When the soldier raised his gun to my face, I didn’t have many options.

Sure, there was an orange cap at the end of the barrel, so in hindsight after he let me go, I wasn’t in any danger. But the moment I ran into him, I couldn’t help but think this was it.

He was inches away from me. It felt so real.

I had made a mistake. It’d been a day bookended by those. I shouldn’t have been in that situation. I’d gotten lost. I had been in a lot of situations earlier that day, but that one wasn’t in the script.

Grissom Air Force Base was an interesting place to visit for stories when working and living in Peru, Indiana. Especially since I lived on base practically, in a duplex in a neighborhood situated literally right beside of it. It housed a lot of military personnel, as well as prison personnel and parents of prisoners in the maximum-security complex also not very far away from my little neighborhood.

But sometimes it just housed people like me. A budding writer in his second newspaper gig, trying to figure out what anything meant in his first time living on his own. Every morning, they’d play a trumpet over some loudspeakers that I never found out whether or not they were close to my house or if they were just that loud from the base.

Grissom was joint-owned though – the county had some stakes in it and rented it out to some private businesses, mostly all aviation-related. It also housed a few buildings for county use, like economic development, which made sense if you were going to talk business that you’d do so in a place that you’ve been raising up and been successful in cultivating.

I knew Grissom. And some people at Grissom knew me. The PR guy, he knew me. The guy that ran the museum at the entrance, he knew me. And civilians weren’t uncommon at the base, especially since half of it was owned by them.

But not everyone knew me.

I’d been invited to Grissom that morning a few weeks back. I was told where to go, but having been to the civilian side of the base plenty of times prior, I didn’t pay it too much attention. There were only so many places the main road went. Follow that path and turn right into a lot at the second opportunity. But that right seemed like it was the main path and not a turn, so I continued on.

Straight to the entrance of the military-owned side.

As it turns out, if you don’t present a valid military ID immediately, things aren’t great if you do what I did. And if you’ve got a camera in your passenger seat that has almost certainly been noticed, it’s a quick conversation about just what in the world are you thinking about doing, sir?

Why didn’t I have an ID? What was I trying to do? I tried to namedrop the PR guy, said that I must have missed my turn, but between stumbling along my words and the guard trying to figure out just who I was as soon as he could, he demanded I pull over to the side so he could talk to his people.

It was bright that morning. Early too. Earlier than I usually begin my day and evidently the time the base begins its daily routine given the plethora of cars flowing past me like a steady river of approved vehicles reflecting into my eyes.

After a lifetime of waiting and dying in my car, he came back and told me to turn sharply to the left, perform a 180 and take the first left I see and to not make that mistake again.

-Absolutely. Thank you! Have a good day!

I think I said precisely none of that despite the attempt, instead I stammered, nodded and obeyed.

Sure enough, I spied the bus that was waiting for me to my left after turning around. That right I should have taken was the way to go. I parked my blue Malibu, took a deep breath and reached over to grab my camera before hopping out to say my good mornings.

But I chose to skip over the beginning of the day. We don’t need to go over that. The base’s PR guy, he probably already knew anyway. He wore a big smile as he handed me an orange vest and a set of headphones when I stepped onto the dull gray bus.

The interior was drab and nothing to look at, but it was comfortable. It felt like a school bus, but it was remarkably empty. Besides myself, the PR guy and the driver, it was just another pair of souls. A couple from another media outlet, apparently from television since the woman only had a notepad and the man had this big camera that looked like it’d fit on his shoulder. I overheard them say they were from somewhere unimportant to me, but I knew it was far enough that Grissom definitely was outside their coverage area.

I found a seat near the front and settled down into the boring gray leather seat. Why was I the only local media to show up? Where was my main rival? I fully expected him to be here. I felt good that I showed up, felt like I mattered, but there’s no way I was the only one invited if these two from out of the area were here.

Regardless, I’d been invited to watch a squadron of U.S. Marines respond to a mass casualty event in a practice drill at the base. The only rules we had were to not interfere and we’d accomplish that by simply staying out of the way. We could go wherever we wanted, but we couldn’t break the illusion anymore than we already were from everyone’s peripheral vision.

The bus rumbled along the road, into the military side of the base and onto the airstrip. It was a short ride, but long enough to where you’d start to get nervous at how quiet it was. I kind of expected to see platoons of soldiers at the ready, getting barked at like in the movies or something, but it was barren.

The old fire station at Grissom was big, dark and empty. Clearly, it’d once held something, but now its emptiness showcased the dust that’d accumulated through the years since its retirement. A small slit of a window ran across the top of the roof, sending sloped light rays down into big open main room that might’ve once housed a fire engine or something like that. With that as the only light source on this incredibly bright morning, it was hard to see. You’d go from dark to a blinding sliver of light and back to dark as you panned across the brown room.

We were told to pick a good spot to watch this unfold from, whatever that meant. It seemed like a bad place for a firefight to break out in. Small corridors fed into this larger square room that we were standing in, with doors on every side. Unsure of where would be safe, I holed up in a corner on top of a wooden riser, hoping for a vantage point. I held my camera at the ready, not quite looking through the viewfinder but keeping just under my chin and my finger on the shutter.

But when the far side door was kicked in, I jumped.

It’d been all quiet and calm until that was shattered. I couldn’t hear much of anything through these headphone mufflers I had on, but I knew there wasn’t much happening until they were right on top of us.

The door that’d been kicked open had loads of people wearing masks and bandanas covering their faces pouring through. They were shouting something, definitely in English, but I couldn’t make out what it was when the gunfire started.

In an instant, this was no longer a calm, old fire station with history written in its dust. It was battle.

Men with shrouded faces stalked through the main room I was standing in, looking to make an escape of some sort and leading what I guessed were hostages to another door on the side nearest to me. As they stomped closer though, the door burst open and more shots were fired. The masked men dropped instantly and the hostages fell to the floor.

They weren’t live rounds, but they were loud enough to be heard through the thick padding covering my ears. And enough to be uncomfortable around at that distance.

Another masked man rushed through the first door that was opened, firing his weapon as he ran but he was also neutralized. And with that, it was over as quickly as it began. Though there were no more bullets, there was still plenty more shouting. I realized I’d been holding my breath the whole time and finally remembered to breathe when I glanced down at the preview screen on my camera, hoping that I’d gotten any pictures from that skirmish.

I didn’t get to peek though. The PR guy tapped me on the shoulder and led me on to the next venue. He was my tour guide for this fight and the next act was about to begin.

An incredibly loud swooshing sound started slamming into my ears once I stepped outside, as if these headphones had suddenly started playing the worst kind of pots-and-pans music out of nowhere. But that wasn’t it. An enormous helicopter had apparently been on approach and was getting closer and closer, circling overhead looking for a landing zone that first needed to be cleared out.

Wincing through that noise, I lifted my hand over my brow to look down the airstrip to see what was going on, but could only make out a few figures doing what I guessed was clearing that landing zone. The fire station behind me still had some shouting within, but the gunfire had ceased. At least I thought it had, with the swooshing of the circling helicopter still smashing down onto me, it was hard to tell.

The next thing I distinctly remember hearing was a door getting kicked open. I’d heard enough of that just recently to know what that sounded like.

A squad of marines carried a stretcher out past me from a door that I didn’t know was there. Any closer and I’d have been hit. Muffled shouts were all I heard as the helicopter got closer and closer for a landing, slamming that sound and I guessed pressure into my ears. They were taking a wounded hostage for an evacuation. Nearby, another pair of soldiers had taken up positions guarding the fire station and maintaining watch for any other threats. Not far from there, what appeared to be a civilian but might-have-been-one-of-those-threats, was being searched.

Everything, it seemed, was winding down as the helicopter took off.

-Huh, that was quick.

And as it cleared the horizon after giving me some excellent photos in this respite from the fighting, I could hear for the first time.

And it was just a bunch of shouting.

I don’t know what happened, but I was once again tapped on the shoulder and told to follow to the next act.

Something had apparently kicked the hornet’s nest because it was a complete mess of marines running all around in what I’m sure was a reasonable formation, but to me looked like streaking camouflaged zigzags of panic.

I tried ducking and bobbing and weaving in and out of their way. I’d lost where my tour guide had went in that confusion. Alone with my orange vest and camera, I realized I was near the entrance of the fire station. A pair of marines who were absolutely blazing a streak across a path looked very interesting and warranted being followed. Some good pictures there, wherever they were headed, I was sure of it. But I couldn’t just tail behind them. I’d be interfering if I chased them that way.

There was a small lawn at the front of the fire station and a pair of bushes that dipped inward towards each other, forming a rough green doorway that seemed inviting enough as a shortcut to trail behind the duo from a decent enough distance.

Camera gripped tightly in hand, I dipped down under the branches, watching the ground with each step and finally lifting my head back up to a fully kitted-out marine who had apparently spied the same shortcut from his direction.

I was told, before everything had started, that if I did happen to get in the way, to just drop down and get low. Maybe not to your stomach, but bend down, hunker down, drop to your knees, whatever.

But I couldn’t remember that.

Instead, I stood straight as an arrow, as tall as I could muster and threw my hands in the air, my camera strap dangling on my arm. Though there was an orange cap at the end of his rifle, it wasn’t any less comfortable having it pointed directly at me. His reaction time was something else. And I couldn’t blame the guy. He was in a high-stress situation in an intense drill that he’s probably getting graded on in some way or another for his performance. And now I’ve gone and messed it all up.

I don’t know if his finger was on the trigger, but I imagine it was. He’s a professional after all. Not a word was said as we stared at each other for what felt like a long enough time to get to know each other, but it was only a second or two.

He had this look of shock on his face. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but there I was, orange vest and all, signaling that I was not his enemy. But that also signaled I wasn’t immediately visible as an ally. He’d been battling against people in casual clothes all morning.

When he lowered his weapon, he didn’t make any other movements. I read his eyes though and they’d shrunk from their previous widths. His weapon had only gone from directly in my face to a slight angle pointed down towards my stomach, but it was enough to know that I was free to go.

I leapt out of his way. A literal dive to the side of the bush onto the green lawn while he pushed through to the other side, the branches rushing up against him.

I huddled down there to collect myself and make sure my camera had made it out of that terrible decision of mine. Soldiers kept rushing past the exterior of the building, shouting things I couldn’t understand but no one else went through our little shortcut. It struck me for a moment that I should have tried to take that soldier’s photo, but aiming something at him was probably not a good idea.

I snapped a couple of photos from the soldiers running past as I stood back up, but just as quickly as hell had broken loose, it regained itself. The sprawling mass of running marines came to an end and order was restored. No more running. No more shouting. I peaked through the bush that the marine had darted through and saw soldiers walking down towards the end of the airfield.

-What just happened?

Alright, I guess. With a shrug, I decided I should head that way too. With my head down flicking through my preview screen for the photos I’d gotten, I spied my tour guide and fellow reporters, and shifted my path that way. The, I guess, leader? General? Whatever rank he was, was debriefing his soldiers and spoke with us for a moment, going over what the idea behind the practice was, how his marines did and how grateful they were to Grissom for letting them host the event. You know, pretty typical stuff. Nice quotes to string throughout the story for the newspaper. Easy.

On the walk back to the bus, we discussed the day. The things we saw, the things we did and how cool everything was. But, just like how I glossed the start to my day, I decided to skip the ending. It was easier that way.

My tour guide handed me a bullet after I finished interviewing him. One of those casings from a blank. We’d been told earlier that it was military property and that we obviously weren’t allowed to grab any for ourselves, but he said it was fine to accept it as a gift, to “keep it as a souvenir from my first time as a war correspondent.”

I’ve still got that casing.