This is the first in a five-part series, “Retelling the War,” in which veterans discuss how books, movies and other tales of combat shaped their perceptions of themselves and of war.

In the spring and summer of 2003, I participated in Operation Iraqi Freedom as an infantry squad leader with Weapons Company, 25^th Marine Regiment, 4^th Marine Division. I was 23 years old.  Being a Marine deployed to the combat zone was something I had dreamed of since childhood. In high school, while other kids studied basketball statistics, I knew off hand the performance characteristics of nearly every major weapons system fielded.

I grew up in Brooklyn, emigrating with my parents from the Caribbean in 1985. My family does not have a history of military service, so my fascination did not begin there; instead, one of my earliest memories is of seeing a Marine Security Guard standing at parade rest in front of the Barbadian embassy. He was sharp — in my mind, I still see the shine of his shoes, the crispness of the creases in his uniform. This image resonated for reasons unknown to me, but at the age of four, I knew that I would one day wear the same uniform.

As a child, I was studious; I read a lot. My father bought the family an encyclopedia and I spent most of my youth reading it. The encyclopedia sparked my curiosity. The pages came alive with pictures and words — aardvarks to Army, I devoured the content and it inspired me to focus my reading on topics that truly interested me. By high school, I was reading almost exclusively about Vietnam. As a teenager, I was not interested in politics. I understood the theory of domino effect, had seen the Berlin wall come down, could remember Tiananmen Square, but what drew me into reading about Vietnam in particular were the powerful personal narratives of the men and women who had fought there.

I read the “Rogue Warrior” series by Richard (“Dick”) Marcinko. For a young man intent on joining the military, the adventure of combat in the Mekong Delta was intoxicating. The candid writing of Mr. Marcinko, mixed with moments of humor and friendship, helped to further my interest. I followed his writing the way other kids followed athletes and musicians.

In addition to Vietnam, I became intensely interested in Marine Corps history. I studied the advance through the Pacific, the battles at Chosin and Hue, read and watched everything that I could get my hands on about the Corps. From these books, the romanticism of war — of being a warrior — began to take root within me and culminated with my decision to enlist at age 17.

On April 4, 2003, my unit received our warning order. We were to fly into the city of Nasiriya and provide mortar fire in support of sister units fighting to capture a bridge. By this time, I had spent my entire adult life in the Marine Corps, but still hadn’t seen combat. I thought that the dullness of sitting in the Kuwaiti desert would now finally be worth it. The dozens of field exercises, the desert training, the cold weather nightmare training, the fatiguing high altitude training, all of the invested time would be worth it. The collective weight of 228 years of history, the warrior ethos of Always Faithful, the few, the proud, the Marines, all of it made sense that April night in Kuwait.

We were to fly into Nasiriya and join the battle, but at the last moment our orders were updated and instead, we were directed to drive from Kuwait to Nasiriya. The unit didn’t need our cover after all. This news was somewhat disappointing: I was relieved that the other Marines were able to secure the objective, but I felt frustrated for not having been a part of the struggle.

My unit spent approximately five months in country. Our time there was filled with huge swaths of mind-numbing boredom punctuated by sporadic moments of extreme intensity. On at least two occasions our compound came under attack — once my squad was ambushed — but we all survived. Iraq was not at all the war that I expected. The majority of time was spent either on post or on patrol, looking for an enemy, who at that time was reluctant to fight us.

I came home from the experience carrying a solemn feeling of disappointment, and guilt. It was difficult for me to reconcile my mild experience, or what I felt to be a mild experience, with what I knew others had faced. For many years I tried to minimize my wartime experience. When someone asked, I would almost always answer that it was no big deal or that it was fine. Looking back, I believe now that this was just a reflex. I felt a certain amount of shame for what I thought of as an easy war, skating or getting away easy in comparison to others. The reflex developed as a way of deflating further conversation about the war, and for the most part, it worked.

Since February 2009, I have attended a writing workshop for veterans at New York University. The workshop is intended for veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan to meet, write and share their stories, if they choose. At the workshop, I began to write poetry. Poetry felt right. Here for the first time I felt comfortable sharing my experience. Through the writing and the sense of community engendered by the workshop, I began to re-evaluate my war experience. I came to find the value in it, the good work that we did in Iraq and for the people of Iraq. I came to appreciate my time in the service, not just in Iraq, but in general. I had done exactly what I’d dreamed of doing from the time in Barbados when I saw the Marine Security Guard.

Writing has different meanings for each of us. Though I am somewhat reluctant to call it catharsis, in some ways it is. It has helped me move past the books and movies that had shaped my ideas of warfare. I had taken control of the narrative. I was telling the story on my own terms and I was telling it for real.

This process continues to provide me with a way to manage my emotional stress about my service. Through writing and rewriting Iraq, I have managed to move away from the feelings of guilt, disappointment and shame. I write now not just to exorcise tension, but because I love to write. Really, I need to write.

Maurice Decaul served in the Marine Corps for nearly five years. He deployed to Nasiriya, Iraq in 2003 as a squad leader with Weapons Company, 2nd Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment. He lives in Brooklyn with his family and is studying at Columbia University.