"Don't throw my lucky underpants away!" a wounded soldier yelled. How motorcycling medic Zoia Kovalets, 55, saves fighters' lives on the front line

I got out, Mum, and I was free, but a quiet life was not for me.

I never dreamed that at my age, I'd go to serve so willingly.

Zoia "Cyborg" Kovalets

"Run!" one of the locals shouted after Zoia Kovalets. The Russians were chasing her. They were firing – either into the air or at her back.

"I ran around the village like a hunted hare, trying to find somewhere to hide. I found a pit under the railway track and waited out the shooting there." Senior sergeant Zoia Kovalets, 55, is recalling the events of one day in April 2022.

At the time, Vysokopillia in Kherson Oblast had been occupied by Russian forces for over a month. Zoia had been passing information to the Ukrainian forces about the Russians' positions and movements, so they launched a full-on manhunt for her.

By some miracle she managed to get out of the village at the end of April, saving her several dozen animals – dogs, parrots, squirrels, hamsters, tortoises and frogs – as well.

After escaping the occupation, Zoia went to the enlistment office in Kryvyi Rih, but she was turned away at first.

"Maybe it was because they check everyone who comes from occupied territories to see if we've been recruited. Or maybe it was my age – I'm no spring chicken," she reflects.

Zoia took a job at a city hospital in Kryvyi Rih that had been repurposed as a military hospital. She is a trained nurse and had worked for many years in the surgery department at Vysokopillia Hospital.

In early 2023, Zoia was summoned to the enlistment office.

"Have you changed your mind about joining up?" they asked her.

"Of course not," she replied.

Zoia now serves as a senior nurse in the medical company of the 47th Magura Brigade. Over the past three years, Zoia has worked on the Zaporizhzhia and Donetsk fronts, and she's currently based on the North Slobozhanshchyna front. She has two talismans from her son and daughter-in-law that she always carries with her on the front line – a toy squirrel, and a keychain featuring a cat in fatigues.

Zoia's alias is "Cyborg", a nickname she acquired when she was young. A keen biker, she rides a motorcycle even at the front – with no protection against electronic warfare, but she always has a medical kit with her. More than 20 years ago, Zoia had an accident on her bike. She underwent many operations, during which surgeons inserted plates and screws into her body. She's been known as Cyborg ever since.

"When our brigade was deployed on the Zaporizhzhia front, my aliases often used to change. I had a small collection of bandanas that I'd swap depending on my mood. The guys called me Bandana, Mama Marijuana, Mum, Auntie, and Granny. But Cyborg is the main one," Zoia smiles.

When she can snatch a free moment at the stabilisation point, Zoia writes poetry. She recited one of her poems, dedicated to her late mother, on the summit of Mount Magura, which she climbed with some of her brothers-in-arms. Climbing the mountain in memory of fallen soldiers is a tradition of the 47th Brigade.

Zoia talked to Ukrainska Pravda about hiding from the Russians in Vysokopillia and the challenges she overcame to escape from occupation; why she believes her pets saved her at a Russian checkpoint; the void she was trying to fill by enlisting; the wounded soldier who asked what she was doing that evening, and the one who begged her not to throw away his lucky underpants; why she sometimes asks her medical colleagues to "line up for a telling-off" – and about the people she doesn't want to ever let down.

Here is her story in her own words.

Hunted by the Russians

Vysokopillia was occupied for half a year. The Russians entered the village in March 2022, and it was liberated by Ukraine's defence forces in September.

I got out two months into the occupation, because I was in an extremely difficult situation. Some neighbours warned me that the Russians had taken an interest in me. I began to hide. I hid in a basement with some people I knew until some armed orcs came in. They forced everyone out into the corridor and said they were looking for me. The Russians had a rough idea of what I looked like. A neighbour had "reported" me and told them everything. Luckily, they didn't have a photograph of me.

The orcs searched the basement. I was lying on a bed with my friends' nephew, Stasyk – he was six at the time. The bed was ancient with a metal mesh that sagged almost to the floor. I curled up and slid down so I was less visible. That probably helped, but basically I was hiding behind little Stasyk.

There was a local councillor, Olha, in the basement. She struck up a conversation with a Russian soldier and offered him some vodka. He was already drunk and even tried to sing some Ukrainian songs. He quickly drank some more and fell asleep.

Then Olha took me to her apartment. I changed my jacket for one belonging to her husband and wandered around the village trying to find shelter. Later, Olha was killed – she was wounded during one of the strikes.

I was very frightened. I didn't want to go to someone I knew again because I knew that if the Russians were looking for me, they could turn up at any household. I was afraid that someone else might suffer because of me. That's when I realised I had to get out of there.

Escape from occupation

The orcs didn't let us leave Vysokopillia. When the occupation began, the Ukrainian authorities tried to arrange an evacuation corridor. A convoy of buses and ambulances came to evacuate the locals, but the Russians blocked it.

They started letting people out unexpectedly, when no one was counting on it anymore. I remember someone cycled over from the centre of the village and told us the news.

But they released the locals in small groups, who had to leave on foot. Why? So the Ukrainian forces wouldn't shell the orcs while the people were walking out. As far as I know, a few days earlier the Armed Forces of Ukraine had struck the Russian headquarters in Vysokopillia. The "organised" exit only lasted a few days. After that, the locals mostly fled on their own.

I wore old, worn clothes. I had a lot of animals with me: two dogs, four parrots, four guinea pigs, six degus, nine hamsters, and some tortoises and frogs.

They'd been alone in the apartment for nearly two months. The neighbours had fed the dogs occasionally. We didn't lock our doors because the Russians forbade it. They threatened: "If any doors are locked, we'll break them down." No one had walked the dogs, of course. Birds and rodents are easier – you can leave them plenty of food – but the dogs had suffered.

I gathered my animals and packed them into small carriers. The two dogs were squeezed into one carrier. The older one, Cherry, had had an operation on his spine. He was bad-tempered and liked peace, quiet and comfort. But I crammed him and Daisy, the smaller one, into the same carrier. It cracked. I tied it with dog leads so it would hold at least a little. And I headed for the exit. I was taking a risk, but I was out of options at this point.

We were chased by a large pack of dogs who'd been abandoned by their owners. Cherry was nervous and barking, the parrots were squawking and the guinea pigs were squeaking.

Somehow I managed to get through. At the checkpoint, I said I had no ID. I'd heard from people in my village that the Russians might throw my documents away or tear them up. The guard asked for my phone. I'd hidden mine, and I only had my mum's phone with me.

My mum had died before the full-scale war, but I'd kept her old flip phone. I'd brought it with me just in case I was asked to show something – and that's exactly what happened.

The phone was cracked and didn't work at all. The Russian tried to switch it on, pressing buttons. I said: "It doesn't work. I haven't had a chance to charge it." He got quite angry. He emptied all the bags of animal feed I was carrying. Then he let me go. Perhaps it helped that I had so many animals with me – they distracted him.

We were allowed to go along a bypass – it was about 20 km to the city of Zelenodolsk. Part of the road was mined. The mines were scattered along the roadside and covered with gravel. There were also large potholes all along the road, and beneath the road surface there was a canal. I had to take the bags off the bike and carry the animals across one by one or I would have fallen into the water.

We were met by volunteers on the dam near Zelenodolsk. They drove us away in evacuation vehicles, helped us and gave us food. Then we were questioned by law enforcement officers. Later they decided where to take each person – some had relatives, others had no one at all. We were given accommodation in different places.

I called my son. He and his family had left during the occupation and gone to Kryvyi Rih. "Will you take me in?" I asked. He said yes. I gave almost all the animals to the volunteers – I only kept the dogs. Hamsters don't care who feeds them – it can be any old Tom, Dick or Harry – but dogs do. Leaving them behind would have felt like a betrayal. I told my son, "If you love me, I'm on my way with the dogs."

Military service

After fleeing the occupation, I didn't know where to settle. Of course my children were very good to me, and I found work as an operating theatre nurse in a hospital. But something was missing. From time to time, memories of the occupation would overwhelm me – the attacks, the fear, everything we had been through. I needed to fill that void.

I joined the Armed Forces in early 2023. My dogs didn't live long enough to see me return home. Daisy died two years ago and Cherry a year and a half ago. They were already old. I knew that I would probably outlive them, but I still hoped they would wait for me.

My children kept Cherry's death from me for several months. When I came home on leave and saw that he was gone, I had a nervous breakdown. My son didn't know what to do, so he brought me the first puppy he could find – a Staffordshire terrier called Biker.

He thought I would cuddle the dog, calm down and leave again. But I was so shaken that I took Biker back to the front line with me. He stayed with me for six months – under fire, in basements and at positions. Later, I realised that taking him everywhere with me was a bad idea.

I joined the 47th Brigade in April 2023, after completing my basic military training and full tactical medicine courses.

Basic training was tough. The instructors said the conditions would be as close to real combat as possible. The regime meant early mornings and late nights. It was winter – damp and cold. The stove wouldn't stay lit. There were 30 of us to a dugout.

There wasn't a lot of food. After I left the occupation I was finally able to eat properly, and I put weight on. I'd become quite chubby. But I lost 22 kg (48 lb, nearly 3½ stone) during the training and medical courses.

But I got through it all. Many of our instructors had combat experience, and they did everything they could to prepare us properly for the battlefield, which was excellent training for me.

The medical unit in the 47th Brigade was only just being formed. I was warmly welcomed because they hadn't had an operating theatre nurse before.

I've been working at a stabilisation point ever since. My main task is to assist the surgeon – handing them instruments, supplies, doing whatever the doctor tells me.

I've learned about real teamwork there: covering for others, asking for help when I can't manage something on my own. That's the most valuable thing, I think, because the work varies – sometimes it's quiet, and sometimes it's a constant stream of one wounded soldier after another and there isn't even time to take a sip of water.

There are occasional lighter moments. Once a young soldier under anaesthesia asked me, "What are you doing tonight?" Everyone at the stabilisation point was in fits of laughter.

Sometimes they shout: "Don't take the thread off my wrist – my wife will kill me." So we have to treat the wound around the thread [worn to ward off bad luck – ed.], if it doesn't get in the way too much.

Then there was the case of the lucky underpants. We wanted to change this wounded man's clothes because they were covered in blood, and he shouted, "Don't throw those underpants away – they're my lucky ones!"

Of course there are painful moments too. Losing one of the boys is always hard.

Almost immediately after being mobilised, I was deployed to the Zaporizhzhia front during the counteroffensive. Our unit was there for nearly six months. A large part of the territory in Zaporizhzhia Oblast is mined. Most of the injuries are amputations. You never get used to that. There was an enormous amount of work, the wounded came in a constant stream. When I closed my eyes, I saw arms, legs, arms, legs… It's really tough.

A lot of the soldiers were young. Sometimes I'd lean over to ask something and they would say, "Mum…" That word is like a knife to the heart, because I don't just think about them, but also about how their mothers must be feeling. Sometimes I can distract myself and forget, but it always comes back. It's a burden you can neither forget nor process. It never leaves your memory.

Even so, I still don't take any sedatives. Yes, I can be impulsive, I might snap or raise my voice. When I'm in a bad mood, instead of saying hello to my colleagues from the medical unit, I might say, "Who's first in line for a telling-off?"

But they get me. They put up with my outbursts, and I'm grateful to them for that. Overall, we have a really great team. I'm going to miss these people when the war ends and I'm demobilised.

My current rank is Senior Sergeant. I have no intention of taking officer training courses – I'm not young anymore and it doesn't interest me at all. I'm going to wait for the war to end and then go home. I have three grandsons and my dog Biker. I have something to go back to.

My grandchildren are proud of me. They say, "Grandma's a hero." I don't want to let them down, so I try to behave with dignity and live up to their expectations, so that I have nothing to be ashamed of.

You can support the unit where Zoia "Cyborg" Kovalets serves. The medical company of the 47th Magura Mechanised Brigade is raising money to buy a blood gas and electrolyte analyser and a capnograph. These devices will help assess the condition of the wounded more accurately and detect threats more quickly.

Target: UAH 347,000 (about US$8,000)

You can find the donation jar here.

Card number: 4874 1000 2586 9374

As a small bonus, if you make a donation of UAH 200 or more, you could win a signed flag from the medical unit, a thermos, or a drawing inspired by a day in the life of the unit by Oleksandr Nikolov, an artist and driver in the evacuation unit.

Anhelina Strashkulych for Ukrainska Pravda

Translated by Myroslava Zavadska and Tetiana Buchkovska

Edited by Teresa Pearce