Category: War Stories

It’s 1980. My UDT is tasked with a training op to assault a docked vessel from the open ocean. The trick? It’s guarded by Navy dolphins.

It’s a war being fought by men with creaking knees and fading eyesight—because the kids who should be fighting it are too valuable to kill.

The rifleman isn’t obsolete—but the idea he can fight modern wars without tech fluency sure is.

Delta’s devastating punch relies on the unsung heroes—our support brothers—whose relentless dedication and extraordinary flexibility make our foundation unbreakable.

They came with badges, not handcuffs—a reminder that in this new kind of war, the lines between warning, watching, and silencing have blurred beyond recognition.

They wouldn’t have traded places with anybody, for anything—and that tells you everything you need to know.

He hit the ramp and could see immediately that other than filled with the fine red glow of cabin lights the helo was empty.

War didn’t greet me with a banner or a cause—it handed me a shovel, a borrowed rifle, and a promise that if I didn’t dig fast enough, I’d meet God before breakfast.

I didn’t end up in that desert by accident—every hardship, every hard lesson, every quiet moment of doubt had been sharpening me for that exact stretch of sand, steel, and responsibility.

Clint Romesha didn’t fight for glory—he fought for the guy next to him, in a godforsaken valley that the brass called indefensible and he turned into a proving ground for grit.

In the murky, shark-infested waters of the Calda Channel, Chuck Studley and I learned the hard way that destiny often finds you paralyzed with fear, clutching your dive tanks, and fervently swearing off any future encounters with the ocean’s toothy residents.

York didn’t need nods or Gucci gear to be lethal—he just needed faith, a clean rifle, and the will to get up and move forward when hell broke loose.