Flight Ninety-Five: The Last Mission of Hero of Ukraine Vadym Blahovisnyi

Fighter pilot Vadym Blahovisnyi was killed one week before his 27th birthday while carrying out a combat mission on a Su-25. How those closest to him remember him

Since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, 26-year-old fighter pilot Vadym Blahovisnyi destroyed more than 100 enemy armored vehicles, over 80 transport vehicles, around 40 fuel tankers, and approximately 800 enemy personnel. His 95th combat sortie became his last.

Vadym was killed on September 7, 2022, one week before his 27th birthday, while carrying out a combat mission in a Su-25 over the Mykolaiv region.

His goddaughter’s godmother, Tetiana Serediuk, who herself lost her husband in the war, recalled the man who baptized her daughter:

“Vadym was one of the brightest, most wonderful, kindest, and bravest people in my life. Everyone probably remembers him as a little sun, because he was always smiling.”

A Childhood Dream: Aircraft

According to his mother, Larysa Blahovisna, from his earliest years her son lived with the feeling that his heart was always looking upward. It was as if the sky lived inside him—not as an idea, but as a state in which he breathed.

“My son dreamed of airplanes. He loved them deeply. He built model planes, glued them together, collected them. There were no pilots in our family. None at all. But he was drawn to aviation. He studied aircraft, followed what was happening in the Air Force. He was still very small, yet already reaching toward that ‘higher’ world. He wanted to be a pilot—and his dream came true,” his mother shared.

The sky became the first landscape that held Vadym’s gaze—and the first direction his heart reached toward.

“He was always staring at the sky. He would say, ‘Just look at those clouds, how beautiful it is up there…’ And he could stand for a long time, simply watching, as if searching for something where others saw nothing,” his mother recalls.

Vadym grew up a well-mannered child—attentive to those around him, open to guidance. He had a natural gift for learning: he memorized easily, understood deeply, and reflected quietly. He did not compete; he simply did his work, with dignity. His diligence was never loud, but it was always noticeable to those who paid attention.

“It’s still such a painful subject for me… He was the kind of child who… I sometimes wish he had been a little disobedient. He was so kind—too kind. My husband and I sometimes sit together and say: ‘If only he had hurt us somehow, maybe it would be easier to survive his loss…’ But he grew up perfectly. Never any problems. Never once were we called to school. No issues—neither with his studies nor with his behavior. He loved reading. Truly loved it. He loved mathematics—absolutely adored it. And it loved him back. It suited him so well; it matched his character. Mathematics brought him joy. His teacher, Liudmyla Hryhorivna, always said that he seemed to be made for learning,” his mother says through tears.

“He Wanted to Be the One Who Hears the Sky”

When the time came to choose his path after the ninth grade, Vadym stated firmly that he would enroll in an aviation lyceum. His parents supported their son’s choice.

“We supported him. Although, as a mother, I was afraid. It’s height, it’s air… I watched how he was preparing himself, how his eyes lit up—and everything inside me grew quiet. I asked him: ‘My son, what is it that holds you there? Just the air?’ And he looked at me so sincerely, as if he wanted to give me a piece of his heart. He said something I will never forget, ‘Mom, you can’t imagine how much I want to feel flight—to feel what it’s like when you fly like a bird… When you no longer have a body, no fear—there is only you, the sky, and freedom.’

And I fell silent. Because I understood—he was already there, in the sky. Flying not with wings, but with his spirit,” his mother recalls.

Those words—their tremor, power—still sound today like a dedication. A dedication to a dream that was not romanticism, but direction. Vadym did not simply want to fly. He wanted to be the one who hears the sky. And he became that person.

At the lyceum, teachers were equally struck by the young man’s upbringing and his academic abilities.

“I came to a parents’ meeting, and they told me: ‘Mom, you really didn’t need to come. If all students were like Vadym, we wouldn’t have to hold parents’ meetings at all.’ The same was true later during his studies in Kharkiv: not a single bad word about him, not a single bad deed from him. He was a child by age, but an adult on the inside. Thoughtful. He spoke about serious things, but without any pomp,” his mother shared.

Physical education was among his favorite subjects. He also loved dancing. Vadym studied at a school of arts, and he was genuinely good at it. He moved with rhythm, had excellent plasticity. Yet he never even considered making dance his profession in adult life. Despite everything, he persistently dreamed of flight, of aircraft, of uncharted heights—and step by step, he moved closer to that dream.

“Everything on Earth Looks Different from the Sky”

Then came the Kharkiv National Air Force University. Studies. Training. As a cadet, he waited for his first solo flight. And when it finally happened, the call home felt like a celebration.

“He was so happy. He told me everything—how he sat in the cockpit, what he felt, how he saw the earth from above. ‘Mom, you can’t imagine how beautiful it is. How the fog drifts. How everything on earth looks different from the sky.’ I listened to him and thought: yes, he is exactly where he has always wanted to be,” his mother recalls.

Larysa often traveled to Mykolaiv, where Vadym was assigned after graduation. And she did not come only to see him—she came to his life, his circle, his air. There, in the apartment he rented, she saw not just her son, but an entire world that lived and breathed alongside him. His home was located not far from the airfield. And when flight operations began, she would watch the iron birds in the sky, savoring every moment as pairs of aircraft once again lifted into the air.

“I loved watching him fly so much. I would tell him, ‘Son, I stood there and watched.’ And he would answer, ‘Mom, I was flying up there.’ There was such joy in it. He dreamed of flying. He worked persistently. And he achieved it. All on his own. And there it was—in the sky. His dream. His uniform. His takeoff,” his mother shared.

She knew her son’s classmates. She knew his brothers-in-arms—those who flew with him and those who studied beside him. All of them were like children to her. All of them her close others.

“They were such boys… his classmates. They were all friends. They studied together. You know—such golden children. You simply couldn’t help but love them. I knew each of them personally. They were my children. By age—just like my own. Now I look back, and it hurts so much. Because so many of them are already gone. And I grieve for each one. Because I didn’t just know them—I loved them. They were beside Vadym. And that means they were beside me as well,” his mother says.

He Brought the Silence of War with Him

Back then, in the quiet comfort of Mykolaiv, Larysa Blahovisna could never have imagined that one day her children—the ones she had raised in the embrace of maternal love—would choose a path beyond the horizon. Those who mastered metal and tamed the elements, becoming the elite of the sky, would one day remain there forever. Where blue turns into eternity, and flight becomes endless.

It was 2022—the first year of a great war and an exhausting struggle against the rashist invasion. Vadym Blahovisnyi, like his winged brothers-in-arms, lifted his frontline Su-25 into the air again and again to carry out yet another combat mission. His mother prayed, because she knew: a mother’s prayer is the strongest talisman. And she waited for the moment when she could hold her son in her arms once more.

He came home at Easter. Quietly. Unexpectedly. Already different.

“I remember when Vadym came back. It was the first time they let him come home. We were under occupation in the Chernihiv region, so no one even hoped he would appear. And then—no call, no warning—he walked into the yard. I looked at him and my heart just dropped: so thin, so aged… I said, ‘My son, how could this be?’ And he answered, ‘Mom, it’s war. What can you do?’” the woman recalls.

He came as if not alone—he brought the entire silence of war with him. His eyes had grown deeper, his voice quieter, his face sharper, like a stretched shadow. His mother did not touch the words, but everything was written on him. No questions were needed. No explanations.

“He came once more—in July. And after that… he didn’t come again. Because he was killed. It all happened in September,” his mother recalls. “Between those two visits, in that short span of time, I looked at him and understood: he had been through something that cannot be put into words. All the experiences, the loss of his brothers-in-arms—everything was reflected on his face. When a person lives through something like that, no words are needed. Everything is already visible.”

And even when he was silent—simply sitting and listening—there was something profound emanating from him. Broken, and yet unbreakable at the same time.

“Vadym kept telling me: ‘The main thing, Mom, is to survive.’ And I would tell him, ‘My son, you will survive. Everything will be fine.’ And he would only answer, ‘Oh, Mom… who knows…’ It was very hard for him. Very hard.”

Those words—“very hard”—were not about exhaustion. They were about scale. About the fact that war leaves no one the same as before. The son who stood in the yard that Easter day was already different. He had not simply changed—he had crossed a boundary.

He Prayed for a Long Time Before His Final Flight

The final flight. The final combat mission. His mother did not know it would be fatal—but he sensed it. Later, a fellow pilot told Larysa Blahovisna:

“Before heading out, Vadym lingered for a few minutes. He stood apart. He was praying.”

“He never liked the word last. He would always correct me: ‘Mom, not the last—the extreme one.’ And now I say last… But back then he still believed. He stood off to the side and prayed. That didn’t need explaining. The soul knows on its own,” his mother recalls.

September 6, 2022. The morning of that terrible day began for Larysa with an inexplicable anxiety.

“I woke up as if I wasn’t in my own body. I walked around the house, tried to do something—and everything slipped from my hands. I felt lost: I would go to do something and forget what; pick something up and not remember why. As if my body already knew—but I didn’t yet,” she recalls.

At eleven in the morning, Vadym texted her that he had transferred money to her card. She asked:

“Son, why?”

He replied briefly:

“Let it stay with you, Mom.”

And in that moment, everything inside her turned over.

And when the call came… words became unnecessary. Silence arrived.

“It was terrifying. Losing a child—there are no words for that. I felt as if I could no longer hear myself—neither my soul nor my voice. My husband felt the same, though he remained silent until the very end. Later he admitted: ‘There was something so heavy on my heart that day…’ We didn’t know exactly what—but we felt that tragedy was approaching.”

“Hello, Family!” The Last Walk with Vadym, His Last ‘Goodbye’

Now the sky over the Chernihiv region is no longer just space for Larysa Blahovisna. It is her son’s home. The place he went to, assigned by eternity, leaving on earth only the quiet whisper of memory and an unceasing mother’s prayer.

“I miss him so much. Especially in the evenings. A time comes—and my heart waits. But he doesn’t call anymore, like he used to. His signature greeting still rings in my ears: ‘Hello, family!’ Such a warm, clear voice. And then he would say: ‘Goodbye. Take care of yourselves.’ Briefly. But in those words—an entire life,” Larysa Blahovisna recalls.

During that final leave, they spent a long time walking together through their native Chernihiv region. They spoke about many things, yet in every word there was already an unearthly depth.

“We walked together for a couple of hours. I said: ‘Son, you’ve already done so much… Maybe you should rest a bit? The boys are dying…’ I could see how worried he was—it showed in everything. And he answered me with such certainty, ‘Mom, didn’t everyone want to live? All my boys—every one of them wanted to live. I’m not alone. How can I sit and do nothing? Who will do my job?’”

That evening stayed with her not only because of the words—but because of the silence. That moment when they simply walked side by side, and the sky above them seemed endless.

“He wasn’t talkative. I knew: if he was silent, it meant he was thinking. And so we walked—him and me, side by side. And the sky was so deep. And I thought then: he is already there. Even while standing on the ground—he was already in the sky.”

Vadym Blahovisnyi served in the Mykolaiv, Chernihiv, Kherson, Luhansk, Donetsk, and Kharkiv regions.

On September 7, 2022, the pilot carried out his 95th combat sortie—over the Mykolaiv region. That mission became his last. Vadym was killed one week before his 27th birthday.

By Presidential Decree No. 412 of July 8, 2023, Vadym Blahovisnyi was awarded the title Hero of Ukraine (posthumously). One of the streets of Mykolaiv, the city he defended at the cost of his own life, now bears his name.

When evening falls over the forests of Chernihiv and dusk settles over the village, Larysa Blahovisna steps out onto the porch. She does not wait for a phone call. She simply listens to the sky.

Because she knows: there, in eternal flight, her child has finally found peace. And here, on earth, his endless battle continues—in the hearts of those who remember.

Svitlana Borysova, exclusive for Ukrinform

Photos courtesy of Larysa Blahovisna