On a bright spring morning we leave our smart little hotel in the heart of Kyiv's old centre and walk a short distance to our Mitsubishi L200 - parked just a couple of cobbled streets away. It is 8.45am when Graeme takes the wheel and navigates us through a maze of alleys to a pair of stalwart stainless steel bollards which begin to sink into the road, allowing us to leave the old town, just as our hotel receptionist Julia said they would.

We follow a slow moving, meandering, line of traffic. Traffic lights a couple of cars ahead turn red. I absentmindedly look at people walking to work along the clean pavement. It's a typical morning scene in a busy, well kept European city. However, something unusual is happening. Commuters are stock still and have their heads bowed. Vehicles in front have switched on their hazard lights. It is 9am and our first experience of a daily ritual echoed throughout Ukraine - a minute of respectful silence for the fallen. Then, without any obvious signal, pedestrians begin to walk, hazard lights are cancelled, traffic lights turn green, and we're on the move.

Our drive out of Lviv is broken with an essential stop at a military memorial cemetery - the 'Field of Mars' - located on a large patch of land next to the 18th century Lychakiv Cemetery. Graeme has seen its alarming expansion over the past few years. We drive up to a makeshift metal fence and large gate. A security guard quickly appears from a neighbouring gatehouse, heaves back the gate and allows us to park. There is only one other vehicle there. Directly in front of us is an immense sea of flags - thousands of them. As we get out of the car, despite still being within the city and just off a main road, the only sound I can hear is that made by the flags. No traffic noise and no birdsong. Just the flap of brightly coloured national flags, regional, and regimental, all fluttering in the breeze.

The cemetery occupies a gentle slope with small straight parallel paths leading up through arrays of graves. Graeme follows a path at the left, I walk up a central path. We pause at many graves.

All outlined by wooden frames, some more ornate than others.

Each grave bears a large smiling photograph of the deceased, dressed in their combat fatigues, and a board with details of their name, age and regiment. There are several tall flag poles and large flapping flags at the head of each, which include that of the regiment that the person served with. And each is adorned with items placed there by family and friends. Amongst the flowers and many candles in pretty glass jars, there are family photographs and things that tell stories of life passions, hobbies, and favourite treats. At a grave of a young man I see a lion bar. On another a photograph of a young woman and her pet cats. On another garden shears and a photo of a man in his rose garden. On another a computer game. I take some photographs and notice a young woman kneeling on the ground arranging items on a nearby grave at which point I put my camera away.

So many people just like you and I, who liked and loved similar things. People of all ages - young women and men, in their 20s and 30s, as well as people in their 60s. Grandfathers, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends to many. People who, before they were called to serve - or volunteered to serve - did similar jobs to you and I. Here lie truck drivers, fitness instructors, chefs, accountants, nurses, builders, teachers.... What a huge loss of potential.

We meet back at the car, teared up, and silently get in. The cemetery guard re-appears, smiles, and waves us off.

We slowly re-join the main road and it takes the pot holes of a road out of the city to break the silence. We share thoughts on what we have just witnessed. We are taking the car to an arranged handover location. It is jam packed with a variety of vital donated items, which include generators medical PPE, liquid feeds for injured people, clothing, writing books for children, and animal food.

What we are doing seems more relevant than ever.