That morning started like every other one.

As the Platoon Sergeant, I had PT with my Marines before heading into the office to start the workday. I was a Sergeant stationed at Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, North Carolina, in my fifth year of Marine Corps service.

Around 8:30 that morning, we gathered for our daily brief. Our NCOIC, SSgt Tolman, was going through the day’s taskers like he always did. About fifteen minutes into the meeting, things started to change. Phones began ringing nonstop. Marines and civilians were walking in and out of the office. Radios and TVs started coming on throughout the building.

Naturally, I started asking what was going on.

One of the civilian employees said that a plane (American Airlines Flight 11) had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. SSgt Tolman immediately cut the briefing short and sent the junior Marines to begin their assigned work while the rest of us tried to figure out what was happening.

My best friend, Sgt Willoughby, and I found a television and stood there watching the news. We barely said a word.

Then, right before our eyes, Flight 175 slammed into the South Tower.

At that moment, every one of us knew this wasn’t an accident.

I had joined the Marine Corps in 1994 during peacetime. Most of us had never experienced anything like this. The entire squadron was buzzing. Every available landline was tied up with Marines trying to call home, making sure their families knew what was happening and that they were okay.

Then, at 9:37 a.m., Flight 77 struck the Pentagon.

That was the moment every instinct we had as Marines kicked in.

SSgt Tolman had been on the phone and suddenly yelled for Sgt Willoughby and me to gather all of our Marines and report immediately to the armory to draw weapons and ammo.

As we made our way there, Cherry Point went into lockdown. Every gate on the installation was closed. No one was coming in or going out.

Cherry Point is a Marine Corps Air Station, home to Harriers, Prowlers, C-130s, and other aircraft. The flight line came alive almost instantly as aircraft began launching. The entire days pace changed from routine to wartime in what felt like minutes.

Once we drew our rifles and ammo, our orders were simple: each squad would take positions at one of the installation gates and secure it.

The truth is, none of us really knew what we were looking for.

We trained for years for combat, but we had never imagined standing guard on an American military base after an attack on our own country. We were on the highest state of alert, confused, worried, angry, and honestly… scared.

We remained on post until around 7:00 that evening, when another unit relieved us. We’d spent nearly ten hours standing security, talking through what little information we had, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Around 8:00 p.m., the gates were finally opened to allow personnel to leave the installation, although traffic coming onto the base was still prohibited.

Driving home that night with the radio on, listening to the nonstop news coverage, I remember feeling an overwhelming mix of emotions. I was angry. I was heartbroken. But more than anything, I felt a sense of urgency and purpose. After years of training, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

I wanted to go.

Because I lived off base, we were ordered to remain close to home and be prepared for immediate recall at any time. Marines living in the barracks assumed most of the gate security while those of us off base stayed on standby. Over the following days, access to the installation slowly returned, and we rotated back into normal operations as the initial emergency response eased.

It didn’t take long before rumors started spreading that Marine units were preparing to deploy to Afghanistan in response to the attacks and the hunt for Osama bin Laden.

The problem was that my unit at Cherry Point wasn’t deployable.

So I started making phone calls.

Friends. Former coworkers. Anyone in deployable units. We were all trying to find openings and hoping someone could pull strings to get us over to a unit that was headed overseas.

In early November, I spoke with a friend stationed down the road at Camp Lejeune who told me there was an opening for a Sergeant billet with a deploying Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU). I wasted no time trying to make it happen.

I met with our senior enlisted advisor, MGySgt Cronk, and pleaded my case to be transferred.

Before I could even finish explaining why I wanted to go, he started pumping the brakes.

He told me not everyone could deploy immediately. He explained that experienced NCOs also had an important mission. Those first units were going to learn hard lessons in combat, and someone had to stay behind, absorb those lessons, and train the Marines who would inevitably follow.

It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

Honestly… I was pissed.

Like so many Marines after 9/11, all I wanted was the opportunity to serve, fight, and do my part.

It took me a while to cool off, but eventually I understood what he was trying to teach me.

Those first Marines deploying into Afghanistan were going with very little compared to what we’d later have. They had limited intelligence, limited specialized training, less protective equipment, and no established playbook. They were writing it as they went.

His point wasn’t that I wasn’t ready.

His point was that the Corps needed leaders both on the front lines and back home preparing the Marines who would follow.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate it.

Looking back twenty-five years later, I realize he was exactly right.

I didn’t know it then, but September 11th would become the defining moment of my Marine Corps career. It fueled every deployment I volunteered for, every Marine I mentored, and every leadership decision I made over the next 12 years of service.