Unsung Ghost of Kyiv: Why Valentyn Korenchuk's heroism remains unrecognized

A hero who hasn’t received the Hero of Ukraine title, despite pleas from his brigade’s command, brothers-in-arms, family, and supporters. A petition on the president’s website gathered the required signatures.

hromadske met with Korenechuk’s wife and fellow aviators—his closest companions—to tell his story and highlight his feat. An ace and a man loved by all.

Military pilots have pre-mission rituals: no photos, as they’re seen as a death omen; greeting their plane like a living being, walking around it: “Hello, my falcon!” or “My swallow.” Since the invasion, new phrases emerged: “My dear, ready to hit the katsaps?” or “Bombs, fly and hit where needed.”

Valentyn Korenchuk also patted his fighter jet’s “belly.”

The sky is love, love is the sky

He dreamed of the sky his whole life. He trained as a pilot and joined the 85th Fighter Aviation Regiment.

“Back then, in the late ‘90s, fuel was scarce. First- and second-class pilots flew to maintain skills, but young ones were barely allowed. Valentyn wanted to fly so badly. Once you taste the sky, it never lets you go,” said Oleksandr, Korenchuk’ friend and a military pilot with the call sign Doctor. “It’s another world, accessible to very few. Pilots are the elite. But pilots stay kids forever, thrilled by flying. We don’t even need salaries—just enough to feed our families,” he smiled. “So when Valentyn was discharged (in the early 2000s, Ukraine faced disarmament: some planes were sold abroad, others scrapped; Korenchuk, then 27, was among those let go—ed.), when his dream was taken, he never stopped believing he belonged to the sky, and the sky to him.”

“It was truly his path, his mission,” confirmed his widow, Olena. “He couldn’t imagine himself without airplanes.”

Korenchuk spent 10 years in civilian life, becoming a successful IT specialist. But flying never left his “radar.”

“Talks about planes were constant at home. He rewatched cockpit videos, clips of himself taking off. He missed it,” Olena recalled.

Valentyn Korenchuk returned to aviation in 2013.

“Something bad is brewing,” he said. “I must defend the country from a cockpit. It’s what I’ve worked toward my whole life.”

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ATO: I’ll end my service only as a pilot

Early in the Anti-Terrorist Operation (ATO), Russians used ground corridors to bring air defense systems into Donetsk and Luhansk oblasts, aiming to control the airspace, prevent Ukrainian paratrooper landings, shoot down planes, and block helicopters from aiding troops. Yet Ukrainian pilots on MiG-29s, including Korenchuk, reached these areas, spotting and destroying enemy equipment, command posts, and troop clusters. They also covered Donetsk Airport.

After Russians shot down Malaysian Boeing MH17, the international community imposed a no-fly zone in eastern Ukraine. Pilots were barred from flying there, and Russia exploited this, bolstering defenses and moving in infantry columns.

Meanwhile, the 40th Tactical Aviation Brigade’s pilots trained, staging mock air battles, honing skills to perfection. No one doubted a wider war was coming, and they needed razor-sharp instincts.

Korenchuk was offered other roles: staff work or teaching aviation students. He tried the latter for a year at the Air Command “Center.”

“He was restless there and eventually fled. He fought tooth and nail to return to the brigade, to flying,” Oleksandr recalled. “He couldn’t live otherwise. When I urged him to teach young pilots, he was firm: ‘I don’t even want to discuss it. If I end my service, it’ll be as a pilot.’”

Battle for the capital

On the first day of the full-scale invasion, Korenchuk sent his wife and three children abroad by car, calling to guide their route. He was already in the air.

Rumors spread that Ukraine’s combat aviation was destroyed. Later, it emerged this was a Ukrainian information operation to disorient the enemy.

Korenchuk flew for 10 hours, completing multiple sorties before pairing up (fighters operate in pairs—ed.) with his friend, squadron commander Viacheslav Yerko.

Their bond was so tight that brothers-in-arms said one could “wiggle his plane,” and the other knew his intent.

The two seasoned pilots were ordered to fly low over Kyiv—100-200 meters, unprecedented for military aircraft over the capital. They passed over the railway station, Khreshchatyk, and the Defense Ministry, heading toward Vyshhorod. Expecting to repel Russian helicopters bound for the Hostomel Airport, the two pilots spotted two enemy Su-25s: armed, fast, flying 50 meters above the Dnipro River’s banks. Yerko ordered an attack. Each tailed an enemy plane, chasing them away from the city to avoid civilian casualties.

Yerko’s missile hit a Russian aircraft in the clouds, downing it outside Kyiv. But Yerko’s MiG-29 was hit by a Russian BUK system, and Korenchuk watched his friend’s plane fall, clinging to hope he survived.

Alone, Korenchuk engaged the second Su-25 in a dogfight—close-range combat. Pilots say modern planes allow engagements at distances where pilots can’t see each other, up to 186 miles, targeting dots on screens. This was different, like infantry in hand-to-hand combat.

“Valentyn Ivanovych was likely one of the first and last pilots in independent Ukraine to fight a close-in dogfight and destroy the enemy without weapons,” said Korenchuk’ student, a military pilot with the call sign Oscar.

Korenchuk outmaneuvered the Russian so tightly that the enemy lost control and crashed.

“If this fight wasn’t recorded, and Valentyn Ivanovych just told us, I wouldn’t believe it: ‘What fairy tale?’” Oscar said, still stunned by his mentor’s feat.

Yerko died. A local found and buried him. Korenchuk learned this later, as his February 24 continued. His Vasylkiv airbase was under attack, with Russian saboteurs attempting entry. He and brothers-in-arms repelled them.

“One flight is already so intense, and he had six that day! Then he grabbed a weapon, organized base defense with the guys. For that alone, we should bow to him forever!” Olena exclaimed.

Two years of life and a one-way flight

For two years of the war, Korenchuk flew constant combat missions across Ukraine. As squadron commander, he took the toughest tasks, planned complex routes. Who’d shoot down a Shahed first? Korenchuk. A missile? Korenchuk. Test new bombs? Korenchuk. Use foreign weapons on old planes first? Korenchuk.

He spared younger pilots, giving them easier missions: “They’re young, green, no kids. I have three; I’ve had my time.”

His tally included downed Shaheds, cruise missiles, and ground targets like command posts.

After missions, he and his brothers-in-arms would analyze each flight, discussing mistakes to avoid.

At home, he didn’t rest. While Olena cooked dinner, he sat on the couch, hand tracing tomorrow’s flight path. He paced the house, mentally mapping routes.

Olena keeps a notebook in which her husband sketched a flight trajectory: a target to hit, with four enemy air defense systems between him and it.

“Imagine, each system has 5 or 10 operators, all trying to kill him, firing missiles,” Olena said. “He had to destroy a depot, slip through, and survive.”

What pilots feel after missions, Korenchuk can’t say, but Oscar described it: “It’s a thrill. You destroyed the enemy—your main task. The adrenaline rush fills you with energy, almost holiness. You’re happy you helped the infantry, stopped enemy drones, so they can do something useful. Walking home after a mission, you glow, elated. When it works, your mood’s at its peak. Words can’t capture it; you feel it inside.”

But over time, emotions dull, leaving only exhaustion. Crippling exhaustion.

Two years at the edge of human endurance. In his final weeks, Korenchuk came home, collapsed into sleep, woke to eat, and slept again. Last April, he was granted leave, signed for Friday. On Monday, the family planned to visit their son in Poland, where he studies. But Saturday, April 27, brought one last mission.

That evening, Olena waited for her husband when an old friend texted: “Is it true?” She went pale.

Then, fellow soldiers from the brigade arrived, saying: “Search and rescue are ongoing.” Her heart sank: a personal visit meant no hope.

The body of 47-year-old pilot Valentyn Korenchuk was searched for a month. He crashed into a reservoir returning from a mission, ejecting from his plane.

“An ejection seat is like a rocket with a jet engine, shooting the pilot upward. A parachute should open, and he descends. It’s rare because the G-forces tear tendons and spinal ligaments. Many are disabled afterward. Pilots eject only when there’s no other way, when the plane’s falling. But here, the altitude was too low, and the ejection fired sideways, not up,” military pilot Saga explained somberly.

With Saga, Oscar, and Olena, we’re at the Korenchuks’ home. A week before his death, Valentyn grilled burgers in the yard. This year, Oleksandr did it alone, without his friend.

While women chatted inside, he whispered: “Valentyn, how we miss you!” He knew war took his friend but couldn’t accept his absence.

“It’s a huge loss for my heart,” Oleksandr admitted.

At Korenchuk’s funeral, brothers-in-arms burned a piano—a pilot tradition. They buy one, write the fallen’s call sign, play their favorite song, and set it ablaze.

Hero of Ukraine or not?

A year after his death, Olena and Valentyn’s fellow soldiers publicly declare: he’s a hero denied the Hero of Ukraine title.

Everything’s in place: a nomination from Air Force command to the Defense Ministry, noting Korenchuk’s 80 combat sorties and 300 flight hours (public details; classified targets included—ed.), and a petition to the president with 25,000 signatures last year.

But all inquiries get the same reply: “Under review.”

“Don’t give Valentyn the title for being a great guy or dying. Give it for what he did. His February 24, 2022 feat is recorded, studied in books, and his other achievements are known. He poured his life into aviation and defending the country. We seek answers, truth: why is the state stalling?” Olena said, outraged.

Five “ghosts” from the 40th Brigade received the Hero of Ukraine title posthumously. One got it alive and fights today.

Awards are stalled.

“You fly a mission against seven enemy planes. You dive in, perform brilliantly, and they just say: ‘Thanks for the work.’ That’s it. Valentyn Ivanovych faced 12 planes over the front line. It’s getting harder, but it feels like: want to be a Hero? Die. Even then, no guarantee,” Oscar said sarcastically.

hromadske sent inquiries to the President’s Office and the Defense Ministry to clarify the status of awarding Valentyn Korenchuk the Hero of Ukraine title, given the Air Force command’s nomination and citizens’ petition.

Beekeeper, strawberries, and love

They called him “Father,” “Koren” (‘Root’). Younger pilots didn’t see Valentyn as old, unlike others 10-15 years their senior.

“He knew everything, understood everything, including modern tech. He could fix a car or a computer. Listened to classical music and rock,” Saga said. “He talked about cryptocurrency in 2013, and we just smirked skeptically!”

“Once we went mushroom picking. We gathered little and met his village friends from where he grew up,” his close friend recalled. “They laughed at our haul and said: ‘Pay my mom a visit.’ She was overjoyed seeing Valentyn! Hugged him: ‘You’re so handsome, so good to see you!’ She brought a sack of dried mushrooms. He was flustered, unexpected, empty-handed. She pointed at me: ‘Who’s this? Your close friend? Come here, son!’”

“It was like that everywhere: no one who knew him spoke ill, all craved his attention, his stories. He had that gift. They loved him.”

His call sign, Bdzholiar (‘Beekeeper’), came from his love for bees. Near every airbase, he kept a small apiary, approaching beekeeping with scientific precision. Friends didn’t delve into details but savored his honey.

By airbases, his knee-high tomato and pepper seedlings thrived, shared with anyone interested. He grew strawberries too. “This big!” Oscar formed a ring with his fingers, squinting, recalling the taste.

“Valentyn was an amazing father. Seeing how he treated his daughter, my goddaughter, I told my wife: ‘I’m a terrible dad.’ Not jealous, but I wanted to be like him,” Doctor said. “To his youngest daughter (now 8—ed.), he gave all the love, tenderness, and warmth a man can. I watched in awe. His middle son (now 18; eldest daughter, 28; names withheld for safety—ed.) was raised a true man, but he didn’t want him to be a pilot.”

Brotherhood and fraternity

Pilots have a brotherhood: they visit each other, grill meat kebabs, and hold each other’s kids. They call themselves family, never abandoning one another. Ties between pilots’ families endure, even after one’s death.

They’re unbreakable. At Olena’s home, Valentyn’s brothers-in-arms aren’t just guests—they’re family. They know where things are, and when Olena asks about a faulty outlet or car trouble, they rush to help. These people are kin.

A lone, loud bird and the tram’s clatter drown out voices. In summer, they rule this Podil courtyard. A pilot watches from the mural.

High above, in the heavens, his brothers-in-arms shield Kyiv and Ukraine from evil. Not ghosts, but living people. In this wartime, they rule the skies.