Car mechanic Danny Ward meets a bombmaker whose identity is obscured for security reasons.
As car mechanic Danny Ward arrives in Kramatorsk near the Ukrainian front line, he is struck by the people’s resilience amid heart-breaking scenes.
In the final part of his series about his journey to deliver essential supplies, he meets a bombmaker turning abandoned scrap into weapons of resistance and observes an elderly woman cleaning the remnants of her small flat in a bombed out apartment block.
• Car mechanic drives from Highlands to Ukrainian front line to deliver Nessie the Nissan
• Part one: Setting off from Inverness at the wheel of Nessie the Nissan for the Ukrainian war zone
• Part two: ‘I’m in a war zone now’ – mechanic journeys closer to the front line in eastern Ukraine
I drove to the location I’d been given and met my contacts.
They welcomed me in, eager to show me around their home and the incredible things they were doing for the effort. It was a brief respite from the tension that had been building since I crossed the border.
Smoke rises in the distance following a Russian bombardment.
Then, a loud bang shattered the moment, and I saw smoke rising in the distance.
We all turned toward the window. Unlike Poltava, there was no trace of panic on their faces – just calm, controlled composure.
Their demeanour managed to settle me, if only for a moment. But when the door slammed shut with a sharp, resonating crash, the reality of the situation hit me again.
Afterwards, we just carried on, this was their normality. Another contact, a fellow Brit, arrived to greet me. His welcome was warm but brief; soon enough, he was on his way. Then, another contact showed up, ready to guide me around the city and beyond.
The Ukrainian military takes delivery of Nessie the Nissan packed with aid after a long drive from the Highlands.
We unloaded Nessie, grabbed a few more supplies, and set off to explore Kramatorsk.
The damage was hard to ignore—everywhere we went, the scars of war were evident. Entire families wiped out in an instant, their lives stolen. It was heartbreaking.
We visited an apartment complex that was recently hit. The side of the building was torn open, a gaping hole exposing the destruction within. The windows were boarded up, shielding the remains of a home that once was.
As we passed, I noticed an elderly woman on the first floor, carefully cleaning the remnants of her little flat. Despite the chaos around her, she worked with quiet attention, as if the world outside hadn’t been blown apart.
A woman cleans the balcony of her flat in a bombed apartment block.
One thing that stands out here is the immense pride they have in their home.
The streets are spotless, every inch carefully maintained. If a road is hit, it’s fixed almost immediately.
I pointed this out to my contact, and he responded with quiet pride: “We are not Russian. They throw litter down; we do not. We keep our home clean.”
Despite the constant wail of air raid sirens, echoing through the city multiple times a day, nothing really stops. Life, as fragile and difficult as it is, has to go on.
People continue their routines—working, living—because the pride they have in their home and their country doesn’t allow them to let the war take that from them.
Damage to buildings near the Ukrainian front line.
The next town we visit is my contact’s hometown.
As we tour it, destroyed buildings line almost every street. Even his own home, the damage evident, the memories of a life before the conflict now part of a distant past.
Tragically, his neighbour and daughter were killed in the same attack that left his home in ruins.
You would expect panic, fear, maybe even a sense of desperation in a place like this. But instead, there’s a quiet kind of endurance.
After three years of living with this reality, something else has taken hold. A new kind of normalcy has emerged, born from the constant exposure to destruction. Life, though battered and scarred, moves forward. It takes whatever shape it must in order to survive—because, in this place, survival is the only choice.
He shows me that the local trams are still running, their steady hum a strange testament to life continuing, even in a place so scarred. From certain stops, you can see the trenches in the distance—a constant, unshakable presence.
As I look to my left, I see a father, his face soft with pride as he snaps a picture of his young daughter standing in front of a cherry blossom. The delicate pink flowers, in full bloom, stand out against the backdrop of devastation. It’s a moment of softness, a fleeting instant of tenderness amidst the wreckage.
Then, an old tram passes behind them, its tracks screeching beneath it. As it fades into the distance, the view opens up again, and the trenches are still there—distant but never out of sight, an unsettling reminder of the constant danger looming.
The trams are still running in a show of resilience.
It’s bizarre—this quiet, ordinary family moment, against the backdrop of something so unimaginable. Watching that father, holding up his camera with quiet pride, I was struck by the essence of this place. This is how they survive. They keep living, even when everything around them is falling apart.
They find moments to appreciate, to protect, to smile. There’s a strength in holding onto these fleeting things. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite as humbling.
I was then taken to a place I can only describe as the most surreal I’ve ever encountered, where I met a man for whom I have the deepest respect. He’s a bomb maker — but not in the way you might expect.
He doesn’t simply manufacture explosives; he recycles them. Disarming duds and salvaging the remnants of outdated munitions, he scours the battlefield for what others would discard and turns it into tools of resistance.
He showed me the various devices he’s created, explained what they’re made from, and described their intended purposes.
His resourcefulness — the sheer ingenuity required to turn abandoned scrap into something that might help hold a line or save a life — struck me deeply.
These makeshift weapons play a crucial role in the fight to push back Russian forces and defend this region.
It’s a dangerous job. He’s been injured in the process but carries on, because someone has to.
Makeshift weapons of resistance.
Remarkably, none of this is funded through traditional military channels. It’s all made possible through donations — by people from all over who care enough to send what they can. I’ve no doubt I’ve met someone who’ll one day be remembered as a key figure in Ukrainian history.
With his backstory, it wouldn’t surprise me if films are made about him. The truth is, without this kind of direct support, there would be no one left to defend these towns, these villages, this country.
Everyone I’ve met here has their job to do. Some deliver supplies. Some build defences. Some cook for the troops. All of them share the same unwavering desire to protect their homeland and one another.
Scenes of destruction in Ukraine.
After another night of hearing explosions in the distance, never knowing where the next one might land, you feel the darkness a little differently.
They were kind enough to call me a “triple hero” — explaining that those who make it to Lviv are heroes, those who reach Kyiv are double, and anyone who makes it to Kramatorsk is a triple. But for me, that isn’t true.
The real heroes are the men and women I’ve met along the way: kind, generous, selfless, and brave beyond belief.
My aim now is simple — to help these people get the equipment they need to defend their homes, reclaim their freedom, and one day live in peace.
This won’t be my last visit to this remarkable country.
Slava Ukraine.
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