May 2023, Mazda B2500 named David
Introduction:
I joined the group of supporters of Ukraine six months ago. A few personal details to provide some context, given the nature of the article: I am 51 years old, I have a family, my wife Kateřina and three children, two daughters, Anna, 21, and Tereza, 19, and a son, David, 11. I work as a human resources and financial manager in a company engaged in the research, development, manufacture and sale of medical devices, in particular bone and dental implants and bone tissue regeneration devices. The company was co-founded by my father, Igor Riedl, in 1991, and I have been working there for 20 years.
My favourite animal is the dog. Dogs are loyal, responsive and predictable.
Why did I decide to write about my trip to Ukraine? First and foremost, I wanted to share my experience with potential supporters of Ukraine. Secondly, I wanted to record some perspectives that, unfortunately, will not be as clear to me over time as I would like, and I will lose the humility with which I accepted these experiences.
The decision to go to Ukraine developed gradually. At the beginning of 2023, I was going through a personal crisis. During this period, I decided that things would not be the same as before, and my determination to help Ukraine became a reality. I actively sought opportunities to help in a tangible way, because if I couldn't touch it, it was as if it didn't exist for me. I contacted Vasyl Andrishka with a specific offer of help, thanks to an article in the Jablonecký deník newspaper, which included his phone number.
We then agreed on several items of support, which I secured and delivered to the collection point. There, we made a preliminary agreement that I would go on one of the future trips as the driver of a car that we would hand over to soldiers in Ukraine. Soon after, there was an accident involving the supported unit of the 137th Separate Marine Battalion of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, which destroyed a relatively well-preserved pickup truck while driving at night, and the item became urgent. We therefore bought a Mitsubishi L200 off-road vehicle and immediately afterwards a Mazda B2500, and it was the latter that I drove to Ukraine.
It was purchased in Ostrava from the direct owner, which is always better because you can verify how the car was treated and what to expect from it. This was a car that the owner took care of, it even had a khaki colour. When buying cars, a technician is always present, provided by Vasyl. In 2023, I assisted in several transactions in which we bought used cars for Ukraine, and I learned one thing. If you are buying a car for Ukraine, you need to buy a functional machine where the engine, transmission, frame and basic functionality are important, and all at a low price. A car for CZK 300,000 is nonsense, because a car for half the price will do the same job. And if you have CZK 300,000 available, you need to secure at least two cars, or one car and other currently most needed materials.
The responsibility for the effective use of resources becomes completely natural over time. You find yourself calculating how much money you could have spent on materials, for example, CZK 1,800 is two tourniquets that can save up to two soldiers with leg or arm injuries.
Part One
Back to the trip, when Vasyl asked me about the date of the trip, when I would be available, suddenly that theoretical offer became a reality and you ask yourself again if you are ready and want to do it. Today, such a decision is easier for me, but I remember how my heart skipped a beat back then. The re-evaluation was easy, and there was nothing to change about the decision. Once I confirmed the date, I felt relieved because my decision had been made, and I rarely change my mind without some new fact that would give me a reason to do so.
I prefer planning over improvisation, but in this case it wasn’t possible—I went practically into the unknown, which was very uncomfortable for me. I had only seen Vasyl in person once before, at the time of departure this was just the second time. All our previous communication had been through messages—but there were a lot of them. We were in touch almost daily, coordinating everything related to the vehicles and equipment. There was no way to draw from experience, nothing to read or prepare with—I didn’t know what I was getting into. But I trusted that I could handle it and knew it was the right thing to do.
D-Day arrived, and instead of the original plan to pick up the car in Ostrava, we ended up meeting Vasyl in Prague. That was the first blow to my planning, as I was supposed to leave a day later. Instead, I left the office in the afternoon, picked up my things, and headed straight out. The reason was that the car’s transit plates were about to expire and it had to be driven out of the EU before midnight. Otherwise, it would have meant additional costs—several hundred or even thousands of crowns. I realized over time that Vasyl manages donated funds very responsibly—it comes naturally to him. He would rather change the plans of three people than waste donors’ money.
My wife drove me to the meeting point. She met Vasyl and asked him to take care of me. He replied that we weren’t going there to die and that we were doing everything we could to minimize the risks. On the way, we discussed many things. Vasyl was also coordinating changes on the fly—we had to meet Ivan from Ostrava earlier at a different location to make sure we crossed the border before midnight.
The way Vasyl handled the many logistical challenges before and during the trip convinced me of his working style. I must say, he is an inspiring person. He enjoys a natural respect in his community, which he handles sensitively. He is driven by results that truly matter. He can rally others to the cause, leads the project, and humbly admits when he doesn’t know something. He delegates authority and responsibility to others on the team, who then don’t need external motivation to do the best job possible.
Near Ostrava, we stopped at a gas station to wait for Ivan. Once Ivan arrived, we filled up and hit the road—it was my first time with the vehicle. I’ve been driving for about 35 years, and when I was young, I drove cars in a similar condition—this felt like a trip back in time. It was an off-road pickup with a double cab, meaning the cargo bed was smaller, but more people could ride inside. The steering was very imprecise—even more so than my own off-road car, where it’s at least partially offset by other features. This one had weak brakes, a broken radio, and no A/C. But to say something positive: after 2,000 km, I really came to like the car and named it David, after my son.
We arrived at the border at midnight—just after the transit plates expired. Fortunately, they let it slide. On the Slovak side, I noticed a certain coldness. I expected more willingness from people when it comes to helping others. On the Ukrainian side, they checked the odometer and fuel level—because the price difference between Ukraine and the EU is significant, and they try to prevent abuse. All border data and fuel information are entered into a shared system, so even if someone tried to cross back with a full tank, they would be charged customs duties. In Ukraine, a liter of gasoline or diesel costs about one dollar, roughly half the price compared to here. We filled both vehicles up just after the border. Vasyl paid all the expenses himself.
The first stage of my week-long trip slowly came to an end. After crossing the border, we still had about 100 km to Vasyl’s home, where we arrived around 5 a.m. We went to sleep, I was given a room, and the journey would continue the next day. I slept about 2 hours and woke up on Saturday morning to a quiet house. I went outside to walk and met Bruno (the dog). Gradually, I was introduced to Vasyl’s whole family—his wife Alena, who immediately offered me breakfast; his little daughter Sofia, an energetic and curious little girl; the older daughter Dasha, who immediately took care of Sofia; and his son Denis, who spent the afternoon helping his grandmother in the garden. Vasyl is rarely at home—Alena handles the whole household. They’re a wonderful family. It’s clear they share a strong bond. Vasyl finds strength in them—and vice versa.
Part Two
The next day, I finally had the chance to see the surroundings of western Ukraine in daylight. Just beyond the backyard stretch the dense forests of the beautiful Carpathian Mountains. It was tempting to head there, but our schedule was different—we were organizing the pickup of additional supplies and a fourth driver. We had one day left before departing for the east. Ideally, each vehicle should have two drivers. The journey from western Ukraine to the east is done practically without stops. The reason is safety—the less time you spend in these areas, the lower the risk you’re exposed to.
Our first support mission was to a humanitarian organization in western Ukraine, led by a woman named Vira. She and Vasyl have a warm relationship, bound by friendship, mutual respect, and appreciation. In addition to delivering support in the form of non-perishable food, sleeping bags, and other equipment that Vasyl selects from what’s available locally, we were also solving the issue of the fourth driver. Mrs. Vira’s husband, Ivan, who was very sorry that he couldn’t go, eventually left a month later as a driver with another vehicle.
I must say, there’s something deeply kind and good that radiates from Mrs. Vira. It matches everything she does for others. She is a natural and deeply strong woman who is confident in her mission and fully dedicated to helping others.
People were arriving at the organization, bringing in equipment, which we loaded into the vehicle. We took photos with the donors and documented the handovers. A man came by with whom Vasyl had been arranging the production of camouflage nets in previous weeks. These nets are essential for protecting equipment delivered from the West. We had some coffee and sat outside. Everyone talked only about aid and organizational matters. Even though I didn’t understand the language, I could grasp the topics. They spoke about what was happening on the front lines. Their phones were full of photos and videos, which they shared and commented on.
This is when I finally understood what the Silver Land "SOHTASH" is. The symbol does not represent a combat unit but rather the supporters from western Ukraine—people with relatives, friends, or neighbors on the front line. Because they cannot be there with them, they "at least" help from afar, and of course, they are personally affected by their loved ones’ fates. It’s no longer just about helping one unit—the number of supported units has grown to over ten. It has become a matter of principle: they’ve confirmed that it works and that it’s needed.
Vasyl also studied in Odesa, just like his wife Alena, which is another place where he has military contacts. Vasyl explained to me how the war is perceived in Ukraine. A former classmate of his, who holds pro-Russian views, once called him and asked, “Why are you defending yourselves!?” There are people in western Ukraine whose lives haven’t been directly affected by the war yet—their priorities still lie elsewhere. Then there are others, motivated to defend their country, who either fight on the front lines or actively support the effort.
We went to a school to announce that we’d be leaving for the east at 8 a.m. the next morning. A teacher arranged the pickup of gifts from children—drawings and various small items meant to remind soldiers of the better side of life and give them strength and motivation for the battles ahead.
We prepared the vehicles, organized the supplies, and had dinner together with the family. We drank some excellent local wine, chatted, and went to bed early—a long journey awaited us. I reduced my gear even further, realizing I wouldn’t need nearly as much as I thought. There was no point in taking up space in the vehicle unnecessarily.
Early morning departure, with a brief stop to collect the children’s gifts. I stayed in the car, watching as Vasyl received the donations. The teacher arrived dressed in national colors—you could feel the gratitude for what we were doing. She tried to hand Vasyl money, but he refused. I didn’t need to hear the conversation; just sitting in the pickup confirmed for me that the people I was traveling with were deeply motivated. There were no compromises that could contaminate the purity of our mission.
We picked up Michal, my travel partner. Vasyl’s driver would join us later in central Ukraine, which was the target of our second stage.
The trip to central Ukraine was around 1,200 km. We left at 8 a.m., and the journey was truly long. Michal wasn’t feeling well and slept much of the time. He’s good-natured and always willing to step in when needed. I ended up driving most of the way. The car was difficult to handle due to its condition and age, but I had grown accustomed to it and didn’t want to give up the responsibility. My goal was to deliver it to the front line—I was confident I could do the job best.
Vasyl and I split up briefly—he went to pick up more supplies while Michal and I continued ahead. Michal has been regularly traveling to eastern Ukraine since the beginning of the conflict, so he knew the route well and was an excellent navigator.
We reached our second-stage destination around 10 p.m., giving us time to rest, reload supplies, and add a driver to Vasyl’s vehicle. Timing was also important—we needed to reach the final destination in the morning and begin the return trip by 2 p.m. The entire trip was planned for a week, but one-day delays were common, and more serious issues could arise at any time.
In central Ukraine, we stayed with Andriy—a businessman who also organizes humanitarian support for soldiers at the front. He showed me photos of how they modify pickups to mount machine guns in the truck bed. Then came a barbecue over an open fire and drinks, which I didn’t refuse, even though I was supposed to drive. It was a very friendly atmosphere, a moment to honor the friends who never returned from the battlefield.
Stage two ended—another 1,200 km added.
Part Three
The final stage was the most difficult. The distance was only about 300 km, but we traveled at night. I lost count of how many checkpoints we passed—there were many. Some were located on bridges, at city entrances, some were manned and required slowing down, others involved full inspection.
The condition of the roads deteriorated significantly as we moved east. In the final 80 km approaching the front line, the term “road” became almost meaningless. Vehicles swerved to avoid potholes, and when avoidance wasn’t possible, they went straight through them. Sometimes, that last pothole was enough to leave the car stranded—broken and immobile.
Some vehicles weave around the potholes, while others choose speed—just flying through. I saw a newer Hilux fly by like that. It’s unbelievable what some vehicles are capable of enduring. Vasyl’s car is constantly in the repair shop because it covers enormous distances under brutal conditions. One memory that stuck with me was arriving in Dnipro at around 5 a.m. It’s a city that didn’t surrender to the Russian invasion—the first major city that withstood the pressure of the Russian occupiers. Nevertheless, it’s heavily damaged. It felt like a ghost town, at least early in the morning. People on the streets looked desperate, the tram tracks were destroyed, and nearly all the inner-city streets—except for the main routes—looked terrifying. I let someone cross the road and received no reaction at all, no emotion. Driving through Dnipro that morning was a depressing experience.
As we continued further east, we entered an area where active fighting was taking place. What stood out to me was a canteen beyond one of the checkpoints. At this point, soldiers outnumber civilians—only those who never fled the war remain. The canteen is open 24/7. Any soldier or civilian can come in and get a free meal—anytime. There’s soup, a main course, and a long table with various sides and condiments to season the food. Flags and unit insignias hang on the walls—left by soldiers as tokens of thanks. The walls are covered with them. The service is quick—five minutes to eat and go. From the outside, the building looks like a rural grocery store with a limited budget for upkeep. But inside, it runs like a well-oiled machine.
In the anteroom before entering the dining area, ingredients are being prepared. Two women were peeling potatoes, onions, and who knows what else. What struck me was how everything is subordinated to results. Perhaps my surprise wasn’t appropriate, but I’m used to restaurants operating on a commercial basis—where making the customer wait is considered normal. Here, it’s war, and time has value. Everything operates differently.
In the final stretch of the journey, we saw abandoned and destroyed buildings—damaged by Russian incursions, artillery, rockets, or drone strikes. On the other hand, it’s remarkable that even in areas where the front line is just within reach, civilians remain. And not just the elderly—young people with children, too. One reason for the change in civilian behavior is the effectiveness of air defense systems, which can destroy most missiles or drones. On our way back, a drone was shot down over Dnipro and crashed about 100 meters from the main road we were traveling on. In central Ukraine, we experienced an air raid alert. But no one hides anymore—no one even reacts. People trust that the air defenses will do their job.
According to Vasyl’s stories from 2022, during enemy artillery attacks the ground would shake, and people would hide in cellars from rocket strikes hitting civilian targets. That doesn’t happen anymore, thankfully. In that sense, it’s worth recognizing the courage with which Vasyl and others like him kept returning to the eastern front at the start of the invasion to provide help.
We arrived in Kramatorsk, and a few kilometers further south near the town of Druzhkivka—our final drop-off point. For the last stretch, Vasyl drove off-road. The condition of the paved road was so poor it would have destroyed the vehicles, so we had no choice. The off-road path was dusty, and our car filled our lungs with dust because the front doors barely sealed. We could hardly see Vasyl through the clouds of dust ahead, and had to drive cautiously to avoid causing damage.
We reached the first meeting point. There were more pickups than I had ever seen in one place. We met with three units, one by one. Each received the supplies they had requested—and even a little extra. The second stop was at a functioning shopping center. Around us were about ten green vehicles like ours, but much better equipped for frontline use.
There was an incident there involving a provocateur throwing stones at military vehicles. The soldiers quickly apprehended him and handled the situation firmly but respectfully—there was no abuse of power, just calm resolution. After a short while, he calmed down and was let go.
At the shopping center, there were easily a hundred soldiers. We handed over the second batch of supplies and proceeded to the final destination—where we would also hand over the vehicle.
I knew I’d miss it. I wrote the name David on the hood with a marker, said goodbye, and left it behind. We had driven nearly 2,000 kilometers together, and it had brought us safely all the way.
The soldiers’ farewell was the same across the board. They shook hands openly, like old friends. Informal, with a pat on the back and a heartfelt wish like “stay healthy.” They did it with everyone, very warmly. It strengthened the mutual sense of gratitude—we respect that they’re fighting for all of us, and they’re thankful for every piece of support we bring thanks to our donors.
It was the reward at the end. We had fulfilled our mission and delivered what we came to deliver. Now the long road home began.
The End
From the third stage, we added about 300 km, bringing the total distance from Prague to roughly 2,400 km. Exhaustion hit us immediately—everyone except Vasyl, who was driving, fell asleep. You can see it in the video we recorded on the return trip.
Vasyl explained that there is a system for registering transportation requests for soldiers and equipment, in order to optimize resources. So, when someone travels to or from central Ukraine, they can offer a ride to others. That’s how a soldier ended up joining us for the return trip—along with a damaged gearbox we transported as cargo.
We picked up the soldier and drove him to central Ukraine. He was polite, neatly dressed in uniform—a tall, slim, young man from the artillery unit. During a stop along the way, Vasyl asked him to sign a Ukrainian flag we carry at the front windshield for good luck. The soldier gladly signed it. Later, Vasyl told me that this man was the commander of the 59th Brigade of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. He had been granted leave only to help his sick grandmother—he’s the only one she has.
Throughout the trip, his phone kept receiving updates, which he promptly reviewed and handled. He was clearly issuing orders remotely. Everyone I met worked for Ukraine 24/7, with absolute clarity in their priorities. When Vasyl and I were discussing logistics, he said: “Forgive me, I’m with the guys at the front in spirit, and sometimes I see things from a different perspective than someone back in the Czech Republic would.” That’s not a weakness—it’s proof that he does this work for his country and his friends with all his heart.
A clear advantage for Ukrainians is the level of competence they’ve built in record time. Since 2014, they’ve been refining their systems through war, developing new tools. The artillery commander we were with was able to make decisions and issue instructions independently—without needing to ask anyone first. It was a clear example of horizontal leadership in action, just as described by Yefim Fištejn in interviews.
We arrived in central Ukraine at night, dropped off the second driver, handed over the broken gearbox, and headed west.
On the return trip, I only drove Vasyl’s vehicle for a few hours. I was too exhausted and didn’t feel ready. We reached western Ukraine the next afternoon. Since Vasyl’s vehicle needed to go to the repair shop and he wouldn’t be returning to the Czech Republic right away, I decided to take the "taxi"—a nickname for the regular bus line between western Ukraine and Prague. According to Vasyl, the buses run almost every hour—more frequently than between Liberec and Prague, hence the nickname.
There was little time. I quickly packed—or rather, I left most of my things with Vasyl to bring back later and took only personal items in a carry-on backpack. I said goodbye to Vasyl’s family and headed to the bus.
The bus ride took 18 hours. I arrived at Florenc Station in Prague and experienced a humbling gift—gratitude. After such a stark contrast in experience, I could truly appreciate the small things and feel thankful for everything I have. I got off the bus and was genuinely happy to be home. Nothing irritated me. The things that used to affect me—and still affect others—now felt utterly insignificant. They didn’t touch me at all.
I felt happy—and I felt I knew exactly what my next goal was, and what I needed to do.
In Ukraine, I met Vasyl, his family, Mrs. Vira from the humanitarian organization, Ivan, Andriy, and Michal. What unites them is a good heart and a determined commitment to help their country and defend human values. When you experience this firsthand, it becomes hard not to feel a personal obligation to join in and help—because suddenly, it is personal.
When I receive videos from Vasyl showing the front lines—too brutal and raw to be shared—you begin to understand that they cannot go back. It’s like walking down a path where all the side roads have closed behind you, the road narrows so much that you can no longer turn around. You can only move forward. When someone in your family is killed, when a friend or neighbor you personally knew is gone, when you have visual proof of the atrocities the Russians have committed—and still commit—there’s no room for compromise or mercy. The Russians must leave Ukraine. And the resistance and resolve among Ukrainians only grows with time and with the brutality of the enemy. Even when they are exhausted, they are determined to endure.
In circumstances that often defy normality, Vasyl says, “You must understand—this is war.” And I would add: if we don’t want war, we must fight—because if we don’t fight, we ourselves will become the victims. We can fight in the ways we know best—for the victory of Ukraine: through financial and material support, or through information—resisting propaganda, which is extremely dangerous. The speed and intensity of our support directly affects the number of lives lost. As Yefim Fištejn says, the West has forgotten how to win. It does not understand the war in Ukraine. The sooner that changes, the sooner there can be a just peace.
Even in this, there is hope—because the side of good has the strongest weapon of all: motivation. That is our ammunition—we must not remain indifferent. We must fight however we can and strengthen the will to defeat evil, even at the horrific cost of human lives and suffering. And we will not go unrewarded. We will preserve civilization for ourselves and for our children—as we once knew it, or perhaps even better, having learned from it. We will not become slaves to foreign interests—a future that is not worth living.
Ukraine is a vast and beautiful country. Ukrainians are brave, resolute, and fighting for our values. I met people there whose fate I truly care about.
СЛАВА УКРАЇНІ! ГЕРОЯМ СЛАВА!
Glory to Ukraine! Glory to the heroes!