ANDRII BOICHUK, call sign “Hawk,” approaches his service as a job. He chose the army long before the war began. After being injured, he aims to teach people how to defend themselves—he wants to train his fellow villagers to shoot.
About myself, personal growth, and the army. I worked at a factory in Ivano-Frankivsk, but over time, I realized there was no opportunity for development or growth. Alongside my job, I spent six years practicing karate after work. I earned a brown belt, and another year would have brought me a black belt. Additionally, I organized karate training for children in my home village of Bodnariv, hosting sessions at my place.
However, I wanted more. So, in September 2013, I decided to sign a contract with the Armed Forces of Ukraine (AFU). I was assigned to a reconnaissance company. I genuinely enjoyed serving.
When the Maidan began, followed by events in Crimea and the president fleeing the country, we could see the situation escalating. Still, our unit commander kept insisting there wouldn’t be a war. At that time, our unit was locked down—no one was allowed in or out. But mentally, we weren’t prepared for the reality of an escalating conflict or for military operations. Most of us had no prior experience. Some of the senior soldiers in our unit had previously served in missions in Iraq, Kosovo, or Liberia. They remained calm and avoided fueling the tension, which helped steady us to some extent.
I remember flying toward Boryspil Airport and looking out of the window, seeing the Kyiv Reservoir below, but we had no idea where we were going. We thought it might be Crimea. However, from Boryspil, we were sent to Luhansk region in vehicles.
That night, we arrived in Luhansk and stopped at some warehouses. In the distance, there was a river, and the city was still lit. I could see the television tower. We spent the night there, and the next day we were ordered to move into the field.
About emotions during the war. I didn’t spend much time thinking about whether I’d make it home or not. From the beginning of my deployment until the assault, I was stationed at the Luhansk airport, simply focusing on my duties. I treated it like shift work and tried not to dwell on anything emotional. Even during training at the range, when we were parachuting, I remember feeling scared. But I made a point of not letting fear consume me—I just approached it as part of the job and focused on what needed to be done.
At the airport, the fear was ever-present, especially the first time we came under direct fire. None of us had any combat experience back then. Over time, the intensity increased: both the volume of attacks and our experience grew. I’ve always had a calm temperament, and I think that helped me cope with fear more easily.
When we returned home, someone asked me how I managed to get through those assaults. I told them, “In the morning, you waited for the night; at night, you waited for the morning.” That’s how it was—you learned to endure and control yourself.
In July 2021, after eight years of service, I decided to retire. I wanted to take a break and explore who I could be in civilian life.
About the full-scale war. I had been home for about six months when the full-scale invasion began. Following the news closely, I could sense what was coming. On February 25, I rejoined my unit and team, which made returning to military life much smoother. I would visit one battalion or another, gathering intelligence about the enemy. Sitting with the guys over coffee, they would share updates and details, helping me quickly get back into the rhythm of service.
About injury and acceptance. In our unit, we had a guide responsible for leading the group to designated locations and then returning with others. One day, the guide strained his back, and the commander told me I needed to replace him. When they say, “Get ready,” it means packing your bag, heading to the base, assessing the situation, identifying neighboring positions, and preparing for deployment.
This time, I wasn’t with my usual comrades from the 80th Brigade but with a Territorial Defense group. Our task was to reach the edge of Klishchiivka and secure our position. Under heavy shelling, we made it through half the village. When the bombardment eased, we moved forward, but then a tank started firing at us. I was leading the group, and it felt like being hit by a truck—it knocked me down. Members of the second group were also injured. I wasn’t immediately sure where I was wounded, but my leg was in an unnatural position. A comrade applied two tourniquets, and I noticed my pants were soaked through.
When the evacuation team arrived, they took the severely injured first and were supposed to return for me. However, the shelling intensified, and I realized it might be a while. Left alone, I couldn’t feel my leg and didn’t attempt to touch it since I couldn’t properly assess the damage myself. I ended up alone, not feeling my leg, and I didn’t try to check it since I couldn’t assess it properly. I spent the next day awake, feeling weaker, listening to the ongoing bombardment. I crawled to a nearby house, and by morning, I saw it had been destroyed, with no roof left, and drones circling overhead.
Nights were easier to bear, but during the day, I could see the full extent of the enemy’s attack—the village was being shelled in squares, and there were chemical weapons used.
The evacuation team finally returned the following night. I knew medics wouldn’t risk moving during daylight, so I held on, waiting for the cover of darkness. When they reached me, they gave me hot tea, changed my clothes, and re-bandaged my leg, which had already turned black. I spent one more night with them before being fully evacuated. Altogether, I spent three days with a tourniquet. I knew my leg wasn’t going to be saved, but I was thankful I survived.
At one point, I felt anger toward the medics, wondering why they hadn’t come for me sooner. But looking at the situation, I understood—they had prioritized the most critical cases and faced the same dangers I did. I have no hard feelings, though, because resentment wouldn’t change anything.
My calm temperament helped me process the injury. For the first while, I couldn’t sleep, but I was told it was my body adjusting. Even with the injury, I didn’t become more irritable or hard. I remained the same. I consider myself lucky. I lost one leg, but the other is fine, my body is intact, and my mind is clear. And most importantly, I’m alive.
About support. My daughter, Maria, has been an incredible source of strength for me. During my rehabilitation, she would come to visit and, whenever I tried doing sports, she would join me. My family, along with my rehabilitation specialist, provided continuous support, which really inspired me to keep going.
I dedicate my sporting achievements to those who have experienced similar injuries and tend to close themselves off. I want to show them that sports can motivate, rehabilitate, and help us get back to normal life. I want to prove to my fellow soldiers that time doesn’t stop, and the enemy won’t manage to bring us down.
About sports and activity. I work out three times a week with a coach who also serves as my rehabilitation specialist. It’s much easier to work with him than to do it on my own. He’s been guiding me since I left the hospital.
I first learned about the Invictus Games through my friend, Yura Haponchuk, the assistant sports manager. Initially, I just wanted to try, unsure if I’d even make the team. But when I saw the other competitors at the national trials, I realized there were others stronger than me, both physically and mentally. Despite this, I didn’t give up. I kept training and focused on improving my results. For example, I placed first in archery in my category.
I’m truly happy to be part of this team. The energy and camaraderie here have been amazing. The sense of understanding and mutual support we share is something I’ve found really fulfilling. At home, around healthy people, I sometimes feel a bit out of place.
When I first went home for the weekend after leaving the rehab center, the doctor asked me how people were treating me in the streets. I told him that people were friendly, opening doors for me. But I’ve always wished I could feel like I did before, opening doors on my own and carrying my crutches by myself. Too much attention on my injury often feels uncomfortable. Now, I’m getting used to doing things a bit slower, but I’m just grateful to be alive. I’m thankful for the chance to live, to enjoy life, and to appreciate everything I have.