The road was littered with landmines bigger than dinner plates and I wondered how many desperate people – mothers carrying infants, old women in wheelchairs – would risk threading their way through them to reach safety.
Waiting on the other side of no man’s-land, in Ukrainian-controlled territory 500 yards away, I was about to find out. These innocent civilians were trapped in a village seized by Russian forces east of Ukraine’s besieged second city, Kharkiv, and knew that if left at the mercy of their invaders they faced potential starvation.
We had put the finishing touches to my evacuation plan the previous day when we somehow acquired 20 buses, three ambulances and other assorted vehicles, and on arrival at the rendezvous point I was heartened to see that the Ukrainian military had, as requested, cleared a path through the mines.
Drivers, medics, police, army personnel and a smattering of Ukrainian special forces, identifiable by their shades and face-covering scarves, were in place.
We were all set. There was a nerve-shredding wait and I felt myself sweating beneath my body armour. It was a hot summer day and Russia was bombing nearby Kharkiv in attacks designed to sow panic.
Former Tory minister Brooks Newmark (pictured on the mined road): The road was littered with landmines bigger than dinner plates and I wondered how many desperate people – mothers carrying infants, old women in wheelchairs – would risk threading their way through them to reach safety
Back when David Cameron was Prime Minister and I was a Conservative MP, I would have talked about this war from the cool safety of the House of Commons. Now I was in the thick of it. I thought of all those who had helped my Jewish family flee the Nazis in the run-up to the Second World War. This was the moment to summon some of their courage.
Then, at the last moment, a hitch. The Ukrainian military had received intelligence that spies were planning to mingle with evacuees. The evacuation was called off. Then, after what seemed an eternity, it was back on. A maximum of 200 people could come through – but only after vetting.
‘If 200 people are willing walk through those mines, it will be a miracle,’ I told my friend. Sure, they’d been moved aside, but what if someone accidentally dropped something heavy on one of the devices, or stepped out of line?
Suddenly, the first civilians started to appear, tentatively at first – a few elderly ladies, a mum with two children, a twentysomething woman with two alsatian dogs – and then from a trickle to a steady stream.
Before long there were easily 200 people. I couldn’t believe it. Clutching what few personal belongings they could carry, they picked their way through the mines, women gripping on to their children; those pushing wheelchairs carving a meticulous path as far from the devices as possible. Everyone knew that one false move could spell disaster.
To my profound joy, they made it through. At the Ukranian checkpoint, their papers and passports were checked and they were sent on their way. I stayed put, wanting to see how many people would risk it. Sure enough, soon there was a second wave – and then a third, fourth and fifth, all in batches of 200, clutching bags and pets in carriers.
In the end, 1,015 men women children crossed the minefield. It was indeed a miracle.
My involvement in the war started with an Instagram post from a Latvian friend called Raitis, who owns a transport firm. It was a week after the invasion and he was on the Polish border, shuttling people in one of his buses from refugee centres near the villages of Hrebenne and Korczowa. I was fiddling around in London, trying to focus on my day job as a business investor, when all I really cared about was what was happening in Ukraine.
In the end, 1,015 men women children crossed the minefield. It was indeed a miracle. Brooks Newmark pictured helping people escape the Russian shelling
Like so many others who have donated money and opened their homes to refugees, I wanted to do something to help. On an impulse I decided to join Raitis, and so it was that I found myself first in Poland and then in Ukraine, helping transport women and children to safety. What began as a few days volunteering slipped into weeks; then months. To date, I have helped evacuate more than 14,000 women and children – including those who were desperate enough to cross that minefield.
We based ourselves in Lviv and began transporting people from Lviv and Kyiv to the Polish border. As the Russians were pushed back from Kyiv, we moved our operation further into Ukraine to Vinnytsia and Zaporizhia, cities which had become temporary havens for women and children fleeing the slaughter in Mariupol. These places would not be safe for long, so we took them further to safety.
After two months I had moved close to 5,000 women and children out of danger. As the war shifted from the north to the east so did my operation.
Having set up four hubs so far in Lviv, Kyiv, Vinnytsia and Zapporizhia we established two more in Dnipro and Kharkiv. Outrageously, the Russians were increasingly targeting civilians – a war crime – driving them out of major cities and towns. They were doing this daily, and in places like Mariupol, Izyum and Kharkiv they were doing it hourly.
In the weeks that followed we continued to move hundreds of the most vulnerable people out of the firing line. We evacuated several orphanages and a group of amputees from hospitals in Ukraine. Local hospitals simply didn’t have the resources to cope with such dreadful wounds, and many victims were unlikely to survive.
With the help of a charity that provided ambulances, we managed to get patients to Rzeszow, an airfield on the Polish border, from where they were airlifted to Germany.
After two months I had moved close to 5,000 women and children out of danger. Resident Raisa Kuval, 82, reacts to shelling near Kharkiv on July 16
By now I had access to 16 buses from two national bus companies and several ambulances from a local medical charity, and had moved over 9,200 mainly women and children to safety.
Then in mid-July we received a call from a Ukrainian government contact in Kharkiv. Could we help evacuate 1,000 women and children from a Russian controlled area in the east of Kharkiv region?
The date was set for Monday July 25. After several calls we managed to find 20 buses, three ambulances and a handful of vans that we could use as makeshift ambulances.
I then drove 600 miles from Lviv to Kharkiv with Maris, an old friend of Raitis, and my translator Juras.
We arrived late in the evening, but before curfew at our usual B&B, which we’d nicknamed Fawlty Towers for the chaotic, albeit loving way in which it was run and which was close to the city train station but away from the city centre.
We were greeted by the owner, a jolly plump Ukrainian woman who made the best home-made borscht and pelmeni (a Ukrainian dumpling) I’ve ever tasted. In the background, I could hear the thud of bombs. We spent the weekend putting the final touches on the evacuation plan. Grudgingly, I found a flak jacket and helmet. Even simple body armour is heavy and uncomfortable and I’d been avoiding wearing it to date. This time, I knew I’d had no choice.
Then – a shock. At 6pm on the Sunday, just as everything was falling into place, we were told the evacuation was off.
The Ukrainian army had laid 500 yards of anti-tank mines between the Russian and Ukrainian check points. Ukrainian intelligence feared the enemy would use the evacuees as human shields to further their advance.
Frantically trying to think of a Plan B, I remembered that when I last visited a minefield (in southern Lebanon just after the 2006 war –another story), the UN had managed to make a path through for civilians. Locals knew exactly where the mines were and had been shown how they could safely pick their way around the explosives.
Back when David Cameron was Prime Minister and I was a Conservative MP, I would have talked about this war from the cool safety of the House of Commons. Now I was in the thick of it. Newmark pictured departing Downing Street in 2014
Through local government officials in Kharkiv, I asked if the Army could try the same thing. I heard nothing back, save that anyone considering evacuating would be told the route was mined. ‘Nobody will take the risk,’ I was told.
‘These people have three choices,’ I replied. ‘Cross a 500-yard minefield, having been shown how to do it; stay where they are and be hunted down by the cruellest of enemies; or cross the border into Russia and try to get out via the Baltic States. Faced with these wretched choices, I made a bet that some, if not all, would choose option one.’
‘Let’s go to the checkpoint tomorrow morning as planned and see who turns up,’ I told the team.
At 7.45am on the Monday, we met the bus drivers at a central point in Kharkiv. I wolfed down two cherry filled doughnuts and what passed for an espresso, knowing I’d need the caffeine and sugar – though in truth I had no shortage of adrenaline. Parked up by the side of the road were 20 lime-green buses. We still needed clearance from the army to go ahead.
At 8.20am we were given the green light to drive to an assembly point two miles from the Ukrainian checkpoint. This was no-man’s-land, near the perilous stretch of mined road between advancing Russian forces and safety. I was warned that the likelihood of the evacuation going ahead that day were still low, but in the spirit of hope, the buses went on ahead.
I am so glad they did. What happened that day will stay with me for ever. I’ll take it over the contributions I used to make in the House of Commons debating chamber any day.
I would like to thank not only my team but the dozens of bus drivers, ambulance drivers, local Government officials, policemen and soldiers. Slava Ukraini!