Illusion and reality on the road to Ukraine – a convoy diary

11 March

I was completely surprised by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. I had watched the posturing throughout the winter thinking Vladimir Putin would not be so stupid. I was wrong. A picture emerged that we had continually drawn lines in the sand (Syria, Crimea, Shrewsbury) and he continually crossed them without response. We were weak, and he decided to unite the mainland with Crimea via a coastal land corridor. I was left feeling rather ashamed but at the same time, awed by stubborn Ukrainian resistance.

Exactly thirty years ago, I was a Sandhurst cadet preparing for the final parade, after which I would be released upon a highly skilled and deeply sceptical platoon of paratroopers as their latest Second Lieutenant. Military training is an intense experience and the root of life-long friendships. One of my Sandhurst colleagues, Rich, posts a link in our Whatsapp group saying that he knows a charity seeking drivers for a medical and food convoy to Ukraine. They are based in Leeds, where I live. He says he’s going, would anyone like to join?  Yes, I say. That’s me.

12 March

I spend the weekend pondering how to ask my wife’s permission. I’m 53 this year. I’ve broken both ankles and both shoulders, slipped a disc, and knocked out the meniscus in one knee. I’m riddled with arthritis and a good fifteen kilograms overweight. The news is full of former paratroopers going off to fight with the recently formed Foreign Legion. Some will be the real deal. Many, I fear, will be ‘walts’ who will be brutally exposed by the realities of war. There is conflicting advice about going off to fight. Foreign Secretary Liz Truss supports the principle but her office website does not.

My twelve-year military career saw operational service in Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Northern Ireland. I was at Regimental Headquarters when the Iraq and Afghanistan campaigns kicked off. There is something stirring about the idea of going to war and my dreams bloat with absurdly heroic actions even though I would now struggle to operate a Javelin shoulder-launched missile.

The charity asks if I have an HGV licence and a driver’s tacho card. I order the latter online knowing it might not arrive in time. On the back of my licence is a list of icons representing what I ought to be able to drive. Apparently, it includes a motorbike and an articulated lorry, though I’ve never had experience of either. Could I manage a right-hand-drive, 7.5 ton Isuzu? Sure, why not.

14 March

I study President Zelensky. He has a piercing instinct for the nature and tone of a message and the moment to express it. His delivery is insistent and he has a knack for snappy social media posts. Once a comic troupe player, and the winner of the Ukrainian version of Strictly, my social media feeds portray him as the leader the hour demands; the natural inheritor of the Churchillian tradition. A man of destiny.

Boris Johnson, meanwhile, waves a statement saying he and other European leaders, collectively styled as the Joint Expeditionary Force, condemn Russia’s actions and will impose stringent sanctions. He proudly states how far the rouble has tumbled and the loss of share value for Russian companies. Sunken eyed, he appears more the inheritor of the Chamberlain tradition, although lacking the integrity, moral courage, or sense of service.

15 March

The charity has confirmed how many vehicles have been loaned for the trip and therefore how many drivers are required. We are added to a Whatsapp group and get sent pictures of each wagon being locked and sealed by the trustees while we safely go about our day jobs. I’m expecting a central brief, but nothing happens. I realise that while the trustees are loading the wagons from dawn until dusk, we have to find our own space to contribute.

I now find team building a rather tedious process, the grinding inevitability of forming, storming, norming, performing and so on. To hasten it along, I facilitate introductions on Whatsapp, which leads to us sharing of pictures of our dogs. It feels light, frivolous even. Becky (who owns a dachshund called Brian) introduces herself as the ‘token vagina’ and ‘a proper Yorkshire lass.’ Justin is keen to ensure we know the Covid rules for each country: which ones require testing, masks, certificates, phone apps. His diligence is welcome as making sense of the conflicting British and foreign websites is mind-numbing. Simon speaks fluent French and reads everything in both languages, picking out the inconsistences. I set up a Zoom call to coordinate activity. Peter offers to ask the port authority thinking they would know best. We’re told we don’t need anything, although masks may be required at fuel stops. I order a test kit from Boots anyway, which never gets used.

Social media memes concentrate on the staggering tally of tractor against tank; Ukrainian farmers stumbling on, and claiming, abandoned munitions. I’m reminded of having to learn the distinguishing features of armoured vehicles; the location of the fume extractor, the fuel tanks, the shape of the fording plate. What’s clear is that poorly trained conscripts from eastern Russia are driving unprotected armour into dense urban terrain and being picked apart by ferocious infantry resistance. Russia has banned social media and threatened to imprison anyone who criticises their ‘special operation’. The information void is quickly filled by Ukrainians, who post clips of Russian atrocities, tanks being ambushed, armoured vehicles ablaze. It’s impossible to tell, though, what is happening where. Are we driving into that level of conflict?

16 March

Washing the dishes, I mumble to Joanne, my wife, that I have something to ask. “Just say it,” she says. I explain the war has upset me. This infraction on liberal values has gone straight to my core and I feel a desire, a duty even, to do something about it. We had spoken in the past about being the sort of people who would hide an Anne Frank in the attic if occasion demanded. Faced with the reality of opening our child-free, four-bedroom house to Ukrainian refugees, we have proved less forthcoming despite the fact that our friends have done so. This trip provides the opportunity for us to say we contributed.

She nods consent and hugs me. Just as well. The letter from the DVLA containing the tacho card is on the table. To prevent anyone being too worried, I hint we are only going as far as the border even though I know the intention is to cross it.

The idea excites me more than I can say.

17 March

I’m worried about the naivety of the chatter on the Whatsapp group. There’s a discussion about what insurance to get, as if insurance would make a jot of difference after a mine strike. I suggest, as gently as I can, that we should not advertise where we are going on press releases and social media. We will already have been identified by the Russian security services and although I am happy to drive into a war zone, I don’t want to do so while my co-driver posts the event live on Instagram. I try not to sound alarmist, or a know-it-all, and possibly fail at both. Even with emoji responses, it’s difficult to know how one’s words are understood by people you don’t know. The discussion moves on to informing our banks that we’re going abroad, and how pointless the International Driver Permit is.

I pack and repack my bag, second guessing how cold it will be, how many socks are required, whether a sleeping bag would be useful. Becky asks if she should take a laptop so we have a means to complete Covid documentation on the road. There is now a gentle supportiveness in our messaging. We are starting to form into a team as the day of departure draws closer.

One thing that frightens me is whether they will allow us to cross into Ukraine but prevent us from leaving. Rich has heard of people who had their passports taken before being sent to the front. I dig out my second passport, the one for Middle Eastern travel, and hide it in the cover of my tablet.

There are rumours that P&O ferries will cease operations tomorrow, the day of departure. Mark, the senior trustee, asks us to come in earlier than planned in case we have to drive via Folkestone rather than going through Hull. Everything feels haphazard, last minute. It’s fine, I tell myself. I can cope with ambiguity.

Joanne and I sit on the sofa holding hands. I drink a bottle of wine. We watch something silly until it’s time for bed. It almost works.

18 March

I get up before dawn, walk in the fresh air, do tai chi. I shave, dress, hump the bag downstairs. There’s nothing more to do. “Let’s go,” I say to Joanne. We drive in silence to an industrial estate in Hunslet, where eight lorries are parked along the twelve-foot steel fencing on both sides of the road. I introduce myself to Mark, the senior Trustee, and offer to do something useful.

On Russian TV, a producer runs behind the presenter with a sign telling the viewers not to believe the propaganda. Stop the war. At that moment, she is the bravest person in the world. In Leeds, a regional TV crew takes a staged film of us loading the final boxes, pulling down the shutter, mounting the cabs. They interview Mark, Rich, and Becky. We have branded tee-shirts, so I could have left more clothes behind. I kiss my wife and promise to call when I can.

I’m ok now. I’m prepared. I know what to expect.

Then we’re off. It’s too risky to depend on P&O so it’s the A1 south, M11, M25. By the time we get to Peterborough we hear on the news that we made the right decision. We stop on the M25 to change drivers. Rich and I haven’t seen each other for five years and share our frustrations about the paucity of communications. We don’t know where we’re heading. Apparently, we will drop off at a military airfield. Not a good idea, I say. “That makes all aid convoys a target.”

At the fuel stops, we’re awkward and clumsy with the pumps, not knowing which side to park on or how to unlock the cap. A trucker sits in his cab, hand hanging over the wheel, staring down at me impassively. He’s trying, I think, not to smirk.

We book in for the night at a motel near Folkestone, all of us sharing rooms. Rich asks if I snore. “No,” I say, “but I get up two of three times to piss.”

We pull the square tables together to form one big one, and order food. I drink too much, telling myself we’re bonding, alcohol helps. Keith’s wife has made us plywood bar mats etched with our names and a little convoy of trucks. It’s such a thoughtful thing to do. But as the evening wears on, Simon says something and Becky takes offence. This sets the tone for group dynamics over the coming days. We’re storming already and I wonder how fractious things will become when we get closer to the border.

It doesn’t take long to identify the people with previous military experience. Apart from me and Rich, Simon was a helicopter pilot and Keith did seven years in a Yorkshire regiment long since amalgamated into something else. Most of his career was spent on the boxing team and, sitting next to him, I get a strong sense of why. His son has just left the Royal Marines and is struggling to adapt to life as a civvy.

19 March

I thought there would be huge tailback on the M20 but we get through the tunnel in under three hours. I’ve now got a feel for how my Isuzu (Suzy) handles. On the far side I make a joke about stopping off in Paris to watch England play France in the last match of the six nations. Speed limited to 58 miles per hour, we drift slowly across France and into Germany, tracking our progress against the towns one knows from First World War history.

We swap drivers to prevent cliques forming. I go in the front, with Mark. His eyes are swollen with fatigue and voice raspy. I realise how many hurdles he has overcome to get this convoy on the road in under fourteen days. The bank cards never arrived so he’s paying for each fuel stop (£3k per time) with his own money. Belgium refused free passage through their toll system. There is diesel rationing in France, so we have to prepay before filling each vehicle, making every stop an hour-long affair. The Red Cross complained about the use of their logo on the vehicles despite the presence of the words ‘Humanitarian Aid’. Apparently, it’s a registered trade mark. And now there’s rancour spreading in the team. What else can happen?

Mark has been taking aid to eastern Europe for twenty years. At first this was to Ukraine, but blatant corruption made him switch to Romania. He took clothing, refurbished laptops, teddy bears. If it made a difference, he felt good. And then war came. People asked what he was doing. He had the contacts and the experience. At first, he refused, but then found he could not ignore the horror on our doorstep. As we inch ever eastward, people beep their horns and wave. Some film us from their cars. We feel warm about what we’re doing and Mark’s singularity of purpose holds us together, mile after mile.

20 March

We get to the bunk house in Regensburg just after midnight. I’m relieved. I was so tired on the final stretch that I was swerving across the intersecting yellow and white lines in the endless roadworks. The lights blurred my vision.

The hotel manager has left the rooms open and gone to bed. There’s a crate of beer by the porch but we don’t touch it, scrambling instead for a room we are happy with. Rob wanders round looking for spare bedding and doesn’t find any. He sleeps in his clothes and wakes up freezing but, being blessed with boyish levels of energy, simply laughs it off.

It’s people’s motivation that interests me the most. There are four old soldiers amongst us. It’s easy to imagine the need to rekindle the fire that once burned brightly, the hunger for a ‘bubble reputation’ that eluded us in youth. “I want to prove I’ve still got it,” says Rich, “while I still can.”

But why are the others here? Why would anyone want to drive into a war zone?

James has just turned forty. He owns a food business and has a family of three young children. He’s here because of them. He wants them to grow up in a world where they are free and safe. The incursion into Ukraine was an incursion across his own front door. To protect his children’s future, he has to make a stand.

Becky’s father walked out when she was seven and she readily admits to ‘daddy issues’. It wasn’t his departure that hurt most but the continually broken promises over subsequent years. This led to a violently unproductive period as a teenager that now causes her immense embarrassment. Because her sister has long-Covid, she plays an active role in caring for her two nieces and wants to be a good role model. Her company donated over £100k of medical equipment for the trip, mostly feminine and child products. Dropping it off, she said to Mark she wished she could go too. “Why don’t you?” he asked. “There’ll be nowt special for a girl; we can’t waste charity money on single rooms. But if you want to, you can.” So she did.

Dave has the swagger of a rugby player, huge hands, a rapacious appetite. He runs a recruitment business. He helps anyone if he has the resources to do so. Saying yes, being positive about the opportunities life offers, generates reward. For him, our continually strengthening cohesion is more than he could wish for.

Mike and Graham work for Nixon’s, the van hire company. They have the calm efficiency of experienced sergeants; always ready first, their vehicles tidied and checked. Graham’s biggest fear is his irritable bowel syndrome. He is horribly caught out in the relentless push eastward. He dumps soiled jeans in a bin and Gary gives him a pair of spare trackies. Graham doesn’t take it to heart, but the weight of the incident hurts us all. Our cold determination gets stronger. When we get to the Ukrainian border, it’s Graham’s connections at the DVLA that get us through.

Explaining why they are doing this makes everyone blink and hold the bridge of their nose. They turn away, a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from."

A woman at a petrol station near Budapest asks us where we’re going. She’s from Kiev and has fled with two children to stay with the friend of a friend. Her husband is fighting. The kindness of strangers makes her eyes water. "Thank you, British,” she manages, before hiding her face and running back to her car.

Justin is a fastidious, careful man with an adopted family. He rings his wife for the final time before we cross. No, he’ll be safe. They did shell a distribution centre, but it was some distance away. He’ll call as soon as he’s safe. She’s not to worry. He closes the call and scrolls through his music. The atmospheric opening of Brothers in Arms is perfect for the mental preparation we both need. We drive in silence, each in our own thoughts.  

We get to a town on Hungary’s eastern border as the bar is closing. We order food and beer, eating at a long table in the breakfast hall. Our fixer, Andrei, is there. He’s short and avuncular, Ukrainian by upbringing but married to a Slovak and living in Budapest. Under 60, he can’t cross the border as he would not be able to get out. Instead, he links up aid convoys with contacts inside the country. A lifelong Rotarian, he is well connected. He buys vodka and toasts us. “My people are very grateful,” he says. “We feel it very strong you come.”

21 March

I rise before dawn, stretch, and do tai chi at the far end of the car park, an area designed for outdoor weddings. There’s a fake marble fountain, fake marble pillars, and rows of rusting white chairs. The others come down from their rooms. We eat, then it’s time.

There’s no traffic going east. As the sky warms, we keep a tight convoy along flat, straights roads bisecting vineyards, wheat fields, and copses of silver birch. The former soldiers coordinate progress: “Hello One, this is Eight, we’re through the lights. Increase pace, over.”

I’ve asked everyone to put their phones on flight mode. They can take pictures but won’t give away our position. The green signs indicate the border getting closer. And then we’re there: a ramp, a barrier, a young man with a neat beard wearing a blue uniform, a building with a covered portico like a petrol station. Mark, in the lead vehicle, gets through. But the young man stops the second one, Becky and James. We have detailed manifests, customs documents, authorities to travel. But we don’t have the original V5C registration documents.

“It’s a hire car,” Mark says, raising his voice. “You don’t get original documents for a hire car. This is a photocopy.”

The young man shakes his head. He disappears into his cabin and makes a call. A crisply dressed woman with more stars on her rank slides comes out to help. We have the same discussion with her. She disappears into the cabin and makes a call.

Other vehicles arrive behind us. We’re blocking the ramp. A driver shouts at us but we do not understand. Another tells him to be quiet and I hear the word ‘humanitarian’. After two hours, we are directed through the barrier and park in the hinterland between passport control and customs. We’re there for ten hours while the people in blue uniforms walk from one building to the next, head down, carrying bits of paper. We sleep on the small grassy area, kick a can, tell jokes. Becky and Simon share whatever food is in their cabs. The toilet is foul. Drivers arrive, get their stamps and leave. Andrei says they want us to drop the aid at a warehouse so local gangs can take it across the border.

“No way,” Mark says, shaking his head. “No fucking way.”

An air raid siren sounds in the distance, mournful as a lone wolf. We look towards the border. This is why we are here.

Graham patrols the concrete perimeter talking on his phone to someone in the DVLA. Things happen we cannot see. The man in a blue uniform calls for Andrei to answer some questions. A document is emailed from somewhere. There’s a sign of movement, so we jump up and run to our vehicles, but nothing happens so we relax again. A busload of refugees bound for Italy comes through customs. Women and children dismount to stretch their legs. Rob gives a child a teddy bear he was given by his daughter. She snatches it from him, hugs it, and turns away.

At four in the afternoon. we’re told they won’t allow us through. Dejected, angry, we drive out through customs and back round through the immigration scanner. On the way past, we look along the bridge into Ukraine, a hundred feet away. It takes another hour until we are lined up ready to head off. Andrei says he knows a safe place we can use as a warehouse. Keith shakes his head. “Fucking fuming, me,” he mutters.

There’s a strong sense that Hungarian officialdom is doing anything it can to inhibit the flow of aid. A pair of hookers strut along the road, trying to make eye contact. But just as we are about to go, the man in the blue uniform runs down the ramp waving for Andrei. We can go, he says. We have permission.

Keith’s face radiates sunshine. “D’you hear that? We’re going in, like.”

Soon, we’re between border controls on a bridge that would be an ideal setting for a Cold War spy swap. Night falls. I remind everyone to turn off their phones. We get a ticket from a kiosk on the Ukrainian side which we take to another kiosk and then another. Then we’re through.

The police escort organised by Andrei has been waiting all day. We sweep past a row of petrol stations following the tail lights of the van in front. We haven’t eaten or drunk properly since breakfast. Andrei promised us dinner hosted by Rotarians but by the time we get to our drop off location it’s approaching midnight. Not that food matters. We’re here, and our eyes shine with excitement.

The whole Ukrainian state has mobilised itself. We’re met at an old, disused factory by three men. One looks like a professor, one is a lawyer who speaks good English, and the third is a blunt, sturdy man in a black puffer jacket. He has the look of a hoodlum and a quick, harsh laugh. We line the vehicles up and leave the keys inside. We will be fed while Ukrainian teams do the unloading. This is welcome as it took three men eight days to load up. I still take my camera and anything valuable from the cab; we all do.

We’re guided through the factory to a side room where there’s a 10-gallon bucket of spicy, cold goulash, paper plates, a kettle tilting at the end of its cable. There’s water, which we guzzle.

I walk round the factory as no one stops me. Along the walls are stacks of wheelchairs, crutches, pain killers, bags of bandages, pallets of tinned food, industrial bags of rice and flour. I watch the Ukrainian team unloading our eighteen-tonner. They have it down to a fine art, crawling over the freight like ants, unwrapping the plastic and re-packing the boxes as they come off. The man pushing the pallet trolley must be over 70. The forklift driver is the fastest I’ve ever seen.

Mark says we should unload the vans ourselves. It will take too long if we let them do the work. The Ukrainians don’t want us to do this as it will disrupt their system, but we don’t want to hang around. Felix brings one of the 7 tonners into the factory, parks in the middle of the floor space, and opens the doors.

It takes four hours to complete the unload. Having sat in a cab for three days, I’m stiff and inflexible. Extended heavy lifting is absolutely the worst thing I should be doing, but I can’t stop. The others depend on me and I must pull my weight. We form lines as each vehicle comes in and backs up. The fittest, Rob and Dave, clamber inside the wagons. They have to bend and lift the most. The fastest go at the ends, stacking as neatly as possible. Simon controls the flow at the tailgate. Becky insists she can take the same load as a man, and proves it. I take a place in the middle of the line with Gary, Mark B, and Pete, passing front to rear, front to rear. As the stacks take shape, the chain adapts and reforms. We are seamless, fluid, efficient.

We allow ourselves to take turns at having a break. James and Dave go outside, wiping sweat off their faces in the cold night air. They stand in the doorway looking up at Orion lying lazily on its side above the rooftops and street lamps. The air raid siren sounds for the third time. A blue star arcs past, followed by another. Later, when we hear the news, we discover they weren’t shooting stars, but missiles bound for a distribution centre further north.

It's 3am. Rob reaches down for the last box, one leg lifting behind him for balance. He smiles and passes it to the lawyer, who carries it off the back. We are too tired to cheer. We hug them. They thank us. The man in black asks to film us standing in front of our freight chanting in Ukrainian: Russian navy, go fuck yourselves.

“Are you from Manchester?” he asks. No, we laugh. Wrong side of the Pennines. “Alex Fergusson,” he says, making a stiff bow at the waist. “King of England.”

We had hoped to stay the night in the care of Rotarians but all the hotels are full of refugees from the east and the south. We have to drive back across the border and do so carefully, windows open, music loud, talking to stay awake. At dawn we hit our beds in the same hotel as the night before. Was that only a day ago?

24 March

The drive back is a slog. We thought we’d be home by Wednesday but now might not even make Thursday. After a few hours sleep, we began the slow trundle westward still numb from what had happened the day before. Processing such things takes time. Snippets of memory are discussed and made meaningful. That was a missile we saw. That soldier at the border looked like a child. That sums it up for me, Rob giving the teddy to that little girl.

We don’t make it to the bunkhouse in Regensburg but find a soulless schlafhotel somewhere in western Austria. There’s a pizza shop next door that serves beer. We feast hungrily, although I find myself spooning grated carrot salad onto my diavolo, I am in such need of vegetables.

I’m bunking with Simon. We’ve been given a double room rather than a twin, but we’re both too tired to care. Ear plugs in, lights out, I don’t hear anything of the party going on next door, or the German aggressively complaining about it, or Keith carrying him bodily back to his room. There’s a debate on the second day about pressing on to Calais or stopping at Reims. We do the latter as it’s ten by the time we get there. I stump up money to have a room to myself, though I would struggle to remember it.

It takes six hours to get on the train for the trip through the tunnel. The trucks snake slowly round convoluted stages of embarkation, filtering, security, passport control. From a high vantage point on a bridge over the motorway I watch a gang of athletic black youths open the back of a lorry some way behind me in the queue. Some of them clamber inside while others relock the door and yet others distract the driver of the lorry behind. It’s a well drilled operation. When we go through security, the dogs find the men inside and they’re hauled off to a portacabin.

Felix comes on the radio to say one of them has just climbed into his cab. He wisely dismounts before Keith arrives to help him.

I’m struck by my different attitudes to Ukrainians and Africans. Both could be prisoners of an unwanted war, both seeking opportunity and the chance to flourish safely. We inch past a boy of about fifteen in dirty clothes and wild hair sitting on the steel guardrail. His mouth hangs open in a petulant expression. I lock the cab doors and wind up the window despite the heat.

And then, somehow, home. Joanne is there, pulling back against the dog as it strains to get to me. We hug. I’m flustered in the things we have to do: move kit, tidy up, say goodbye. Not everyone has got back yet, but I don’t want to wait. We are now in the mourning phase of team dynamics, when we have to drift gradually apart after such a rich experience. I don’t like farewells.

The day we get home, Andrei sends us a picture of our aid being collected by a mother carrying two children. The image sings for me, deep inside. My Facebook posts have attracted an obscene number of comments. Apparently, we’re heroes, though none of use feels like one. We just did something we thought was right and this, for me, is the most powerful thing about the trip. In a world of isolationist, populist, truthless politics; a world where it is difficult to know what is real; these things are certainties: sixteen people, amateurs in the aid world, none of whom had met before, drove 1700 miles across Europe to deliver 120 tons of pasta, saline drips, and bandages to help a people they did not know because they were in desperate need. We did it for free, and will do it again. The trip touched us deeply. We have built a powerful bond. And we have formed a collective and deep respect for how the people of Ukraine have mobilised themselves to stand against tyranny. We say to them: Hold fast. Be strong. Help is coming. After us, a convoy from Sweden, then Spain, then more from England. You are not alone. Slavaukraini.