In The Masks of War, one of the most harrowing challenges my characters face is the aftermath of combat injuries—not only surviving battle, but surviving themselves. Facial wounds were among the most devastating injuries World War I soldiers could endure. Beyond the pain and disability, there was a profound psychological burden: to see your own face transformed by shrapnel, to struggle with social stigma, and to wonder if you would ever be truly recognized as yourself again.
The history of reconstructive surgery owes much to these soldiers. Harold Gillies, a New Zealand-born surgeon working in London during World War I, pioneered techniques to repair shattered jaws, noses, and cheekbones. Using painstaking methods—tissue grafts, innovative flaps, and molds—he restored both function and dignity to men who had been left unrecognizable by trench warfare. His work laid the foundation for modern plastic and maxillofacial surgery, showing that medicine could meet the horrors of industrialized war with both precision and humanity.
A century later, the conflict in Ukraine has brought these challenges into stark relief once again. Soldiers and civilians face injuries inflicted by artillery, missiles, and drones, which can leave the face fractured in ways reminiscent of the First World War. Yet today, surgeons employ cutting-edge tools that Gillies could scarcely imagine. 3-D printing allows patient-specific titanium implants to hold bone fragments in place. Digital modeling enables surgical teams to “rebuild” shattered faces with unprecedented accuracy. And international collaboration—French orbital reconstruction experts, Canadian charities, Finnish nerve graft teams—brings a global dimension to a deeply personal struggle.
Stories like those of Mr. Melnyk, Mr. Tkachenko, and Ms. Leonidova, profiled by The New York Times in 2025, illustrate the combination of technology and resilience required to restore life after trauma. Like the soldiers of World War I, they endure long, painful surgeries and rehabilitation, confronting both physical and psychological challenges. Their journeys remind us that the face is not merely a collection of bones and tissue—it is central to identity, emotion, and connection.
Writing The Masks of War required decades of research into these realities: memoirs of World War I veterans, visits to the Western Front, and careful study of historical medical practices. Seeing the parallels in Ukraine today underscores how certain human experiences—bravery, suffering, recovery—transcend time. The technology may change, but the courage required to face a disfiguring injury, and the determination to reclaim life, remain constant.
For readers of my blog, these stories are a bridge: from the trenches of 1916 to the hospitals of Kyiv in 2025, from fiction to the ongoing human experience of war. They show the enduring necessity of science, empathy, and community to heal the faces—and the spirits—wounded by conflict.