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Exclusive report: On the ground with the New Zealanders in Ukraine

Tasha Black

Contributor

Left: Owen Pomana holds poppies in Kyiv’s Independence Square. Right: Jordan O’Brien with 131st Separate Recon Battalion after the liberation of Kherson. (Photos supplied, additional design by The Spinoff)

New Zealanders are a small but dedicated part of the war effort in Ukraine. Tasha Black meets three of them.

Jordan O’Brien, 31, is inside enemy territory. Sitting underneath a tree, shovels laid to one side, he is catching a moment of rest. His bushy ginger beard makes him look like a Viking. His face is creased with dirt, his eyes shiny and tired. He sends me a text message: “Just wanna say hi from Kursk!”

O’Brien is a Kiwi soldier in the Ukrainian army. Right now he is on the edge of danger: Kursk is inside Russia. O’Brien is one of thousands of troops taking part in Ukraine’s surprise incursion, which was initiated last month. Morale is good, he says. But the days are long and his body aches. He’d love a decent coffee. 

It’s late summer in Europe and life on the frontline is hot and sweaty. The smell of death and decay is pungent and ruthless. “It sticks to everything,” says O’Brien. Bodies litter the streets. Sometimes you don’t see them – they are hidden under collapsed fighting positions made from wood and dirt – but you smell them.

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Soldier Jordan O’Brien.

The frontline is unlike any other before. This is first-world-war trench warfare with technology. Mice run through bunkers, gnawing on military ration packs, while enemy drones circle the skies like hawks. Thermal imaging cameras track soldiers’ movements, paralysing them in place, fearful of attack.

“The noise of artillery, that is one of those ‘holy shit’ things,” says O’Brien. “Movies can never do it justice, just how loud it is.” If it’s within about 100 metres of you, “it’s like a scream,” he continues. “If it’s within a 50-metre radius it sounds like it’s dropping on your fucking head, like it’s going to land on your forehead, and you just gotta hit the dirt.” 

He pauses. “If there’s ever a noise that’s going to break someone, it’s going to be that.”

On 24 February 2022, Russia initiated its full-scale invasion of Ukraine, launching airstrikes at dawn across the country. Ukrainians are quick to point out that they have been fighting a war against Russia for 10 years. In late 2013, Ukraine’s then president Viktor Yanukovych refused to sign an association agreement with the European Union, leaning instead to closer ties with Russia. This sparked huge months-long protests in Ukraine, known as the Maidan Revolution, and the president was ousted. In early 2014, Russia invaded and annexed Crimea, and took control of eastern Ukraine’s Donetsk and Luhansk regions. The full-scale invasion in late February 2022 was a massive escalation in the war, and just a few days later, Ukraine’s president Volodymyr Zelenskyy put out an international call for anyone “who wants to join the defense of Ukraine, Europe and the world”.

Thousands of men and women flooded into the country and Ukraine’s International Legion was born. Some foreigners were military veterans who had done tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other conflicts, whereas others arrived with no combat experience whatsoever. 

O’Brien is one of an unknown number of New Zealanders fighting in Ukraine. Some have a public persona, like O’Brien, while others prefer to lay low. In 2023, one estimate put the number at “somewhere between 15–25 New Zealanders” on the frontline at any particular time. But no one knows for sure. 

Civilians can practise their bow and arrow skills – on Putin. (Photo: Tasha Black)

Owen Pomana is many things, but he’s not orthodox. “I’m not your usual priest,” he says, with a cheeky grin. Pomana, 53, barrels through life with gusto and generosity. Stocky and muscular, he rides his bicycle at 5.30am most days. Today, he’s offered me a ride across Ukraine in his silver Peugeot boxer van. We whizz past sunflower fields and roadside vegetable stands. 

Pomana is attached to the Ukrainian army as a chaplain. He’s endearingly nicknamed “Crazy Cap-a-lan” (crazy chaplain). In his younger years, he went from being a sailor in the Royal New Zealand Navy to homeless on Sydney’s streets before drifting into the seedy realm of gangsters, guns and jail time in Australia. Today, he is a self-styled evangelical pastor who likes strawberry lemonade and pumping iron. 

As we roll closer to the capital city Kyiv, the indications of war loom: a bombed-out building; trenches dug in on the side of the highway. In the early days of the full-scale invasion, Russia attempted to take Kyiv. Ukrainian forces defied the odds and held the city, but not without great loss: nearby cities Bucha and Irpin were devastated, and evidence of civilian killings and torture by Russian forces was discovered. Ukraine has worked hard to create a sense of normalcy, clearing and patching up buildings rapidly. We pass by two cyclists in lycra out for a ride.

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“Crazy Cap-a-lan” Owen Pomana with former minister of defence Ron Mark in Ukraine.

Pomana’s apartment, located in Dnipro city, doubles as a respite house for soldiers who need a break from the front. His freezer is stuffed full of meat and there are marae-style beds in the living room. Lately Pomana has been busy evacuating civilians from their homes in eastern Ukraine. Russian troops are encroaching on Pokrovsk, a critical supply town in the east, and Ukrainian officials have told residents to get out while they still can.

Soldier O’Brien arrived in Ukraine in 2022. He had seen the news reports coming out of the war and wanted to help. He joined the Dark Angels, a foreign unit independent of the Ukrainian military. The Dark Angels developed a reputation for gnarly, hair-raising feats on the Mykolaiv front in south Ukraine. The unit’s job was “hunting tanks and hunting enemy vehicles” with javelin weapons, says O’Brien. They would operate in four-man teams, frequently coming under shelling. But there was discontent in the unit and O’Brien decided to leave the Dark Angels. A year later, the unit’s British leader was found shot dead under mysterious circumstances. Ukrainian authorities named a fellow foreign fighter as a suspect.  

Most foreigners who come to Ukraine to fight will join the International Legion, a branch of the Ukrainian Armed Forces. But the Legion has its own wild-west reputation. There are good soldiers among them, but there are also misfits and mavericks. Some foreigners come to Ukraine out of a sense of justice and doing what they think is right. Others are running away from their old lives, and some have embellished their previous military experience and left out important details like criminal convictions. “It reveals itself very quickly when people are lying,” says O’Brien. People who say they are a sniper get handed a long barrel rifle with a scope. “You watch them on the range and they’re terrible.”

Through connections he had made, O’Brien was able to avoid the Legion and instead signed up with the Ukrainian 131st Separate Recon Battalion. Now he is a member of a small first-person-view drone team, flying drones into enemy territory to attack. Drones have been a game-changer in this war, with both sides using cheap $500 (USD) drones to scout and attack the enemy. “Our job is to smash the enemy position,” says O’Brien. This could be soldiers hiding in a bunker, or hitting an equipment cache, for example. 

O’Brien’s commander speaks excellent English, and over the last two and half years O’Brien has developed a good grasp of Ukrainian. His life is now embedded in Ukraine. “I ended up separating from my partner in New Zealand and just saying, ‘Yeah, I’m going to commit to Ukraine long term.’” 

In busy central Kyiv, I meet Tim*, a former New Zealand soldier who also works for the Ukrainian army (his name has been changed to protect his identity). Dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and Birkenstocks, Tim is on a short break before heading back out to the frontline. 

He’s a career soldier and says he never really fit in elsewhere. “The military was where I excelled. I found my purpose in the military.” 

We head out for lunch in his Nissan patrol, windows down because the air conditioning doesn’t work. “It’s weird driving around east Ukraine all tooled up, listening to Nesian Mystik,” he says. Vehicles are highly sought after in Ukraine – they keep getting smacked by artillery on the frontline. Tim’s car is a donation from a retired Kiwi dentist, who delivered it from England to Kyiv along with jars of Marmite, melted pineapple lumps, and medical kits.

Later, in a hotel lobby far from the front, Tim reaches for his phone and shows me a video clip of Legion soldiers shooting repeatedly at a house, before they enter and look inside. It’s filmed on a GoPro and set to rock music. It looks like it could be taken from a video game. 

Tim asks me what I think. “I think it’s glorifying war,” I say. He nods. “That’s someone’s home,” he says. “Why would you go in guns blazing, announcing [to the enemy] you’re here?” He acknowledges he doesn’t know what intel the team had received to make it bombard the house in such a manner, but there was no incoming fire and the soldiers appear to be using up ammunition unnecessarily. 

“That video will bring them donations,” Tim continues. “Every team is seeking donations.” That’s how war works here. There’s simply not enough funding – not enough equipment, vehicles, and weapons to go around – so soldiers are pushed into fundraising for their own kit through social media. Donors want to see selfies of guys posing with guns; videos of weapons being fired. Some units have their own marketing team. Everyone is hustling; scraping together what they can. 

O’Brien, the soldier in Kursk, has 18,000 followers on X. Online he promotes the work of his team and also calls out Russian propaganda. But it has come at a cost. He says another Kiwi tried to dox him, putting the address of O’Brien’s family member on a Russian Telegram channel. O’Brien says the man was a supporter of Russia’s military and believed everyone who fights for Ukraine is a Nazi. This narrative comes directly from Russia’s president Vladimir Putin, who has called the Ukrainian government “Nazis” in a bid to justify his invasion. Zelenskyy is Jewish and had family members die in the Holocaust.

Meanwhile, Tim prefers to stay in the shadows. “Russia has a long memory,” he says simply. 

In Kyiv’s Independence Square, thousands of flags mark fallen soldiers. (Photo: Tasha Black)

News reports estimate the number of foreign fighters currently serving in Ukraine at between 1,000-3,000 people. Foreign fighters come and go. Some have been there since early 2022 and never left. Others last a day on the battlefield. Soldiers get injured, disillusioned, or just have enough.

Even for veteran soldiers who have done tours overseas, such as in Afghanistan and Iraq, fighting in Ukraine can come as a shock – it’s unlike anything they’ve ever experienced. In recent conflicts, western troops are used to having the upper hand in warfare, with superior weapons, air support and manpower. That’s not the case in this war. Russia has outgunned and outmanned Ukraine from the start. 

Foreigners often lie about their reason for leaving the war, Tim says. Their passport expired, their grandfather is dying, their roof back home is leaking and needs fixing. “You name it. They leave you with their kit and say, ‘Yeah, I’m coming back’, but they don’t.” Only one person was honest with Tim about his reason for leaving, which Tim appreciated: he didn’t like the artillery. 

Unlike previous conflicts, such as in Afghanistan, there is no option for wounded soldiers to be medevaced out by air in Ukraine – not when you’re being smashed by artillery and hammered by Russian small arms, drones and vehicles. Artillery bombardment can last for hours on end. “That plays on an individual’s psyche,” says Tim. Instead, it’s scoop-and-run triage: medics do what they can to keep someone alive, chuck on a tourniquet, lay an injured soldier on the back of a ute, and flat-foot it out.

Ukraine, a land of wheat fields and sunflowers, is now riddled with land mines. It is estimated that up to two million landmines have been laid in the last two years, mostly in the east and south of the country, making it the most mined country in the world. Hospital rooms are full of beds of broken men. Men filled with metal. Soldiers missing limbs; legs and arms simply gone. 

Pomana (the chaplain) and I visit a hospital in Dnipro city. Pomana is in his element with the soldiers: he’s gone full-tilt Crazy Cap-a-lan, telling wild stories of his past, making the men laugh. 

I speak to a 61-year-old, silver-haired aeronautical engineer. We discuss language, travel, and books. I look at where his legs should be. His left leg has been amputated at the knee. I can’t see what’s left of his right leg, if anything. This man is a civilian and his workplace was bombed. “It is real life,” he says, as if that’s an explanation. He will receive prosthetics, he tells me, and he will walk again. By winter, I ask? Maybe sooner, maybe by autumn, he says with a smile. 

As we leave, I shake hands with a Ukrainian soldier lying in bed, his swollen fingers wrapped in bandages. “Does New Zealand support Ukraine?” he asks. I am caught off guard. I look at the soldier, at the metal pins, screws, and bolts holding his left arm in place. “Yes,” I say. A lump settles in my throat. “Of course, of course.”

Some New Zealanders are surprised to hear the war is still going on, and question its relevance to New Zealand. “I read the comments,” says soldier O’Brien. “People say it’s not our war, what are we doing over there?” He sounds exasperated. “I didn’t come here for you, I came here because it’s the right thing to do.”

New Zealand’s stance toward the Russian invasion has hardened over time, says professor Robert Patman, an international relations expert. But government contributions to Ukraine remain relatively modest, at approximately $100 million. “That sounds reasonable, but it pales in significance with what Australia and Canada have done,” says Patman. Australia has contributed more than $1 billion and Canada $12 billion. 

Our defence force has also been tasked with providing equipment and weapons, and training Ukrainian recruits on British soil. But Patman would like to see more done. Ukraine is in a desperate situation, he says. New Zealand has been slow to grasp the potential impact of Russia’s illegal invasion. “If Putin gets away with this, if he succeeds, it’s going to have global ramifications,” he says, “and they’re not going to be pretty for a country which depends on the rule of law globally, like New Zealand.” 

New Zealanders fighting in Ukraine are not mercenaries. They’re not in it for the money: their earnings are on par with Ukrainian soldiers, from approximately NZD $800 per month behind the frontline, up to NZD $7,800 per month for combat deployment. And they are well aware New Zealand doesn’t have their back – not officially. If something happens, there is no consular support to rely on, nor do the soldiers expect it. 

There is, however, Ron Mark, the former minister of defence and current mayor of Carterton. Mark, who has visited Ukraine twice in the last couple of years, answers the calls of New Zealanders in the early hours of the morning, offering pastoral care and practical support. “It’s humbling that they open up to me and talk to me,” says Mark, who himself served in a foreign military: the Oman Armed Forces in the 1980s. 

Mark wants people to know that Kiwi soldiers are “doing good” in Ukraine, that they are well respected, and have a disproportionate impact on the battlefield. “They spend a lot of time training other foreign fighters, many of whom have never served or had any experience of war at all,” Mark says. 

Many former New Zealand soldiers come to Ukraine initially, at least in part, to test their skills on the battlefield. But over time, after serving alongside Ukrainians and seeing atrocities committed against civilians, their connection to the country deepens, as does their sense of duty. “It pains me,” says Mark, his voice falling quiet. “I’ve said to a number of them, ‘You keep [fighting in this war], you know what the outcome is gonna be,’ and so often they say, ‘I just can’t leave my mates.’”

Sunflowers and a mural in Kyiv. (Photo: Tasha Black)

Soldier Tim and I head to McDonalds in central Kyiv for fries and an ice cream sundae. It’s 10pm and the streets are still humming with people. Tim has spent an entire day circling back to politics, discussing the nuances of history and war. And then he says: “But what do I know? I’m just an idiot with a rifle.” It’s a flippant comment, but it bothers me. Tim strikes me as polite, thoughtful, and informed, even if he doesn’t see himself that way. Not the trigger-happy person I’d assumed him to be.

Back in western Ukraine, at Lychakiv Cemetery, Ukraine is burying its war dead daily. Fresh dirt piles up. Ukrainian flags, blue and yellow, flutter in the breeze. A young woman sits by a grave while her children play nearby, too young to understand. US officials estimate close to 70,000 Ukrainian soldiers have been killed since February 2022. 

In Lviv city, at first glance, war is not apparent. But when I look closer, I see men in uniform, men on crutches, army recruitment posters, and generators humming through power cuts. Air raid sirens are part of life in Ukraine now. Most people don’t bother going to shelters, but the sirens interrupt sleep, a creeping reminder that Putin’s war hovers incessantly.

And yet still, in the evening, women in summer dresses stroll by, eating gelato. I watch as children splash each other in a fountain, giggling. A brass band plays and a young couple dances; the man spins his partner, her dress twirling as she laughs. War does not – it can not – consume people all the time. There needs to be space for laughter and love, for dancing and dessert.

Tim says that some soldiers get frustrated by people going about their everyday lives in the cities. “But isn’t that what you’re fighting for?” he says. “A sense of normality?”

I ask him what the endgame is, how long will he stay? “I don’t know. If I had a magic eight ball…” he trails off. “I do think about how I’m going to integrate with [New Zealand] society. It’s going to be an interesting conversation with a therapist,” he says, half joking. 

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I wonder what comes next for these guys. Their identity is now intertwined with their fight for Ukraine. I wonder if they can untangle from that. If they can manage the cognitive dissonance involved in switching from heightened vigilance, shelling, sirens and “holy shit” moments to a return to New Zealand, where suburban streets are quiet by 7pm. War is exciting. War provides a sense of purpose, a reason for being, so pronounced and so worthy. How do you come back from that? 

Maybe you don’t. Crazy Cap-a-lan Owen Pomana is fundraising for a bullet-proof van for civilian evacuations. Soldier Tim, who survives off little sleep, is preparing for yet another tasking out to the front. And soldier O’Brien has no plans to return to Aotearoa. “I’m here until whatever end,” he says. “There’s no way I am leaving this country.” 

All of this worries former defence minister Ron Mark. He knows the odds for the soldiers are not good. Three New Zealanders have died in Ukraine since the start of the full-scale war: humanitarian Andrew Bagshaw and soldiers Dominic Abelen and Kane Te Tai. 

The war grinds away. Hospital beds keep filling up. 

I think back to O’Brien sitting under the trees in enemy territory. Exhausted, catching a moment of peace. I’ve been messaging him while he’s in Kursk. Sometimes days pass before he replies and I wonder, is he OK? Then he sends a message: he’s OK, back in Ukraine, eating a kebab. He’ll have a shower and a sleep. And then he’ll do it all over again.