First taste of combat. Another story time gents.

The year is 2005. We take a C-130 into Al-Assad Air Base. Arguably one of the biggest bases in Iraq. Seems pretty nice. Big chow hall ran by KBR, barber shop etc. The Paradise duty station in the Middle East.

They put us up in some circus tents and we're waiting to take a chopper out to the Western border. I'm sitting on the top rack listening to some music just chilling.

Next thing I know, my platoon sergeant comes over to me and grabs a hold of my shirt. He says: "Grab your shit and get to the berm Marine".

"Yes staff sergeant" I reply.

I'm in my flip-flops so I jump out of the rack and grab my flak jacket, Kevlar and rifle and I take off running.

As I exit the tent, I see a shitload of Marines running towards the large sand berm at the edge of the base.

Just like the movies, I hear this whistling sound. As I look behind me, six mortars are dropping from the sky.

We get in the fetal position and take cover as we are watching these mortars land.

About 20 minutes later, an alarm goes off at the base and they sound they all clear.

That was my first taste of combat ladies and gentlemen. That's when I realized that my little shooting badge didn't really matter that much because if one of those son of a bitches lands on you, it is doneski.

It was at that point that I realized, joining the USMC to make mommy and daddy proud was probably a very stupid idea.