Thoughts from the Rubble – A Cathartic Remembrance
As I vehemently cursed my luck for being trapped in Tuesday morning traffic on I-395 North, heading into Washington D.C., the last thing I would have thought was that thousands of feet above, and many miles to the north, enormous commercial passenger airliners were being forcibly taken over by foreign terrorists.
Little did I suspect, as I impatiently gunned the throttle of my motorcycle, that by the time I arrived at Coast Guard Headquarters, one of those passenger airliners would be driven like a nail through a coffin into the side of one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City – snuffing out the lives of hundreds of people instantly.
So, as I made my way up one of the most congested highways in America, all I could think of was how insensitive my fellow motorists were as they swerved without warning or hesitation into my lane, and how I wished I were somewhere else.
As I passed by the Pentagon on my left, traffic began to pick up a little, and I soon found myself jetting ahead of many of the cars, crossing the 14th Street Bridge into D.C. and cutting swiftly over to the right lane to make my exit to the waterfront area adjacent to the Potomac River.
Pulling up to Coast Guard Headquarters and parking my bike next to the 1st Street entrance of the building in Southwest D.C., I breathed a sigh of relief and removed my helmet. It had taken me more than an hour to travel the 10 miles into work from Alexandria, Virginia, where my fiancé and I lived.
I vainly checked my hair in the rearview mirror of the bike to make sure it was still looking neat, pulled my red security badge out of my brown leather backpack, and walked toward the building.
Opening the doors and walking in right at 9 a.m., I saw a group of people staring up at the television mounted above the security desk in the lobby.
I walked over to the group, a mix of civilians and Coast Guard officers in uniform, and stopped to look up at the screen with them.
My eyes widened a bit as I took in the carnage on the screen before me. The twin towers of the World Trade Center stood there on CNN Live. Smoke and flames poured out of a gaping wound in one of the towers, and my eyes quickly moved to the caption at the bottom of the screen that read, "PLANE CRASHES INTO WORLD TRADE CENTER."
I shook my head in disgust at the idea of another airline disaster, and my thoughts turned tangentially to the WTC terrorist bombing a few years ago. I looked at a couple of the people in the crowd before heading over to the elevators and rhetorically asked out loud, "How many times are they gonna blow that thing up?"
There was no way I could know that by the time I reached the 3rd floor and walked over to my office, a second airliner would have already been flown disastrously into the other tower of the twin skyscrapers, killing hundreds more and raining an explosive shower of debris on the New Yorkers nearly 100 stories below.
I darted through the door of the Coast Guard Imagery Branch of Public Affairs office and saw several people, some not even from our division, staring at the television monitors sitting high above our cubicles.
"Watching the news?" I asked stupidly.
Chief Petty Officer Veronica Cady, editor of Coast Guard magazine – and my boss – looked at me with a plain expression on her face that simply said, "Duh."
I joined my compatriots and asked what had happened. Cady informed me that during my short trip upstairs, I had missed the second airliner's fiery impact on one of the greatest manmade structures of all time.
My thoughts churned instantly and I blurted out, "Damn, that's definitely a terrorist attack! There's no two ways about it!"
There were some nods of agreement, and we soon found ourselves looking at each other in astonishment as we watched the sickening instant replay, trying to comprehend what was happening.
My mind raced and I quickly began thinking of the New York City Coast Guard office at Battery Park, six blocks away from the World Trade Center and Wall Street. Some friends in Coast Guard public affairs were up there, and I wondered what sort of response the Coast Guard was getting underway, if any.
While my heart began to ache for the thousands of people who had just been terribly victimized, in the back of my mind, I secretly prayed that Petty Officer Tom Sperduto from the Battery Park office was snapping off some good shots of everything so we'd have an incredible cover shot for the next issue of the magazine. It made me sick in the stomach to think of it.
We sat and stood there in the office together, grimly watching the news. We were quiet for the most part, only occasionally commenting to each other about the newborn tragedy, and tossing out our own speculations as to what was really happening in the Big Apple.
It was so far away, but terror was about to strike closer to us, as we stood idly by. A lot closer.
It seemed as if we'd only been staring at the tube for a few minutes when a female lieutenant burst through the door shouting, "It looks like they hit the Pentagon!"
My blood froze in my veins. We all rushed out into the hall, and across into the office opposite ours where we could look out the window. I was in total shock. It had only been 40 minutes since I was stuck in traffic next to the five-sided bastion of American military power.
Taking my turn at the window, I craned my neck to see out the side and witnessed history in all its sick, gruesome glory. The Pentagon was in flames, noxious black plumes of smoke rising from the seemingly invincible building in gigantic puffs, as if the devil himself were exhaling contentedly after a large puff on a gigantic cigar.
America would never be the same. Could never be the same, again.
My fiancé called me from her work and was hysterical. She was crying, like a lot of Americans, and was worried about my safety. I reassured her that the Coast Guard probably wasn't a target for international terrorism. She was scared for me anyway. I was too.
The news began to take form over the course of the next few hours, as the federal government began a tight lockdown of the freest nation on the planet.
While all civilian and commercial air traffic in the country was ordered to land, and stay grounded, we learned that it was a third aircraft that had stuck the Pentagon. We also learned of a fourth aircraft that was downed in Pennsylvania. Soon after that, we witnessed eventual collapse of both World Trade Center towers that ended up taking thousands of lives.
President Bush came on national television and radio to address the American people, telling us that these were not only terrorist acts, but acts of war, and that we would find the people responsible. In my mind, all I could think was that those immediately responsible were already dead. Their holy mission a success.
Our country roiled in terror.
Coast Guard headquarters was soon locked down tightly. Non-essential personnel were authorized to evacuate, and I gathered my things after an hour or so. There was no sense in leaving early, as the entire city was grid locked. The White House and Capitol had been evacuated, along with other federal buildings, and thousands were fleeing the city.
When I finally did leave the building, I was forced to take a different route, due to I-395 being closed to make room for emergency and military vehicles en route to the Pentagon.
Riding down South Capitol Street toward the other southbound highway, I noticed that the very feel of the air was different. People walked about with grief and fear written on their faces. Those who weren't sad were angry. But regardless of emotion, nearly everyone looked to the sky periodically, keeping on the watch for another plane that could descend upon them from above.
Ironically, the oddest part of the drive was the lack of any aircraft whatsoever overhead. Usually in D.C., one can bear witness to the passing of a dozen planes in the sky within ten minutes. This time, there wasn't a single one. It was only later on the highway that I finally heard the roar of an Air Force F-16 fighter jet above me, racing across the skies of the nation's capital, searching fervently for any other terrorists who might dare to bring more violence to America. Those fighters and the President's helicopters were the only aircraft I saw.
America could never be the same.
Every radio I heard through an open car window was turned to the news. All I could do was continue my slow trek to the south, and back home.
Even though I left later than most, I didn't find the traffic to be much better on I-295 South. Halfway down, I pulled over onto the median of an exit ramp, and shut my bike down. I had a clear view of the Pentagon from there.
I called into the office on my cell phone as I sat there, and learned that I was now on standby in case I was needed for the Joint Information Center that was being thrown together at Headquarters, and that I should keep a bag packed in case I had to go back to work for an indefinite period of time.
Another motorcycle pulled up beside mine and I looked to see a middle-aged guy take off his helmet. He claimed his bike was getting warm, and needed a rest. I nodded and talked to him a little bit. Then we both just sat there, looking at the Pentagon, its newly renovated side smashed in by a terrorist with a vendetta against America. The Evil Empire that existed in his mind.
We wished each other well, then put our helmets back on and merged back into the long line of cars.
Driving down the highway again, I noticed a unity in the motorists that I had never seen before. People I looked at gave me silent nods of comradeship and support. A man I overheard in a Jeep next to me was verbally exploding to his female passenger, telling her that unconditional retaliation should be visited upon the perpetrators of this act of mass murder. When I leaned over and asked him if there was any new news, he was glad to tell me that no further acts of terrorism had been committed on the already dark Tuesday.
It took me an hour to get home, but this time I was glad to be stuck in traffic. I was selfishly happy to be alive, and feeling guilty that only a few hours ago I had been mumbling disgruntledly about my fellow Americans in the vehicles around me. I could feel nothing but love for them, now. My countrymen, my brothers and sisters.
America could never be the same.
That night, as Jennifer and I watched the news, we made and received more calls to family and friends than we usually do in an entire year. We cried together, exhausting our tear ducts, but thankful to be together, and safe for the time being.
The television flashed the images to me, "ATTACK ON AMERICA" prominent on every graphic the news guys had quickly come up with for their breaking stories. The pictures of the Pentagon echoed the memories in my head of the smoking crater left in the south wall of the national military headquarters.
I prayed that everyone I knew was alive, and safe. My aunt, an Army civilian employee, and former chief warrant officer, was safe in Atlanta, away for the week from the nation's capital. Ordinarily, she worked in a warehouse near the Pentagon, and often paid visits there.
There was no resolution to the pain of that day, and no resolution today. I don't know how to fix the hurt inside of me, or the hurt that plagues our nation. Every hour I say a quiet prayer in my mind for the victims. A prayer for their families. And a prayer for the fallen rescuers who died trying to save lives.
Though we hurt, I know we will persevere as a country. America is more than its government. It is more than one or two buildings. It is more than each individual citizen.
America is an idea that lives on in our hearts and minds every day. America is the freedom that we enjoy, and would die to protect. America is us. We are America.
So long as there is one American alive, I know that our country will not fall.
Our unity binds us together. Our common will for peace and equality among all men and women give us solidarity. Our love of life and happiness give us hope for tomorrow.
America is not the same – but we have never been stronger.
