Command under rail: how the Ukrainian rail system has withstood the war

A muffled sound cuts through the dark room draped in long, dark curtains. A Soviet-era closed-circuit telephone system sends a message in Ukrainian to six men, half of whom are dressed in military green. But they are not military, they are the executives of the Ukrainian Railways.

The seemingly obsolete system, dotted with buttons, connects them to every railway station in Ukraine, of which there are about 1,450, according to Ukraine Railways.

When cell phone service failed at key stations after the Russian invasion, the old system became indispensable for their twice-daily meetings, which are held to get an overview of what is happening on the ground.

This meeting, near Ternopil railway station in western Ukraine, lasts just 10 or 15 minutes. Then it’s time to change again. The company’s leadership believes it is the main target of Russian troops.

“The strategy is to move fast so they don’t catch us and not spend too much time in one location,” Oleksandr Kamyshin, Ukraine Railways CEO for 37 years, told CNN. Sporting a ponytail, he commands the room’s attention like a general at war. “Hours” is the longest they stay anywhere, he says.

More than two weeks after the invasion, Ukraine’s rail system – one of the largest in the world – has become a lifeline, transporting essential supplies and desperate civilians out of harm’s way.

The network says it has carried more than 2.1 million passengers domestically since the start of the war, plus about 250,000 to Poland. Some train cars were refurbished to transport medical supplies to the front lines and the wounded to hospitals.

The job of managing the vast network of some 231,000 employees comes down to this group of men, who refused a work space in President Volodymyr Zelensky’s bunker. Instead, they have remained in near constant motion since the beginning of the war, crossing the country to check on colleagues and stay one step ahead of the Russians – even in the most dangerous parts of Ukraine.

“Our logic is quite simple. If we have employees working at this station and we believe it is safe for them, we should go too,” said Kamyshin.

After leaving the dimly lit meeting room, they board a single-car train bound for the city of Lviv, some 130 km away. In the center is a long conference table surrounded by seats loaded with bulletproof vests, helmets and a rifle case.

More typically, they find space in regular passenger cars to mingle with the masses. These trains run at only 60 km/h in most places – below 160 km/h in peacetime – in part because they are overloaded with people.

“The decision to let as many people as possible on the trains was difficult because any unfortunate event would affect many more people,” he told CNN Kamyshin’s deputy, Oleksandr Pertsovskyi, responsible for the company’s passenger service. Drivers are also moving slower because of the risk of hitting damaged tracks.

A bombed-out section of rail can temporarily break a link between major cities, but a collapsed bridge can put the route out of service indefinitely. Ordinary railroad workers, most with no military experience, now find themselves repairing tracks amid Russian bombing raids.

A week into the war, an unexploded bomb fell a few meters from the tracks near Kharkiv and had to be disarmed and safely removed, Kamyshin said.

Pertsovskyi says 33 employees have been killed and 24 wounded since the start of the conflict.

Parts of the network are no longer under Ukrainian control. Other sections are damaged beyond repair – such as the line that runs from besieged Mariupol to Volnovakha, a small town but an important railway hub. The train has not been an option for the hundreds of thousands of people who remain stranded in Mariupol.

“[Os russos] don’t want military supplies [entrem], they don’t want people to be evacuated, they don’t want humanitarian aid to enter cities. Otherwise, why don’t you let the people of Mariupol out?” said Kamyshin. “We see them constantly trying to cut the main lines in Ukraine: from Kiev to Kharkiv, from Lviv to Kiev and the one that connects Dnipro and Zaporizhzhia,” he added.

The links between these main hubs are still intact. But what if they were lost? “Don’t ask me how bad, but [seria] really bad,” said Kamyshin.

The volume of track repairs and rerouting of trains meant that the railroad had to adapt.

Its leadership structure is now “flat” – managers are free to make decisions on the spot without asking their superiors for permission. Repairs can be done in a fraction of the normal time without all the red tape.

The train schedule is now worked out nightly for the next day, changing to adapt to developments on the ground – such as the uncontrollable crowds recently seen on train platforms in the capital Kiev and Kharkiv in the northeast, or the desperate attempts to board trains bound for Poland in the early days of the war.

How the system still works in all of this is “something that is surprising to the whole country and also to the president,” Kamyshin said.

On a moving train, communications are a constant challenge, with cellular coverage spotty or absent altogether in some areas. They have Starlink satellite internet systems, courtesy of tycoon Elon Musk, but say they only turn them on when they’re absolutely desperate. Satellites are said to make it easier for the enemy to pinpoint your location.

Not only does the railway need to coordinate military and passenger trains as well as aid shipments, but freight routes are also increasing. The Russians have cut off Ukrainian access to many Black Sea ports, which is how nearly 95% of agricultural production is normally shipped to overseas markets.

Now, Ukrainian railways are trying to compensate by sending more trains to Europe loaded with grain and goods. This is no small feat, considering that Ukrainian rails have a different gauge (internal width of the rails) than most European countries, so the cargo needs to be reloaded at the border.

The work is endless, Kamyshin said. Sleep has been difficult, and none of the executives have seen their families since the war broke out on Feb. 24. That morning, Kamyshin took one last photo with his two children, one still sleeping. They have since left the country.

Though stern during the interview, Kamyshin’s eyes turn red and his voice cracks as the conversation turns to his family. “For me it’s easier when they know they’re safe and I have time to do my job,” he says.

Source: CNN Brasil

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