An anesthesiologist from “Azovstal”: Military medic Oleksandr Demchenko survived a unique hospital stay in a bunker and Russian captivity
Source: Novynarnia
Authors: Lesya Shovkun, Dmytro Lykhoviy
After Ukraine’s victory, our specialists in certain fields will prove to be the most experienced and, obviously, in high demand around the world. No country has ever faced such a critical situation as the one Ukrainian energy professionals are successfully overcoming. No country has endured trials like those faced by our military personnel during the first large-scale war of the third millennium. And, of course, Ukrainian doctors—both civilian and military—are gaining absolutely invaluable experience.
One of the most unique examples in this regard was the hospital at Azovstal. There, under constant shelling, surrounded on three sides by Russian troops, complex surgical procedures were performed three stories underground, with full anesthesiological support.
To perform these procedures, several medical professionals flew by helicopter to Mariupol, which was surrounded and under enemy fire. One of them was anesthesiologist Oleksandr Demchenko. He has been in the military since 2016, so by that time he had already seen many complex injuries.
But no one had ever experienced anything like what was happening at “Azovstal.”
In an interview with “Novynarnia,” Oleksandr spoke about the flight to Mariupol, the unique challenges of working in a bunker hospital, the most memorable cases from his previous experience as a military doctor, the “evacuation” from Azovstal, and his captivity by the Russians in the notorious colony in Olenivka, from which he returned 45 kilograms lighter but unbroken.
“The bombing of Azovstal looked like watching a movie through 3D glasses. It was hard to believe that this was really happening.”
A chilly night in late March 2022. A full-scale war with the aggressor, Russia, had been raging in Ukraine for over a month. And for several weeks now, it’s been hell in Mariupol, which is surrounded by the enemy.
A group of people in camouflage, carrying large backpacks and wearing very serious expressions, gathers somewhere on the Dnipro embankment to board a helicopter. And, as it turns out later, to take off on the last successful flight to the city of Mariupol—to aid the soldiers holding the line at Azovstal. Unlike previous groups, this one also includes five medical professionals: four doctors and a nurse.
Among them is 30-year-old Captain of the Medical Service and anesthesiologist Oleksandr Demchenko.
“No one gave us an order to fly to Mariupol. They simply told us there would be such a mission and that a group of surgeons and anesthesiologists was being formed. It was strictly on a voluntary basis. Two anesthesiologists and two surgeons volunteered. We packed the necessary supplies and flew from Dnipro to Mariupol on the night of March 31,” Oleksandr says.
Of course, it was no secret to anyone on that helicopter that the city was completely surrounded and that heavy fighting was underway there. And that Ukrainian units had virtually no chance of breaking out of that encirclement. In other words, this journey was essentially a one-way ticket for them.
However, first they still had to fly to Mariupol. Over territory that was completely controlled and under fire from the enemy.
Unlike many of the soldiers in those helicopters who were breaking through to support the defenders of the coastal city, for Oleksandr, this flight was far from his first. He had previously been involved in the aeromedical evacuation of the wounded, so he had flown over field hospitals many times.
“I understood that if, God forbid, the helicopter were hit, there would be nothing left of it. So I told myself: if we make it there, everything will be fine. After all, we weren’t just flying for ourselves—we were carrying a vital cargo that the guys there desperately needed.
And I’m very grateful to the crew—they’re brave and professional. We flew fast and very low. I really hope they’re all right. Because, as we know, not all the helicopters made it back…”
During seven unique missions to besieged Mariupol, Ukraine lost a total of three helicopters along with their heroic crews. But this flight, fortunately, was successful.
Helicopters in Mariupol
But even after a successful landing and unloading of the helicopter somewhere near the seaport, there was still one important stage left: getting to “Azovstal.” So, after waiting out daylight hours in cover, the daring volunteers set off again. This time—by sea.
“While we were sailing, the engine somehow stalled. And when you’re in body armor, carrying an 80-liter medical backpack, one and a half to two kilometers from the shore, with the enemy all around you, that’s not exactly a very reliable way to get around,” says Oleksandr. “But we eventually made it to the landing site just fine.
And there, we spent another six hours, scattered across different locations for safety reasons, lying out in the open—waiting for them to come pick us up. And we watched “live” as Azovstal was being bombed.
You know, I’ve seen a lot of shelling from various weapons in my life. But this was the first time I’d seen an aerial bombardment. And it was an unforgettable experience. I simply couldn’t believe my eyes that such a thing was possible… It felt as if I wasn’t seeing it live, but through 3D glasses in a modern movie theater. Their aircraft came in from the sea and bombed the plant’s territory virtually nonstop for those six hours. Massive missile salvos, explosions, flames, and that sound… it pounded in my ears so hard.
And only then does it sink in that this isn’t a movie at all. That it’s all happening for real, right where you’re supposed to be.
– Didn’t you regret agreeing to this mission at that moment?
– Let me put it this way: I probably thought about my whole life while I was there (smiles). But I objectively understood that I wasn’t going to grow wings and fly away. I had to keep moving forward—there was no other choice. And I had no other desire, either. I didn’t know what lay ahead. But my attitude was positive, combative.
“Zhelezyaka” Planet: A Hospital in a “Nuclear” Bunker
Then they came for us, picked us up, and we got to the hospital by car fairly quickly. It was already, in fact, April 1.
The hospital was located in a bomb shelter beneath a five-story building (the building was still there at the time; later, very little of it remained). So, five stories above ground—and another three stories below. That bunker was also called “Zhelezyaka.” And from the way the doors closed, it was clear: it had been designed to withstand a nuclear strike.
But how efficiently everything was organized there under those conditions! What I saw when I walked in was a lot of patients, but no one was lying directly on the floor. Everyone was on some kind of mattress or bed; there were even shelves, just like in a “regular” hospital.
I didn’t even walk through the entire hospital—there was no need. I had been assigned where I would stay and where we would work. Since reinforcements had arrived (that is, us, the additional doctors), the operating room was moved to a larger room. There was some kind of generator in there—a massive piece of machinery—which, of course, wasn’t working at the time, but there was a large ventilation shaft.
Thanks to that, there was always fresh air in the operating room, but it was quite chilly. We were always well-dressed while working, but the patients needed to be kept warm. We gathered jackets with “Azovstal” logos from the changing room upstairs and covered the wounded first with thermal blankets, and then with these jackets.
In the operating room, we set up two functional tables. One was actually an SPPU—a universal field dressing table. The other one, I think, was a massage table. But we adapted it. Because that was all the guys were able to bring in there. In general, the doctors who were there were so great—they thought of everything.
As for anesthesia, we had two fully functional ventilators, patient monitors, and one universal monitor with a defibrillator. Of course, there was no centralized power supply there, but the guys hooked it all up to diesel and gasoline generators that were running constantly. The lighting was adequate and of sufficient quality to perform surgeries, and they installed plenty of outlets.
But all of this was primarily set up for the operating room. So if you moved further away from it, toward another exit, it was already darker there. And all around, all around, there were patients…
The bomb shelter was designed to hold, perhaps, 100 to 150 people. But we had twice as many wounded there, especially in May.
“We performed surgeries for more than 30 hours straight: you’re like a robot, and they just keep bringing in the wounded…”
The days passed monotonously. The Russians wanted to kill us 24/7. In other words, the massive shelling never stopped: artillery, missile attacks from ships, and—worst of all—airstrikes, which usually took place at night. When we were told over the radio that a massive airstrike was being prepared, everyone had to put on personal protective gear. You put on body armor, a helmet, and stand under the columns… We thought it was safer that way, and that they wouldn’t be able to penetrate the ceiling that deep.
But they did. I’ll tell you more about that later.
At first, I went up to the surface a few more times with the guys. On the third day, April 3, I went out—and saw Russian quadcopters hovering very close by. Well, they were constantly monitoring us. And right then, the hangar across from the bunker was hit by “120s” (120-mm mortars—“H”). I was completely showered with debris. I’m just standing there, thinking, “Well, that’s it—I’m done for. Now I’ll have to save myself…” But I got lucky—the shrapnel landed right where we’d just come from.
After that, I didn’t go back to the surface until May 16.
It turned into a sort of “Groundhog Day.” It was the same thing over and over—we worked the whole time. If we could get about four hours of sleep, that was already good. In the end, we’d lost any sense of day and night anyway, because the lighting was the same, and so was the work.
The busiest days, I think, were April 11–12, when we performed surgeries for more than 30 hours straight without a break. It was very exhausting, of course. And the wounded were constantly being brought in.
In addition to the “fresh” wounded, there were quite a few who had been lying in other places for some time—where the guys were holding out—before they reached us. In other words, our comrades there had provided them with first aid, but they needed surgical intervention. And, of course, we couldn’t get everyone like that to us in time; sometimes they were brought in very late…
After the guys broke through [to “Azovstal”] from the Ilyich Steel Plant, a certain number of them also needed follow-up care.
Well, it was a difficult time, difficult days. The exhaustion was such that you were practically like a robot.
– How many surgeries did you perform during your time at “Azovstal”?
– To be honest, I didn’t count—I had other things on my mind. And of course, no one kept a log—we just worked. But there were definitely more than 200 major surgical procedures requiring extensive anesthesia. And on top of that, over 800 people passed through our operating room, including those requiring less critical procedures.
– Do you remember any particularly interesting cases?
– It’s hard to say. There were many cases, but it was such a constant stream… For example, we had severely injured soldiers who required massive blood transfusions—without which they would certainly have died. And that posed a problem. We were able to provide adequate anesthesiological care: deep sedation, analgesia, and muscle relaxation; we had the appropriate equipment and necessary medications. But there were no blood substitutes. And, of course, there was no way to perform comprehensive blood tests—we simply didn’t have the reagents.
So we took it upon ourselves to transfuse blood without testing for compatibility. We assembled a group of volunteer donors from among the slightly less exhausted men, simply taking their word for it regarding their blood type and Rh factor. It was the same with the patients: some people would say their blood type, while for others we checked their documents or tattoos… We had to make decisions very quickly.
In total, we performed about five such transfusions, and all of these patients survived. In other words, the blood was a match.
There was also a striking case when a wounded man was brought to us who had spent more than two weeks with a tourniquet applied to his lower limb…! It’s simply unbelievable that he survived.
A case where a soldier spent two weeks with a tourniquet on his leg and survived is unique in the history of medicine
– Given the miracles you’ve been performing there, I get the impression you’re about to say: “We saved his leg, too.”
– (smiles) Well, that would be a miracle straight out of the realm of science fiction. Of course, his leg was amputated—above the knee. But the fact that the wounded soldier survived despite that level of intoxication and exhaustion is truly a unique case.
Some soldiers ended up on our operating table two, three, or four times. You operate on him, he recovers a bit—and then he goes back into battle.
There were patients with severe burns. While I was studying at the academy, I worked at a burn center—as a nurse. Well, you know, I was studying and wanted to figure out what path to take next. That’s what a lot of doctors do while they’re in school. I saw all kinds of burns there and treated them. And at Azovstal, we encountered some very serious cases. But the only “medications” we had were Panthenol and hydrogen peroxide… But somehow, even without the necessary specialized treatment, everything healed fairly quickly.
“Antiseptics weren’t even an option under those conditions. But we definitely beat COVID.”
– What about sterility and antiseptics? It was, after all, an underground bunker, and an “overcrowded” one at that—with no way to wash properly, do laundry, or carry out that “wet cleaning with disinfectant solutions” as described in the cleaning guidelines for medical facilities.
– Let’s put it this way: there simply weren’t any “antiseptics” there. It would have been impossible to follow those guidelines. There’s a lot of dust in the bunker; it’s constantly swirling in the air from impacts and tremors. Plus, the humidity is insane, because we’re all breathing and exhaling both CO2 and moisture. I coughed for two weeks myself while I was adjusting to all of this. Even the sleeping bags were constantly wet—water was running and dripping from the ceiling, and mold was growing.
Of course, surgical instruments were sterilized whenever possible: we soaked them in solutions, and we had sterilization kits. With most of the equipment, it’s actually quite simple: the ampoules are sealed, the syringes are sealed, the systems are sealed, the subclavian and spinal sets are sealed—everything is in sterile packaging.
But, for example, the dressing materials weren’t even conditionally sterile. Everyone there was rolling them up. And those who were more lightly wounded helped out too, because dressings had to be changed constantly. They were performed right in this common room where we were all together—because there was nowhere else to go.
But everyone received the necessary antibiotics, and in the end, everything worked out: we didn’t have any purulent complications or anything like that. I myself was amazed at how it worked out that sometimes wounds, which take much longer to heal under “normal” conditions, healed as quickly as possible there.
– Some “anti-vaxxers” would surely say something like, “Maybe all that sterility isn’t really necessary after all?
”
– (smiles) Yeah, we joked ourselves that at least “COVID” definitely doesn’t exist there anymore—we’ve beaten it!
In fact, what really saved us was that we had a huge supply of antiseptic. We even boiled water for tea with it… at least as long as we had any water at all. And then, of course, it got tough—when not only drinking water but also utility water ran out. All that was left was the kind used in the metallurgical industry. It was clearly enriched with something, because it caused severe diarrhea and stomach upset. I didn’t dare drink that water. I had to stay on duty, and that “cocktail” was so unpredictable—you never knew if it would cause kidney failure or affect your vision.
—But what did you drink if there was no other water left?
– We had certain supplies of glucose, for example. I drank 500 ml of glucose a day—and that was basically enough. To be honest, under those conditions, I didn’t feel like eating or drinking. The only things I wanted were cigarettes and coffee. That’s it.
– Did you have cigarettes and coffee?
– We had some for a while. I brought two and a half cartons of cigarettes with me. But I ran out of them all in 12 days because I shared some with one person, then with another… Anyway, it was clear from the start that they wouldn’t last the whole time. And then it was all over. Well, it ran out and that was that—that’s just how it goes.
– How many hospitals were there on the Azovstal grounds, anyway? Because you’re saying they had everything needed for general anesthesia and, in fact, full-scale surgical procedures. Meanwhile, we clearly remember the photos shared by other medical personnel from the Azovstal bunkers: how patients with horrific injuries had their wounds treated “while still alive,” because there wasn’t even basic pain medication…
– Let’s put it this way: there was only one hospital of that caliber at Azovstal—ours—where they could perform full-scale surgical procedures with adequate anesthesiological support.
Of course, there were also medical personnel at other locations where our troops were concentrated. And they provided assistance there to the best of their ability. Given that our hospital was overcrowded, we admitted only the most critically ill—those who required immediate surgery to survive. They then remained with us because we needed to monitor their condition. And once they were on the mend and able to take care of themselves, they were transferred to other facilities.
“We never amputated any limbs or performed laparotomies on living patients—that’s nonsense.”
Essentially, of all the anesthesiological procedures that exist, the only one we couldn’t perform was epidural anesthesia. Everything else was performed.
Of course, all the patients were dehydrated, malnourished, and, to put it mildly, severely undiagnosed. But at that point, it was a choice between whether he would live at all or die for sure. We always chose “life,” so we deviated from many of the rules. That was the situation.
“From the blast of a three-metric-ton bomb, the bunker rocked like a boat. We were 4–5 seconds away from death.”
Unlike other bunker-based mini-hospitals, the “main” one did not face such a shortage of medications and supplies—in part because they were brought in by helicopters from Dnipro.
However, at a certain point, the very possibility of continuing the hospital’s operations was called into serious question. After all, even though the bunker was built to withstand a nuclear strike, it certainly wasn’t designed to withstand the relentless, systematic, daily bombardment with multi-metric-ton aerial bombs that lasted for weeks.
The Bombing of “Azovstal”
– We constantly heard the bombs falling on us—both in the operating room and during breaks. We could already clearly tell which bombs were falling—
the “impact” of a 500- or 1,000-bomb was a completely different sensation from when a 3-metric-ton bomb hit. A bomb like that would make the entire bunker rock back and forth like a boat on water.
Because a 3-metric-ton bomb leaves behind a huge crater 10 meters deep and 20 meters in diameter. The entire Azovstal site looks like the Moon. Craters interspersed with iron.
On April 28 at 2:00 a.m., we received another warning that a massive airstrike was being prepared. As always, we put on our body armor. That’s when the first strike hit. The wounded men lying there were buried under debris. They were dug out and brought to the operating room, which was right nearby. But their injuries were fatal… at that point, all we could do was declare them dead.
Objectively speaking, we were literally 4–5 seconds away from death. A split second before the impact, someone said, “Let’s get out.” And we got out. We managed to get to the doorway, and the next thing I remember is turning my head to the right—and that’s it. Darkness, the smell of gunpowder, extreme heat—and I’m flying…
At the time, I still weighed about 100 kg, plus the body armor I was wearing—and I was flying like a feather. And everything around me was flying too.
We were scattered. We came to our senses a bit and found our flashlights. We’d get up, fall down, get up again, trying to make out what was happening. We saw where else the blast had hit, ran over there—that’s where we kept our food, and some of the guys were there, too. And they were very lucky—everyone was unharmed. Because right next to them, the entire ceiling had simply collapsed onto the ground. If they’d been right there, they all would have died. Everyone suffered severe concussions, but no one died from the blast itself.
Authors: Lesya Shovkun, Dmytro Lykhoviy
After Ukraine’s victory, our specialists in certain fields will prove to be the most experienced and, obviously, in high demand around the world. No country has ever faced such a critical situation as the one Ukrainian energy professionals are successfully overcoming. No country has endured trials like those faced by our military personnel during the first large-scale war of the third millennium. And, of course, Ukrainian doctors—both civilian and military—are gaining absolutely invaluable experience.
One of the most unique examples in this regard was the hospital at Azovstal. There, under constant shelling, surrounded on three sides by Russian troops, complex surgical procedures were performed three stories underground, with full anesthesiological support.
To perform these procedures, several medical professionals flew by helicopter to Mariupol, which was surrounded and under enemy fire. One of them was anesthesiologist Oleksandr Demchenko. He has been in the military since 2016, so by that time he had already seen many complex injuries.
But no one had ever experienced anything like what was happening at “Azovstal.”
In an interview with “Novynarnia,” Oleksandr spoke about the flight to Mariupol, the unique challenges of working in a bunker hospital, the most memorable cases from his previous experience as a military doctor, the “evacuation” from Azovstal, and his captivity by the Russians in the notorious colony in Olenivka, from which he returned 45 kilograms lighter but unbroken.
“The bombing of Azovstal looked like watching a movie through 3D glasses. It was hard to believe that this was really happening.”
A chilly night in late March 2022. A full-scale war with the aggressor, Russia, had been raging in Ukraine for over a month. And for several weeks now, it’s been hell in Mariupol, which is surrounded by the enemy.
A group of people in camouflage, carrying large backpacks and wearing very serious expressions, gathers somewhere on the Dnipro embankment to board a helicopter. And, as it turns out later, to take off on the last successful flight to the city of Mariupol—to aid the soldiers holding the line at Azovstal. Unlike previous groups, this one also includes five medical professionals: four doctors and a nurse.
Among them is 30-year-old Captain of the Medical Service and anesthesiologist Oleksandr Demchenko.
“No one gave us an order to fly to Mariupol. They simply told us there would be such a mission and that a group of surgeons and anesthesiologists was being formed. It was strictly on a voluntary basis. Two anesthesiologists and two surgeons volunteered. We packed the necessary supplies and flew from Dnipro to Mariupol on the night of March 31,” Oleksandr says.
Of course, it was no secret to anyone on that helicopter that the city was completely surrounded and that heavy fighting was underway there. And that Ukrainian units had virtually no chance of breaking out of that encirclement. In other words, this journey was essentially a one-way ticket for them.
However, first they still had to fly to Mariupol. Over territory that was completely controlled and under fire from the enemy.
Unlike many of the soldiers in those helicopters who were breaking through to support the defenders of the coastal city, for Oleksandr, this flight was far from his first. He had previously been involved in the aeromedical evacuation of the wounded, so he had flown over field hospitals many times.
“I understood that if, God forbid, the helicopter were hit, there would be nothing left of it. So I told myself: if we make it there, everything will be fine. After all, we weren’t just flying for ourselves—we were carrying a vital cargo that the guys there desperately needed.
And I’m very grateful to the crew—they’re brave and professional. We flew fast and very low. I really hope they’re all right. Because, as we know, not all the helicopters made it back…”
During seven unique missions to besieged Mariupol, Ukraine lost a total of three helicopters along with their heroic crews. But this flight, fortunately, was successful.
Helicopters in Mariupol
But even after a successful landing and unloading of the helicopter somewhere near the seaport, there was still one important stage left: getting to “Azovstal.” So, after waiting out daylight hours in cover, the daring volunteers set off again. This time—by sea.
“While we were sailing, the engine somehow stalled. And when you’re in body armor, carrying an 80-liter medical backpack, one and a half to two kilometers from the shore, with the enemy all around you, that’s not exactly a very reliable way to get around,” says Oleksandr. “But we eventually made it to the landing site just fine.
And there, we spent another six hours, scattered across different locations for safety reasons, lying out in the open—waiting for them to come pick us up. And we watched “live” as Azovstal was being bombed.
You know, I’ve seen a lot of shelling from various weapons in my life. But this was the first time I’d seen an aerial bombardment. And it was an unforgettable experience. I simply couldn’t believe my eyes that such a thing was possible… It felt as if I wasn’t seeing it live, but through 3D glasses in a modern movie theater. Their aircraft came in from the sea and bombed the plant’s territory virtually nonstop for those six hours. Massive missile salvos, explosions, flames, and that sound… it pounded in my ears so hard.
And only then does it sink in that this isn’t a movie at all. That it’s all happening for real, right where you’re supposed to be.
– Didn’t you regret agreeing to this mission at that moment?
– Let me put it this way: I probably thought about my whole life while I was there (smiles). But I objectively understood that I wasn’t going to grow wings and fly away. I had to keep moving forward—there was no other choice. And I had no other desire, either. I didn’t know what lay ahead. But my attitude was positive, combative.
“Zhelezyaka” Planet: A Hospital in a “Nuclear” Bunker
Then they came for us, picked us up, and we got to the hospital by car fairly quickly. It was already, in fact, April 1.
The hospital was located in a bomb shelter beneath a five-story building (the building was still there at the time; later, very little of it remained). So, five stories above ground—and another three stories below. That bunker was also called “Zhelezyaka.” And from the way the doors closed, it was clear: it had been designed to withstand a nuclear strike.
But how efficiently everything was organized there under those conditions! What I saw when I walked in was a lot of patients, but no one was lying directly on the floor. Everyone was on some kind of mattress or bed; there were even shelves, just like in a “regular” hospital.
I didn’t even walk through the entire hospital—there was no need. I had been assigned where I would stay and where we would work. Since reinforcements had arrived (that is, us, the additional doctors), the operating room was moved to a larger room. There was some kind of generator in there—a massive piece of machinery—which, of course, wasn’t working at the time, but there was a large ventilation shaft.
Thanks to that, there was always fresh air in the operating room, but it was quite chilly. We were always well-dressed while working, but the patients needed to be kept warm. We gathered jackets with “Azovstal” logos from the changing room upstairs and covered the wounded first with thermal blankets, and then with these jackets.
In the operating room, we set up two functional tables. One was actually an SPPU—a universal field dressing table. The other one, I think, was a massage table. But we adapted it. Because that was all the guys were able to bring in there. In general, the doctors who were there were so great—they thought of everything.
As for anesthesia, we had two fully functional ventilators, patient monitors, and one universal monitor with a defibrillator. Of course, there was no centralized power supply there, but the guys hooked it all up to diesel and gasoline generators that were running constantly. The lighting was adequate and of sufficient quality to perform surgeries, and they installed plenty of outlets.
But all of this was primarily set up for the operating room. So if you moved further away from it, toward another exit, it was already darker there. And all around, all around, there were patients…
The bomb shelter was designed to hold, perhaps, 100 to 150 people. But we had twice as many wounded there, especially in May.
“We performed surgeries for more than 30 hours straight: you’re like a robot, and they just keep bringing in the wounded…”
The days passed monotonously. The Russians wanted to kill us 24/7. In other words, the massive shelling never stopped: artillery, missile attacks from ships, and—worst of all—airstrikes, which usually took place at night. When we were told over the radio that a massive airstrike was being prepared, everyone had to put on personal protective gear. You put on body armor, a helmet, and stand under the columns… We thought it was safer that way, and that they wouldn’t be able to penetrate the ceiling that deep.
But they did. I’ll tell you more about that later.
At first, I went up to the surface a few more times with the guys. On the third day, April 3, I went out—and saw Russian quadcopters hovering very close by. Well, they were constantly monitoring us. And right then, the hangar across from the bunker was hit by “120s” (120-mm mortars—“H”). I was completely showered with debris. I’m just standing there, thinking, “Well, that’s it—I’m done for. Now I’ll have to save myself…” But I got lucky—the shrapnel landed right where we’d just come from.
After that, I didn’t go back to the surface until May 16.
It turned into a sort of “Groundhog Day.” It was the same thing over and over—we worked the whole time. If we could get about four hours of sleep, that was already good. In the end, we’d lost any sense of day and night anyway, because the lighting was the same, and so was the work.
The busiest days, I think, were April 11–12, when we performed surgeries for more than 30 hours straight without a break. It was very exhausting, of course. And the wounded were constantly being brought in.
In addition to the “fresh” wounded, there were quite a few who had been lying in other places for some time—where the guys were holding out—before they reached us. In other words, our comrades there had provided them with first aid, but they needed surgical intervention. And, of course, we couldn’t get everyone like that to us in time; sometimes they were brought in very late…
After the guys broke through [to “Azovstal”] from the Ilyich Steel Plant, a certain number of them also needed follow-up care.
Well, it was a difficult time, difficult days. The exhaustion was such that you were practically like a robot.
– How many surgeries did you perform during your time at “Azovstal”?
– To be honest, I didn’t count—I had other things on my mind. And of course, no one kept a log—we just worked. But there were definitely more than 200 major surgical procedures requiring extensive anesthesia. And on top of that, over 800 people passed through our operating room, including those requiring less critical procedures.
– Do you remember any particularly interesting cases?
– It’s hard to say. There were many cases, but it was such a constant stream… For example, we had severely injured soldiers who required massive blood transfusions—without which they would certainly have died. And that posed a problem. We were able to provide adequate anesthesiological care: deep sedation, analgesia, and muscle relaxation; we had the appropriate equipment and necessary medications. But there were no blood substitutes. And, of course, there was no way to perform comprehensive blood tests—we simply didn’t have the reagents.
So we took it upon ourselves to transfuse blood without testing for compatibility. We assembled a group of volunteer donors from among the slightly less exhausted men, simply taking their word for it regarding their blood type and Rh factor. It was the same with the patients: some people would say their blood type, while for others we checked their documents or tattoos… We had to make decisions very quickly.
In total, we performed about five such transfusions, and all of these patients survived. In other words, the blood was a match.
There was also a striking case when a wounded man was brought to us who had spent more than two weeks with a tourniquet applied to his lower limb…! It’s simply unbelievable that he survived.
A case where a soldier spent two weeks with a tourniquet on his leg and survived is unique in the history of medicine
– Given the miracles you’ve been performing there, I get the impression you’re about to say: “We saved his leg, too.”
– (smiles) Well, that would be a miracle straight out of the realm of science fiction. Of course, his leg was amputated—above the knee. But the fact that the wounded soldier survived despite that level of intoxication and exhaustion is truly a unique case.
Some soldiers ended up on our operating table two, three, or four times. You operate on him, he recovers a bit—and then he goes back into battle.
There were patients with severe burns. While I was studying at the academy, I worked at a burn center—as a nurse. Well, you know, I was studying and wanted to figure out what path to take next. That’s what a lot of doctors do while they’re in school. I saw all kinds of burns there and treated them. And at Azovstal, we encountered some very serious cases. But the only “medications” we had were Panthenol and hydrogen peroxide… But somehow, even without the necessary specialized treatment, everything healed fairly quickly.
“Antiseptics weren’t even an option under those conditions. But we definitely beat COVID.”
– What about sterility and antiseptics? It was, after all, an underground bunker, and an “overcrowded” one at that—with no way to wash properly, do laundry, or carry out that “wet cleaning with disinfectant solutions” as described in the cleaning guidelines for medical facilities.
– Let’s put it this way: there simply weren’t any “antiseptics” there. It would have been impossible to follow those guidelines. There’s a lot of dust in the bunker; it’s constantly swirling in the air from impacts and tremors. Plus, the humidity is insane, because we’re all breathing and exhaling both CO2 and moisture. I coughed for two weeks myself while I was adjusting to all of this. Even the sleeping bags were constantly wet—water was running and dripping from the ceiling, and mold was growing.
Of course, surgical instruments were sterilized whenever possible: we soaked them in solutions, and we had sterilization kits. With most of the equipment, it’s actually quite simple: the ampoules are sealed, the syringes are sealed, the systems are sealed, the subclavian and spinal sets are sealed—everything is in sterile packaging.
But, for example, the dressing materials weren’t even conditionally sterile. Everyone there was rolling them up. And those who were more lightly wounded helped out too, because dressings had to be changed constantly. They were performed right in this common room where we were all together—because there was nowhere else to go.
But everyone received the necessary antibiotics, and in the end, everything worked out: we didn’t have any purulent complications or anything like that. I myself was amazed at how it worked out that sometimes wounds, which take much longer to heal under “normal” conditions, healed as quickly as possible there.
– Some “anti-vaxxers” would surely say something like, “Maybe all that sterility isn’t really necessary after all?
”
– (smiles) Yeah, we joked ourselves that at least “COVID” definitely doesn’t exist there anymore—we’ve beaten it!
In fact, what really saved us was that we had a huge supply of antiseptic. We even boiled water for tea with it… at least as long as we had any water at all. And then, of course, it got tough—when not only drinking water but also utility water ran out. All that was left was the kind used in the metallurgical industry. It was clearly enriched with something, because it caused severe diarrhea and stomach upset. I didn’t dare drink that water. I had to stay on duty, and that “cocktail” was so unpredictable—you never knew if it would cause kidney failure or affect your vision.
—But what did you drink if there was no other water left?
– We had certain supplies of glucose, for example. I drank 500 ml of glucose a day—and that was basically enough. To be honest, under those conditions, I didn’t feel like eating or drinking. The only things I wanted were cigarettes and coffee. That’s it.
– Did you have cigarettes and coffee?
– We had some for a while. I brought two and a half cartons of cigarettes with me. But I ran out of them all in 12 days because I shared some with one person, then with another… Anyway, it was clear from the start that they wouldn’t last the whole time. And then it was all over. Well, it ran out and that was that—that’s just how it goes.
– How many hospitals were there on the Azovstal grounds, anyway? Because you’re saying they had everything needed for general anesthesia and, in fact, full-scale surgical procedures. Meanwhile, we clearly remember the photos shared by other medical personnel from the Azovstal bunkers: how patients with horrific injuries had their wounds treated “while still alive,” because there wasn’t even basic pain medication…
– Let’s put it this way: there was only one hospital of that caliber at Azovstal—ours—where they could perform full-scale surgical procedures with adequate anesthesiological support.
Of course, there were also medical personnel at other locations where our troops were concentrated. And they provided assistance there to the best of their ability. Given that our hospital was overcrowded, we admitted only the most critically ill—those who required immediate surgery to survive. They then remained with us because we needed to monitor their condition. And once they were on the mend and able to take care of themselves, they were transferred to other facilities.
“We never amputated any limbs or performed laparotomies on living patients—that’s nonsense.”
Essentially, of all the anesthesiological procedures that exist, the only one we couldn’t perform was epidural anesthesia. Everything else was performed.
Of course, all the patients were dehydrated, malnourished, and, to put it mildly, severely undiagnosed. But at that point, it was a choice between whether he would live at all or die for sure. We always chose “life,” so we deviated from many of the rules. That was the situation.
“From the blast of a three-metric-ton bomb, the bunker rocked like a boat. We were 4–5 seconds away from death.”
Unlike other bunker-based mini-hospitals, the “main” one did not face such a shortage of medications and supplies—in part because they were brought in by helicopters from Dnipro.
However, at a certain point, the very possibility of continuing the hospital’s operations was called into serious question. After all, even though the bunker was built to withstand a nuclear strike, it certainly wasn’t designed to withstand the relentless, systematic, daily bombardment with multi-metric-ton aerial bombs that lasted for weeks.
The Bombing of “Azovstal”
– We constantly heard the bombs falling on us—both in the operating room and during breaks. We could already clearly tell which bombs were falling—
the “impact” of a 500- or 1,000-bomb was a completely different sensation from when a 3-metric-ton bomb hit. A bomb like that would make the entire bunker rock back and forth like a boat on water.
Because a 3-metric-ton bomb leaves behind a huge crater 10 meters deep and 20 meters in diameter. The entire Azovstal site looks like the Moon. Craters interspersed with iron.
On April 28 at 2:00 a.m., we received another warning that a massive airstrike was being prepared. As always, we put on our body armor. That’s when the first strike hit. The wounded men lying there were buried under debris. They were dug out and brought to the operating room, which was right nearby. But their injuries were fatal… at that point, all we could do was declare them dead.
Objectively speaking, we were literally 4–5 seconds away from death. A split second before the impact, someone said, “Let’s get out.” And we got out. We managed to get to the doorway, and the next thing I remember is turning my head to the right—and that’s it. Darkness, the smell of gunpowder, extreme heat—and I’m flying…
At the time, I still weighed about 100 kg, plus the body armor I was wearing—and I was flying like a feather. And everything around me was flying too.
We were scattered. We came to our senses a bit and found our flashlights. We’d get up, fall down, get up again, trying to make out what was happening. We saw where else the blast had hit, ran over there—that’s where we kept our food, and some of the guys were there, too. And they were very lucky—everyone was unharmed. Because right next to them, the entire ceiling had simply collapsed onto the ground. If they’d been right there, they all would have died. Everyone suffered severe concussions, but no one died from the blast itself.
Each of us has come to terms with our own death in our minds
“All in all, they ‘struck’ us there about 3 or 4 times. The last time was in May. They hit us with something like a concrete breaker—it shattered all the slabs all the way down to the floor, where the beds with the wounded were. That, too, was instant death.”
“Each of us had mentally accepted our own death”
After the strike, we had to give up the separate operating room and move the operating tables right into the common room, where the wounded, the staff—everyone—were gathered. And the surgeries, accordingly, were performed in full view of everyone.
However, even that wasn’t the worst of it. But when it became impossible to bring new wounded patients to the hospital—patients who desperately needed emergency surgery—that’s when things really got difficult, says Oleksandr:
“We were constantly being shelled with mortars—Russian ‘quadricopters’ were hovering overhead and guiding the fire.” In other words, it was objectively impossible to deliver food, water, or—most importantly—even the wounded to us, because everything was under enemy control and coming under fire.
“Was it already clear by then that something had to be done about this?
”
– Understand this: no one believed it would end the way it did—in fact, no one even thought about it. Personally, I came to a conclusion there for myself: you have to be honest with yourself and honestly answer important questions for yourself. And each of us, to one degree or another, had mentally accepted our own death. There simply was no other option, because no one was going to surrender. We just wanted it all to be over without suffering when the “bullets came flying” at us.
But when we received the order to preserve life and health—that was a different matter.
– How did you react to that? Just a moment ago, you weren’t even considering the possibility of surrender—and then an order comes along that essentially means exactly that?
– I can “get all clever” and explain what I think about it and how best to proceed when I’m at the operating table. But this is a different matter. There’s a command structure, there’s an order. And we all trusted the command structure we had there unquestioningly. We listened and obeyed without question, because survival was at stake—and everything had to run as smoothly as clockwork.
– What level of command are you referring to?
– We had our own medical command there. But in general, all the servicemen stationed at “Azovstal” were de facto under the command of Redis (the commander of the “Azov” Separate Special Forces Detachment, Hero of Ukraine Denys Prokopenko—“N”). And that’s how it should be.
Commanders come in all kinds. There are those who are feared, and that’s one type—their orders are carried out, but reluctantly. There are the worst kind, who are neither feared nor respected, and are even despised—that’s the worst, of course. And then there are commanders who are respected. Redis is exactly that kind of commander.
He truly deserves respect. And for his age, he has accomplished something that will go down not only in our history but in world history as well. These were measured, wise, and perhaps unconventional decisions that had to be made with critical speed. That requires great talent. And it was precisely that talent that ensured our survival. If we’d had any other command—who knows how things would have turned out…
Well, after being taken prisoner, a completely different phase of life began.
“A wounded soldier with a VOG-17 lodged in his leg underwent surgery together with a team of sappers.”
Of course, when he decided to become a medic, Oleksandr could hardly have imagined that he would go down in history, having first endured the hell of “Azovstal,” and then through Russian captivity. But he had consciously dreamed of both medicine and military service. Presumably, his decision came as something of a surprise to his parents, who were teachers. After all, there were no soldiers or doctors in the family.
“Well, someone has to be the first,” Sasha laughs in response to the remark that such professions are usually chosen by members of military or medical ‘dynasties.’
By the time the Russian-Ukrainian war began in 2014, Demchenko was just finishing up at the Dnipropetrovsk State Medical Academy and had started his residency in Dnipro. He was eager to join the military right away, but his parents persuaded him to finish his residency first.
“I finished it in June 2016. I had a month of leave, and on July 29, 2016, I enlisted in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. I was very lucky: just before that, I saw a post on Facebook saying that the legendary 61st Military Mobile Hospital needed anesthesiologists. At that time, it was still based near Mariupol, but in 2017 it moved into the city itself.
I went there right away, spoke with the command, and they accepted me. However, since we didn’t have a military department, I was enlisted as a private (but assigned to the intensive care unit). “That’s how it all began,” says the current captain of the medical service.
He became an officer fairly quickly, completing accelerated training while working at the hospital, where he soon took on the position of acting head, and then as the full-fledged head of the intensive care unit. Although the bloodiest episodes of 2014–2015 were already behind us, military medics, unfortunately, still had plenty of work to do afterward.
“2017–2018 were difficult years,” says the medic. “We had a large area of responsibility and many wounded. Every day there were at least one or two cases, and sometimes as many as 12 at once… By the way, we saved everyone that time. But all sorts of things happened. We always analyzed every case, looked at the best international protocols, and learned to apply them in our conditions—especially when it came to effective techniques for massive blood loss, up to 70–80%. And certain techniques we used turned out to be very effective.”
There were even situations that, it would seem, you’d only see in the movies (and even then, no one would believe such a thing was possible).
– In 2017, I was on rotation in Volnovakha as part of a reinforcement team. A patient was brought to us with a wound to his left lower limb, a large defect, and in a state of shock. While we were performing emergency anti-shock and resuscitation measures, we also took an X-ray… and it turned out that a VOG-17M was lodged in his leg,” the anesthesiologist recalls with a smile.
VOG-17M
A surgical team from Mariupol also arrived to perform the operation; there were five of us doctors in total. And there was also a team of bomb disposal experts. We were all wearing helmets and body armor. And in that situation, it was crucial to provide proper anesthesiological care to prevent fasciculations—muscle twitches. After all, the device could detonate at any moment.
Anesthesiological care has three main components: analgesia (pain relief), muscle relaxation, and hypnosis—that is, the patient is asleep and doesn’t remember anything that happened. And during the transition to deep sleep, while the muscles aren’t yet completely relaxed, these twitches can occur.
The risk was high, but everything turned out all right. The surgeons successfully removed everything, handed it over to the bomb disposal experts, the patient then regained consciousness, and he was evacuated for further recovery.
– Did he even know what was in his leg?
– Well, we couldn’t tell him that before the operation anyway—who knows how he would have reacted. Only later, after he came to, did we tell him.
– And how did he react?
– How? Normally—he said they did everything right (smiles). Well, the main thing is that the patient is alive, the medical team is alive, and everything’s fine. Though we certainly got our share of adrenaline back then.
– And were they able to save the soldier’s leg?
– Yes, of course. Though he did need long-term rehabilitation afterward because there was a bone defect. But his leg should work fine.
“As soon as Putin announced the ‘special military operation,’ I grabbed my backpack and headed to the hospital. I knew I wouldn’t be returning to my apartment.”
Being a doctor, says Oleksandr, is a way of life. After all, a good specialist is one who never stops learning. And to minimize learning from one’s own mistakes, you need to study the experiences of others.
“This requires official registration on reputable international databases, analyzing that information, and searching through all the articles. Obviously, all of this is in English or other languages. And often, there’s a fee. But that’s normal. You have to pay for education,” Demchenko emphasizes.
So by the time the “great war” began, he was already an experienced specialist. By that time, he had already been working for two years at the hospital in Dnipro, where the most critically wounded from the east were brought.
When warnings began circulating about a possible full-scale invasion, Oleksandr carefully packed a medical bag with everything he needed, along with other items for a healthcare worker’s “emergency backpack.”
On the night of February 24, he watched a video of Putin’s speech, in which he announced the “start of a special operation.” And literally 15 minutes after it ended, he was already at the hospital. As he was driving, he heard explosions: the Russians were already bombing the Dnipro airport.
“I knew I had to get to the hospital and wait for further orders and instructions. When I left the apartment I was renting, I realized: most likely, I wouldn’t be returning there,” says the doctor.
And he truly didn’t return there—not until the fall, when he was released from Russian captivity.
“We knew we were going into captivity. But a chance at survival is better than certain death.”
Oleksandr Demchenko in the operating room at the Azovstal
hospital
– Tell us, how did the evacuation from Azovstal take place?
– First, the command made it clear to us: there was an order from the Supreme Commander-in-Chief regarding “rescue and the preservation of life.” An order is an order—in other words, we had no other choice. After all, a chance at survival is still better than certain death.
And so, on May 16, what they called the “evacuation” began. Although we, of course, understood that we were being taken prisoner. We didn’t know what awaited us there—and we didn’t really want to think about it.
Our group set out around 7 or 8 p.m. on May 18. It was quite a long walk because we still had to climb a hill. We walked in single file.
Further on, there were about 10 tables set up on the left. It was already clear that they were making us undress and checking our belongings and documents there. They approached us with cameras and filmed us. The enemy immediately asked who the officers were and who was from “Azov.” They also recorded the women separately.
By the way, that was the only time I saw the Red Cross (representatives of the International Committee of the Red Cross—“N”). They came in, collected some forms from us—and that was it; after that, we never saw them again, not even once.
Then they sent us to the buses, which were lined up in two rows. We got on, put all our belongings in one place, and sat down. And there, it was already so clear that we were under their jurisdiction, in their hands. Two men with automatic rifles got on, sat across from us, cocked their guns—and we drove off.
They took us to Olenivka. They told us to get off the buses and lined us up. It was nighttime. And then we waited a long time before they let us into the colony grounds. Sometime around dawn, around 4 or 5 a.m., we began moving into the barracks where we would live from then on. Again, there was a thorough search of our belongings; anything they didn’t like, they confiscated. And that was it—after that, we weren’t moved anywhere else from that barracks.
“During the terrorist attack in Olenivka, a Russian ‘Grad’ rocket launcher was fired from behind the colony walls so we wouldn’t hear the explosion.”
– Were you held in Olenivka the entire time?
– Yes, personally, I wasn’t transferred anywhere else until the prisoner exchange. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
The living conditions there were… essentially nonexistent. There was no heating, and the toilet was outside. It was always clogged because it wasn’t designed for that many people. At one point, there were as many as 400 of us there, and even 500. All of us were Ukrainian prisoners of war.
We mostly slept right on the floor because there was nowhere else to lie down. There were bunk beds, but there weren’t enough for everyone until they suddenly started taking the guys away (obviously, transferring them to other places). There were mattresses, pillows, and some blankets—basically, when it was cold, you could cover yourself with a blanket.
There were two barrels for drinking water. A fire truck arrived—I think from Dokuchaevsk—and filled the barrels with water. It had a muddy aftertaste—probably from the river.
There was also water running through pipes on the first floor. It was very yellow, but it had a less unpleasant odor. That was mostly the water I drank—in minimal amounts so as not to cause severe dehydration.
Obviously, they cooked all the food using this water. They fed us three times a day, but the quantity and quality of the food, of course, left much to be desired. Mostly small portions of something like porridge.
We wore whatever we had. I had two T-shirts, one sweater, pants, and my medical scrubs—that’s what I left Azovstal wearing. I also brought some Crocs, and they literally saved me in the summer; they were very comfortable to walk in. I also walked around in my medical scrubs. I even wore them during the prisoner exchange.
And all my medical equipment was destroyed…
– You weren’t just a soldier, but a doctor who didn’t even carry a weapon at Azovstal. Did that change their attitude toward you in any way? Maybe they tried to recruit you to their side, since you were such a great anesthesiologist?
– No, God spared me. In any case, something like that wouldn’t even have been discussed.
I really didn’t pick up a weapon at “Zheleznyak” because I had a different mission there. An anesthesiologist is the doctor who separates the patient from the afterlife—the final frontier. When, to put it bluntly, death is standing there staring at you, too… And we were already sick and tired of all that death over there. But if it’s not time, then it’s not time.
But that hardly affected their attitude. To be fair, they didn’t beat the medical staff.
All in all, I was interrogated three times. They wanted to know how I ended up there, what I was doing there, what I saw—a whole list of questions. But most of the questions concerned events I simply couldn’t answer because, at that time, I wasn’t even physically in Mariupol yet.
They also wanted to know if we were cutting off genitals, asked about some biological laboratories, and things like that. Such nonsense! I replied that no sane person would do such a thing. Well, how could anyone even answer something like that?
– Were these interrogations conducted by Russian military personnel?
– It varied. Both “DNR” members and FSB representatives. The questions were essentially the same. I couldn’t have told them anything new anyway, but that doesn’t really matter. Whether you confess to something or not—to them, you’re “guilty” either way.
They constantly put psychological pressure on us. They played their own radio station nonstop with hits from the ’80s and ’90s—songs that were just plain nauseating by then. It felt like people were stuck in that time period.
And once, someone on duty turned on—if I’m not mistaken—“The Luftwaffe Anthem.” What was the point of that?
And, of course, they constantly told us: “No one’s coming to relieve you here,” “No one needs you.” They told us that they were practically taking Kyiv and had captured everything.
– How did you take that?
– Just as any normal, sensible person would. People who understand perfectly well that it’s impossible. And that if, God forbid, something like that had actually happened, no one would have been so careful to tell us about it—we simply wouldn’t be here anymore, and that would be that.
So we just waited and prayed. And we understood that it would take time.
– Were you able to get any news “from Ukraine,” or was it a complete information vacuum?
– Just the bare minimum—we’d hear something from someone, make an assumption, or someone would pass along a tiny bit of information. And “centrally controlled,” of course, was only their information sphere with political radio broadcasts, where they spout all that nonsense.
– On July 29, an explosion occurred in Olenivka, killing Ukrainian prisoners of war who had been transferred to a separate barracks the day before. Did you hear anything about that at the time?
– That’s actually the industrial, manufacturing section of the colony where they were transferred… And indeed, many people died then. But I can’t say anything about the explosion.
Enemy equipment—artillery, air defense systems, “Grad” rocket launchers—was constantly operating from the area near our prison camp. We had gotten used to it and didn’t even react anymore. That day, it was at half past nine in the evening. “Grad” launchers drove up to our security perimeter and began firing in unison. And that leads one to certain conclusions. In other words, it was done so that we simply wouldn’t hear the explosion, because the enemy’s “Grad” rockets were shaking the very walls.
“My friends didn’t recognize me: I lost over 45 kilograms in captivity”
– Tell us about the day of the exchange. How did it all happen?
– It was truly a historic moment in my life.
At half past nine, they read out the lists of names, telling us, “Those on the list, get your things and head out—you have 5 minutes to pack.” We said goodbye to the guys because no one knew where they were taking us. Until the very last moment, everyone thought they were just transferring us somewhere farther away.
We were held at the detention center for another 6–8 hours. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that the KamAZ trucks arrived, and we were loaded onto them. They blindfolded us (we even have scars left from those blindfolds), tied our hands, and forced us into an uncomfortable position—we had all lost a lot of weight, our muscles had weakened, and we didn’t have the strength to keep our backs straight. So we kept falling on top of each other and “choking.” There were a lot of us, and it was very hot during the ride.
After 3–4 hours, they took us to the airfield. There, they put us on a transport plane. It was nighttime, and we didn’t take off until sometime after 9:00 a.m. We could only guess, but we suspect we flew to Moscow. They “loaded up” some more people there—and off we went again.
And during the entire transport, there was no water, no food, no bathroom—nothing. We just sat there the whole time.
We landed. Someone said, “We’re in Belarus.” That’s when we felt a glimmer of hope.
We were led out by what appeared to be a different group of guards. They let us use the restroom, then very professionally (using a hold) loaded us onto the buses. And they said, “We’ll be there soon.”
In reality, we drove for several more hours. And when we stopped, after a while someone came in and said, “Guys, just a little longer”…
And that was it. Those were the words, that was the moment we’d been waiting for so long. It was so emotionally charged! Such incredible joy!
I was terribly thirsty—I was so parched—you can even see it in the video. Plus, my eyes were really stuck together with that tape glue because they’d wrapped them up so tightly.
But the emotions we felt are simply impossible to put into words.
It’s such a joy just to be in Ukraine—to be home!
When I called my family from there, they didn’t recognize me right away—they couldn’t believe it. Not to mention that they didn’t recognize my face. Because when I left for Azovstal, I weighed about 120 kilograms. And after being held captive, I lost about 45 kg.
“Those working to free our prisoners of war shouldn’t be interfered with: they know what they’re doing”
– The Russians are still holding many of our prisoners of war. And some relatives of these soldiers, having no contact with them at all, often lose hope for their release. It seems to them that their loved ones have been forgotten, that no one is working to free the prisoners, that they’ve been forgotten. Based on your experience, is there any way you can offer them encouragement?
– I’ll put it this way: we simply shouldn’t interfere with the special agencies and services working to secure the release of our prisoners. They know their job, and they know it well.
We can’t even imagine how difficult the work is—all these negotiations, constant “bargaining,” and agreements that very often fall through due to the other side’s fault. But believe me: this work is ongoing. We must summon courage and patience, pray, and wait. There’s no other way.
I understand that it’s much harder for those who are waiting than for those in captivity. It was definitely harder for my family here than it was for me there. Believe me, the guys are holding on and will keep holding on, because they know that people are waiting for them, that they are loved, and that sooner or later it will be each of their turns. But that takes time.
* * *
After his rehabilitation, Oleksandr plans to continue working as an anesthesiologist and serving in the Armed Forces. Because that’s what he truly loves. And he’s good at it.
“I guess it’s a bit of a passion,” Demchenko smiles, enthusiastically recounting (his eyes shining as he showers us with a barrage of medical terms) one case or another from his practice.
A level of experience that few—if any—anesthesiologists in the world have had. And perhaps none at all. And when this war ends with our victory, Ukrainian doctors will share their truly invaluable experience with colleagues from other countries. In particular, the experience gained at “Zheleznyak” in Azovstal.
“I think this is truly a major contribution to modern global medicine and its future development,” Oleksandr agrees. “But for now, we’re continuing our work. There’s room to grow, we have the experience, and we have the desire. And we must always move forward. There’s no other way.”
If you’d prefer to watch the video with subtitles in another language, go to YouTube Settings → Subtitles → Automatic Translation and select the language you want.
“Each of us had mentally accepted our own death”
After the strike, we had to give up the separate operating room and move the operating tables right into the common room, where the wounded, the staff—everyone—were gathered. And the surgeries, accordingly, were performed in full view of everyone.
However, even that wasn’t the worst of it. But when it became impossible to bring new wounded patients to the hospital—patients who desperately needed emergency surgery—that’s when things really got difficult, says Oleksandr:
“We were constantly being shelled with mortars—Russian ‘quadricopters’ were hovering overhead and guiding the fire.” In other words, it was objectively impossible to deliver food, water, or—most importantly—even the wounded to us, because everything was under enemy control and coming under fire.
“Was it already clear by then that something had to be done about this?
”
– Understand this: no one believed it would end the way it did—in fact, no one even thought about it. Personally, I came to a conclusion there for myself: you have to be honest with yourself and honestly answer important questions for yourself. And each of us, to one degree or another, had mentally accepted our own death. There simply was no other option, because no one was going to surrender. We just wanted it all to be over without suffering when the “bullets came flying” at us.
But when we received the order to preserve life and health—that was a different matter.
– How did you react to that? Just a moment ago, you weren’t even considering the possibility of surrender—and then an order comes along that essentially means exactly that?
– I can “get all clever” and explain what I think about it and how best to proceed when I’m at the operating table. But this is a different matter. There’s a command structure, there’s an order. And we all trusted the command structure we had there unquestioningly. We listened and obeyed without question, because survival was at stake—and everything had to run as smoothly as clockwork.
– What level of command are you referring to?
– We had our own medical command there. But in general, all the servicemen stationed at “Azovstal” were de facto under the command of Redis (the commander of the “Azov” Separate Special Forces Detachment, Hero of Ukraine Denys Prokopenko—“N”). And that’s how it should be.
Commanders come in all kinds. There are those who are feared, and that’s one type—their orders are carried out, but reluctantly. There are the worst kind, who are neither feared nor respected, and are even despised—that’s the worst, of course. And then there are commanders who are respected. Redis is exactly that kind of commander.
He truly deserves respect. And for his age, he has accomplished something that will go down not only in our history but in world history as well. These were measured, wise, and perhaps unconventional decisions that had to be made with critical speed. That requires great talent. And it was precisely that talent that ensured our survival. If we’d had any other command—who knows how things would have turned out…
Well, after being taken prisoner, a completely different phase of life began.
“A wounded soldier with a VOG-17 lodged in his leg underwent surgery together with a team of sappers.”
Of course, when he decided to become a medic, Oleksandr could hardly have imagined that he would go down in history, having first endured the hell of “Azovstal,” and then through Russian captivity. But he had consciously dreamed of both medicine and military service. Presumably, his decision came as something of a surprise to his parents, who were teachers. After all, there were no soldiers or doctors in the family.
“Well, someone has to be the first,” Sasha laughs in response to the remark that such professions are usually chosen by members of military or medical ‘dynasties.’
By the time the Russian-Ukrainian war began in 2014, Demchenko was just finishing up at the Dnipropetrovsk State Medical Academy and had started his residency in Dnipro. He was eager to join the military right away, but his parents persuaded him to finish his residency first.
“I finished it in June 2016. I had a month of leave, and on July 29, 2016, I enlisted in the Armed Forces of Ukraine. I was very lucky: just before that, I saw a post on Facebook saying that the legendary 61st Military Mobile Hospital needed anesthesiologists. At that time, it was still based near Mariupol, but in 2017 it moved into the city itself.
I went there right away, spoke with the command, and they accepted me. However, since we didn’t have a military department, I was enlisted as a private (but assigned to the intensive care unit). “That’s how it all began,” says the current captain of the medical service.
He became an officer fairly quickly, completing accelerated training while working at the hospital, where he soon took on the position of acting head, and then as the full-fledged head of the intensive care unit. Although the bloodiest episodes of 2014–2015 were already behind us, military medics, unfortunately, still had plenty of work to do afterward.
“2017–2018 were difficult years,” says the medic. “We had a large area of responsibility and many wounded. Every day there were at least one or two cases, and sometimes as many as 12 at once… By the way, we saved everyone that time. But all sorts of things happened. We always analyzed every case, looked at the best international protocols, and learned to apply them in our conditions—especially when it came to effective techniques for massive blood loss, up to 70–80%. And certain techniques we used turned out to be very effective.”
There were even situations that, it would seem, you’d only see in the movies (and even then, no one would believe such a thing was possible).
– In 2017, I was on rotation in Volnovakha as part of a reinforcement team. A patient was brought to us with a wound to his left lower limb, a large defect, and in a state of shock. While we were performing emergency anti-shock and resuscitation measures, we also took an X-ray… and it turned out that a VOG-17M was lodged in his leg,” the anesthesiologist recalls with a smile.
VOG-17M
A surgical team from Mariupol also arrived to perform the operation; there were five of us doctors in total. And there was also a team of bomb disposal experts. We were all wearing helmets and body armor. And in that situation, it was crucial to provide proper anesthesiological care to prevent fasciculations—muscle twitches. After all, the device could detonate at any moment.
Anesthesiological care has three main components: analgesia (pain relief), muscle relaxation, and hypnosis—that is, the patient is asleep and doesn’t remember anything that happened. And during the transition to deep sleep, while the muscles aren’t yet completely relaxed, these twitches can occur.
The risk was high, but everything turned out all right. The surgeons successfully removed everything, handed it over to the bomb disposal experts, the patient then regained consciousness, and he was evacuated for further recovery.
– Did he even know what was in his leg?
– Well, we couldn’t tell him that before the operation anyway—who knows how he would have reacted. Only later, after he came to, did we tell him.
– And how did he react?
– How? Normally—he said they did everything right (smiles). Well, the main thing is that the patient is alive, the medical team is alive, and everything’s fine. Though we certainly got our share of adrenaline back then.
– And were they able to save the soldier’s leg?
– Yes, of course. Though he did need long-term rehabilitation afterward because there was a bone defect. But his leg should work fine.
“As soon as Putin announced the ‘special military operation,’ I grabbed my backpack and headed to the hospital. I knew I wouldn’t be returning to my apartment.”
Being a doctor, says Oleksandr, is a way of life. After all, a good specialist is one who never stops learning. And to minimize learning from one’s own mistakes, you need to study the experiences of others.
“This requires official registration on reputable international databases, analyzing that information, and searching through all the articles. Obviously, all of this is in English or other languages. And often, there’s a fee. But that’s normal. You have to pay for education,” Demchenko emphasizes.
So by the time the “great war” began, he was already an experienced specialist. By that time, he had already been working for two years at the hospital in Dnipro, where the most critically wounded from the east were brought.
When warnings began circulating about a possible full-scale invasion, Oleksandr carefully packed a medical bag with everything he needed, along with other items for a healthcare worker’s “emergency backpack.”
On the night of February 24, he watched a video of Putin’s speech, in which he announced the “start of a special operation.” And literally 15 minutes after it ended, he was already at the hospital. As he was driving, he heard explosions: the Russians were already bombing the Dnipro airport.
“I knew I had to get to the hospital and wait for further orders and instructions. When I left the apartment I was renting, I realized: most likely, I wouldn’t be returning there,” says the doctor.
And he truly didn’t return there—not until the fall, when he was released from Russian captivity.
“We knew we were going into captivity. But a chance at survival is better than certain death.”
Oleksandr Demchenko in the operating room at the Azovstal
hospital
– Tell us, how did the evacuation from Azovstal take place?
– First, the command made it clear to us: there was an order from the Supreme Commander-in-Chief regarding “rescue and the preservation of life.” An order is an order—in other words, we had no other choice. After all, a chance at survival is still better than certain death.
And so, on May 16, what they called the “evacuation” began. Although we, of course, understood that we were being taken prisoner. We didn’t know what awaited us there—and we didn’t really want to think about it.
Our group set out around 7 or 8 p.m. on May 18. It was quite a long walk because we still had to climb a hill. We walked in single file.
Further on, there were about 10 tables set up on the left. It was already clear that they were making us undress and checking our belongings and documents there. They approached us with cameras and filmed us. The enemy immediately asked who the officers were and who was from “Azov.” They also recorded the women separately.
By the way, that was the only time I saw the Red Cross (representatives of the International Committee of the Red Cross—“N”). They came in, collected some forms from us—and that was it; after that, we never saw them again, not even once.
Then they sent us to the buses, which were lined up in two rows. We got on, put all our belongings in one place, and sat down. And there, it was already so clear that we were under their jurisdiction, in their hands. Two men with automatic rifles got on, sat across from us, cocked their guns—and we drove off.
They took us to Olenivka. They told us to get off the buses and lined us up. It was nighttime. And then we waited a long time before they let us into the colony grounds. Sometime around dawn, around 4 or 5 a.m., we began moving into the barracks where we would live from then on. Again, there was a thorough search of our belongings; anything they didn’t like, they confiscated. And that was it—after that, we weren’t moved anywhere else from that barracks.
“During the terrorist attack in Olenivka, a Russian ‘Grad’ rocket launcher was fired from behind the colony walls so we wouldn’t hear the explosion.”
– Were you held in Olenivka the entire time?
– Yes, personally, I wasn’t transferred anywhere else until the prisoner exchange. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
The living conditions there were… essentially nonexistent. There was no heating, and the toilet was outside. It was always clogged because it wasn’t designed for that many people. At one point, there were as many as 400 of us there, and even 500. All of us were Ukrainian prisoners of war.
We mostly slept right on the floor because there was nowhere else to lie down. There were bunk beds, but there weren’t enough for everyone until they suddenly started taking the guys away (obviously, transferring them to other places). There were mattresses, pillows, and some blankets—basically, when it was cold, you could cover yourself with a blanket.
There were two barrels for drinking water. A fire truck arrived—I think from Dokuchaevsk—and filled the barrels with water. It had a muddy aftertaste—probably from the river.
There was also water running through pipes on the first floor. It was very yellow, but it had a less unpleasant odor. That was mostly the water I drank—in minimal amounts so as not to cause severe dehydration.
Obviously, they cooked all the food using this water. They fed us three times a day, but the quantity and quality of the food, of course, left much to be desired. Mostly small portions of something like porridge.
We wore whatever we had. I had two T-shirts, one sweater, pants, and my medical scrubs—that’s what I left Azovstal wearing. I also brought some Crocs, and they literally saved me in the summer; they were very comfortable to walk in. I also walked around in my medical scrubs. I even wore them during the prisoner exchange.
And all my medical equipment was destroyed…
– You weren’t just a soldier, but a doctor who didn’t even carry a weapon at Azovstal. Did that change their attitude toward you in any way? Maybe they tried to recruit you to their side, since you were such a great anesthesiologist?
– No, God spared me. In any case, something like that wouldn’t even have been discussed.
I really didn’t pick up a weapon at “Zheleznyak” because I had a different mission there. An anesthesiologist is the doctor who separates the patient from the afterlife—the final frontier. When, to put it bluntly, death is standing there staring at you, too… And we were already sick and tired of all that death over there. But if it’s not time, then it’s not time.
But that hardly affected their attitude. To be fair, they didn’t beat the medical staff.
All in all, I was interrogated three times. They wanted to know how I ended up there, what I was doing there, what I saw—a whole list of questions. But most of the questions concerned events I simply couldn’t answer because, at that time, I wasn’t even physically in Mariupol yet.
They also wanted to know if we were cutting off genitals, asked about some biological laboratories, and things like that. Such nonsense! I replied that no sane person would do such a thing. Well, how could anyone even answer something like that?
– Were these interrogations conducted by Russian military personnel?
– It varied. Both “DNR” members and FSB representatives. The questions were essentially the same. I couldn’t have told them anything new anyway, but that doesn’t really matter. Whether you confess to something or not—to them, you’re “guilty” either way.
They constantly put psychological pressure on us. They played their own radio station nonstop with hits from the ’80s and ’90s—songs that were just plain nauseating by then. It felt like people were stuck in that time period.
And once, someone on duty turned on—if I’m not mistaken—“The Luftwaffe Anthem.” What was the point of that?
And, of course, they constantly told us: “No one’s coming to relieve you here,” “No one needs you.” They told us that they were practically taking Kyiv and had captured everything.
– How did you take that?
– Just as any normal, sensible person would. People who understand perfectly well that it’s impossible. And that if, God forbid, something like that had actually happened, no one would have been so careful to tell us about it—we simply wouldn’t be here anymore, and that would be that.
So we just waited and prayed. And we understood that it would take time.
– Were you able to get any news “from Ukraine,” or was it a complete information vacuum?
– Just the bare minimum—we’d hear something from someone, make an assumption, or someone would pass along a tiny bit of information. And “centrally controlled,” of course, was only their information sphere with political radio broadcasts, where they spout all that nonsense.
– On July 29, an explosion occurred in Olenivka, killing Ukrainian prisoners of war who had been transferred to a separate barracks the day before. Did you hear anything about that at the time?
– That’s actually the industrial, manufacturing section of the colony where they were transferred… And indeed, many people died then. But I can’t say anything about the explosion.
Enemy equipment—artillery, air defense systems, “Grad” rocket launchers—was constantly operating from the area near our prison camp. We had gotten used to it and didn’t even react anymore. That day, it was at half past nine in the evening. “Grad” launchers drove up to our security perimeter and began firing in unison. And that leads one to certain conclusions. In other words, it was done so that we simply wouldn’t hear the explosion, because the enemy’s “Grad” rockets were shaking the very walls.
“My friends didn’t recognize me: I lost over 45 kilograms in captivity”
– Tell us about the day of the exchange. How did it all happen?
– It was truly a historic moment in my life.
At half past nine, they read out the lists of names, telling us, “Those on the list, get your things and head out—you have 5 minutes to pack.” We said goodbye to the guys because no one knew where they were taking us. Until the very last moment, everyone thought they were just transferring us somewhere farther away.
We were held at the detention center for another 6–8 hours. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that the KamAZ trucks arrived, and we were loaded onto them. They blindfolded us (we even have scars left from those blindfolds), tied our hands, and forced us into an uncomfortable position—we had all lost a lot of weight, our muscles had weakened, and we didn’t have the strength to keep our backs straight. So we kept falling on top of each other and “choking.” There were a lot of us, and it was very hot during the ride.
After 3–4 hours, they took us to the airfield. There, they put us on a transport plane. It was nighttime, and we didn’t take off until sometime after 9:00 a.m. We could only guess, but we suspect we flew to Moscow. They “loaded up” some more people there—and off we went again.
And during the entire transport, there was no water, no food, no bathroom—nothing. We just sat there the whole time.
We landed. Someone said, “We’re in Belarus.” That’s when we felt a glimmer of hope.
We were led out by what appeared to be a different group of guards. They let us use the restroom, then very professionally (using a hold) loaded us onto the buses. And they said, “We’ll be there soon.”
In reality, we drove for several more hours. And when we stopped, after a while someone came in and said, “Guys, just a little longer”…
And that was it. Those were the words, that was the moment we’d been waiting for so long. It was so emotionally charged! Such incredible joy!
I was terribly thirsty—I was so parched—you can even see it in the video. Plus, my eyes were really stuck together with that tape glue because they’d wrapped them up so tightly.
But the emotions we felt are simply impossible to put into words.
It’s such a joy just to be in Ukraine—to be home!
When I called my family from there, they didn’t recognize me right away—they couldn’t believe it. Not to mention that they didn’t recognize my face. Because when I left for Azovstal, I weighed about 120 kilograms. And after being held captive, I lost about 45 kg.
“Those working to free our prisoners of war shouldn’t be interfered with: they know what they’re doing”
– The Russians are still holding many of our prisoners of war. And some relatives of these soldiers, having no contact with them at all, often lose hope for their release. It seems to them that their loved ones have been forgotten, that no one is working to free the prisoners, that they’ve been forgotten. Based on your experience, is there any way you can offer them encouragement?
– I’ll put it this way: we simply shouldn’t interfere with the special agencies and services working to secure the release of our prisoners. They know their job, and they know it well.
We can’t even imagine how difficult the work is—all these negotiations, constant “bargaining,” and agreements that very often fall through due to the other side’s fault. But believe me: this work is ongoing. We must summon courage and patience, pray, and wait. There’s no other way.
I understand that it’s much harder for those who are waiting than for those in captivity. It was definitely harder for my family here than it was for me there. Believe me, the guys are holding on and will keep holding on, because they know that people are waiting for them, that they are loved, and that sooner or later it will be each of their turns. But that takes time.
* * *
After his rehabilitation, Oleksandr plans to continue working as an anesthesiologist and serving in the Armed Forces. Because that’s what he truly loves. And he’s good at it.
“I guess it’s a bit of a passion,” Demchenko smiles, enthusiastically recounting (his eyes shining as he showers us with a barrage of medical terms) one case or another from his practice.
A level of experience that few—if any—anesthesiologists in the world have had. And perhaps none at all. And when this war ends with our victory, Ukrainian doctors will share their truly invaluable experience with colleagues from other countries. In particular, the experience gained at “Zheleznyak” in Azovstal.
“I think this is truly a major contribution to modern global medicine and its future development,” Oleksandr agrees. “But for now, we’re continuing our work. There’s room to grow, we have the experience, and we have the desire. And we must always move forward. There’s no other way.”
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This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.