Another Kravchuk: First Hero of Ukraine from National Police's Khyzhak Brigade

To receive the nation’s highest award, organizers offered Mykhailo a wheelchair to approach President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, as his leg injuries made walking difficult. But the senior lieutenant gathered his strength, approached on crutches, and, using one hand to steady himself, saluted the president with the other.

Looking at photos of that moment, I recalled Prince Harry at the Invictus Games, kneeling to be eye-level with a Ukrainian soldier with amputated limbs.

"I wanted to join a police brigade"

Mykhailo had a clear vision for his life. After earning a bachelor’s degree from Kyiv University of Law in 2019, he joined the patrol police.

“I thought it was the best way to gain experience working with people in different situations. On the beat, you encounter criminal offenses, administrative violations, and all sorts of interesting characters—it builds a knowledge base for, say, a future criminal investigator,” Mykhailo explains.

He patrolled streets, responded to citizen calls. Once, with his partners, he even apprehended an armed murderer based on a description and the suspect’s car model. It was the summer of 2022; they stopped the suspect at a checkpoint, identified him, and cuffed him.

“No Hollywood action scenes,” Mykhailo laughs.

He talks about his service without pomp or excessive emotion. Just a job.

He says that in the first six months of the full-scale war, he and his colleagues had less patrol work— the war stunned everyone so much that crime dropped, and people stopped calling the police over minor issues.

“But we actually had more work. We handled a lot of security tasks, like guarding the Rivne Nuclear Power Plant, vetting certain individuals, and neutralizing Russian sabotage and reconnaissance groups. Over time, though, people forgot there was a war and went back to committing crimes— thefts, fights, domestic homicides,” Mykhailo says ruefully.

What frustrated him most were offenses committed by soldiers on leave.

“Some think they’re above the law because they fought. But I fought too, and I don’t think that’s right—we live in a civilized society,” he recalls of his pre-frontline service.

He openly shares that he was often called “pig,” “jerk,” or “coward.” He ignored it to avoid escalating conflicts. Even now, as a fighter in the Khyzhak brigade, formed under the National Police’s Patrol Department, he occasionally hears such insults—and still brushes them off.

“Everyone has their own truth,” he says.

When offered a spot in the Khyzhak brigade in May 2024, he eagerly accepted. He had long wanted to fight, but not in the Ukrainian Armed Forces— specifically in police brigades. With a law degree, he didn’t want to derail his legal career.

“A lot of our guys join brigades created by the Interior Ministry: Liut, Khyzhak, other combat units. Police don’t shy away from war. I wanted to fight with my guys, who wouldn’t let me down on the battlefield. Many in the Ukrainian Armed Forces are prejudiced against police, and I think it’d be tough for me to serve with them. That’s my subjective view. In Interior Ministry brigades, commanders treat their personnel well, maybe because we all come from the same structure. In the Ukrainian Armed Forces, rank matters. In our units, a person’s skills and knowledge do—captains and majors might report to a lieutenant if he’s more experienced,” Mykhailo explains thoughtfully.

When called to the brigade, he felt better prepared for combat than most civilians.

“I had weapons training, some tactical knowledge, and skills. The rules for entering a building with an armed criminal are basically the same as entering one with an enemy. The only difference is you can toss a grenade into a basement with an enemy. Before Khyzhak, I’d never used a weapon against a person. But I knew I was going to war, and fighting meant killing the enemy. I approached it coolly,” he says.

Toretsk, 9 Hrushevskoho Street

After several months of training, in the fall of 2024, he became an infantry rifleman in Khyzhak and was deployed to Donetsk Oblast.

“We operated more like special forces: reconnaissance, assaults, clearing trenches and buildings. Few in the brigade had combat experience, but there was no fear. They offered me a platoon commander role, but I declined. Commanding others, taking responsibility for their lives—that’s not for me,” Mykhailo asserts.

Yet on February 1, 2025, he had to take responsibility for his brothers-in-arns as the senior officer at a position in Toretsk—a three-entrance, two-story building on Hrushevskoho Street.

They were set to hold the position for five days. There were six of them. Soon, five more fighters from another unit joined them after their vehicle was hit. Russian assaults began the next day— mortars, tanks, gas attacks, relentless, with no chance to catch a breath.

Their position was 40 meters from the Russians. Mykhailo realized fighting in a building was harder than in a treeline, where trees offer cover and you can move freely. In a building, especially a basement, you’re trapped like in a crypt, and the enemy knows exactly where you are.

When the agreed five days passed, no relief came—drones loomed overhead. The fighters dreamed of wet snow, rain, or fog to reduce Russian UAV activity and allow a replacement group to arrive.

One day, snow fell. But no relief came, and the Russians launched an assault.

“They wedged between our position and the adjacent one. But it was easier for me to fire than for the others—the Russians were in plain sight,” Mykhailo recalls.

The fight became close-quarters—ten meters from the enemy. In that battle, he took out four Russians, half the assault group. Drone footage captured by Ukrainian reconnaissance shows it: black figures running and freezing on snow-dusted ruins, Mykhailo’s bullets pinning them down like nails.

Eventually, the Russians pushed Mykhailo’s group into the basement, securing one entrance. The situation grew dire.

“They say on telethons that Russians can’t fight. That’s a lie. They’re tough opponents. But we broke their morale until they started surrendering. We gave them no rest—constant fire, grenades. We terrorized them. They just wanted to survive. First, one surrendered, then two, then another. One was heavily concussed, deaf; another’s wounds were rotting, and the smell was awful. They didn’t retreat to their lines because, in their army, if you’re not dead, you go back to the assault. So they surrendered for a chance to live. The first one who came to us said they hadn’t eaten in ten days, drank motor oil instead of water because their drones didn’t drop food,” Mykhailo says.

In the basement, 11 Ukrainian fighters were joined by four Russian prisoners. By day 15, their food and water were gone. They’d squeezed the last drops from boilers and radiators. Now, supplies had to be shared among 15.

Drones delivered packages, but dropped from high altitudes, water bottles shattered on the ruins, leaving half a liter from an expected three. Divide that as you will.

Mykhailo says they shared everything with the prisoners—cleaned their wounds, bandaged them, gave painkillers, and fed them. In return, the prisoners provided valuable military intelligence.

“One was sharp, just a kid, 19, reasonable. We didn’t even tie him up. He helped us find water, went out to retrieve packages,” Mykhailo says.

“So you weren’t worried about sending him out under Russian drones?” I ask.

“You could say that. But he wanted to help. He and another guy cooperated, were valuable prisoners. The other two stayed silent,” he replies.

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Brothers-in-arms saved him from amputation

Mykhailo says that after two weeks, they rationed water tightly. Two weeks later, dehydration caused fevers. On March 1, when a drone dropped water and medical supplies, the position’s commander went to retrieve them.

He’d run through those ruins many times without issue. But this time, he stepped, and an explosion went off.

“I think the Russians deliberately dropped a mine near our package to take someone out. Spotting it in the debris was nearly impossible—maybe if you stared long enough. But I didn’t have time. After the blast, on adrenaline, I jumped through a window. When the guys caught me, I saw both my legs were bleeding,” Mykhailo says.

Evacuation wasn’t possible. His brothers-in-arms applied tourniquets and painkillers, stopping the bleeding so well that, despite infection setting in, they saved him from amputation.

“The brigade’s training emphasized combat first aid. The guys were sharp, understood its importance, and applied it well—thanks to them, I kept my legs, even though evacuation took seven days,” Mykhailo says firmly.

His injuries left him unable to monitor the situation outside or fight, so he delegated some commander duties. But the final word remained his.

He recalls feeling bone-chilling cold after the injury. Temperatures dropped to minus 20 Celsius. When repelling assaults, you barely notice your fingers freezing to the rifle. But lying on concrete with shattered legs…

“We had heat packs to warm up for a few hours. Before we settled in the basement, the guys collected mattresses and blankets from apartments. I wrapped myself in them. And there were tons of cats in the basement. Grab one, and it’s like a little heater,” the senior lieutenant laughs.

"Guys, leave me"

In the basement, he realized an injured fighter, even a commander, burdens the group. Evacuating him required four men. Six carried Mykhailo:

“I was lucky those five guys from another unit joined us, making us 11. How else could my guys have carried me and delivered four prisoners to the next position?”

By March 3, it was clear they had to move to the adjacent position. Mykhailo says that after Russian assaults, only one exit remained from the basement at 9 Hrushevskoho Street. Waiting until it collapsed meant being buried alive.

He had no regrets: in over a month of fighting, his group had no fatalities and only one wounded—himself. Meanwhile, they’d killed many Russians and captured four.

Command chose a moment when Mykhailo’s group could reach the next position without drone exposure. The position was 170 meters away—a minute or two of running with a wounded man and prisoners, carrying minimal ammo to stay light. (They blew up the rest so the Russians wouldn’t get it.)

During those few minutes, Mykhailo thought that if something went wrong, the guys carrying him could die, unable to escape. He told them to leave him if it came to that—one death was better than all of them.

“Was it hard to give that order?” I ask bluntly.

“Very hard, because you want to live. It wasn’t about my willpower; it was more despair. It wasn’t an order, more a plea,” he shares intimately.

They reached the adjacent position. On March 7, Mykhailo and other wounded were evacuated. The healthy fighters began withdrawing on March 10. Instead of five days, they endured 40 days of combat. The exit was brutal: a brother-in-arms and a prisoner died.

“It’s war; deaths are inevitable. In those six months, I changed a lot. As a soldier, I gained serious experience. As a person, I became much more serious, withdrawn, aggressive. I even talked to a psychologist about why I got so aggressive,” Mykhailo says.

He attributes it to feelings of helpless anger and confusion, common in war. You face situations you can’t change, events you can’t influence—helping, reviving, or averting threats. Like during his first combat mission, when Russians hit their vehicle, leaving them 200 meters from their position under mortar fire with no cover.

For Mykhailo, who never backed down from problems in civilian life and always tried to solve them, feeling helpless was especially tough. His character kept him going.

"The award didn't change my life"

Command knew of his injuries and waited for a chance to evacuate him. When drone threats eased, an American M113 tracked armored personnel carrier arrived. Its troop benches were removed, fitting over a dozen wounded. At a stabilization point in Kostiantynivka, his wounds were cleaned. The first surgery, in Druzhkivka, pieced together his shattered left leg with pins and an external fixator. His right leg was “just” riddled with shrapnel. Damaged nerves mean he still barely feels it. He was then sent to a hospital in Dnipro, and then to Rivne—his home.

“I’ve been in treatment for five months. My left leg isn’t healing. They’ll likely remove the fixator and cast it for months. If that fails, they’ll insert a rod. Doctors said if I didn’t feel my right leg after three months, I never would. Three months passed—no nerves recovered. It’s permanent. My leg goes numb, feels foreign. I can stand briefly, walk with crutches, but it hurts. I’ll need another six months of treatment,” Mykhailo says of his prospects.

He won’t plan beyond six months. Before the war, he thought of career growth, marriage, and family. He still does, but focuses on rehabilitation now. In his free time, he visits friends, wounded brothers-in-arms, or his village, Velykyi Zhytyn, where his mother cares for his seriously ill father.

Mykhailo is 27, living in a rented apartment in Rivne. His girlfriend, Valeriya, a pharmacist studying for a master’s degree, waits for his recovery before they marry. Marriage is a strong motivator to get back on his feet. He doesn’t want disability benefits—he’d rather be healthy and succeed in life.

He doesn’t see the Hero of Ukraine title, rare at his age, as a success. He says commanders never explained why he was chosen. The award citation mentions “personal courage and heroism, service to the Ukrainian people.” Mykhailo wonders: Is that really about me? His life as a Hero hasn’t changed, except for journalists pestering him.

“I knew nothing about the Hero title. Command told me to come to Kyiv to our Department. They assigned a driver—I couldn’t get there alone. They said I’d receive a high award, but didn’t specify. Only on the evening of July 3 did I learn it was the Hero award. That night, Kyiv faced a major attack. I slept through it in the patrol police dorm. Valeriya arrived that morning. I told her about the award—she was shocked, thrilled. Then I went to the President’s Office, got the award, and called my mom. I didn’t tell her earlier—what if they didn’t give it? Why worry her for nothing?” Mykhailo says.

He didn’t celebrate at home. He doesn’t like “that stuff.” He worked every birthday and spent Christmas or Easter at home only once or twice during his service.

“You’re pretty hard on yourself,” I note.

“What? I’m normal,” he replies.

The award, feasts, or gifts don’t concern him now. Missing out on mushroom picking with friends because of his leg injuries—that’s the real problem. He loves foraging and traveling.