Ukraine Adventures- Part 3

By Matt Evans

(Editor’s Note: Local critical care paramedic Matt Evans spent five weeks helping out in Ukraine this past summer. In this four-part series, he describes some of his adventures…)

The Donbas House

Life off shift was nice. Although there is always some risk of airstrikes and one had to maintain a certain paranoia of Russian sympathizers, the city was beautiful and much safer than being on position. It has some parks, running trails and lakes. Although the house had a rotating cast of volunteers, the people made that place special. We all shared common beliefs, desires and motivations. Friendships formed quickly. A motley crew of slightly abnormal individuals from places like Arizona, New York City, Norway, Sweden, the UK, Ukraine and more. We were all cut from the same cloth. Doctors, medics and nurses from all over the world looking to help out while testing and honing our craft in a dangerous environment.

We would eat out: pizza, burgers, sushi. We barbecued chicken and pork. We lifted weights, ran and swam together. My favorite was the kitchen table discussions.

The wicker chairs squeaked as we reached for the donuts and cookies we kept stocked. A single light illuminating the table in an otherwise dark room. Shadows cast on the faces of our global group as we discussed medicine, the conflict, our life stories, the global economy, motorcycles. Nothing was off the table and there was never a dull topic. Knowledge was shared, everyone having vastly different backgrounds and life experiences. It was like a non-stop TED Talk. There was so much knowledge flying around, there were times I needed to step out, lay down and close my eyes. I frequently felt like the dumbest person in the room and it was awesome. Air raid sirens sounded, distant explosions boomed, and genuine friendships were formed. Frontline attracts a certain kind of person. It’s a community of dedicated, easygoing guys and gals from all over the world with the same goal: Do medicine and help people in a challenging environment.

Rudely awakened

The dynamic nature of the war would rarely leave me with two consecutive days off. When it did, I cherished the potential for a full, uninterrupted night of sleep. Deep sleep the night before going onto position was difficult. The looming potential for high-stress situations always makes for a bad night’s sleep. A night at base with no plans the next day was the best opportunity to truly rest, but that sleep was never a guarantee.

It was around 3 a.m. A loud explosion jolted me awake. 

“Damn that was a big one,” I thought.

I rolled over and began to drift off again.

BOOM!

A louder blast, closer this time.

I sat up, more awake now.

BOOM!

I could feel the pressure wave this time. The walls shook.

“F**k” I thought, mourning what would have been a good night’s rest.

Fear crept in, my mind began to race. Could we be on a target list? The Russians have been known to target ambulances. They like to target Westerners too. Did they find out who we are and what we do? Would they waste a bomb on us?

BOOM!

My paranoia grew with the third blast, even closer to the house. The curtains on the windows fluttered with the pressure wave. The blasts were getting closer and closer.

“We aren’t a target, you’re not the main character in this story, you’re just an extra,” I attempted to talk myself down. My heart now pounding on my rib cage.

BOOM!

Again, the walls shook, the glass of the windows flexed and I was sure they would break. Three camouflaged vehicles sat hidden in the brush just on the other side of my wall, not 10 feet from me.

“If that’s the target, it’ll surely be the end of …”

BOOM!

My thoughts were interrupted again. This was so close I felt the pressure wave in my ears and my chest, and I was sure the next one would hit those vehicles and blast me to the next life, or at least bury me in rubble.

Wide awake now, I waited. Anticipating the next strike. It would surely be soon.

Silence.

They weren’t done, they hadn’t hit our buses yet. Surely we were a target. My paranoid, sleep-deprived mind spun and I waited. And waited. An hour. Two hours. I was scared and sleep was difficult. What were they trying to hit? When is the next one coming? Where will it be?

The silence grew longer and I tried to shake it off. The attack seemed to be over. Slowly. Very slowly. Sleep took hold and I managed another hour or two. Just another night at base.

Pinned down

We’d just got on position when it began to rain. It continued through the day. Good for us, as drones rarely fly in bad weather. Bad for us, as the roads grew slick. We stashed our ambulance in a shelter closer to better roads. The gauntlet to get there was deep with mud and our vehicles would slide and drift over potholes and around ruts. Some of the worst driving conditions I’d ever encountered. Around midday, the blindazh sprang a leak. We spent an hour reinforcing and re-camouflaging the roof. Soaked but satisfied, we adjourned inside to rest. Evening came and we got the call. Two patients, a yellow and a green. 

We geared up and made our way to the extraction point. Hoping to pick up the patients just as casevac arrived to limit our time exposed to the enemy. We arrived and tucked the ambulance under some trees.

“Casevac had trouble with the mud, they’re about 40 minutes out.” Our medic told us.

“Well that sucks,” I said.

“Hey at least it stopped raining,” my driver said flatly.

This was not good news. Drones could fly now. And we had to wait, exposed, for a long 40 minutes.

A faint whirring noise was heard in the distance. We all went silent. Ears to the sky, we listened. 

It was getting louder.

“Hide.”

We spread out more and tucked as deep into the trees as we could. Hoping we wouldn’t step on an unseen landmine.

The whirring got louder and louder. It was right above us. I melted into the trees, burrowing as deep as I could. 

“Please don’t get any louder,” I said to no one.

The whirring got louder. Then began to fade. It sounded like it had made a turn and flew away from us. But before it faded completely, we heard another drone. Louder, and louder again. My hands tucked into my body armor, I felt the pounding of my heart. The noise drew closer. And closer. Just as it grew quieter, the first drone was again getting louder. 

“F**k, they’re circling us,” I thought. 

Louder and louder. And quieter and quieter. This cycle went on for what felt like eternity.

Every time the noise grew, a repeating mantra of F**k, f**k, don’t get louder, f**k was in my head.

I also hoped and hoped that casevac wouldn’t show up now. A single ambulance with three personnel isn’t the greatest target for a drone. But an ambulance and an armored vehicle, now that’s a good target. 

My brain was on a loop of fear and hope. Hope the drones would lose interest, and hope casevac was still stuck in the mud. Finally, the whirring grew quieter and quieter. Until it was gone. 

Silence.

Afraid to move, we all stayed in cover. Silent. There was a roaring in the distance. The sound wasn’t in the sky. It was the M113 casevac. Our casualties would arrive shortly. 

Finally. 

We wasted no time grabbing our patients and getting the hell out of there. The fear faded as quickly as it had set in. Paramedic mode. Bandages, IVs, pain management. The patients were dropped at the stab, and we went home. 

That night, I had a vivid dream of being in CB, on Seventh street at a friend’s apartment. A drone swarm reigned terror on us and I did all I could to get everyone to safety. I awoke knowing that my nightmare is just normal life in Ukraine.

(Next week Matt describes winding down his trip and coming home…)