That was the day Mykolayiv’s main civilian hospital took a direct hit from a Russian cruise missile, reducing the casualty center to charred masonry and its guts open and destroying the main building enough to house the first-floor pharmacy, lab second floor, the third floor Out of operation gynecology department, fourth floor urology centers and fifth floor trauma centers. Now, as Ukrainian troops mount a long-awaited offensive against the Russians who occupy the nearby city of Kherson, the hospital is reopening and its reduced staff is returning to prepare for patients in a city under constant shelling. Next to the ruins of the pharmacy, the remains of hospital beds lie on the asphalt, hurled by the force of the projectile explosion. They enter through a now chipboard door, passing through the metal frames of the cars caught in the attack. “We received our first patient after the reopening,” says Fedorenko, who heads the anesthesia department, “a patient with head injuries from a mine explosion – entry and exit wounds to the skull. We’re going to operate on a brain tumor.” The battles for Mykolaiv and the liberation of Kherson are critical to the defense of Ukraine on the Black Sea coast. This shipbuilding city is the last barrier between Kherson, 30 miles southeast, and the road to Odessa, effectively controlling the sea. The bombed facade of Mykolaiv hospital, Ukraine. Photo: Ed Vulliamy/The Observer The Russians captured Kherson during the first days of the invasion and entered Mykolayiv, only to fend off a bold Ukrainian counterattack. But the city is a ghost in its own right, an eerie silence envelops a luxurious summer. There are more dogs littering the streets with craters than there are people desperate or reckless to walk them. The roads in and out are manned by one checkpoint after another. About half the population is estimated to have fled, following ferocious shelling in June and July. Many of the 230,000 who remain are elderly and unable to leave. In every direction there are remains of battered civilian buildings. On the morning of our visit, two Russian S-300 missiles hit the entrance to Petro Mohyla University of the Black Sea and destroyed 27 neighboring houses. Last weekend, Russian missiles missed the main road bridge connecting Mykolaiv with lifelines to the west and Odessa. But as the counterattack against Kherson begins, Mikolaiv’s remaining doctors, nurses, paramedics and support staff are working harder than ever. Before the war, says Fedorenko, “we mainly dealt with traffic accidents and the like. Now it’s mine explosions and injuries from missile or rocket attacks. When there is heavy fighting or a lot of shelling, there is a huge workload. Some nights we had a hundred people, often with complex injuries. Since the end of February, we have transfused half a ton of plasma.” The blood is donated by local citizens – “they’ve been fantastic,” he says. The direct strike came after two nights of ferocious shelling, which began on July 30. “It was a terrible night,” recalls Fedorenko, “very scary for all of us, with a huge intake.” The day after the hospital strike, Russian cluster bombs hit the bus station, killing seven and injuring 14. “They are destroying the hospitals, the university. schools that are empty in the summer, the port and the shipyards. They want to destroy the fabric of our lives. They hit an oil refinery right in front of my house. even the firefighter training center was hit.” Dimitry Fedorenko, head of anesthesiology at Mykolaiv Hospital. Photo: Ed Vulliamy/The Observer Fedorenko has been working here for 14 years. His office – “where I slept for the first three months of the war” – is filled with donated medicine. “We are well supplied, because the diaspora is organized and there is a good network of volunteers offering from abroad. The problem is the lack of staff. People are leaving – mostly women with children – and our nurses are mostly women. There are very few of us left. we are very close, but there is depression in the staff.” The war, says the doctor, “caused shock, but no surprise, and there is no vanishing point in this picture.” Leaving Mykolaiv for Kherson, we arrive at a base of the 59th Brigade of the Ukrainian forces, located in an industrial park. From here, it’s a heart-to-mouth drive southeast to the front line, through the last checkpoints on the edge of town, past anti-tank jacks and over a railroad crossing half-blocked by a seemingly disabled freight car. Then get on the highway, signed ‘Kherson’, heading towards the Russian lines which are now under attack. Along the deserted highway is a gas station that has been converted into an ambulance depot. An old armored ambulance is parked, along with two new ones donated by France. Two ambulances are on duty, ready to respond to any call from the frontline. Coincidentally, Teresa Hritsik and Anatoly Sobolevskiy are both from Vinnytsia in western Ukraine, where they volunteered for this position – as civilian doctors but under military command. “Our main task is to evacuate wounded soldiers and civilians as quickly as possible – to treat them by ambulance and deliver them to the military or civilian hospitals in Mykolaiv,” says Sobolevskiy. “We do what we can in the back of the ambulances,” says Hritsik. “Treatment of all types of wounds – minor to severe and serious injuries. The soldiers go to the military hospital and the civilians to the one that just opened.” “Army medics are in the trenches,” Sobolevskiy adds, “and they usually do the first evacuations, although sometimes we have a military situation ourselves, in the red zone right around here, and we’re right on the front lines.” “We use the usual screening levels: red for immediate, then yellow, green and blue,” says Hritsik. “Often the primary task is just to stop the bleeding and take it from there.” Subscribe to This is Europe The most central stories and debates about Europeans – from identity to the economy to the environment Privacy Notice: Newsletters may contain information about charities, online advertising and content sponsored by external parties. For more information, see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and Google’s Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply. Towards the battlefield, he says, most civilians have fled. “But there are farmers and other older people who don’t want to leave or can’t and have nowhere to go. Sometimes they are targeted, sometimes they are caught in the attacks against our military – either way, they are prisoners of war. There is a man there who will not leave, because he is waiting for his son to return from Mariupoli.” There is a silence, pregnant with our unspoken understanding that this could be a wait without end. Paramedics Teresa Hritsik and Anatoly Sobolevskiy, whose main task is to evacuate the victims as quickly as possible. Photo: Ed Vulliamy/The Observer Volunteers deliver supplies to civilians, and “our soldiers often share their share,” Hritsik says. “We had to evacuate three of them last week,” adds Sobolevskiy, “a mother and two children, clearly targeted. Russians see no difference between military and civilians: these people are not side effects, they are targets of this war.” Before the collision says Hritsik, “I was an arthritis doctor. I was a volunteer in March, seeing the faces of our soldiers returning to Vinnytsia from the front. Ambulances at train stations, hospitals overcrowded. Then I volunteered at the front – I felt the need, I couldn’t help otherwise. If we can be useful, we must.” Sobolevskiy was a customs officer on the border of Ukraine with Moldova, in the K-9 service, dealing mainly with drug and alcohol smugglers, with first aid training. “I tried to protect my country in time of peace,” he says, “now I have to do it in time of war.” In a momentary, uneasy silence, there is time to hear about a drama that meant more to Sobolevsky than he can tell: “My Labrador dog Saltan was lost and left in Kherson, February 24, under possession.” Ukraine Saltan “had a medal with a phone number on it and someone found him two and a half months later, starving, hiding in the woods from the fighting. They called me and this person arranged for him to be delivered to Kherson. I got in touch with a group of my fellow K-9s. By this time there were fewer evacuation routes, more dangerous – but through a chain of contacts Saltan was delivered to the free zone. We were all absolutely hysterical when he turned up – my wife, myself and Saltan.” Two huge, deep blasts shake the afternoon air, roughly three miles apart. “Cluster bombs from the sea,” Sobolevsky says, with a knowing twist. We continue to talk about Saltan. Three minutes later: a triple volley of similar explosions, much closer and much louder. The expressions on the faces of the doctors and the major change instantly. “Let’s go from here,” Sobolevsky says with sudden decision, pointing to the explosions, and “go from there,” pointing to Mikolaiv. After exchanging handshakes and waves, we obey, behind the military escort jeep, at speed.
