By Paul Beesley
The helpful young man in the Military Shop, was obviously curious about my purchases.
“I’m going camping.” I said.
He gave me an odd look. He also gave me a discount. What started as a joke became my alibi for a trip as an embedded journalist to the Kursk and Donetsk Fronts. Discretion seemed best and only my cousin Kate, saw through my excuse for being out of reach for the next week or so.
A bus ride to Sumy, to meet the Editor, and our handler, Edward, a Netherlands volunteer who had attached himself to the army and made himself useful in a variety of ways (The Editor, did an interview with him a few days ago.) A drive west, took us over the dead stretch of the Seym River – poisoned by a Russian chemical works in the early days of the Kursk Offensive. Night found us at an officer’s hostel and the news that, due to fighting, Kursk, was off. What were they doing before, having street parties?
We now faced a 12 hour drive to Donetsk.
We set off early, straight into a speed trap. We set off again, straight into another. Edward swore that he had never been stopped once in 2 years. I suggested a pause, a coffee and a change of driver.
I drove off, straight through a speed trap, well under the limit. Edward was amazed.
“I get stopped twice and you just drive through. That’s so lucky!”
“Yes,” I said, “and the slower I drive, the luckier I get.”
We arrived at a nameless village on a moonless, brilliantly starred night. A cold dinner was laid out in a kind of canteen/doss house. An institutional building had been commandeered and filled with beds, fridges, washing machines, and huge quantities of food – boxes, sacks, nets and tins of it. The other occupants were in the army, but not obviously military – a feature of Ukraine’s volunteer army.
We turned in early, only to be interrupted by drunken shouting. I was content to let the residents sort it out. Then the shooting started.
We were reassured that the young officer meant no harm, he just had PTSD and it was the anniversary of the death of a friend. He was taken to a nearby Advanced Surgical Facility.
We were persuaded by Edward, to accept this and the following night, the young man came round to apologise. He shook hands with everybody and we all had dinner together.
Before then, we had some visits to make. Once again, the Front, was off. We were in the “Green Zero” Five kilometers back from the forward positions is the Red Zero, ten kilometres behind that is the Yellow Zero and the Green Zero is fifteen Kilometers behind that. These distances may change.
Our first visit was to a riding stables – a small, neat, well-kept place with half a dozen fine, glossy beasts. One carthorse though, needed it’s mane raked – it practically had dreadlocks. He was inclined to nip but Edward, seemed to have an understanding with him. The horses were not getting enough exercise – a side effect of the war. The previous night’s drive had shown long lines of traffic going away from the front.
The next stop was a village. Missile strikes had destroyed the main school, the Cultural Centre/Town Hall, a number of farm dwellings behind and the shop.
The shop had since reopened and I could see recent, expensive looking repairs to the farm. Everything else was as it was. The damage was not as comprehensive as some villages I had seen in Kherson or North Donbas, where entire villages were smashed – deliberately, not in any battle but purely for spite. Even so, it was sad to see.
Our “hostel” was in a neat village, not too many miles from Pokrovsk. It has shops, a little church and, like all settlements close to the front, a place that sells military gear. The Hostel, was a place for soldiers, medical personnel and dedicated volunteers serving the army, to come and get a meal, a shower, their clothes cleaned, or a bed for the night. It was supposed to be some secret, military hub but my garden shed is more secure. Village ladies come in twice daily to cook. These are plain, filling meals where you reheat and help yourself. However, there is no actual housekeeping – no cleaning, supply or organisation of anything outside of the kitchen.
One other thing is supplied here.
Exploring, I found a caravan. It was about 20 feet long, the end farthest from the door fitted with the usual caravan fittings, the other end fitted out as a dentists. It had a chair, X-ray, tools and ceiling covered with Brigade patches – mementos from grateful patients.
There are several of these, up and down the front, the idea of a member of the Dental Faculty at Vinnytsia University. Sitting in the sauna (like you do,) he had the idea of volunteer dentists, touring the Green Zero, treating the troops. This is almost all privately funded – donations and equipment slowly acquired since January 2023. As the current dental volunteer told me:
“From small seeds, large trees.”
The dentists (my informant is a reserve Lieutenant whose brother is also a dentist,) is one of three surgeons working in shifts through 12 or 13 hour days, for about a week or so. By mid-afternoon there was a queue of three soldiers and one villager. He may just have wanted his gold teeth valued. Tomorrow night, a new group of volunteers is to take over. It is easier to leave the caravans and just move the staff - less wear on the caravans and equipment. Safer too. One dentist has already been killed by Russian action. A big car towing a caravan around the rear areas is a pretty obvious target.
In addition to surgery, they also provide advice on dental care. It is uphill work. Aside from the Ukrainian love of sweets, troops at the front barely have time to eat, let alone floss.
Comfort packages for troops now often include dental care supplies. Regular armies have dental corps, but in this war, other things had to come first.
Speaking of sweet things, I saw sloes (the fruit of the blackthorn tree,) growing in a side-lane. I told Edward, about them and gave him my recipe for sloe gin.
Next episode: The Drones Club, BBQ Chicken, and The Bureaucracy of Death.