This is an incredible story of Ivan, a Ukrainian marine who has been wounded three times since the beginning of the war, and has come back to the frontline every single time. He has written it in France, where he has been sent for rehabilitation after his most recent injuries sustained during the intense fighting in the east of the country. The treatment has gone very well, and he is now able to walk albeit with considerable difficulty. The pain in his leg can be quite intense, and that makes walking very difficult. His hand works, but also with limitations. He is coming back to Ukraine to continue treatment.

What has also drawn me to his story is his artistic talent. He had first started experimenting with a brush sometime in 2021, but really went after it after his second injury in the Summer of 2022. It was a distraction, and also, as he himself points out a therapy, a way for his subconscious to express itself. To me, his paintings are an extension of his soul, lived-in spaces, which allow you to understand who the man really is. His story and his paintings compliment each other perfectly, and I hope you will appreciate reading his words, and looking at his art together as much as I have done. 

A cat is waiting for her dead owner.

To me personally, the image of Ivan with a “thousand-yard stare” after a heavy battle in Avdiivka, and his pictures on plywood sheets that they used to seal windows of the houses with over there are what best illustrates his story, and his character. I put them next to each other so that you too could appreciate how they make a stark contrast, but also compliment each other in a strange, and unique way. 

There are common themes in the stories published here, and in fact in any good human story. “A Hero’s Journey”, “overcoming obstactles, while remaining true to yourself”, “making the right choice”, “fighting inner demons”, and finally, the realization that our main, and the most difficult battle, is the battle with ourselves, or the battle between Good, and Evil within us. I do think that the best stories contain elements of all of those themes, and Ivan’s story certainly does it in spades. Please enjoy his story as told by himself, and do not start reading it if you think that you might be too upset by some of the graphic scenes!

Ivan’s story in his own words:

My war started on the 17th of July, 2014 when I first saw photos, and videos of the Malaysian plane shot down by the Russians in the Eastern Ukraine. They affected me so much, that I realized that I simply could not sit on the side, and be an idle observer. I had to get involved.

One of the photos that affected Ivan the most – a Russian-backed terrorist holding a child’s toy at the site of the MH-17’s crash.

At the time, I was working at the Ukrainian State Geological Service that deals with exploration, and control of natural resources. The work itself was interesting, and hard. I conducted monitoring of mining companies, ensuring their compliance with the state laws. I had worked in that field for 12 years by then. Both of my parents were geologists, so you might say that I came from a geological dynasty. The main reason I was forced to change my career was extreme levels of corruption, and incompetence among the management team. The breaking point for me came when people without any background in geology were appointed as my managers. At the beginning of the war in the East, we were all sent off on an unpaid leave. 

9 years ago in his habitat.

Having fun at his workplace.

I wanted to join the Army, but I had no military experience, so initially they were not interested. Everything changed with the third wave of mobilization, when the Army became more desperate for recruits, and started drafting people like me. I ended up at an Army training centre, and acquired some basic military combat skills. Then, I was sent to a firing training ground, and got attached to my new unit, the 28th Motorized Infantry Brigade. We were sent to the war zone, and names like Karlivka, Peski, Marinka, and Krasnogorivka seized being just names on our maps, but became real towns and villages. We experienced shellings for the first time. We learned what it felt like to lose our friends. I saw broken people, maimed bodies, gunfire at a close range.

At the frontline in 2014.

I really wanted to become a marine, and after a while I did get an opportunity to join a unit based in Mariupol. I was assigned to a famous battalion nicknamed “the Badgers”. Allegedly, they were particularly good at digging holes in the ground. I always loved the sea, and what an opportunity it was to come and visit it regularly on a leave fully paid by the Ukrainian Government!

As a new marine with a badge of the “Badgers”

Little did we know what was coming 7 years later… People ask me about differences between the war in the East in 2014, and the big one of 2022. Well, the main difference is the use of aircraft, both fixed-wing, and rotary-wing. When you are coiled up inside a little hole in the ground with an attack helicopter hovering right above you, and spreading its wings like some sort of fire-breathing dragon – there is no escape. There is nothing you could do when cluster munitions are being fired at you, but say “Our Father”. I was actually singing it out loud in those situations. 

On the day the full-scale Russian invasion began, I was an Army reservist attached to the 503rd Marine Battalion, nicknamed “the Badgers”.  I was also working as a junior analyst at a cyber security company. On the afternoon of the 23rd of February, I received a call from the battalion’s command post telling me to get ready. On the early morning of the 24th, I learned that Russians had launched rockets at the Ukrainian cities. I packed my rucksack, hugged my wife and children, and was off to the marines’ gathering point.

A marine reporting for duty, Spring 2022

My first firefight took place on March, the 9th. I was number two with a mortar crew. My job was to load shells, put them inside the mortar, and troubleshoot some minor malfunctions. We were doing well, and managed to destroy a few Russian tanks. We also burned a number of enemy’s armoured vehicles using HEAT (high-explosive anti-tank) rounds. Once we ran out of ammo, we started receiving an intense fire from the enemy’s mortars, as well as tank canons, and machine guns. Thanks to the complex terrain, we managed to fold back our mortar, and carry it out of a direct enemy fire. Once we reached the gathering point, we were told that we (along with the remainder of our company) were almost completely surrounded by the enemy. We loaded the mortar along with some wounded comrades on a flatbed truck. We did manage to break through, reaching a territory under Ukrainian control, as I have found out later. The remaining men, who were able to walk decided to try and make a breakthrough on foot. 

After a few failed attempts to make it through as a larger group, we were given orders to split up, and try to break through the frontline in smaller groups. The guys managed to make it through an open field about a kilometre wide risking their lives. They had to walk through a shallow river to reach our positions. I decided not to risk it, and wait till it was dark. I was hiding in some ruins when I met another soldier from our company. We counted our bullets, and split them in half – each had about 200 rounds of 5.45 calibres, which fitted into our AKs. 

As we were doing it, we were spotted by a local who was the owner of the farm outbuildings we were hiding at. He told us we were bad soldiers as he managed to discover us. Using some hay he covered our footprints, which were visible on the muddy ground. He also told us to sit quietly, as the place was heaving with Russians, who were looking for trapped Ukrainian soldiers. We were lucky nobody knocked at his door. Then, the guy came back, and gave us some food and water. There was bread, jacked potatoes, and some hard cheese. He said he would come back later when it is dark, and will show us a safe way out. He did come back later that night, and showed us out. He also threatened his neighbour who had also seen us not to give us up to the Russians. That farmer was risking his life, and the lives of his family. I do not know his name, but remember the whereabouts of his farm very well. Once the war is over, I am going to go there to thank the man for saving our lives.

After leaving the farm, me and Eugene quietly crawled through a small orchard until we hit an open field. Luckily, it had gotten frozen earlier so we did not have to crawl through mud. We were crawling for about 200 metres when we saw a moonlit Russian tank standing among some houses. We were very lucky that nobody saw us – the Russians were probably drunk, or simply did not have a good-quality nightvision gear. Or, maybe they just failed to maintain adequate watch shifts.

After crawling the distance, we reached a shallow stream between the fields, which was flowing towards the river. It was impossible to crawl there, so we carried on slowly moving in duck lunges, very quietly, stopping and listening to the sounds of the night. We reached the river, and carried on slowly along. It took us several hours to find some temporary bridge, which we used to finally cross the river. We finally reached a place where we could walk in relative safety – relative, because we still ducked into some hedges, or ruins as soon as we saw passing vehicles. We were exhausted both physically, and mentally. We decided to find a place where we could have some sleep. There was a basement among some ruins. We jumped into it, and sealed it off from the inside.

On the following morning we started off early, while it was still dark outside. There was no mobile reception, and I had failed to load the maps of the area on my phone previously. That was definitely a reckless failure to plan for the worst, and an overreliance on gadgets, while taking things for granted. I was relying on my intuition, as well as my electronic Casio watch, and the sun. We were trying to avoid well-trodden paths, and roads while moving along some scarce trees planted between the fields. Sometime in the afternoon, we came across Ukrainian sappers, who were mining a field in anticipation of Russian tanks. We were jumping of joy, and hugging them. They took us to a nearest position where our battalion was stationed.

Upon arrival, we started searching for our company, but it was stationed somewhere further towards the right flank, and it was already too late, and pointless to waste time looking for them. Russian tanks were already rolling across the field towards our positions. Eugene was deployed to help the mortar crew, while I was ordered to help a senior medic. The tanks rolled into the village, and our guys started burning them with Nlaws (rocket propelled grenades supplied by the West). Some of the Nlaws did not work as the batteries inside them got dead because of the freezing temperatures. The guys started using RPG-7s (Soviet-era rocket-propelled grenades) instead.

I was at a house with a medical evacuation team. Our house got shelled a few times by the tanks, and we were covered with fragments of bricks and chips of wood. Something hit me in my shoulder, but my arm was moving OK, and there was no bleeding, so I decided that it was just a bruise. We were lucky that time – everyone survived. We changed our position. Upon entering another house, we saw an old couple just having tea as if nothing was happening around them. When asked “What are you doing here?”, their reply was – “We are old, and not afraid”. We had to use force to get them out of there. Later, we found out that they survived, and were successfully evacuated to a place of safety.

Thereafter, everything was happening like in a black-and-white war film – our guy with an RPG incinerates a tank, Russian tankers jump out of it, and get finished off by our infantrymen. Another tank rolls into the same position. The RPG carriers take cover behind the burning tank, and light up the one next to it. Russian infantry is moving from behind their burning tanks. We are trying to pull our wounded out to safety under the cover of our infantry. We walk, we run, we crawl. Explosions and Hell are all around us. As soon as you bring in one casualty, you start off to fetch another. At some point I realized that I stopped worrying about explosions, and became as cool as a python. I really stopped caring wthether I was going to survive. 

Then, the fighting stopped, and an officer sent me, along with a few other guys to fetch some ammo. At the ammunition dump we were finally greated by the guys from our company. I remember sharing a cup of hot tea with them.

The next thing I remember was waking up with other wounded soldiers at the back of an evacuation van. I was shaking, trying to understand where I was, and what was happening to me. Medics had taken all my weapons, including my favourite knife. 

I ended up in a hospital with a brain contusion. When they first removed my clothes, they also discovered a hole in my shoulder. A piece of shrapnel had gone through the soft tissues coagulating blood vessels along its way. I was transferred up the evacuation chain, and saw a few hospitals along the way. My final destination was a hospital in the city of Khmelnitsky in the western Ukraine where my treatment was completed. After I was discharged from it, I went straight back to my battalion.

Upon reporting for duty, I was given a new role of a medic at a mobile assault squad. I had a few days to settle in as the squad was off on military exercises at the time. We were training at a shooting range with other miltary units, as well as doing daily drills in more specialized marine operations. I did a lot of tactical medical training with other medics. The programme was not difficult, even primitive at times, but drilling it in so it became our second nature has later turned out to be life-saving for many. Stop the bleeding, pull the casuality out to safety, quickly examine them for concealed injuries, handover to the “real” medics. 

The role of a marine assault squad is very specific. First and foremost, it includes an assault on enemy’s positions, and clearing up built-up areas. Training for it is a hard physical work, and our legs, arms and backs were taking daily beating. Our muscles were hurting all the time. We felt sick of daily shooting practice on the range. But, I am still grateful to our instructors who did not take any pity on us. Many of us owe our lives to them. 

I sustained my second injury in Avdiivka in the East. We were staging an assault on Russian positions, and managed to push them back without suffering any casualties, bit off a small forested area behind the main road, and dug in. On our way to our previous position we encountered a heavy mortar fire. All three of us were wounded. I got shrapnel wounds in my legs, and spine.

After an assault in Avdiivka, Summer 2022

The Mountain, painted on a plywood sheet used to protect windows from shelling. Painted with sounds of explosions on the backround with the help of pu erh tea on a frosty morning.

“The mountain” in situ on a house in Orlivka village, Donetsk region

I got my third injury during an assault at Vodyanoe village near Donetsk. The situation was much worse then. We were under heavy fire from mortars and “Grad” (“Hailstorm”) multiple rocket launchers. I lost consciousness. After coming round, I crawled towards a tree, and tried to assess the damage – I was bleeding heavily from my right leg, while my right arm was not working. I tried to apply a tourniquet with my left hand, but I was too weak because of the blood loss. The world was shutting down. In my mind, I said my goodbyes to everybody. I was very thirsty, and tried to drink from my flask, but there was no water there as it was damaged by a shell fragment. I was lucky as there was another wounded comrade right next to me. Luckily, both his arms were spared. He managed to apply tourniquets on my extremities under my guidance. After all, I was the medic!

We were soon picked up by an evac team. The pain was so severe that I was passing out in between screams for help. They were waking me up with kicks, slaps, and gentle pleas “Brother, don’t sleep!” I was handed over from one car to another until I ended up with the “Hospitaliers” – a famous medical evacuation unit. That was where I received a first medical aid – they cut off my clothes, gave me some intravenous fluid, and plugged some spare holes in my body. 

They took me to a “triage and stabilization point”, where they saved my leg from an amputation by doing some damage control. Then, multiple hospitals in various cities. Pain relief – sleep – pain relief – sleep. I took a long time to choose the right words to write to my loved ones. Finally, I managed to write “I am slightly scratched”. Then, I was taken to Lviv, my home town in a medical evacuation train. Visits of my friends and family supported me greatly, and were not letting me despair. There followed a countless number of surgeries – alternating every other day, between my arm, and leg. The doctors in Lviv do not seem to take any breaks, even to take a nap. Even medical students are involved, sometimes operating unassisted. They sometimes sleep on trolleys, or sofas in their common rooms, if they are lucky.

Recovering after my third injury.

At the Lyon hospital.

I am writing this in France where I am completing my rehabilitation. The French doctors, and nurses have done everything possible, and even impossible. I have got a titanium plate in my arm, my body is covered with scars. My leg constantly hurts, and I am not able to feel my foot, but I can walk. I do need to use a walking stick. But, I can fucking walk! Vive la France!!!!!!

I can walk again!

I am going back to Ukraine in three days, where a military medical committee will determine my fate. They could either make me a civilian, or a military man again, and send me back to the frontline. I will accept my fate with humility. We have all paid the price. A very hefty price. Some have paid with their lives, others with their health, yet others with their broken families, or any wild combination of the above. This is the price we are prepared to pay for our freedom, democracy, and a brighter future for our children.

Ivan’s art – he still thinks that he can’t draw. He would like to take lessons from other artists as soon as he recovers from his injuries, and gets an opportunity to do so.

“Never again”, plywood sheet on a window of a house in Orlivka, Donetsk region

“Portrait of a colleague”, 2021

“Exit”, the first picture painted by his right hand after the most recent injury with the help of copious amounts of coffee, and craving for mountains.

First attempts at painting with my right hand with an ex-fix on.

“Pain”, painted with is left hand while in pain, drinking coffee.

“Ivan Havrylko with a barrel”, a picture of Ivan painted by Andrii Dankovich, a fellow artist.