildly; myself a 22-year-old ambulance worker; Geoff a retired plumber; David- a highly successful film producer; Johnny- an 83-year-old financial advisor. These are just a few examples of the way our group was a varied mix of social circles colliding. It demonstrated just how far reaching the compulsion to help Ukraine was.
We were accompanied by Jacob- an experienced leader who works full time at Driving Ukraine- who goes on almost every convoy to act as a guide. “We do what we can to help them out, which should be to stop them bloody dying at the very least".
What followed was a massive 3-day drive across Europe, crossing 7 countries and 1,300 miles. The days were long, hitting 15 hours on day 2, but we all shared a humbling feeling that it was a fraction of what the Ukrainian people endure.
The roads towards the Polish border town of Przemyśl were eerily desolate, everyone noticed this. Often, we would be the only vehicles on the road for miles as we neared Ukraine. This proves as a stark reminder of what we are approaching, and the situation we are about to enter.
Once we entered Ukraine and began winding through rural roads towards Lviv, a few key details jumped out. A school piled high with sandbags, a military checkpoint stopping vehicles at random. A huge billboard depicting a soldier asking you to enlist stares down at us as we cautiously pass underneath his steely gaze.
Lviv itself is a relatively safe town. It will have you thinking that you're in any other European city, until you pass an air raid shelter, or a group of soldiers waiting for a bus. The constant threat of death does not leave Lviv just because it’s a beautiful place.
We reached a discreet and unassuming workshop building in central Lviv later that night. This is the organisation’s Ukrainian base, and it's where the vehicles get modified and camouflaged for the front line. We were greeted by several Ukrainian soldiers and volunteers, and we were instantly welcomed in by them warmly.
They told us how important these vehicles are to them, about how each one is the difference between life or death for a wounded soldier. They tell us of comrades who could have been saved if their units had one of these vehicles to evacuate them. It was a truly sobering experience, but non the less deeply impactful. The importance of their words have resonated and stayed with me; a true reminder of why we were there.
The ambulance was camouflaged the next day and arrived on the frontline the day after. One of the pickup trucks was collected by a mechanic who was going to give it a speedy “once over” before delivering it to his own father's military unit the next day. The need for vehicles is urgent and things move quickly.
Yuriy- a frontline drone pilot on 2 weeks of leave- is back home in Lviv. He is spending time with his partner and 3-year-old son, but he’s agreed to spare some of this truly precious time to speak to us. A stocky bearded man, you can read the fatigue and pain in his eyes like a book. He tells me that before the war he was the director of a large international company. He talks about fighting the Russians casually, but that doesn't hide the sense I get that no part of him wants to be killing people.
“A lot of the Western media has stopped reporting on what’s happening here. I think the people reading the newspapers feel sad hearing about us too much”. I look down at my feet, feeling shameful at the tragic sentiment of his statement. “We will continue to fight, with or without support".
I proceed to ask him what it is that the Ukrainian military needs to win this war. His response was simple: “people, vehicles, drones”. I ask him how he’s managed to keep going, years after the initial invasion. “I look at Russia and I don’t want their lifestyle. I don’t want Russian cities here. We have a Ukrainian life here; we all want to keep that.”
Then with a chuckle “Also Russian cars are really bad”. A moment of light crosses his eyes and for a few seconds he almost looks relaxed.
Later that evening I spoke to Stas, a veteran who lost his leg to artillery fire in Bakhmut. A tall and reserved man, now forced to use crutches, his right trouser leg pinned up at the knee. He’s keen to go back to the military and continue serving, even after the loss of his leg. He speaks softly: “The national identity here is very strong. People here know what they are fighting for.”
Driving Ukraine takes the time to show volunteers certain key points in Lviv and it's a meaningful way to re-enforce our reasons for being there. The next day we visited a huge mural painted for a fallen soldier who was killed the day before Ukraine’s Independence Day. He’s depicted in uniform, smiling, as he stands in a field of wheat. His military unit’s badge is displayed on his shoulder, and the patch of his favourite football team on his backpack. His name was Taras Bereziok, and he was hit by Russian artillery at a train station in Eastern Ukraine in August 2022. He was one of their best friends, and they spoke of him in such a way that I felt like I knew him. He loved to party and was a university lecturer before the war. The sight of this poignant artwork was another bittersweet moment to all of us. Taras lived a normal life in the normal city of Lviv before the war, and now his loved ones were left behind with no choice but to remember him from this beautiful wall. It could have been any other Lviv football club fan killed by Russia, but it was Taras. I truly felt that I was starting to grasp a fraction of the sacrifices being made in this conflict.
They told us funny stories of his life and described him as a pillar of the community, a man universally loved. He was one of the first to volunteer at the start of the invasion, and now his kind eyes looked down on us from the beautifully vibrant colour splashed against the drab Soviet era apartment block. As if this couldn’t get any sadder, we’re told that they chose this wall to immortalise him, as it’s visible from both the university he taught at, and his mother’s house.
We moved on to the “Field of Mars”; a military cemetery for the fallen soldiers who were from Lviv. Having previously been here in May, I couldn’t help but notice how much more it had grown in 5 months. Hundreds more graves on a newly started row were staring back at me. Each one carried a photo of the soldier, Ukrainian flags, and masses of flowers and trinkets left by those they’ve been taken from. It was common to see things like a chocolate bar or a can of their favourite drink leaning against the cross.
An older woman and what I presume is her daughter sit on a bench huddled together over a grave, comforting each other. A child skips down a path towards me, towing her mother by the hand who hesitantly follows, with her head hung low. A respectful peace submerges the whole field. A man in his 80’s stands- one hand on a walking stick, the other on the cross of a middle-aged man's grave- weeping silently; as if he dares not disturb the peace.
A child's drawing sits crumpled and weathered on a grave. Fat felt tip lines outline a tall crudely drawn soldier holding the hand of a stick figure girl, a big yellow sun shines from the corner of the page and the colours of the Ukrainian flag take up the blank space above the figures. The inevitable and overwhelming waves of emotion choke me up as I stand at the foot of his grave staring at this. I find myself asking the same questions I asked myself previously. Could he have been saved if his unit had one of our trucks?
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