The War Diaries. Iraq 2003 Reflection and Perspective.

It’s been 22 years to the day since Iraq 2003. Remembering staring at the large dirt berm separating Kuwait and southern Iraq, it’s still hard to imagine myself, at such a young age, making decisions that carried the weight of life and death. Now, as a parent with a child to consider, I often wonder if I could summon the same "all-in" mentality that came so naturally back then.

We landed in Kuwait on February 8, 2003, as part of the Marine Corps ground element with 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. I can still feel the oppressive wall of heat that hit me as I stepped off the plane. Times felt different then. Coming off the fresh memories of 9/11, most of us had been in the Corps during the attacks. The country was still gripped by a collective desire for revenge, and that sentiment resonated deeply with all of us. Watching the events of that day unfold while in uniform, unable to do anything to help or change the outcome, was a helpless and infuriating experience.

Outside Baghdad Hospital

I remember that morning vividly. I was at Marksmanship Instructor School (commonly called Coaches Course), training to become a shooting coach. When the first plane hit, we heard about it on the radio of the hotdog truck that was always parked at the range. At first, we brushed it off, assuming it was some kind of accident. We continued with the pistol portion of our training until we were abruptly stopped mid-fire. The second plane had hit. It wasn’t a mistake.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the gravity of what was happening. It wasn’t until we were ordered to turn in our weapons to the armory—without cleaning them—that I realized how serious things were. We were told to immediately report back to our battalion and await further instructions. When we returned to the barracks, we gathered around the TV of the one guy who had cable. What we saw on the screen enraged us all.

I remember one of the newer guys yelling, “Someone has to go do something about this!” My response to him was blunt: “Hey, a**hole, who do you think that’s going to be?” We were just kids—young, with little life experience—but we all understood that life was about to get a lot harder.

Most of us were just young guys who had made the choice to attempt to become Marines. We signed up for this, fully aware of who the Marines were and what our purpose would be. There were no illusions or misunderstandings. In that moment, we all seemed to recognize that it was go time. We didn’t yet know where or when, but we knew we were going. This was exactly what we had volunteered for.

Spain 2002

The next couple of years were spent in various places, running through training exercises that, in hindsight, make perfect sense but at the time felt confusing and even overwhelming. We were always training, and the pace and intensity of everything we did seemed to escalate. Every aspect of our preparation took on a new level of seriousness. It was clear that reality was closing in, and I, for one, felt the need to be sharper, stronger, and more capable of handling whatever was going to be asked of us.

Vieques Island

Some of us were sent off to Afghanistan, but at that time, Iraq wasn’t even on our radar. We had no idea it would soon become part of the conversation. When we got the order it came fast. I remember being a bit surprised, because to be honest, I expected Afghanistan. To us it didn't matter though.

Patrols

We spent a month in northern Kuwait training, preparing, and trying to acclimate to the environment. It was a strange feeling to stand there, looking into Iraq, knowing that soon we would be asked to breach that berm and face whatever was waiting for us on the other side. The urgency to use every single moment for preparation was almost frantic. Every drill, every exercise, every briefing felt like it carried the weight of life and death.

One of the hardest things I was ever asked to do happened during this time: writing the letter. It was a letter meant for your loved ones, to be delivered if you didn’t make it back. Most of them started with something like, “If you are receiving this letter, I didn’t make it.” I think back on it now and wonder what must have been going through my mind as I sat there, pen in hand, trying to find the words. After writing it, we were required to hand it in so it could be delivered if the worst happened. But I couldn’t bring myself to trust that process. Instead, I made a pact with another Marine. We exchanged letters and promised each other that if one of us didn’t make it, the other would hand-deliver the letter in person. The letter we handed in simply said, “You should expect a visitor shortly.” At the time, the thought of a cold, impersonal letter being mailed or delivered by someone who couldn’t explain what had happened felt even harder to accept than writing the letter itself.

Northern Kuwait Base Camp

Then, the call came. “Mount up and get ready to stage.” The entire ground combat element began mobilizing, and it happened with incredible speed. Within minutes, everyone was in their proper positions, ready to move. I remember we had a small radio that could pick up the BBC, and we heard President Bush’s 48-hour warning to Iraq. As night fell, the darkness was absolute. When the final call came to go, we moved out, navigating entirely with thermal optics.

General Mattis Letter to his Marines

From there, it was 21 days of fighting. After a while, you become numb to it all. The chaos, the fear, the adrenaline—it all blends together. But the hardest part is the constant battle to hold on to your humanity in the midst of it.

People have often asked me, “Weren’t you scared?” Of course I was. I can’t imagine a situation where fear would be more appropriate. But the fear I felt wasn’t for my life, which might sound strange to some. Instead, it came from a place of self-doubt.

In that kind of environment, you stop seeing yourself as an individual. The longer you’re in it, the more you come to view yourself as a representative of the colors you carry and the unit you’re a part of. There’s a certain bravado that develops—a pride in what you represent. Marines are a proud group, deeply connected to their history and the legacy of those who came before. You honor that legacy by ensuring you are, and always will be, the baddest MF’er in the valley. That pride shifts your fear from self-preservation to something much deeper: fear of not being good enough.

We all have these visions of being the hero—the one who stares danger in the face and handles business without hesitation. But when the moment comes, you realize that those visions are just fantasies. The truth about who you are doesn’t reveal itself until you’re in the moment. Will you live up to everything you believe yourself to be, or will you fall short? Will you stand shoulder to shoulder with your brothers, or will you be remembered as the one who caved when it mattered most?

That fear—of failing to live up to the standards of the eagle, globe, and anchor—was what weighed on me the most. It wasn’t about surviving; it was about being worthy of the uniform and the history it represents.

Over the years, I’ve had conversations with other Marines I served with, and I’ve come to realize I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. That fear of not measuring up, of letting down the legacy and the men beside you, was something we all carried. It’s a fear that shaped us, pushed us, and ultimately defined who we became.

Today, I reflect to honor some of that history. The Marines—and the armed forces as a whole—are your team, your family. I think sometimes we all get too caught up in the small things, the semantics, or distractions that don’t really move the needle forward. It’s important to step back and make sure that the time we spend is time well spent.

Find what you love, and if you need to bury yourself in something, let it be that. Life moves so fast, and you don’t truly realize it until you look back and see that berm in your mind—the one you had to breach—and realize it was 22 years ago.

Stay safe, stay focused, and make the most of the time you have. Much love to you all.

Al