Ihor Oliinyk: “It’s like a terrifying film played in slow motion”

"I thought my military days were over and had no hope of ever wearing the uniform again"

Ihor spent his childhood in various cities and countries because his father, an aviation engineer, served in the military. Growing up in a military environment, Ihor chose a career as an aviation weapons technician. He always dreamed of returning to Ukraine, and that wish came true when, after graduating from a specialized military academy, he was stationed in Starokostiantyniv in Ukraine's western Khmelnytskyi region. For the next 12 years, his constant uniform was the army's camouflage.

"The military kept downsizing, and the number of aircraft decreased, so I had to relocate several times," says Ihor. "When they offered me another transfer, this time near Odesa, I knew the number of squadrons there would be reduced too, so I filed for discharge and left the army in 1998. I thought my military days were over and had no hope of ever wearing the uniform again."

After leaving the military, Ihor worked as a security guard in a store, then at a confectionery factory, and finally at a warehouse in Dnipro until February 24, 2022. In 2014, Ihor divorced his wife and became the sole caretaker of his 7-year-old son, always trying to provide everything he needed. Free time was scarce, as Ihor worked almost nonstop.

"Now, looking back, I realize I didn't spend enough time with my son. Yes, I made good money, and we traveled abroad several times a year, but I see now that he needed my support more than I gave. Unfortunately, I can't get that lost time back. But today, I've made my priorities between family and work clear," Ihor says.

When Russia launched its invasion on February 24, 2022, the former soldier immediately went to the military enlistment office, where they promised to call him back. When no one called, Ihor took matters into his own hands, dialed the number, and was told to wait. On February 26, he left his son with his mother and went to his assignment in the Armed Forces. He became the platoon commander of the 25th Airborne Assault Brigade.

"I remember everything was burning around us"

In early March, Ihor was deployed to defend the front line near the city of Izium in the northeastern Kharkiv region, where the Ukrainian forces were holding back the advancing Russian troops.

"We could recapture a Russian infantry fighting vehicle and drive it to a nearby village," the soldier shares. "Around April 13, I got a concussion when an artillery shell exploded 7-10 meters from me, and my ears took a heavy hit. I was offered evacuation, but I refused."

Despite fierce resistance from Ukrainian soldiers, Russian forces continued to push forward, capturing nearby villages and taking control of critical roads. At that time, Ihor was stationed near the village of Zavody, where, as a commander, he held one of the most dangerous positions. On April 17, he was wounded in the right leg during a mortar attack.

"A comrade and I rushed out with AT4 grenade launchers and fired at the enemy as they emerged from the ravine," says Ihor. "Suddenly, I heard a mortar round flying in. I pushed my comrade out of the way, but it landed right by my foot. He got a shrapnel wound to the neck, and I told him to save himself. Another soldier eventually reached me and applied a tourniquet. Although I felt weak and could barely see, we both held the line." 

His comrade was evacuated, but to this day, Ihor doesn't know if he survived. Ihor couldn't leave the position himself because, during the attack, a tree branch fell on his injured leg.

"That day, it felt like an endless rain of mortar shells, and a machine-gun sniper was firing constantly. One bullet whizzed so close. It knocked me to the side. I remember everything burning around me. Luckily, I managed to find some cover and stayed there," the soldier recalls.

After some time, the sounds of battle faded away, and eventually, everything fell silent. Dehydrated and desperate, Ihor prayed to God for water: "I think He did hear me because then it started raining." The water trickled down his body armor, and he could quench his thirst. By morning, not wanting to stay under the scorching sun and in full view of the enemy, he made the tough decision to amputate part of his injured leg.

"As a commander, I had special scissors, so I used them. Before leaving that spot, I held my severed leg for a moment to say goodbye, then crawled into the shade," Ihor says.

For three days, thirst and dehydration haunted him. His only salvation was the occasional rain, which he carefully collected drop by drop to drink. Sometimes, he heard and saw dogs dragging the remains of fallen soldiers. He says they came near him, too, but didn't touch him.

"While I lay there, I thought about many things. I remembered my childhood, reflected on my life, and worried about my son. How much I longed to hold him again. Lying there, in that ravine, I asked myself why I had traded my family for a job that I hardly thought about," Ihor confesses.

Interrogations, torture, and captivity

On April 19, a Russian armored vehicle entered the forest to collect the bodies of the fallen soldiers. While searching the area, they found Ihor and threatened to kill him.

"They radioed in, saying they found a Ukrainian soldier. According to them, their general said I was of no use to them. One of them pulled out a gun and aimed it at my forehead but didn't shoot. Maybe he got scared because I looked him straight in the eye. He walked away, saying, 'You'll die here anyway,'" Ihor recalls.

However, half an hour later, Russian soldiers returned for Ihor and took him to their base. He remembers that most of the soldiers were of Buryat nationality, and their vehicles had the letter "V" on them.

They started asking Ihor why Ukraine was resisting when they had come to "liberate" it. After the conversation, he was taken to a sawmill in a hangar where other Russian officers were waiting.

"They shone flashlights in my face. They asked all sorts of questions, constantly pressing about Velyka Komyshuvakha (a village near where Ihor had been holding the defense – ed.)," says Ihor. "They wanted to know how many personnel and equipment were stationed there and where the positions were. I genuinely didn't know because I had only been there once, in the evening, when we drove the captured Russian armored vehicle back. But they didn't take no for an answer. I realized that later and started making things up. The key was to keep my story straight because they would keep asking different questions, and it was important not to slip up."

At first, the Russians tried to use an angle grinder on him, but it wasn't working correctly. So, they took a chainsaw and began cutting into his wounded leg. At first, Ihor didn't feel pain, but on the second cut, they hit his bone. "I cried. I screamed. It hurt so much. I begged them to stop," says Ihor.

The torture and interrogations didn't stop there. Ihor was constantly moved from place to place, and eventually, he was flown to the city of Valuyki in Russia's Belgorod region. Only there did he receive medical care, where Russian airborne forces operated on him in a field hospital.

"They kept asking me questions and gave me injections in my arm. I remember it felt like boiling. I would lose consciousness at times," Ihor says.

Even after the surgery, the Russians didn't leave Ihor alone. One day, they came with a camera and, at gunpoint, forced him to say what was written on a sheet of paper. Afterward, he was taken to a hospital in Kursk, where they offered him a choice: stay in Russia or be exchanged.

"A doctor came into my room and asked if I wanted to stay in Russia or be exchanged. Naturally, I chose the second option," the soldier recalls. "Later, he told me that I was severely wounded and no one here was going to take care of me. The next day, I was transported by plane to Simferopol, likely to a detention center."

On May 6, Ihor was exchanged near the front-line city of Zaporizhzhia. Volunteers greeted all soldiers that day, offering phones to call their families. Ihor immediately dialed his son — the only number he remembered by heart.

"The first time I could speak with him was in captivity in the Belgorod region. A Russian officer had asked about my family on Easter, and I mentioned I had a son. He let me call him through Telegram. They had told my son that I had died. When I called him again, I shared the news that I was home," says the soldier. "A lot of time has passed since those events. I still can't believe it all happened to me. When I think back on it, it's like a terrifying film played in slow motion."

Rehabilitation

Immediately after the exchange, Ihor embarked on a difficult rehabilitation journey, working with many doctors and a psychologist and undergoing a re-amputation of his leg. He was first taken to a rehabilitation institute in the city of Vinnytsia, then to the Halychyna rehabilitation center in the Lviv region.

"I'm so grateful to the doctors who performed my surgery; they did an excellent job," says Ihor. "The Russians had placed a 12-centimeter tube in my leg, which our doctors suspect was intended to cause infection and lead to my death. They also told me that I had experienced cardiac arrest and had broken ribs. Plus, during captivity, I lost nearly 30 kilograms of weight."

During his rehabilitation, Ihor spent some time in a wheelchair and worked with a psychologist. He recalls feeling anxious due to dehydration both on the battlefield and in captivity, constantly stressing over the lack of water. After addressing this trauma in therapy, he now feels much better.

Brace and prosthesis

At the Halychyna rehabilitation center, Ihor received his first lightweight prosthesis, though his residual limb was very short — just a few centimeters from his groin. Using this prosthesis and crutches, he began walking slowly. While there, he learned about a modern prosthetics program from the BGV Charity Fund and the Estonian government and decided to apply.

"In Estonia, I was fitted with a heavier prosthetic, but they added a special brace to prevent it from slipping," says Ihor. "The doctors there were attentive to us but didn't let us slack off, as some of our Ukrainian doctors sometimes do. They fed us very well and took us on excursions. I especially enjoyed the panoramic view of Tallinn."

Now 54, Ihor wears his new prosthetic daily and walks more than five kilometers. He has returned to his job in Dnipro, where he mostly works in a seated position. Much of his time is now devoted to his 17-year-old son and the woman he met during the full-scale invasion.

"The most important thing is never to lose yourself and have a purpose to live for," the soldier reflects. "During my rehabilitation, I made a clear decision that I would live with a prosthetic and needed to learn to use it as quickly as possible. I wore it constantly, even though people asked why I pushed myself so hard and walked so many kilometers. But I adapted to my new life, just like most Ukrainians are forced to do."

Ihor says he isn't making any big plans for the future right now. Despite everything he's been through, he hasn't lost his sense of humor and dreams of a future where all soldiers with amputated limbs receive prosthetics and quickly return to an active lifestyle.