Diaries from Ukraine: My friend Bryan

Editor's note: The writer is a Sandusky man who has volunteered in Ukraine's International Legion in the fight against Russia's invasion. He has written several articles for the newspaper detailing what he saw and did during the war. He's returning to Ukraine soon with medical supplies to assist the humanitarian aid efforts. This article details the writer's relationship with an armed Ukraine volunteer, American Bryan Young, who was killed in action on July 18, 2022. Let's get this out of the way first: My friend Bryan Young was not a saint. He wasn't a jolly, affable guy if you didn't know him. He was abrupt, grumpy and impatient. He liked to drink and talk too loud. He had an unusual peculiarity that allowed him to seemingly be annoyed at nothing in particular yet everything all at once. He could be a cold, methodical soldier one minute and keep a kitten warm under his jacket the next. He had his share of demons and regrets of decisions he made in his past, but he did his best every day attempting to make them right. This is the story of a man who made choices — choices that allowed him to both live and die free. This is the story of one American. This is the story of my friend. I met Bryan in Kyiv. We both were joining a war that concerned neither of us. The first time I met him, we were in a park in the middle of the city, waiting to be joined by our new comrades, men and women from around the world who answered a call from President Zelenskyy inviting them to come and help repel the invading Russian Army. There, among mostly young, fresh-faced youth, stood a burly middle-aged guy with a beard and a scowl. I figured we would have a lot in common, and I introduced myself. It wasn't long before I had been briefed on everything that was wrong with the world, including his impatience to get to the front and meet the enemy. My first impression was not a good one. After days of living together in a safe house, I began to understand him more. He had a fascinating story: a staff sergeant in the Cold War American Army who was forced to retire from service due to an injury. A man who reminisced fondly about being a part of a unit and felt cheated that it had been taken away from him. I could tell he came here looking for something he hadn't found elsewhere. He was looking for something many of us understand: belonging. Through late-night talks and many bottles of beverages, we bonded as old soldiers reliving glory days and men proud of the decision we made to join this war and hopeful for the redemption we hoped it would bring us. We had very long nights during the first part of the war. Martial law was declared, and an 8 p.m. curfew was imposed. The penalty for ignoring the orders was the very real possibility of being shot. During these times, I learned that he was mostly estranged from his daughters and parents. The details of the reasons why are not mine to tell, and I only mention this because it seemed to lay heavy on his heart. He told me many times how much he loved his daughters and wished the situation had been different. He told of his attempt to ride a bicycle around the world and how, in the nation of Georgia, he met a Belarussian pediatrician, fell in love and got married, hoping for a second chance. Again, however, he was disappointed by life, and they divorced. As I listened to their late-night phone calls and read his texts to her, it was obvious there was no chance of reconciliation. As the war continued, her support of Putin and his war intensified as did Bryan's resolve to fight. During this time, I saw a softer side of my friend. He fed and attended to every feline in the area and had the scratches to prove it. I learned not to roughhouse with him as he normally had either a cat or a bottle under his jacket, neither enjoying a quick jostle. He complained about everyone and everything, yet when we were nearing the end of our time in Kyiv, we created one of my best memories of that time. Knowing that a young guy in our group had never eaten a steak before, Bryan and I took him out to the only steakhouse in the country still operating. There, among the well-heeled journalists and politicians, sat three rough, dirty and ill-dressed guys. We ordered the best steaks in the house: 45-day dry-aged ribeyes. I know that the staff had doubts that we would be able to pay. That night, a week before the last time we would see each other again, we gorged like the starving soldiers we were. The bill was over $400, and Bryan and I split it. I jokingly made our other friend agree to wash my dishes for a week to pay his share. Bryan didn't ask for anything in return. He was the kind of friend a friend wants to have. We went our separate ways, into different units and missions, and I lost touch with Bryan until one day I had a link in my email. Bryan had been killed in action. My heart sank into my stomach, and an expletive left my mouth louder than I anticipated. My friend was dead. The story was that Bryan's unit had been sent to reinforce another unit moving forward through the battlefield and a soldier was shot. An American medic, Luke Lucyszyn, also known as "Luke Skywalker," ran to help the fallen man and was himself severely wounded by Russian artillery. Thinking there was a chance to save his comrades, Bryan and two other soldiers attempted to recover the injured men. Upon reaching the fallen American, a Russian tank, already zeroed in on the position and opened fire, killing them all instantly. My friend died. He died in the mud. He died a hero, but he still died. There is no glory in battle when you have seen its gruesome cost, but there is honor in dying for a purpose. And his purpose was a noble, almost biblical one: "Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends…" (John 15:13). Since he fell, I have seen his death and the aftermath twisted and propagandized by people who were close to him. People with something to gain from every story that portrays him, and themselves, as a victim. It is unfortunate that the words written about him cast his memory in this light. Bryan went to Ukraine to do good. He knew what he was doing and he knew the possible consequences. Yet he fought. He chose to fight as a free man, with free will. His story is not a tragedy. He was loved, and he is mourned. He was not a victim: He was a soldier. He was a father. He was a son. He was my friend. Coming Monday: A shipping container of supplies — from Sandusky to Ukraine. Read in Monday's Register or on sanduskyregister.com. Read more stories in the Diaries from Ukraine series below: