Australia 1997: A Dream Made Real

A Summer That Still Feels Like a Dream

The whole experience still feels like a dream, one I sometimes have trouble believing actually happened. I was only 20, and at that time, Australia—with its vast outback, exotic wildlife, and the mystical traditions of its Aboriginal people—fascinated me endlessly. I wanted to explore it all, but I didn’t have the money to do so. That’s when I came up with the idea of moving there for the summer to work and finance my travels.

Securing the Impossible Visa

During the summer of my junior year at the University of Minnesota Duluth—about as far from Australia as one could imagine—I somehow managed to secure a work visa. In 1997, it was notoriously difficult for Americans to work in Australia; only about a hundred visas were issued to U.S. citizens each year.

It took months of research, endless paperwork, and even letters of recommendation from my professors, but eventually I got the approval. The visa allowed me to live and work in Australia for up to a year, though at that point I could barely imagine what even a few months would bring.

Setting Off for the Unknown

After working odd jobs back home to save enough for airfare, I set off with little more than a few hundred dollars, a backpack, and a tent. I chose to fly into Cairns in Northern Queensland, drawn by two things that had always captured my imagination: the rainforest and the Great Barrier Reef.

I had no contacts waiting for me, no plan for my arrival. My strategy was simple—land in Cairns and figure it out as I went. I was young, carefree, and the world felt like it was full of possibilities.

Settling in Cairns

In Cairns, I rented a room in a quiet suburban house owned by an Aussie woman whose husband was away working on a commercial prawn boat. It wasn’t glamorous, but it gave me a base while I searched for work. Despite my best efforts, jobs were scarce. Even McDonald’s turned me down.

A Fortunate Connection

During this time, I met Oliver, an attorney who represented Aboriginal communities in land disputes and environmental issues. He quickly became both a friend and a mentor, helping me with my job search while also introducing me to the region. With him, I explored the Outback and the Atherton Tablelands, gaining a deeper appreciation for the land and its people.

One of the more unexpected highlights was joining a cricket game with a group of locals dressed in 1800s-era pioneer clothing. It was quirky, lighthearted, and memorable—the kind of random experience that makes traveling so unpredictable.

An Unexpected Opportunity

Then, out of the blue, Oliver told me about a friend of his in the movie casting business. They were looking for extras and agreed to meet me in Port Douglas, about 100 miles north of Cairns. Oliver drove me up himself, and I sat for a short interview and posed for some photos—including a few awkward shots with my shirt off. To my surprise, I was told I had been cast in a movie. I wouldn’t realize until later just how big it was: The Thin Red Line, a Hollywood blockbuster.

The Waiting Game

The casting office explained that I would receive a phone call when it was time to report to set. The problem was, no one knew when that would be. So, after a short while back in Cairns, I decided to relocate to Port Douglas to wait it out.

On the way there, traveling by bus, I had another one of those chance encounters that made Australia feel so welcoming. When I stepped off the bus in the evening, the driver seemed to sense I probably didn’t have a place to stay. Without hesitation, he offered me a bed at his home for the night. I gratefully accepted, and my first night in Port Douglas was spent in the house of a kind stranger who went out of his way to make sure I wasn’t left stranded.

After that, I pitched my tent at a beach campground in town and settled in to wait. Days passed. Then weeks. Still no call.

Location of Port Douglas

Paradise in Port Douglas

I quickly realized there were far worse places to be stuck waiting than Port Douglas. The town was a laid-back tropical paradise, tucked between the lush rainforests of the Daintree and the turquoise waters of the Great Barrier Reef. With its relaxed vibe and stunning natural surroundings, it felt like I had stumbled into a dream.

Reef, Rainforest, and a 4-Mile Beach

I filled my days exploring everything Port Douglas had to offer. I snorkeled on the Great Barrier Reef, drifting through a kaleidoscope of coral and vibrant marine life. Back on shore, I walked every inch of the famous Four Mile Beach, which stretched right past my campground. It became my person

Backpacker Life

Port Douglas also had a thriving backpacker community, and I quickly became part of it. My campsite alone felt like a small United Nations. I shared space with an Irishman who loved to bust everyone’s balls with his sharp humor, a Japanese sumo wrestler who didn’t speak a word of English but communicated through grunts and gestures—often demonstrating his sumo moves for laughs—and a Croatian guy named Joe, who claimed he was a prince living in exile. Joe shared his tent with his Japanese girlfriend, who spoke very little English herself and confided that she was on the run after being forced into prostitution by the Yakuza.

These were just a few of the characters who passed through, and each added their own layer of strangeness and intrigue to life in the campground. And that’s not even counting the locals—Aussies who were every bit as colorful, eccentric, and memorable as the travelers.

Almost everyone drank obsessively, and even though we barely had any money, there was an unspoken rule: it was always someone’s turn to buy the next case of beer—or, as it was called in Australia, a slab of stubbies. More often than not, it was Victoria Bitter, the cheap, ubiquitous fuel that kept the social engine of the campground running.

From the left Da,n, me, Joe, and an Aussie guy named Mick

Losing Hope in Port Douglas

After a few weeks of waiting for the Thin Red Line casting call, I began to lose hope. Sitting around the campground day after day, uncertain if the phone would ever ring, felt futile. So, I packed up my tent and decided to set off on a new adventure, leaving Port Douglas behind.

Cape Tribulation: Where the Jungle Meets the Reef

I hitchhiked north to Cape Tribulation, a wild, untamed stretch of coast deep in the Daintree World Heritage area. Here, thick rainforest pressed right up against white sand beaches, with crocodiles lurking in the rivers and the Great Barrier Reef just offshore.

I remember walking for miles along the beach without seeing another soul, completely immersed in the solitude and raw beauty of the place. Cape Tribulation also carried historical weight—it was here that Captain Cook famously ran his ship aground, forcing him to stop for repairs before continuing his journey along Australia’s coast.

Camping for a few days in that wilderness, I soaked in the isolation, the sound of the jungle at night, and the rhythm of the waves crashing onto the beach.

Hitchhiking North to Cooktown

From Cape Tribulation, I continued farther north, hitchhiking along a rough dirt track that cut through the rainforest. A motorcyclist gave me one ride, and later a man in a jeep carried me the rest of the way to Cooktown—several hundred miles from where I had started.

Cooktown had a frontier charm that I instantly loved. It was rough and gritty, a place of Aussie cowboys, Aboriginal communities, and an atmosphere that felt closer to the outback than the coast. I could have easily stayed much longer, absorbed in its rugged character.

The Call at Last

But then the news came: the casting office in Port Douglas finally needed me. After weeks of waiting, my chance to work on the film had arrived. Reluctantly, I turned south and hitchhiked all the way back, returning to my campground in Port Douglas.

My time in the outback had been unforgettable, but now a new chapter was about to begin—one that would take me from campfires and crocodiles into the world of Hollywood filmmaking.

Cape Tribulation/Daintree Wilderness

First Day on Set

Finding the Way

On my first morning of filming, I was given simple but daunting instructions: report to the movie location by 6 a.m. The site was about 20 miles outside of Port Douglas, hidden away on a private ranch in an obscure, hard-to-reach spot.

With no car and little idea of how to get there, I set off at 5 a.m., hitchhiking along the quiet road. The uncertainty gnawed at me—would I even make it on time, or was I about to miss my first day on a Hollywood film set?

A Stroke of Luck

Fortune was on my side. A few other guys in town were also working on the movie, and as luck would have it, one of them pulled over to give me a lift. Not only did they get me there that morning, but they also offered to pick me up regularly for the rest of my time on set.

With the stress of transportation resolved, I finally felt a surge of relief. Now, I could focus on what lay ahead—the surreal experience of stepping into the world of The Thin Red Line.

Me in my movie uniform on Day 1

Arrival on Set

A World Within the Jungle

When we finally arrived at the set, it was like stepping into another world. Dozens of trailers were crammed into a dusty parking lot, large white tents sprouted up everywhere, and the place buzzed with activity. At least a hundred people were moving about—extras, makeup artists, directors, assistants—all part of the massive machine that keeps a Hollywood film rolling. The scale of the production was staggering, especially given its remote, jungle-fringed location.

Becoming a Soldier

I was ushered into the extras’ tent, where they issued me a full World War II U.S. Army uniform. Along with the standard fatigues came an M1 rifle, a water canteen, a grenade, a helmet, and a set of dog tags. To my surprise, every single extra had the same name stamped into the tags: John W. Tottle. For the rest of the shoot, that was who we were.

Once dressed, the makeup crew went to work. They smeared mud across our faces, roughed up our hair, and made sure we looked like soldiers straight out of the jungle. The finishing touch was unexpected: a quick dab of lipstick to dull our lips and keep us from looking too clean. It was a small detail, but one that made us look convincingly battered by war.

The Story We Were Part Of

As the day unfolded, I began to piece together the story being told. The film was The Thin Red Line, a retelling of the brutal World War II battle between U.S. and Japanese forces on Guadalcanal, in the Solomon Islands. It felt surreal to be part of such a powerful story, even as just an anonymous face in the background.

Ironically, though the movie depicted American soldiers, I was one of the very few actual Americans in the cast of extras. The ranks around me were filled mostly with Irish, British, Australian, and Kiwi recruits—each transformed, like me, into “John W. Tottle.”

Becoming “John W. Tottle”

The dog tags were the strangest part of our issued gear. Each one of us was given the exact same name: John W. Tottle.

It was a little surreal. A hundred men, all carrying the same identity, marching around the set as if we’d been cloned. For the rest of the production, that was who we were—faceless soldiers in a massive machine, indistinguishable from one another. It drove home the point that we weren’t there to stand out but to disappear into the background, swallowed by the scale of the war.

The other extras and I marching to a designated location.

The Drill Sergeants Arrive

The intensity of the set really kicked in when the U.S. Marine drill sergeants showed up. These guys were the real deal—retired Marines hired to whip us extras into shape and make sure we looked and acted like proper soldiers. They were tough, no-nonsense, and didn’t hesitate to bark corrections or hand out punishments.

One day, our group messed up the marching order, and the sergeants descended on us like hawks. We were cussed out, ordered into the dirt, and cranking out push-ups under the blazing Australian sun. It was humbling, but it also brought the whole experience to life, making the war scenes feel raw and authentic.

Rules of the Set

The set had strict rules: absolutely no photos. If you were caught with a camera, you’d be fired immediately, and your equipment would be confiscated. Still, I wasn’t about to spend weeks on a Hollywood blockbuster without capturing a few memories. Armed with a cheap disposable camera, I snuck a few shots here and there, always careful to keep it hidden deep in my pocket.

“Your Lucky Day”

After hours of standing around in full gear, waiting for direction, a drill sergeant suddenly marched over to me. With a grin that didn’t quite match his tone, he barked, “It’s your lucky day! You’re going to be in a kissing scene!”

My heart leapt. A kissing scene? With one of the actresses? For a moment, I thought my big break had come. But then I noticed the smirks spreading among the sergeants and crew. One problem quickly became obvious: there weren’t any women on set.

A Surreal Encounter

Escorted to a grassy field away from the rest of the extras, I waited nervously while the directors huddled, whispering about how to stage the scene. Standing beside me was a tall, quiet man I assumed was a stunt double. But after a few minutes, it dawned on me who he was: Jim Caviezel, one of the film’s lead actors—who would later go on to play Jesus in The Passion of the Christ.

It was surreal. There I was, a 20-year-old backpacker-turned-extra, standing side by side with a future movie star, about to be part of a scene I couldn’t even wrap my head around. And as bizarre as it already was, things were only going to get stranger from there.

My big scene in the movie when I died on the battlefield

My Five Seconds of Fame

The makeup crew had transformed me into a dying soldier, painting a grotesquely realistic bullet wound across my chest. Caked in fake blood, I was told to lie in the grass, resting my head on the lap of an Australian actor I didn’t even recognize at the time.

Dying in a Friend’s Arms

The director explained the setup: this man was my “best friend,” and I was to die in his arms. My role? Stay perfectly still, eyes closed, absolutely silent, while he grieved over me.

The actor threw himself into the part, sobbing, clutching at me, and begging me not to die. Then came the kicker—his farewell kiss on my forehead. The first time, it felt strange. By the fifth take, it was downright uncomfortable. By the tenth, my forehead was drenched in his saliva.

Adding to the pressure, even the great Terrence Malick himself was present, personally overseeing the scene. At the time, I didn’t know who Malick was, but it was immediately clear to me that this was his movie, and I was nothing more than an ant in his vast cinematic vision. Knowing the legendary director was watching every move made the experience even more surreal.

Awkward Takes and Too-Real Moments

At one point, the director halted the scene to scold me because my plaid Kmart-brand boxers were showing under my uniform trousers. In another take, the actor got so caught up in the emotion that he accidentally bit my forehead—his teeth scraping against my skin as he cursed at me, pleading with me to hold on. It was too real, almost jarringly so.

When the scene finally wrapped, some of the female Australian makeup artists came over and told me I was “lucky” to have been in a kissing scene with the actor, who they said was a very handsome and a big star in their country. To this day, I never did find out who he was.

A Blink-and-You-Miss-It Appearance

We must have filmed the scene a dozen times, and while it felt awkward in the moment, I had no idea it would actually make the cut. In the final film, the scene is reduced to a fleeting five seconds—my one and only appearance in The Thin Red Line. Blink and you’ll miss it, but for me, it’s unforgettable. A bizarre, uncomfortable, and strangely proud memory of my very short Hollywood career.

More set photos

Life as an Extra After “Death”

Even though my character technically died on the very first day, my time on The Thin Red Line stretched across several weeks. For a backpacker living on a shoestring budget, the pay—around $200 a day—felt like a fortune. It not only kept me afloat but also financed the rest of my travels through Australia.

The Thrill of Battle Scenes

Most of my time was spent in sprawling battle scenes, which swung between thrilling and absurd. At times, it was pure adrenaline: charging up jungle hills, firing blanks from our rifles, and diving for cover as massive explosions erupted around us. Real WWII-era planes buzzed overhead, and the sound of bombs shook the ground. In those moments, it was easy to forget it was all staged—it felt like we had been transported into the middle of history.

The Tedious Side of Filmmaking

But just as often, the job was monotonous. Hours passed with us standing in formation, crouching in foxholes, or pretending to tinker around a military camp while the cameras focused elsewhere. The jungle heat was suffocating, mosquitoes feasted on us, and boredom tested our patience. We were props as much as people—background filler for the sweeping shots Terrence Malick orchestrated with painstaking care.

Movie set

Exploring the nature around the set

The Long Waits in the Foxholes

For the most part, life on set meant waiting. We spent hours hiding in our foxholes, napping, or chatting quietly while the crew set up the next shot. The waiting was often the hardest part of the job. Sometimes, we’d be in the middle of a battle scene—firing blanks, charging up hills, diving into foxholes amid staged explosions—only for it all to grind to a halt as soon as the cameras cut.

It was bizarre, the contrast between pretend chaos and real downtime. One moment we were “killing” Japanese soldiers, and the next we were hanging out with the same actors, laughing and playing hacky sack.

Camaraderie with the “Enemy”

The Japanese actors didn’t speak much English, but they tried. They were friendly, and despite the language barrier, a strange camaraderie formed. We were supposed to be enemies on screen, but in reality, we were just a bunch of actors waiting together.   

Sneaking into the World of the Stars

On one memorable occasion, I wandered off to explore a section of the set that was off-limits to extras. This was the realm of the directors and the big-name actors—trailers, tents, and staging areas far removed from the chaos of the battlefield scenes. It felt like stepping into another world.

The contrast was striking: high-grade alcohol, gourmet food, and a quiet sense of exclusivity compared to the rough, dusty camp of the extras. At one point, a pilot intercepted me and a few of the other extras as we lingered near the tents and offered us a shot of whiskey. There I was, a broke backpacker-turned-extra, sipping whiskey with a man who probably flew the planes overhead in our battle scenes. 

Rules and Discipline on Set

Despite the camaraderie, the tension of the set was never far away. Some of the extras had grown comfortable enough to sneak joints between takes, but the rules were strict—any infraction meant automatic dismissal.

I’ll never forget the day one soldier-extra dropped a joint from his pocket onto the ground during a marching scene. An Aboriginal actor playing a Melanesian quietly bent down, picked it up, and handed it back in a discreet attempt to keep the peace. But one of the Marine drill sergeants saw everything. Within minutes, the soldier was fired and marched off set, never to return.

The message was clear: no matter how surreal or chaotic things felt, discipline was enforced with military precision. In its own way, that sense of order mirrored the real-life military we were all pretending to be part of.

Me posing with Japanese actors

Starstruck in the Jungle

I was starstruck by the sheer number of big-name actors I suddenly found myself working alongside. Since I was just an extra, I knew better than to interact with them and mostly preferred to stay out of their way. Still, it was hard not to be in awe.

Hollywood Heavyweights on Set

Many of the cast were already household names by the time filming began—others would go on to become even bigger stars later in their careers. On any given day, I might catch glimpses of John Cusack, Woody Harrelson, Sean Penn, George Clooney, Nick Nolte, or John Travolta moving between takes.

A World Apart

Of course, our worlds barely overlapped. The stars moved in a different orbit—private trailers, catered meals, and a level of exclusivity that separated them from the chaos of the extras’ camp. Still, just being there, on the same set, watching them work from the periphery, was unforgettable.

It reminded me how strange the whole experience was: a kid from Minnesota, who had flown to Australia with little more than a backpack, now rubbing shoulders—if only figuratively—with Hollywood’s elite.

John Cusack and I

Sharing Scenes with the Stars

I ended up in a few scenes alongside some of the big-name actors, though my interactions with them were limited. In one shot, I sat with Dash Mihok, cigarette in hand, while he strummed a guitar. Just behind us, John Cusack and Nick Nolte walked by, adding to the surreal feeling of being on set with Hollywood heavyweights.

Encounters with John Cusack

Not all of the stars were approachable, but John Cusack stood out as one of the friendliest. I’d been a fan of his since his ’80s high school movies, so I worked up the courage to ask him for a photo. To my surprise, he graciously agreed.

Later, I bumped into him again at a beach bonfire. That night, he was in the middle of a heated argument with his girlfriend. After she stormed off, he stayed behind, chatting with me about the movie as we shared a beer by the fire. For a brief moment, it felt less like fan meeting celebrity and more like two travelers connecting on the road.

Woody Harrelson’s Laid-Back Vibe

Woody Harrelson had a very different energy. He was approachable, playful, and seemed to enjoy hanging out with the extras. He was known for tossing a ball around with us between takes and I heard even sharing a joint or two, leaning into the relaxed vibe that fit his personality perfectly.

A Less Pleasant Encounter with Sean Penn

Sean Penn, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as friendly. I ran into him at a bar in Port Douglas and made the mistake of trying to snap a photo. Instead of a smile, I got a scowl—and a threat. He warned me that if I didn’t put the camera away, his bodyguard would gladly take care of the situation. Needless to say, I backed off.

Nick Nolte speaking with Director, Terrence Malick 

A Glimpse at Something Bigger

After working on the movie set for over a month, one of the directors approached me with an offer: more extra work near Brisbane, and even the chance to appear in a new Vietnam war film being shot in Thailand. For a brief moment, I let myself imagine it—maybe I could keep doing this, maybe even chase acting, maybe even become famous.

The End of My Movie Career

That dream didn’t last long. My good friend Dan flew out from the States to join me in Australia, and I even managed to get him hired as an extra on the movie. The timing couldn’t have been worse. On the night he arrived, we decided to celebrate—hard. Unfortunately, it happened to be a work night.

The next morning, instead of reporting to set, we were still recovering from our night out. By midday, word had already spread, and our absence hadn’t gone unnoticed. By lunchtime, we were both officially fired—Dan before he even had the chance to step foot on set.

And just like that, my short-lived Hollywood career came to an abrupt and unceremonious end.

Back to Backpacking

Still, I wasn’t too disappointed. Acting had never been my dream; travel was. With my movie career behind me, and some new cash made from working on the movie, Dan and I grabbed our packs and set off to explore more of Australia. We learned to surf, wandered new stretches of coastline, and kept chasing the adventures that had brought me halfway around the world in the first place.

From Film to Reality

After portraying a soldier who died in the Battle of Guadalcanal in The Thin Red Line, I was left with a lingering curiosity about the real history behind the story. Playing a role on a movie set—no matter how immersive—was only a shadow of the actual events.

Seeking the Real Guadalcanal

I knew that to truly grasp the scale and meaning of the battle, I needed to stand on the same ground where it had taken place. So, ten years after my time in Australia, I made the journey to the Solomon Islands, determined to see Guadalcanal with my own eyes and connect with the history that had once been just a movie script to me.

Location of Guadalcanal

A Tropical Paradise with a Dark Past

The Solomon Islands are a true tropical paradise, their mountainous interiors still blanketed in thick primary rainforest. Unlike many parts of the Pacific, there are no sprawling resorts or big cities here. Instead, villages feel untouched by time, and the atmosphere carries an uncanny weight—as if World War II could have happened just yesterday.

Relics of War in the Jungle

The battlefields of Guadalcanal remain scattered with relics: rusting munitions, grenades, and even human remains. Some lie hidden deep within caves and dense jungle, while others rest openly across grassy hills, silent reminders of the brutal conflict. To see them properly, I hired a 4WD vehicle with a local driver and guide, determined to learn about the sacrifices of the American and Japanese soldiers who fought here.

History Amid Natural Beauty

As I ventured across Guadalcanal, I found the island every bit as striking as The Thin Red Line had portrayed. The lush landscapes, the warmth of the people, and the haunting traces of war combined into a powerful experience. Here, history wasn’t confined to books or movies—it lived in the soil, the hills, and the stories still carried by the locals.

Village Girl

Typical beach scene

A Journey to a Kastom Village

One of the most powerful experiences I had on Guadalcanal was hiking into a remote Kastom village, where people still live much as their ancestors did. The villagers spoke their native language, lived in thatched-roof huts, and carried on traditions untouched by modern conveniences like electricity. I camped with them for a night, gaining a rare glimpse into a way of life that has endured for centuries.

Crossing a Battlefield

On the way to the village, we crossed a river that had once been the scene of unimaginable violence. Here, American soldiers endured relentless attacks and banzai charges from Japanese forces. The jungle was still steamy, thick, and malaria-ridden, a haunting backdrop that made it easy to picture the horrors of combat. It felt as though time itself had barely moved since the war.

Memories of a Village Elder

That evening, as the firelight flickered against the dark jungle, one of the village elders—well into his 90s—sat with us and shared his memories of the war. He described the terror of those years, when the fighting raged across his homeland. Listening to his firsthand account, the history of Guadalcanal suddenly became more than relics or battlefields—it became living memory, carried by the people who had survived it.

It was an eerie, humbling moment, and one that left a lasting impression on me.

Village Elder Who Lived through WWII

Village children

The Lingering Dangers of War

Despite the idyllic atmosphere of the Solomon Islands, the land is still marked by the violence of the past. In one village, children led me into the dense jungle and out across open grasslands, pointing out places where grenades and other munitions continue to surface. Many of them are still live and dangerous. Every year, villagers are tragically killed by these unexploded remnants of war—a sobering reminder that the conflict’s shadow still lingers.

War Relics as Souvenirs

In some communities, the scars of war have been repurposed into trade. Locals sell artifacts—WWII helmets, dog tags, bullets, and even Japanese swords—to visiting foreigners. These relics, once instruments of war, now leave the island as souvenirs, carried away instead of remaining as silent witnesses to history.

The Cave of Bones

One of the most haunting places I visited was a cave deep in the jungle. Inside, skeletal remains of Japanese soldiers still lay where they had fallen—likely killed by flamethrowers in the heat of battle. Standing in that dark, airless chamber, I felt the brutality of war as something raw and immediate. The serene beauty of the Solomon Islands stood in stark contrast to the horrors that had unfolded here, leaving scars etched into both the land and its memory.

Village WWII Artifact Market

Battlefields where WWII artifacts are littered about

Reflections on a Hilltop

Sitting alone on a quiet hilltop as the sun set, I felt the strange disconnect between the peace of the present and the chaos that had engulfed this land some seventy years ago. The wind whispered through the trees, and I tried to imagine the horrors—the fear, the violence, the human suffering that once defined this battlefield. Yet the more I tried, the more distant it all seemed. The serenity around me was overwhelming, making it nearly impossible to reconcile with the brutality of war.

Seeking Firsthand Truth

In that moment, I realized that no relic, no grave, no monument could ever fully capture the reality of what happened here. If I wanted to understand even a fraction of what the soldiers had endured, I would need to hear it directly from someone who had lived through it. Only a firsthand account could bridge the gap between history as a concept and history as lived experience.

It was then I resolved to find a veteran who had survived Guadalcanal, someone who had walked these very hills under fire, and to listen to their story. Perhaps in their words, I could finally begin to understand the unimaginable.

village kid showing me WWII grenades he unburied. 

Returning to the Voices of History

When I came back from the Solomon Islands, I discovered that a 70th-anniversary reunion was being held in San Diego for the WWII veterans who had fought on Guadalcanal. I knew I had to attend, even if I might feel out of place among them.

Welcomed by Heroes

To call the experience inspiring would be an understatement. The veterans—Marines, Army, and Navy men—welcomed me with open arms. Far from brushing me aside, they seemed genuinely touched that someone from my generation cared enough to listen.

Stories That Brought the Jungle Back

As they spoke, their memories poured out with astonishing clarity. The way they described battles, the camaraderie, and the staggering losses transported me straight back to the jungles of Guadalcanal. Their words carried weight not found in any book or film—raw emotions honed by time but never dulled.

A Precious and Fleeting Privilege

Listening to these men, most already in their nineties, I was struck by how fleeting this opportunity was. Soon, their voices would be gone, leaving only pages in history books and grainy documentary footage. But in that room, surrounded by living history, I felt an immense privilege. It was a moment I knew I’d carry with me forever—a bridge between past and present, built on their courage and sacrifice.

Chester Thomason next his portrait that his late wife gave him-photo by my friend Daniel Gustafson

Meeting Chester Thomason

At the reunion, I struck up a friendship with one of the veterans, Chester Thomason, who lived in San Diego. Chester had served aboard the Navy destroyer USS Monssen, a ship that fought in one of the greatest—and most devastating—naval battles in U.S. history, just off the coast of Guadalcanal.

The Sinking of the Monssen

During the battle, the Monssen came under relentless attack from Japanese warships. Hit again and again, the ship was eventually engulfed in flames before slipping beneath the waves.

A Night in the Ocean

Chester was among the few who escaped. As the Monssen sank, he and other sailors found themselves cast into the vast, black expanse of the ocean, clinging to life while surrounded by sharks. Listening to him describe those hours of treading water—watching the ship that had been their home disappear into the deep, and listening in terror as injured men screamed as they were devoured alive by sharks—was chilling.

Back Into the Fight

Chester was among the few who survived the Monssen’s sinking. When he was finally rescued from the ocean, there was no time for recovery. Marines pulled him from the water, handed him a rifle, and sent him straight to the front lines to reinforce their divisions, where Chester found himself in firefights with the Japanese. From sailor to infantryman in a matter of hours, his ordeal was far from over.

Resilience in the Face of Horror

What struck me most was the way Chester told the story. There was no bitterness in his voice, no lingering fear—only a calm, measured resolve that suggested he had made peace with that night long ago. His resilience was beyond anything I could imagine.

History Made Personal

Knowing Chester, and hearing his firsthand account, added a new layer of reality to everything I had seen on Guadalcanal. It wasn’t just a battlefield dotted with relics and memorials anymore—it was the place where men like Chester had endured the unimaginable and somehow survived.

WWII Memorial Honoring Chester Thomason Located on the Top of Mount Soledad, San Diego 

A Grandfatherly Bond

Chester’s stories were both riveting and humbling—tales of resilience, grit, and survival that went far beyond anything I had read in books. Although I only knew him for a few years before he passed, he became like a grandfather to me. His wisdom, humor, and the calm way he recounted the unimaginable left a lasting mark on my life.

Lessons from a Survivor

Through Chester, I gained a connection to Guadalcanal, which is something that being on a movie about the war there and even visiting the place could never replicate. Hearing his voice carry the memories of those harrowing days gave me a profound respect for the men who endured them. I’ll never truly understand what they went through, but I feel honored to have been an audience to his memories. In his final years, he published his memoirs of the war in the US Navy destroyer history archives: Monssen — Chet Thomason: Battle of Guadalcanal.

Chester taught me to value the sacrifices made by those who fought there—and to appreciate the extraordinary strength it took to endure, survive, and carry on.