In a stunning diplomatic maneuver that could redefine European defense politics, Andriy Melnyk, Ukraine’s permanent representative to the United Nations and former ambassador to Germany, has called for an unprecedented transfer of military hardware from Germany to Ukraine. His request: that Germany hand over 30 percent of its military aviation and ground equipment, including its most advanced fighter jets, tanks, helicopters, and long-range cruise missiles.
The timing is no accident. As Germany prepares for a change in leadership on May 6, 2025, with Christian Democratic Union (CDU) leader Friedrich Merz set to become chancellor at the helm of a CDU/Christian Social Union (CSU)/Social Democratic Party (SPD) coalition, Melnyk’s request lands like a gauntlet thrown at the feet of Europe’s most powerful economy—and its most reluctant military power.
Melnyk’s appeal includes 45 Eurofighter Typhoons, 30 Tornado jets, 25 NH90 transport helicopters, 15 Eurocopter Tiger attack helicopters, 100 Leopard 2 tanks, 115 Puma infantry fighting vehicles, 130 Marder armored personnel carriers, 130 GTK Boxer armored vehicles, 300 Fuchs transport vehicles, 20 MARS-II multiple launch rocket systems, and 150 Taurus cruise missiles. More striking than the hardware is the financial ask: Germany should commit 0.5 percent of its GDP—roughly €86 billion ($97.8 billion) by 2029—to Ukraine’s military.
It’s a radical proposal, one that risks fracturing the delicate political balance within Germany’s new coalition and could have sweeping consequences for NATO, the European Union, and the war in Ukraine.
To call the request “bold” would be an understatement. The scale of the ask far exceeds anything previously contemplated by Western nations in their military support for Ukraine. It is not a polite diplomatic note—it’s a dare.
Melnyk is no stranger to controversy. Known for his aggressive style and blunt language, he’s earned both praise and criticism in European capitals for his unapologetic defense of Ukrainian interests. In 2022, he famously insulted then-Chancellor Olaf Scholz as an “offended liver sausage” for dragging his feet on military aid. Now, in 2025, he’s once again pushing Germany to confront its ambivalence.
At stake is not just Ukraine’s battlefield prospects but Germany’s identity as a geopolitical actor. For decades, Berlin has prioritized economic power over military might, shaped by post-WWII pacifism and a deeply rooted fear of escalation. But Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine cracked that paradigm, forcing even reluctant leaders like Scholz to authorize aid and rearmament.
Still, Germany’s approach has remained cautious. Scholz repeatedly blocked the delivery of Taurus missiles, citing fears of escalation. Merz, by contrast, has hinted at a more assertive approach—though even he has not publicly entertained anything close to the scale Melnyk proposes.
At the heart of Melnyk’s request is the Eurofighter Typhoon. Developed by a European consortium, it’s one of the most advanced multirole fighter jets in the world, boasting a top speed of Mach 2, stealth capabilities, and a cutting-edge radar system. Germany currently operates 138 Eurofighters. Transferring 45—nearly a third of the fleet—would be a seismic shift.
But even if Germany agreed, the practicalities are daunting. Ukraine’s air force is trained on Soviet-era aircraft. Transitioning to Western systems, especially one as complex as the Eurofighter, would require years of pilot training, new maintenance infrastructure, and integration of NATO-compatible command systems.
Poland’s post-Cold War experience with the F-16 offers a cautionary tale: it took over a decade to fully operationalize the platform. For Ukraine, fighting a war in real time, time is a luxury it doesn’t have.
Critics argue that the transfer, while symbolically powerful, could prove operationally useless in the short term. Others counter that the move would force a necessary acceleration of Ukraine’s integration into NATO defense frameworks—and could provide a long-term deterrent to Russian aggression.
Melnyk’s proposal is not limited to the skies. He is asking for a sweeping cut of Germany’s ground force inventory, including 100 Leopard 2 tanks, widely considered among the most capable in the world. These tanks have proven vital on the battlefield, but they are also costly and complex, requiring significant maintenance and trained operators.
The 150 Taurus cruise missiles may be the most contentious element. With a range of 310 miles and capable of precision strikes deep into enemy territory, they represent a quantum leap in Ukraine’s ability to hit Russian supply depots, command centers, and logistics hubs far from the front lines. Scholz’s refusal to send them became a national flashpoint, reflecting fears that their use could provoke a direct Russian response.
Friedrich Merz has taken a different tone, indicating support for a coordinated European decision to supply the missiles. During a visit to Kyiv in late 2024, he emphasized Ukraine’s right to strike legitimate military targets inside Russia. But supporting Taurus deliveries is one thing—greenlighting 150 along with massive armored assets is another.
Melnyk’s timing couldn’t be more strategic—or more precarious for Berlin.
The newly formed CDU/CSU-SPD coalition is still settling into power after February’s snap election. Merz, who leads the center-right CDU, has vowed to increase defense spending and support Ukraine. But the SPD, led by Lars Klingbeil, remains deeply cautious. Defense Minister Boris Pistorius, one of Ukraine’s most vocal backers, is an outlier in a party still scarred by the specter of escalation.
While Merz holds the chancellorship, his ability to push through such a sweeping aid package will depend on fragile consensus. The SPD’s left wing is particularly resistant, as are growing factions within the CDU concerned about domestic priorities.
Melnyk’s maximalist demand may be designed to test this coalition early—forcing Merz to either lead boldly or reveal the internal contradictions of his government.
The economic implications are staggering. Allocating 0.5 percent of GDP to Ukraine annually would amount to €22 billion a year—more than five times the €4 billion currently allocated for 2025. Germany’s already strained budget, shaped by inflation concerns and domestic infrastructure needs, makes such a commitment politically toxic.
Merz has proposed a €500 billion modernization fund for Germany’s own defense and infrastructure, partly by softening the country’s constitutional debt brake. But even within his own party, support for funneling a large share of that money abroad is uncertain.
Polling reflects this tension. A January 2025 Deutsche Welle survey showed a majority of Germans supportive of aid to Ukraine in principle, but opposed to anything that might weaken Germany’s own military or economy. “The opinion has become entrenched among the population that arms deliveries fuel war,” said CSU deputy Thomas Erndl, “while stopping deliveries slows it down.”
This disconnect between elite rhetoric and public opinion could haunt Merz if he pushes ahead without consensus.
Melnyk’s proposal does not exist in a vacuum. The geopolitical backdrop is shifting—and fast.
In the United States, President Donald Trump has adopted a more transactional approach to Ukraine, reducing aid and pushing Kyiv toward direct negotiations with Moscow. His envoy, Steve Witkoff, met with Vladimir Putin in April, signaling a pivot from confrontation to cautious engagement.
With the U.S. stepping back, the pressure on Europe—especially Germany—to step up is immense. If Berlin were to act on even a portion of Melnyk’s request, it could trigger a domino effect among NATO allies. France and the U.K., both already supplying long-range missiles, have long urged Berlin to take a leadership role.
But the Kremlin has warned that such a move would be interpreted as an escalation. Russia has drawn “red lines” before, but the delivery of cruise missiles or frontline armor in this volume would likely provoke a response—not necessarily military, but possibly cyberattacks, energy disruption, or hybrid threats.
China is also watching closely. How NATO responds to Ukraine’s needs—and whether Germany emerges as a credible security actor—will shape Beijing’s calculus on Taiwan and the Indo-Pacific.
On the ground in Ukraine, the need is urgent. Russian forces, bolstered by Iranian drones and North Korean artillery, continue to hammer Ukrainian positions. Without long-range strike capabilities, Ukraine struggles to hit Russian supply lines and air bases, a key factor in Moscow’s continued ability to launch devastating attacks.
In a February interview, a Ukrainian officer told the Kyiv Independent, “Every day we wait, we lose ground. Taurus could hit their supply lines, but we’re still begging.”
It’s this desperation that fuels Melnyk’s gambit. His request, unlikely as it is to be met in full, creates leverage. If Germany says no to 30 percent of its military assets, perhaps it will say yes to 5 percent—or to Taurus missiles and more Leopard tanks.
By demanding the impossible, Melnyk reframes the conversation. Anything short of outright rejection becomes a concession. And in the optics war of international diplomacy, perception is often as powerful as policy.
Friedrich Merz faces a defining moment. As a new chancellor, he has the chance to reset Germany’s image—not just as Europe’s banker, but as its defender. But to do so, he must overcome coalition divisions, budgetary limits, and public wariness.
Melnyk’s request is less a practical proposal than a challenge to Germany’s political imagination. Can Berlin think beyond caution? Can it lead, not follow? Can it defend not only Ukraine’s borders but its own principles?
The answer will shape more than just the next phase of the war in Ukraine. It may determine the future of NATO, the credibility of the European Union, and the contours of a world where security is no longer a given.
Whether Merz answers the call—or dodges it—Germany stands at a crossroads. And this time, the world is watching.
