RACING into action like a finely tuned F1 mechanic team, medics rush to save the life of yet another soldier blasted by a Russian drone.

But this is no ordinary field hospital, perilously close to Ukraine’s front line.

This remarkable advancement in the three-year-old conflict is an underground hospital situated 20 feet below ground level, designed to shield surgeons from Russian artillery fire.

And The Sun saw first-hand how the facility — the only one of its kind in Ukraine — is saving lives daily.

We observed a paramedic swiftly entering the facility’s triage area in a Land Rover Discovery, transporting a soldier wounded by a drone grenade attack that claimed the lives of two other soldiers.

As the 12-member surgical team quickly mobilized, the visibly shaken paramedic recounted: “There was a group initiating an assault on foot. I heard the details over the radio and hurried to their location.

“They were brought to my vehicle and I drove here.

“There were four of them, two were injured. I think two are probably dead.”

The patient, a 23-year-old called Oleh, had suffered concussion and burns to his arm, neck and face.

He was rushed into the hospital’s red zone where the two operating rooms are on permanent readiness for the most seriously injured, who sometimes need amputations or open-heart surgery.

Oleh was given painkillers and sedatives as staff — who moments earlier were playing Jenga in the rest area — cut off his military fatigues.

Life and death

They then treated his burns and hooked him up to a monitor to check his vital signs.

They also performed a fast protocol — an ultrasound scan of his chest and abdomen for internal injuries.

And although he was struggling to catch his breath, Oleh was keen to tell his story.

Wearing a neck brace and speaking from under a gauze face mask, the bearded soldier later told The Sun: “We came under fire. We hid in a dugout. They started flushing us out from there with drones.

“After that, they dropped gas. We couldn’t stay there any more, so we had to run. There weren’t any major shelters. We hid in some bushes.

“As soon as we got into the bushes, either an FPV [First Person View drone] flew in or something was dropped from a drone. My comrade was killed. I survived.

“I was heavily concussed. I lost orientation a bit and couldn’t move. Then I started crawling on all fours to another set of bushes, where my other comrades were.

“I crawled over to them, and then drones started circling over us again. Another FPV drone hit my comrades. Then just two of us were left.

“After that, a vehicle came for us. I made it out. That’s already something. Two of my comrades were killed.”

The second soldier injured in the attack — a 22-year-old — was brought in soon after Oleh, as another 4×4 came tearing out of the darkness.

The doctors are sometimes alerted by radio that a patient is coming in, but such is the chaos of the battlefield that the first indication is often when they hear the roar of a vehicle approaching.

Clearly in pain, the second patient moaned as nurses tended to the shrapnel wounds that peppered his back and arm.

The men’s patient numbers — six and seven, meaning they were the unit’s sixth and seventh that day — were written on the back of their hands.

And medical cards were filled in with their personal details, the unit they were with and their initial medical assessment.

Oleh’s card was placed on his stretcher as an ambulance arrived to take him to a traditional hospital 40 minutes away in a safer zone. It was just 55 minutes after he had arrived.

 This hospital was built because during the bombing we decided it’s much better underground than above ground. It is a game-changer for us in terms of safety .

Hospital commander Eugene Antoniuk

Head of surgery Yurii Palamerchuk, 52, yelled “Good luck” as the young soldier was driven away for the next stage of his treatment.

Yurii added: “We work fast and work as a team. There are no extra words or actions, we focus only on what we need to do for the patient.”

As politicians inch towards a ceasefire deal, the grim reality of daily life in this cutting-edge field hospital shows just how brutal this war is.

“It took four months to build and opened towards the end of last year.

The medics are based frighteningly close to the front line so injured soldiers can be admitted in the “golden hour” — the period when initial treatment can be the difference between life and death.

That puts the team well within the reach of Russian missiles.

Their new subterranean base has been shelled at least four times, but thanks to its depth and the fact the walls and ceilings are lined with 18in-thick tree trunks, no one was hurt.

The hospital’s location in eastern Ukraine is classified information.

The Sun team — under strict instructions not to take any external photos that may give away its position — were driven 30 minutes past tank defences and checkpoints on the way to the front line.

We pulled off the road on to a track towards what appeared to be crumbling, disused farm buildings, but which were a previous field hospital destroyed in a bombing.

The track dipped underground into the triage bay, which is adorned with two flags — a Ukrainian one and a Union Jack that was presented to one of the team when he attended a military surgeons course in the UK.

As well as the operating rooms, the hospital has an intensive care unit, sleeping quarters, staff rest area, kitchen, offices and bathrooms in six metal barrels buried underground.

Hospital commander Eugene Antoniuk, 42, said: “This hospital was built because in the time of bombing we decided it’s much better underground than above ground.

“This is a game-changer for us in terms of safety. In terms of medical care for the patient it is exactly the same — the same equipment, the same operation tables and the same medical staff. But we are all safer.

“Every day we’re receiving patients, but it’s very hard because they are targeting our medevacs [evacuation vehicles] with drones.

‘Shepherd’s pie’

“So it is mostly only at night or in bad weather that we receive patients, when it is safer for the medevac.

“This area has been shelled more than 20 times — this shelter maybe four or five.

“In military life it becomes normal, like having a morning cup of tea.

“It’s very routine. If the bombing happens when we are treating a patient, we can’t stop.

“One time the surgery team was working in helmets and armour because we needed to save a patient.

“They are all great surgeons who work here. They are good guys. They are my friends.

“Some of our surgeons have studied in England, which is nice because Britain is very supportive of Ukraine. We are receiving very big support from Britain.”

Mykhailo Mazur, 27, is one of those who attended a military surgeons course here.

He said: “We saw a little bit of England and had fish and chips, which were wonderful, and some shepherd’s pie.

“There is wonderful support from the British people. Your people are ready to help us and we are inspired by that.”

Head of surgery Yurii, formerly a paediatric surgeon in civvy street, joined up within days of the Russian invasion in 2022.

He said: “At that time it was important to save the lives of our soldiers who were defending our country.

“The surgery was heavy — as hard as the war. The large number of injuries, the damage, they always influenced everyone emotionally. It was hard for everyone.”

The dad of three added: “When I’m recalling my past, how I was working with children and in paediatric surgery, it gives me some warmth and makes me feel better.

“I have a dream that this will all be over soon and I will go back to that.”

Anaesthesiologist Serhii Koniukh, 44, oversees patients’ care throughout their time in the unit.

He showed us the fridge which contains two and a half pints of blood for each of the blood groups, but revealed that at critical times staff also donate themselves.

He said: “I have donated three times and my commander has donated four times.

“The blood we have here is donated by people who want to help.

“If there is a big bombardment and we need more then the government puts it out on social media and people always respond.”

Patients don’t stay in the unit for long — two to three hours is normally the longest, by which time they are stabilised and can then be transferred.

If they make it here alive then the chances are that they will survive, although some will have life-changing injuries.

Serhii, a major in the Ukrainian armed forces who also served as a medic when Russia invaded Crimea in 2014, added: “Seeing people without arms and legs is the hardest thing.

“Recently it was the 80th anniversary of VE Day. People said, then, never again. But it is happening again.

“As for a ceasefire, we wait for a miracle. Until then, only Ukrainian people can protect our country.”

As Serhii spoke of his hopes for the future, his colleagues watched the ambulance leave with Oleh safely on board.

And with that emergency dealt with, it was back to their unfinished game of Jenga.