From music school to front lines: A 22-year-old Ukrainian drone unit commander's journey through war

"The military commissar says: 'It's your birthday, I'm giving you a present'"

"Of course, Tony Stark," Kupa smiles at the question of his favorite movie hero, meaning Iron Man from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. "Both the actor [Robert Downey Jr. — ed.] and the character. The director is supposed to be a serious guy, but he himself is not serious; he's humorous."

In passing, Kupa says that he once wanted to act in movies himself. If not for the military uniform, one might take him for a hipster, a regular at a 'third wave' coffee shop. But the surroundings are completely different.

On the wall are numerous screens on which, in a few hours, one can see GRCs performing logistical missions that he will control. These drones will deliver food, water, fuel, ammunition, and so on to fighters on the Kharkiv axis. On the tables are computers and drone controllers. At the same time, next to the bed, like a reference to the fighter's past life, stands an acoustic guitar.

Kupa hails from Dnipro, born into a musical family—his mother teaches piano, and his father, a guitarist and singer who performed in restaurants, passed away five years ago. Creativity was always at the heart of their home.

In his childhood, his parents sent their son to music school to study piano. The classics did not appeal to the boy, and for a while killed his interest in music. In parallel, he played soccer for eight years and even considered making it a lifelong commitment.

"I got into the Dnipro academy, but in ninth grade I injured my knee, after which I was basically forbidden to play soccer," the soldier recounts. "Then I kind of 'got lost.' I remembered that I had eight years of 'music school,' mastered the guitar in a year, and entered music college. I studied classical guitar."

Although Kupa did not finish music college — he dropped out after the second year — he began writing electronic music on the computer.

"I listened to a lot of contemporary music, especially rap," he recalls. "I began crafting my own beats and minus tracks—it came naturally, since I was always immersed in those trends. The process fascinated me."

On the eve of his 18th birthday, the guy needed to get his military ID. So in spring 2021, ten days before turning 18, he went to the military enlistment office. This visit ended unexpectedly.

"The military commissar looked at me and said, ‘Happy birthday—I’ve got a gift for you. You’ll serve in the orchestra. Just sign the contract, and it’ll be like a regular job.’ At the time, I’d never held a real job before. I hadn’t even started adult life yet."

So in April 2021 Kupa ended up on mandatory service in a National Guard convoy unit in Dnipro.

"They didn’t assign me to the orchestra—they needed wind instrumentalists, and I only played piano and guitar. No one was particularly interested in me for that role," he recalls. "Instead, I spent four or five months as a conscript, handling convoy duties: transporting prisoners between prisons by train and escorting them to court. I actually enjoyed the work and thought, ‘Why not sign a contract? It’s better than just serving out a year and a half with nothing to show for it.’"

So in mid-fall 2021 Kupa signed a contract. At that time he had no idea what awaited him in a few months.

"For the first time in my life I encountered blood"

Kupa remembers the first months of the full-scale invasion as pure chaos—nothing but panic. At first, the guards were sent outside the city to dig trenches in Dnipropetrovsk Oblast. Later, they returned to convoy duties, but now adapted to wartime conditions: evacuating prisons from frontline zones to safer areas and transporting Russian prisoners of war.

"I was on POW transport twice," Kupa recalls. "Once he was all burned, paralyzed, just lay there and couldn't move. We quickly transported him from hospital to hospital, escorted him in the vehicle as guards. And the second time we were transporting two Buryats in a special prisoner vehicle. They didn't talk at all. And we didn't contact them either."

At the beginning of the full-scale war, the fighter also trained as a squad commander: the training was shortened then — instead of three months, only one.

"I understood that I would serve longer, so I thought: 'Why not?'" he explains his motivation. "I trained and started commanding conscripts."

A year after the start of the full-scale invasion, 50 people from Kupa's unit were transferred to Khartiia. He was on the list too. One of the brigade's battalions was then preparing to go to Serebryanskyi Forest, the other was just being staffed. That is where he and his brothers-in-arms ended up.

"From the start, I never really wanted to go into combat," Kupa admits. "At first, we considered joining the artillery division, but we reconsidered and ended up in the infantry. Everyone picked their roles—grenadier, mortarman—but none of that appealed to me. I wanted a rear position instead. Then, someone in the unit suggested I try becoming a combat medic: ‘There’s an opening—give it a shot.’ Medicine intrigued me, and I figured the skills could be useful in life. Since I’d never done anything like it before, the idea of something new was exciting."

Khartiia members initially trained in Germany, followed by brigade exercises and specialized courses in Kyiv. Their final preparation came during a rotation in the Serebrianskyi Forest, where Kupa faced his first taste of combat. It was there, on the frontline, that he treated his first wounded soldier under fire.

"I’d never dealt with wounds or anything like that before—so this was my first time facing blood in a real situation," he admits. "The fear was all about that first moment. A soldier was hit on the front line, and by the time we reached him—we were positioned further back—I’d already processed everything in my head: the type of wound, how to handle it. I expected to panic, to freeze up, especially since it was a facial injury with heavy bleeding. But it all went smoothly—we evacuated him quickly, without any complications. That’s when I realized: on adrenaline, fear doesn’t stand a chance."

In May 2024, when the Russians opened a new front in Kharkiv Oblast, Khartiia was quickly transferred north of the regional center. Kupa's group was the first from the brigade, along with Special Operations Forces and Kraken soldiers, to enter the strategically important village of Lyptsi, where fighting was raging. The Russians were intensively working on Ukrainian units.

"The experience was far more intense there," he reflects. "As an infantry anchor, you’re also the medic—holding positions, digging in, managing the front line, and delivering aid under fire. The shelling was relentless; at one point, a 120mm mortar shell exploded nearby and severed a soldier’s leg. Despite the chaos—and even concussed—I had to spring into action immediately. Nothing like the rotations in Serebrianskyi Forest.

We also supported SOF units during prisoner operations. They called for a medic to extract a wounded soldier, and as I approached, they updated me: ‘We’ve got the WIA secured; now help us transport the prisoner.’ In the end, we took three captives."

However, the hardest for Kupa turned out to be the summer of 2024. Then on that very axis, the Kulchytskyi Battalion (at that time part of Khartiia, now in the 27th Separate NGU Brigade) was conducting assault actions, and the Khartiia international unit also went into the attack. The fighting was fierce, and Kupa had to work non-stop: in four days, he extracted 27 wounded, and overall in two months, over 50. Finally, he was out of commission himself.

"On the last shift I suffered many concussions," he recounts. "I came out, couldn't even speak. They sent me to the hospital; I lay there for two weeks, got IVs."

While in the hospital, the 21-year-old soldier rethought his life:

"Before, it was all driven by some kind of naive enthusiasm—I still thought like a kid, never really believing you could die in war or end up captured. But when you’re just 50 meters from Russian positions, taking prisoners, moving into their rear while they probe yours—that’s when it hits you: you’re not invincible. A deep fear set in. And honestly, it broke me a little."

"I held a soldering iron for the first time"

Although after concussions and treatment, Kupa no longer felt as confident as before, he wanted to stay in the company. And he informed the command about it.

"They offered me a spot in the drone unit at first, but I turned it down—I hadn’t even paid attention to UAVs before, never looked into flying FPV or Mavics, just wasn’t my thing," he remembers. "So they gave me a break, shifted me to rear duties—paperwork, radio watch.

Then our company commander changed. I told him I didn’t want frontline positions but still wanted to contribute. He started pushing the drone program and, two months before the New Year, sent me to a GRC unit for training. Before, I’d refused because it all seemed too complex—something outside my skill set, something I’d never done. But this time, there wasn’t really a choice."

Kupa, who had never dealt with technology before, was sent to the brigade's GRC unit (now part of the Khartiia corps — ed.) for training and to gain experience.

"I’d never even seen a soldering iron before, let alone held one," he laughs. "But within an hour, I was soldering, assembling circuit boards—turns out, it wasn’t as complicated as I thought. That’s when it hit me: most of the limits we face are just in our heads. The hardest part is simply taking that first step."

Kupa's brothers-in-arms first encountered GRCs already after he suffered concussions and was out of action. The soldier himself then did not bet on ground drones. But later his opinion changed.

"They told me that when FPVs first came out, everyone was starting from scratch—just trying to find a basic model to build on, then refine and scale it up. But getting to that ‘base’ meant going through a lot of trial and error," he explains. "It was the same with GRCs. Early on, it was barely functional—more like fumbling around until something clicked. But I knew that eventually, we’d hit that foundation, and once we did, it would work exactly as it should."

A few months later, I was reassigned to the infantry company. We started operating a ground drone—back then, it was still early days, and the work wasn’t very effective, but it was the beginning of figuring out how it all worked."

Later, the brigade's GRC unit got new liaison, and Kupa was assigned to them again for training. And then he began controlling ground drones directly for his battalion's needs.

"Our battalion commander had been pushing for us to establish our own GRC unit for a while," he recalls. "Once we saw that the resources—personnel, funding, and facilities—were being allocated, we decided to move forward with command approval and build it from the ground up. The other battalion in our brigade was already ahead of us—they’d launched their GRCs earlier—so we leaned on their experience to get ours off the ground."

Now, Kupa is a squad commander of unmanned systems in an infantry company. Primarily, he manages personnel (in particular, assigns pilots to missions and oversees their training), plans, and approves GRC missions. Also handles communication with ground drone manufacturers.

"I see it more as a management role," he explains. When asked how he handles leading people much older than himself, he responds: "It’s been an interesting experience. Even when I first became a squad commander over conscripts, I had older draftees under me—guys we jokingly called my ‘grandsons.’ Back then, it was awkward and uncomfortable because I had no experience. But over time, you learn, you find ways to connect with people. If you give clear, thoughtful orders and lead with purpose, even 40- or 50-year-olds will trust you. Age doesn’t matter here—respect is automatic for elders, but it’s mutual. We’re all in this together, all working toward the same goal."

On the front, GRCs now perform two main tasks: logistics — delivering provisions, fuel, ammo, etc. — and evacuation of the wounded.

"The first time we evacuated a wounded soldier using our GRC unit, it was intense," he admits. "You have to know exactly where to speed up to escape high-risk zones—where you’re most exposed—where to slow down, and how to navigate rough terrain, all while ensuring the wounded arrive safely. The weight of responsibility for someone’s life adds pressure and complicates everything.

As a pilot, I know when to push the pace and when to ease off—I’ve got plenty of experience with that. But when it’s your team operating the GRC with a wounded soldier on board, you can’t control the drone yourself. You have to trust them. Fortunately, everything went smoothly. After the first few missions, you start to see who handles the pressure best—who’s more attentive, more precise—and you assign roles based on those strengths."

War and its nature constantly change — primarily due to technology development. In the year that Kupa has been dealing with GRCs, he says, ground drones have progressed significantly and also influenced these changes.

"In modern warfare, GRCs have become indispensable for logistics—they’re operating on a completely different scale now. It’s hard to imagine managing without ground drones," Kupa explains. "Evacuation is another critical function. Imagine transporting a wounded soldier 15-20 kilometers from the frontline to the rear—what used to take hours of carrying can now be done in an hour and a half with a drone. Early on, when this technology was new, infantry units reacted like they’d seen a UFO—most had no idea how to operate them, even for basic tasks like recharging, rebooting, or concealing the drones. Now, everyone understands the process instantly."

Kupa hopes that someday even his favorite movie hero will stop being fiction.

"I’m really banking on the future of exoskeletons—you know, the full Iron Man suit," he says with a grin. "Someone’s bound to make it happen eventually. It’s thrilling to think about, but honestly? It’s also a little terrifying to imagine what comes next.”

"You realize that you can do anything"

Over the past two years, Kupa has only taken one vacation—a brief return to his hometown of Dnipro. But there, he felt strangely out of place. Civilian life no longer fit, and even reuniting with childhood friends left him disconnected, as if he no longer belonged.

The war forced him to grow up quickly. He admits that before, his perspective was naive, almost childish—he assumed life would just work itself out. But the realities of war taught him responsibility, not just for his own life but for those around him. Most importantly, he discovered his own capacity for growth, realizing he could develop in ways he had never imagined before.

"The army gave me everything I didn’t have before—a place to live, a job, my first real income, and my first taste of independence," he reflects. "You get to try your hand at so many things: manning the radios, communicating with people, taking command. None of it comes from civilian life, not like it does for most people. If you spent your childhood just going with the flow, here you learn to take control. And that’s when you realize: you’re capable of far more than you ever thought."

Asked whether he feels like he is losing youth because of the war, Kupa answers yes. At the beginning he still modeled his future and waited for the war to end. But since he got into combat, his only plan is to find those plans.

"I used to have dreams, but they’ve faded—my old desires don’t feel the same anymore," he admits. "Now, I’m not even sure what comes after the war. I’ll have to find myself all over again in something new. It’s exciting, but honestly? It’s also terrifying."

Between GRC missions, Kupa still finds his way back to music—even if time is scarce. Looking ahead, he hopes to dive deeper into it, just like his parents once did.

“I want to approach it all professionally,” he says. “Not just making beats for rap, but composing music, singing, and really mastering instruments. After college, I’d set music aside, but now I see its value—and the joy it brings. I’m starting to pick it up again whenever I can. And I get a kick out of it."