February 2025 Update
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February 28
Tomorrow, we move out. Another crew takes our place. We head back, restock, reset, and get ready to do it all over again in 14 days—somewhere else, another stretch of the frontline.
Like every MEDEVAC crew working close to the frontline, we’ve felt it. The lull. The volume of patients is way down. The drones have changed the game. Every movement needs to be carefully calculated.
The radio call came six nights ago—three casualties from a very hot section of the frontline. We were out the door in minutes, rolling toward the collection point.
And then we waited.
Pitch black except the red light from our headlamps. The shrieking beep from our drone detector slicing through the silence and the artillery in the background.
We waited some more.
And then the CASEVAC crew showed up empty-handed. Sudden mortar fire had cut them off. The casualties were unreachable. The airstrikes started began landing in the city around us. There was nothing left to do but drive home. Frustrated. Silent.
The next night, a blizzard rolled through, a rare stroke of luck. Snow thick enough to blind the drones above. The radio crackled again. This time, the patients made it to us on the back of a pickup truck—cold, in pain, but alive. We assessed them, treated them for hypothermia, packed and bandaged their wounds, started IVs, administered pain meds and antibiotics and evacuated them to the stabilization point.
Beyond that? Nothing.
This is the new reality because of drones. Most of the day is spent in the FOB, sitting, listening to the war unfold around us—artillery inbound and outbound, MLRS ripping through the sky, airstrikes pounding the town nearby. We train on something every night—TBIs, blood transfusions, ultrasound, medications. We cook. We work out. We make fun of each other - including laughing together at my atrocious Ukrainian. We take turns throughout the night on duty, waiting for the crackle of the radio.
But I know why we’re here. We are the only MEDEVAC resource for an entire battalion. When they need us, we need to be there.
We sit. We wait. And when the time comes, we will do our job to the highest standard.
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February 24
We received pictures from our partners in Kharkiv (ETOC) showing the distribution of the medical supplies we shipped to them.
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February 20
Shipment on February 14: 6 boxes of hospital supplies sent to Odesa (charity fund "Vezha") - 313 lbs. Contents: 2 portable Recpironics V60 ventilators and 2 medical compressors Vapotherm Q50. All electronic devices are fragile and sensitive, so we used sleeping bags as extra packing material.
Also 1 box to Kharkiv (kid's cloth and toys), 1 box to Kyiv with ambulance supplies for our GDRT crew, 2 boxes to L'viv (surgical supplies)
Special Thanks: to Dr. Bronfine, Anna Ginzburg, and Concord hospital.
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February 16
After two weeks of prep, we’re back in the East, working in conjunction with our medical battalion. Closer to the frontline now, stitched into the rhythm of a war that never sleeps. The only reason we leave our small village hut is the squawk of a radio, pulling us from the warmth of a cigarette and bad coffee to load up and roll out.
But the drones have changed everything. The number of evacuations has dropped, even in an active sector like ours. It’s a waiting game now. The roads are too dangerous during the day, and even at night, movement is calculated, carefully. Taped over headlights, a special night vision camera, drone jammers running, and speeding through the streets - even in areas out of normal artillery range. CASEVAC crews still bring them to us, but less often than before. The radio silence is uneasy, not to mention the sounds of aerial bombs landing in our town (KABs are never fun). Despite this, there’s not enough room for all four of us to sleep in the basement.
So we find ways to fill the time. We cook, exercise, train—anything to keep the rust from forming. Because we may be sitting around a lot right now, but we better be ready when we get the call. The casualty on the other end deserves the best, and they will get the best.
Meanwhile, our CASEVAC team is out there too, running their own game, moving fast, keeping people alive just long enough to reach the ambulance.
Thanks to your support, we’ve got two drone jamming systems in place—one more layer of defense in a war where luck is never guaranteed.
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February 9
Shipment on February 8:
7 boxes of hospital supplies sent to Odesa (charity fund "Vezha"), 6 boxes to Bucha, Kyevs'ka oblast (charity fund "Nash Promin' Svitla")
Total cost: $1394.80 Total weight: 496 lbs.
Contents: hospital supplies, surgical supplies, enteral feeding, IVs, gauze and bandages, 5 laptops.
Special Thanks: Our gratitude goes to Irina Kalaida, Dr. Bronfine, Anna Ginzburg, Concord hospital, Mrs. Olena Labrecque, Mrs. Jennifer Michelle, Mrs. Nettie Engrassia, Mr. Peter Kruger and Mrs. Susanne Smith for donating the medical supplies. Also we are grateful to Brandon from Cheever Ind. for for helping us acquire missing parts for laptops.
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February 3
Shipment on February 01: 7 boxes of hospital supplies sent to Kharkiv (ETOC Благодійний фонд БО "ЄВРОПЕЙСЬКІ ТРАДИЦІЇ ДОБРОЧИННОСТІ), 1 to Lviv, 1 to Kyiv
Total cost: $857.83 Total weight: 285 lbs.
Contents: supplies for hospital and frontline medics, medical gloves, enteral feeding, IV catheters, 3 laptops, gauzes, abdominal pads and bandages.
Special Thanks: Our gratitude goes to Dr. Boris Bronfine and Concord Hospital, Anna Ginzburg, Mrs. Jennifer Michelle, Mr. Enrique Gutierrez, Mrs. Lynne Fillipon Sapienza, Mrs. Nettie Engrassia, Mr. Andrew Borek, and Mrs. Susanne Smith for donating the medical supplies.
Now we are working on prepare two next shipping
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February 1
“They’ve been blinded,” the military medic says as she hands me their casualty cards.
Their eyes are wrapped in bandages, badly burned. One is on a stretcher, the other I have to lead on his feet, guiding him carefully inside the ambulance. We’re transferring them from another ambulance in the middle of the night at a gas station, far enough from the stabilization point to stay off the radar.
Air raid sirens wail in the distance. I don’t stick around stabilization points any longer than necessary. The russians are getting closer, and stabilization points are always targets for airstrikes. We get in and get out.
“Is my brother here? Is he okay? We want to smoke.”
“He’s here” I tell him, handing them both cigarettes, lighting each one. Smoke hangs in the cool air as we try to keep the conversation light outside the ambulance. They’re scared—blinded, disoriented. They need to know they’re not alone.
We load them inside and begin the two-hour journey to the trauma center. Viktoria takes one of them, I take the other.
They tell us how a drone-dropped grenade hit their position, inflicting flash burns and throwing shrapnel and dirt deep into their eyes. They’ve lost their phones in the attack. One asks to call his wife, and Devi hands him her phone, gently holding his hand as he dials.
The soldier I’m with hesitates. “I don’t want to worry her,” he says, tears slipping from beneath the bandages. I put a gauze pad into his hand that he uses to blot them away. He picks up the phone:
“My love, I’m here. Something happened. I’m in an ambulance. It’s just my eyes. They don’t know yet. I’m sorry. I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”
Day 1073 of this war.
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Here’s a snapshot of the patients we’ve cared for since our last update:
1. 32-year-old male: Flash burns to eyes.
2. ~50-year-old male: Flash burns to eyes.
3. 40-year-old male: Shrapnel wounds to elbow, forearm, and back.
4. 46-year-old male: Shrapnel wounds to buttocks and forearm.
5. 30-year-old male: Tension pneumothorax.
6. 49-year-old male: Concussion, shrapnel wounds to left shin, muscle and bone damage.
7. 40-year-old male: Shrapnel wound to forearm.
8. 42-year-old male: Severe TBI with confirmed head bleed, seizures.
9. 35-year-old male: Fractures to both arms and trauma to thigh.
10. 33-year-old male: Trauma and fractures to both lower extremities and right pelvis.
11. 53-year-old male: Broken left lower extremity.
12. 40-year-old male: Spinal trauma caused by explosion.
13. 48-year-old male: Contused wound on frontal region, contusion of left eye.
14. 50-year-old male: Obstructive bronchitis, difficulty breathing, high blood pressure.
15. 47-year-old male: Concussion and fractured ribs.
16. 50-year-old male: Concussion, arm fracture.
17. 47-year-old male: Diabetic coma.
18. 27-year-old male: Epilepsy.
19. 46-year-old male: Trauma to lower extremities.
20. 45-year-old male: Broken arm.
21. ~50-year-old male: Stroke (3 weeks prior).
22. ~54-year-old male: TBI and dehydration.
23. 40-year-old male: TBI.
24. 23-year-old male: Mild TBI.
25. 38-year-old male: Pneumonia.
26. 49-year-old male: Metal fragment partially penetrating eye.
27. 33-year-old male: Acute abdomen.
28. 40-year-old male: Shrapnel wounds to shin and back.
29. 41-year-old male: Mild TBI.
30. 37-year-old male: Pneumonia.
Our final day of the two-week rotation is complete. Our team is now returning to Kyiv, where we’ll restock, train, and prep for our upcoming rotation on the 15th. A second electronic warfare (EW) system has been ordered and will be delivered in the coming weeks.
Follow along and support us as we continue to expand our capacity to deliver care where it’s needed most. Together, we save lives.
