Joel Stremski

I dedicated my book to Joel Stremski - who was he?

Death wasn’t new to me when Joel died.
I had been to combat. I had lost friends. Some never came home. Others made it back only to take their own lives. But before Chosen Company, I had never been part of a unit where the losses came that quickly, that personally.

The first death I witnessed there was a fighter known as “Swede.” He died shortly after I arrived. But just a week later, my friend—Joel Stremski—was killed.

You’d think someone like me, who’s been surrounded by death—whose mother took her own life, whose father died of cancer—might be immune to grief. Or at least, that it wouldn’t shock me so deeply in a place where death is built into every equation. But Joel’s death broke something loose.

I wish I weren’t qualified to write about loss. I wish I could make light content. Dance on TikTok. Talk about street food or narco adventures. But to do that now would feel like a betrayal—of memory, of pain, of truth. I’ve lost parents, friends, colleagues. And sometimes I feel like the only honest thing I can offer the world is grief, packaged in story.

I didn’t know Joel before the war, and he didn’t know me. We met in Ternopil and went through in-processing together. We traveled to the front together. We separated when he took a mission I turned down. The last thing he ever did for me was wire me $600. I didn’t ask. I was asleep when he sent it—just wanted me to have some pocket money for my next move. When I woke up, the money was there. He was already gone.

Who was Joel Benjamin Stremski?
He was 21 years old. From Melbourne, Australia. From what I gathered, he came from a stable family—two parents, a sister. He served in the infantry of the Australian Defence Force but had a rough time there. He was discharged, apparently for reasons that were later overturned as invalid. By the time they tried to bring him back, he was already set on Ukraine.

Like me, he’d come across Chosen Company’s social media. The recruiter greenlit him quickly. He made his first trip to Europe and landed in Poland, then bussed into Ukraine.

We met in a restaurant in Ternopil—him, me, and another colleague you might know: Samberg. Joel and I clicked instantly. We shared the same obsessions—motorcycles, fitness, combat sports, good food. He respected my experience; I respected his hunger. He was 15 years younger than me, but we were equals out there.

You learn everything about someone when you travel with them nonstop for a week. Most friendships collapse under that kind of pressure. Ours didn’t. There was no friction. We had a pact: look out for each other. Try to survive.

He was a huge help in guiding me, someone with more experience, how to put my kit together in a better way than I had been doing it. His insights and knowledge about soldiering was exceptional, I learned a lot from him. He would of made an excellent leader and mentor to other soldiers.

For the two weeks I knew him, Joel made everything lighter. He brought humor into the gravity. He talked about what we’d do after the war—train in Thailand, eat well, recover. But first, he wanted to see combat. He wanted to prove himself as an infantryman.

And he did.

According to a Greek soldier named “Zeus,” Joel died holding the line so others could retreat. He was last seen in a trench, throwing grenades at Russian troops pouring from BMPs. Reports say he threw more than twenty. He was overrun and killed when the trench was bombed. His body was never recovered. Somewhere in Pervomaisk, Ukraine—now under Russian occupation—he remains.

I feel for his family. They never got to say goodbye. And if you’re reading this—I will advocate with the Russian government at any point to help recover his remains. I believe it’s possible. Battlefield excavations happen in every war, even years later. There’s no reason it can’t happen here too.

Joel’s death shook me in ways I wasn’t prepared for. One day he was there—laughing, planning, helping me get out. And the next, gone. I remember wandering around the base afterward, convinced he might still show up. Maybe he’d been wounded. Maybe he got turned around. I was in denial. Hysterical. Looking back, it’s more proof I wasn’t in the right headspace to be fighting.

Joel, you helped get me out of the war when no one else did. You didn’t owe me anything, but you gave anyway.

I hope this book clarifies everything. I hope somewhere, you’re reading it and laughing at the lore I’ve created around myself.

Until then, brother.

RIP, Joel Benjamin Stremski
October 13, 2023