Suzanne Rice

Oct 09 2023

A Grandson’s Question, part 2: The Chaplain Wins the Silver Star – 1971

The Chaplain Wins the Silver Star

At this point, I got more control of myself and went from being a rifleman to being the LT. I scurried over to our other positions. Behind me, I heard a great deal of commotion and spotted the platoon sergeant, SFC R.C. Henry from our other engineer platoon going over the top. He was following the chaplain who had heard the infantry guys yelling and was going to help if he could. Apparently, the attack was at my platoon’s front along the road (from the north-east) and from the west at the infantry positions. Our second platoon was not hit. That was good because behind them was the one mortar tube the infantry had on the hill.

It just happened that they were set to fire a random flare round as was SOP during the night when the enemy attacked. The enemy must have been dumbfounded to be lit up like that!

The chaplain was screaming, and the sergeant was running after the chaplain. Just over the ridge, the chaplain came face to face with a North Vietnamese Army sapper. According to the sergeant, the chaplain grabbed the gook’s AK rifle and belted him with it. Then, he shot him several times. Jumping down into the infantry positions, he confronted more sappers and greased them all, using some profanities at them all the time. He was protecting “his flock” and in doing so apparently retook the infantry positions the North Vietnam Army (NVA) had overrun.

(In the morning the chaplain was awarded the Silver Star on the spot by the Division Commanding General for his action that night.

But because chaplains were non-combatants and unarmed, it was written up supposedly that he led the charge “directing suppressive fire” on enemy positions. He actually did this by shooting them. To make things kosher Sergeant First Class Henry also got the Silver Star for the actual shooting and moving with the chaplain to take back that portion of the hill.)

After this, I tried to move over the hill with one of my NCOs to find out more of what was going on. Behind us near the crest was the spot where a German Sheppard scout dog, assigned to the infantry to sniff out booby traps, and his handler were staying the night. The poor thing was barking incessantly and lunging at anyone near him, although he was restrained by a leash. His handler was down in his hole and would not come up. We shouted to “get up and take care of your dog.” He said “f*%# you.” My NCO pointed his M16 down at him and said, “Get up and take care of the dog or you’ll get it right now.” The handler got up and pulled his dog down into the hole with him.

At this point, we were firing at anything that moved and lobbing grenades into the areas we could not get direct fire on. The adrenalin rush was amazing, and I was really wide awake. The infantry commander tried to get artillery fire on the enemy but again they had attacked from a side of the hill away from our supporting FB and they were too close, but he did get the artillery to fire larger, longer lasting flares. He then called in cobra gunships (unusual at night) and we all got the word “nails.” This meant that the gun ships were making a run that would include spraying flechette rounds (little nail-like pieces) over the area of the hill from where the NVA was attacking.

We got down, but one of my squad leaders was really into it firing his squad’s M60 from the waist and standing up and apparently did not hear the warning. The rounds of “nails” hit below us and one ricocheted into his face and took out one of his eyes.

Several more of my guys had shrapnel wounds. One specialist was bleeding especially badly from the face and had lost his hearing. He had a bad case of jungle acne before this. An RPG had apparently hit the wall of his position behind him, with the majority of the blast going into the hill (these were after all shape charge rounds designed to penetrate a tank and most effects went forward). The debris had splayed back at him in the face. I remember thinking they would take care of that acne now. All in all, my platoon had eight wounded.

The enemy had apparently pulled back, but the ground was littered with unexploded charges. They had thrown mostly plastic explosive blocks with point detonators and when they bounced and did not land exactly right — they did not go off.

The infantry Captain in command called me over and said, “We have to clear the hill, but my guys are engaged.” Yeah, right, I thought — so were mine, although we had not seen any more of the enemy for some time. He told me to form some of my guys and sweep the hill in a line and forward to the end of the hill where the enemy had retreated. I did and we “charged” in a very slow walk toward the sappers’ retreat route which led down the hill under a shower of flares. As we swept forward, we went over the guy I had hit. His body was riddled with hits now. We also came across a head and evidence the sappers had pulled some other comrades’ bodies with them – like the headless one body was not to be found. We did not encounter any new fire. But I sure puckered up going forward toward their last positions.

All communications had been handled by the infantry – calling in support. About this time, I thought I had better report to my company in base camp. My Commanding Officer would be upset to have missed this. We used a 292 antenna but got no response from C Co TOC (Tactical Operations Center). So, we went up on battalion frequency and reported to the 326^th Engr TOC. My CO was informed of the action by his boss, the battalion commander, — ouch.

Just then we had to take down all antennas, as we were getting slicks (UH-1s) in with reinforcements, but more importantly the same birds would take our wounded out. This happened and I never saw those guys again.

We spent a watchful next few hours until dawn. As we sat around the adrenalin wore off and a deep fatigue set in. Earlier, my feet really ached and when I looked down, I had seen my boots were on the wrong feet. We all were a bit giddy and so glad to be alive.

Dawn came. That’s when more reinforcements arrived to “chase” the enemy. They moved slowly down the hill trying to find their trail, but without a lot of enthusiasm. We cleaned up the unexploded charges and surveyed the damage. The enemy had gone right past the equipment and for the bunkers with people. The object was to kill as many of us as possible apparently. The intelligence guys later said that they had probably been on the hill several nights before the attack to locate everything. That spooked us a bit, but now we had an explanation for the trip flares. We were so lucky the illumination round was set to be fired at the moment of attack – it changed the whole fight.

**Illumination That Changed the Battle**

We used our grappling hooks to move the bodies in case they were bobby trapped somehow or had unexploded armed charges. They were safe. These guys were wearing only loin cloths with their bodies darkened and heads shaved on the sides. Some had tourniquets already in place on their arms and legs. They had only one weapon each — a folding stock AK, an RPG launcher, or pistol, but had apparently carried a lot of explosives. They were the real thing – NVA sappers. I remember thinking how motivated they must have been to make such an attack. Their lifeless bodies did not seem real. They were already turning dark as the blood congealed in them and swelling a bit as I remember.

We laid out their gear for G2 (intelligence) photographing and the CG’s inspection – weapons, medic’s stuff, web-like gear. In a few hours, most of the gear disappeared into a GI’s pack as souvenirs.

We used a backhoe to dig a deep hole and we buried eight NVA soldiers in a common grave. (The G2 guy gave us credit for seven kills since someone else might find the headless body and claim a redundant kill. Division was very aware of charges in the press of inflated body counts.) I remember one of my guys dragging the guy I had shot to the hole.

It started to hit me that these NVA soldiers would never take another breath, never see their families, never do anything ever again – and we were responsible. I had not really wanted to take a life – I really only wanted to keep my guys safe and get them home unharmed. Now that goal was over for sure, and killing these men was part of the price to get us home. I felt a bit sick inside in a way, but so very happy it was them in the ground. I felt bad about my guys who were disfigured and wounded, but glad it was not me. I still to this day feel a bit guilty at times that I walked away, and others did not. What was the reason?

We moved to the new positions on the west hill of the saddle that afternoon – and that’s all we did. My platoon sergeant thanked me for making him stay. Chaplain Young held a thanksgiving service – and ALL attended.

Oct 09 2023

A Grandson’s Question, part 1 – 1971

It hit me when one of my young grandsons asked me about the time of Veteran’s Day, “Pop, did you ever shoot or kill anyone?” A completely innocent question for an old soldier that I answered very poorly with “That’s something I do not wish to talk about.” The “something” was that while war is terrible thing, it is a defining experience for most men who live through one – yet most all try to put the violence, fear, guilt, and reality of it behind in a small corner of our lives. We usually grow too old to remember or we pass on without the telling. I wrote this years ago as an attempt to answer his question better at the request of my son, his Dad.

I was back in-country from my late in tour R & R trip to Hawaii in May 1971. We had been on FB Rifle for some time with a rotated infantry company in support – no US artillery as this base was being built for ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) troops eventually. The road to QL1 was open and fairly quiet as the Rome plow had cleared the brush for almost 100 meters on each side and harassing enemy fire had apparently disappeared.

We were just about to finish the “new” Fire Base portion and perimeter on the west hill of the saddle formation for the ARVN.

**Fire Base Rifle Under Construction – West Hill of** **Saddle – May 1971**

There had been some disquieting events in the previous nights – trip flares going off around our positions at odd hours, but our guys on the guns had seen nothing. In any case, we had been in place on the east side of the saddle for quite some time and things had gotten routine. We were unfortunately lax.

My two platoons of combat engineers had a part of the northern and most of the eastern part of the perimeter on the east end hills of the saddle. The infantry company had the rest – about two thirds of the hill. My platoon’s M-60 (machine gun) position was just below my bunker with another foxhole firing position just to my left. Over the crest of the hill were infantry bunkers and positions. Our bunkers were temporary structures consisting of a hole dug by dozer or backhoe with a large metal half culvert as a roof. The roof was covered by at least two layers of sandbags to handle 61 mm mortar rounds that the NVA normally carried. Each end was open. My platoon sergeant and I shared one of them and actually had room to put in two cots. The protective barbed wire was really a joke on this part of the hill as we were planning a move shortly – no more than single strands of concertina razor wire. We were pretty vulnerable.

The day of 21 May was a bit tense between my platoon sergeant and me. We were about to move the next day to the “new” bunkers and fortifications on the west end of the saddle we had constructed. They were dug in deep and built out of sturdy lumber and covered by many inches of sandbags and soil. A first class set of positions if I did not say so myself. That was going to be a big day for the job. There was a monthly NCO call in the rear the next night and my platoon sergeant had wanted to go in a day early to kick back, but I had told him I needed him. Besides if he left the next day, he would still make the NCO call and get together. He missed the last logistics bird flight to the rear, but he really was annoyed at me for missing an extra night of clean clothes and a shower – not to mention the drinks.

We also had our battalion’s Protestant chaplain visiting us, CPT Jimmie L. Young. He had held a small “service” that day. He was a very gregarious man and a bit old for a new chaplain. I think he was some sort of universal Christian denomination.

I checked the guard assignments, checked the men and equipment and went to sleep with few words spoken. It was hot so I removed my shirt and boots and slept in my jungle fatigue pants on my cot. This night has returned to me in different forms many times after I got home, and once when coming out of a surgical procedure and sedation – Mary Ellen was there to wake me most times. However, I have not had flashbacks for some time and decided to actually write about it several years ago.

About midnight all hell broke loose. We were awakened to loud explosions all around and men yelling. For some reason, the sky was lit by a flare. We lay there for a moment and my platoon sergeant said, “I sure do not want to die in here,” and crawled forward. I was scared and stunned. I agreed in my mind with him and had that same thought as mortars, explosives, or RPGs (Rocket Propelled Grenades) exploded on the hill. I pulled on my boots, threw a bandolier of ammo over my shoulder and grabbed my M16 putting on my steel pot (no shirt – quite the “Rambo” look, I guess).

My sergeant dove to the right and into the M60 machine gun position. I dove to the left and into a two-man firing position as a third man – a bit crowded.

In the light of the flares, we could see the enemy running all around. My heart was beating like crazy, and the fear was driving my adrenalin through the roof. The sergeant was shooting the M60 with the soldier supposedly on guard at that position crouching down in the hole — passing him ammo as fast as the belt could go into the breach. He was yelling “Get ‘em, Sarge!” This was strangely ironic and significant because this particular guy had some resentment towards the sergeant the weeks before for riding him hard. It was the old “hate the ‘lifers’ syndrome” – but not under fire, it turned out.

I saw a gook dive behind a log about twenty feet from me. I emptied a clip at him, and his head split open. Later, we would find his body hit by at least 40 rounds. I was not the only one firing at him, so I really do not know if my rounds actually killed him to answer my grandson’s question – but in my mind I have always felt and, in a way, feared I did.

Aug 16 2023

Off to War – A Break in the Action – 1972

The morning after we stymied the planned enemy assault on our district headquarters, thanks to the available support of the US Air Force, an assessment of the situation was necessary. The cluster bombs that the A37 Dragonfly had scattered above the enemy force to the south of our compound could be most devastating. Consequently, just after daybreak, the Vietnamese sent out a patrol to recon the previously bombed area just outside our perimeter. As I was on the radio with higher headquarters, I refrained from joining them, awaiting their report upon completion of the patrol. My coordination with headquarters involved preparing for the arrival of elements from the 18^th ARVN division, which had been dispatched to counter the province-wide hostile activity of the enemy forces. The majority of the 18^th RVN had been dispatched earlier to An Loc to the west of Saigon to counter severe coordinated enemy attacks at that location.

Upon the return of the patrol, I was briefed through my interpreter that while they found no bodies or equipment, there were numerous blood trails and signs of things being dragged away – more than likely enemy corpses. Evidently, they had their own version of “leave no man behind”. I passed this information to higher headquarters and began reviewing written reports that my translator had prepared from Vietnamese Intel documents. These reports confirmed that the enemy had infiltrated several villages and hamlets in my district and the rest of the province. Removing them would take quite an effort, but the increase in friendly troops, who had more experience and were better trained than the Regional and Popular Forces, would make success more likely.

And during this whole adventure, there was this unconscious nagging in the back of my mind, that it was quite possible I wouldn’t be able to take R& R. I couldn’t begin to imagine how traumatic it would be for Jo to arrive in Hawaii trying to link up with her husband and not finding him. The worst part of it was that there was no easy way to even alert her to the possibility that I wouldn’t be there. In theory, I could meander through USO channels or perhaps the Red Cross. However, with more pressing issues at hand I wasn’t able to spend a lot of time on speculation.

As the first elements of the 18^th RVN began moving through my district, I was immersed in bilingual coordination to include talking to the 18^th’s US advisor, call sign Buffalo 6. Once the lead elements passed the district compound moving in the direction of the National Police Headquarters (NPHQS), they met heavy resistance, and the advance stalled in place. After some discussion among all the players over radios and through interpreters, Vietnamese air support in the form of A1E Skyraider aircraft arrived.

**South Vietnamese Air Force – A1E Skyraider** (Alamy.com)

The ordinance carried was several Mark 82 500-pound bombs. The ground shook and the noise was overwhelming when they hit. Once the bombing runs were completed, the Vietnamese forces slowly moved out and began checking the rubble of what once was an intact village. The logic to justify the destruction of so many homes and buildings was that the US would rebuild them as soon as practical.

The devastation was such that the enemy effort was thwarted in place and they promptly withdrew. Surprisingly, within a few days, things were more or less back to “normal”. Amazingly, the timing was just right. I checked with my boss, the Province Senior Advisor, LTC Giac Modica (who coincidentally had been a first regimental Tactical Officer while we were at school) regarding my R&R, and he authorized me to put the wheels in motion. A few days later, I was on my flight to Hawaii.

Jo had made arrangements for a rental car and a room at the Honolulu Hilton, and by the time her flight landed I was there to greet her. We made our way to the hotel, got settled in and initially just relaxed, somewhat worn out from our multi-hour travels.

When we first started planning our “together time” for R&R, we made a list of “must do” events. Two of them included watching the original Hawaii 5-0 TV show, and visiting the Hawaiian surf Mecca of Waimea Bay, “where the best surfers in the world come to stay” as noted by Jan & Dean in their 1964 top 20 hit, Ride the Wild Surf, where we could get surfing lessons and “hang 10”. We were able to do the first at the officers’ club bar at Fort Shafter, but the second was more elusive. It turns out that because of geography and the weather, the May-June timeframe is the worst time in Hawaii for surfing and getting to “conquer those waves some 30 feet high”. The surf instructor apologized for the waves but did provide me sufficient instruction to allow me to stand up on the board for a few minutes without falling over. Throughout our stay we played the role of awestruck tourists, seeing the various sites, enjoying real food (for me) at class restaurants, soaking up the sun and just being together. When the time came for us to go our separate ways, we consoled ourselves with the realization that my tour was more than half over. Since on my return trip, we crossed the International Date Line, I‘m actually 12 hours younger. However, I did manage to scare Jo the first night we were at the hotel. We had just bedded down, when a car in the parking lot backfired. I was out of the bed, on the floor grabbing for my weapon and flak vest trying to stuff myself underneath the bed frame. Rather calmly, she said “It’s all right honey. It’s okay, you’re okay.” Even to this day, I startle when I hear a loud noise. Nowadays, it’s called post-traumatic stress disorder – PTSD.

After a week of R&R, I returned to Vietnam and rejoined my team. The tactical situation had settled down somewhat, with both the Vietnamese and the US making some adjustments in response to recent events. Eventually, during late summer, the district teams were withdrawn back to the province headquarters as had been done originally, and we continued to complete our mission based on that structure. By the end of summer, the North Vietnamese effort was contained, but with the situation being what it was, none of us got a drop – reduced tour. In fact, based on return transport availability, I wound up spending one more day beyond a year on my tour.

There are two events of my tour that I still remember; one occurred when I was in the middle of conducting an airstrike, when over my radio came the call, “Hawkeye27, this is (garbled) 79. What is your status-what’s going on? While one of our team advisors had the call sign Hawkeye 79, I didn’t recognize this particular call. Additionally I was too busy. When I didn’t immediately respond, the radio said rather testily, “this is Danger 79 give me a SITREP (situation report) ASAP. Since I didn’t recognize Danger 79 and I needed a clear channel, I responded, “this is a tactical frequency, get the ‘heck’ off of it and use the admin frequency.” It wasn’t until much later, I found out that call sign Danger 79 belonged to the Third Regional Assistance Command (TRAC) commanding general, James Hollingsworth. I was never counseled about my directive to “get the ’heck’ off my tactical frequency”, so I guess I dodged a different kind of bullet.

The second event had occurred earlier in my tour when a local VC unit decided to harass us with 82 mm mortar fire. The Vietnamese intelligence officer appeared in our Tactical Operations Center (TOC) telling me that the mortar crew was slightly north of our compound, because some of his troops had seen the mortar flash. He wanted me to see if there was anything I could do. I put on my flack vest and helmet, left the TOC intending to climb to the roof of what used to be a carport attached to the District Chief’s house so I would have a better vantage point.

I had ascended two rungs of the ladder, when I experienced a tremendous force accompanied by a hellacious noise. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the ground. When I was able to regain my composure, I stumbled back into the TOC to collect myself. It seems that an 82 mm mortar round aimed at the District Chief’s house impacted between the walls of our hooch and a steel blast wall in front of it. The preponderance of the blast force was absorbed by the steel wall, but the remainder was enough to knock me off the ladder. I was physically unhurt, with the exception of the few shrapnel scratches on my arm, since my flak vest absorbed the other stray metal pieces. I still have the tailfin assembly of the mortar round, but the scratches healed shortly thereafter.

And I lived to fight another day.

* The plaque with the tailfin assembly from the mortar round is something I had made up as a tongue-in-cheek parody of various awards. The caption refers to the enemy unit (74A Artillery 274^th Main Force Viet Cong Regiment) that was firing the mortar rounds at us. In a matter of speaking, they did “present” the mortar to me – by firing it.

Aug 12 2023

Memories of 9-11-2001 from VA and TX

by Chuck and Diana Hastings

The day started pretty much like any other morning with my husband, Chuck Hastings, on a business trip to Fort Worth, TX. He was due home that evening. The boys were gone – one in college and one living and working in Denver, CO.

I went to work – at an undisclosed location – for the CIA. When the secretary said – ‘HEY! Come look at this on TV’, many of us crowded into the front office area. I was stunned to see the 2nd aircraft slam into the World Trade Center. Almost immediately, we were notified to evacuate our building as we were in the flight path of Dulles Airport, a possible target.

I stayed in the office, as I had no one to go home to. I immediately called my oldest son, Aaron, in Denver, CO, and told him to GO HOME! I asked if he had seen the planes that had crashed into the World Trade Center? I warned him if this was a coordinated attack, he could be in danger, as he worked close to the Denver Federal Building – I begged him to PLEASE go home!

911 Irving Texas — **Denver Federal Building**

Then I called Chuck and told him to keep his rental car and buy some underwear. There was no way he was flying home that afternoon. CIA had advised us that ALL air traffic had been grounded.

I called our second son, Clay, a sophomore at Virginia Tech, and told him NOT to come home – it was safer to stay in Blacksburg. . . for now.

I then called a close friend, a retired Army LTC working for Defense Intelligence Agency at the Pentagon. His secretary said he was in a meeting and could not take my call. I told her it was urgent – a matter of life and death. She put me through. I told Jerry about the plane crashes and that the CIA felt the Pentagon was also a target. In turn, he told his meeting members to turn on the TV. I asked Jerry to please, please, evacuate from the Pentagon, ASAP. He said he had to get off the phone and find out what was happening. One of his meeting attendees was on the other side of the Pentagon and was participating in the meeting via telephone with Jerry and his colleagues.

Later, Jerry told me they heard and “felt” the plane slam into the Pentagon and his friend and colleague on the other side of the Pentagon was gone – dead from the impact of the plane that crashed on the western part of the Pentagon.

About then, my son in Denver called me back and asked if I had talked to his boss?? Apparently, his boss sent everyone home, as they were ‘too close to the Federal Building!’ NO, I did NOT talk to my sons’ boss – Aaron gave my CIA credentials too much credit! (smile)

Since there was nothing I could do from home, and I felt the need to help somehow, I called a friend that produced the Presidents Daily Bulletin (PDB) to see if he needed any extra hands to cope with today’s activities.

Specific clearances and accesses are required to handle the PDB. I had those clearances and accesses. The CIA Headquarters had already been evacuated, as they thought they might be a target of the missing aircraft. Bill said he would call me if he needed me. He said they would publish the PDB, but he had no idea who it would be delivered to, or where it would be delivered. I had a previous CIA position that included the tracking and record keeping of the PDB. I understood the dilemma.

I was the last one to leave our office that day. I locked up the office and without realizing it, I headed for the Pentagon. I had been stationed at the Army Communication Center in 5A910 for 4 years (1968 to 1972). For you non-Pentagon folks, 5A910 is the address of the Comm Center. As the NCOIC (E-6) of the Maintenance Shop, I knew every nook and cranny of the Pentagon from the rat-infested basements to the roof where my antennas were located. I felt like an old friend had been hurt and I needed to help.

**A Wounded Old Friend** (U.S. Navy Bob Houlihan)

There was already a Security perimeter around the Pentagon when I arrived, and they would not let anyone in. I watched from a nearby hill as my old friend burned.

I was surprised that I didn’t see an airplane – not even a tail at the crash site. I learned later that the impact was so intense, nothing was left of the aircraft which had been turned into a missile.

My friend, Jerry, got out of his side of the Pentagon and eventually got home. Later that night, I joined him and his wife, Joan, at their home. We talked over the horrendous events of the day and watched the news late into the night. We knew our world would never be the same again.

Meanwhile, Chuck kept his rental car and extended his stay in Fort Worth.

Knowing some of his business associates were from the metro Washington, DC area, he volunteered to share his absconded rental car in riding across the country. Chuck planned their route and hotel reservations to accommodate one rider who had left his car at the Nashville airport. And off the four went for 2 days of listening to patriotic music and news bulletins about what was going on in NYC, WDC and Shanksville, PA. The traffic on the roads was particularly sparse, as if nobody wanted to be on the road. The skies were silent, and the absence of contrails was almost eerie. Arriving in the metro WDC area, the remaining two passengers were dropped off, happy to be re-united with their families. Chuck dropped the rental car at Hertz at Dulles Airport. Amazingly, Hertz did not charge him for the rental, even though it was not returned to DFW as planned. Thank you, Hertz!

The next day, on the 12th of September, I talked at length with my son at VA Tech. I convinced him that dropping out of school and joining the Army was NOT a good idea! I explained to him that Uncle Sam needed him with an education! Clay is now an Army Major and a Dentist. He is also Airborne and Air Assault qualified. Important skills for a dentist! He spent 9 months in Iraq and Kuwait and is now with the 7th Special Forces. As a Dentist, he has already made a parachute jump into water, a feat neither his father, father-in-law, brother-in-law, nor sister-in-law accomplished while on active duty. We are so proud of Clay’s dedication to duty. He is a GREAT soldier!

9/11 was indeed a turning point for us all.

Aug 12 2023

On An Ordinary Day – 9-11-2001

by Cindy Maxson

“Good morning. What’s on your agenda today?”

“You know, same old, same old, meetings, lunch with a group that’s in town. I want to get in early, so I have time to get some work done before everyone else shows up.”

“I’ll get your coffee started while you get ready.”

He was ready in no time, and I had his coffee and OJ on the counter for him to gulp and run. As I watched him leave, he tapped the brake lights as a way of saying goodbye again. The routine was comfortable and the same most mornings. After he left, I checked my calendar to see what was on my agenda. It was September 11, 2001. Nothing urgent so I made a cup of tea and put on Good Morning America to get my daily feed of news and current affairs. When the show was about to end the commentator looked shocked. She said they would be extending the broadcast because they just got word that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. Soon, an announcement that a second plane had also hit the towers. I thought, “Oh my God! Bonnie works there and so does Tony, and I think Mary is going for an interview there today.”

I called my husband and said to find a television “you won’t believe what’s happened.” He said, “We already have one on. Everyone is in my office watching.” As the morning progressed, the news just got worse – the plane over PA, the Pentagon………

How quickly the everyday routine dissolves when tragedy strikes. Suddenly, the lazy half daze of what is routine crystalizes into sharp focus and we begin to take stock of all that we cherish.

The country is being attacked. How can this be happening? Who would do this? Are my friends ok? Where is my family? Watching the towers crumble was horrifying. I sat silently as I thought of all those I knew who might be in peril and the city I had always loved so much

New York City had always been the ultimate treat in my life. I lived on the New Jersey side of the river from New York City in the town of Rahway. It was about twenty miles outside of NYC on the commuter line. My mother would take my sister and I to plays, museums, lunch at the Automat, Radio City Music Hall, the Statue of Liberty and occasionally dinner at Mamma Leone’s. It was always a dress up occasion. We would walk the city streets in our dress shoes until we could no longer feel our feet, but it was worth it just to be there.

**New York Automat** (historyassociates)

**Mamma Leone’s Ristorante** (mnhallblog)

**Radio City Music Hall** (worldstrides)

New York had a rhythm that was best described by the music Leonard Bernstein composed for the song “New York, New York, It’s a Wonderful Town”. As you watch people walk the streets, you can almost see the up and down tempo.

Like so many other families, my ancestors had a history in New York City. They had immigrated there for what they hoped would be a better life. They came through Ellis Island to what was the ever changing ethnic and geographic landscape that was Manhattan.

**Ellis Island in 1907** (statueofliberty.org)

They made a life there. One grandfather was a baker, the other a trainman on the New York to Washington route. One grandmother was a hotel maid and the other a hat designer.

Part of what makes New York City so culturally rich is its ethnic diversity. It is thought to be the most linguistically diverse in the world with over 800 languages and dialects spoken (Wikipedia). Yet on the days leading up to 9/11, there was no common language found to divert the devastation that was that day.

Often, we live in blissful ignorance of the world around us. I could not have easily found Afghanistan on a map prior to 9/11. I had no idea what philosophy could manifest such hate. I’m sure many of the nearly 3000 people who were targets in the multiple locations might have said the same. Some of the people affected that day were friends and acquaintances.

I met Bonnie my first year at school in New York. Our school was located on East 53rd street just off 5th Avenue. She opted not to come back to school the second year. Instead, she went to work for a bank located in the World Trade Center. By the greatest of luck, she was not at work that day.

Mary was my first friend in the neighborhood. We met when we were four years old. We have shared a lifetime of experiences together. She was headed for an interview on the morning of 9/11 at the World Trade Center. She stopped at her recruiter’s office first, not far from her intended destination. While in his office they heard what sounded like an explosion. That sound was the first plane hitting the first tower. When she left the recruiter’s office, she heard the police trying to calm people. They said that there had been an accident and a plane had clipped one of the buildings. By the time the second building was hit, it was obvious it was no accident. She stood on the street watching as the buildings began to crumble. She began to fear she was in a war zone. That day would impact her life for many years to come.

Tony was my husband’s business associate. He worked for a firm in the World Trade Center that had a long history with my husband’s company He came to our city more often than my husband went to New York so on occasion my husband would bring him home for dinner. Tony knew that I had a connection to New York and suggested that I accompany my husband the next time there was business there. I had not been back in many years. He invited us to his beautiful home, a brownstone, before going to dinner with him and his wife. One of my last memories of Tony was in my own kitchen. He was talking to my husband while I cooked. He said, “I just turned 50. My twin boys are 8. I worry that I can’t keep up with them.” Who could have ever imagined that this man with so much to live for would have gone to work one day and never come home again.

How do you talk about the unspeakable? I learned a long time ago that my husband never did. As close as we were, some things were just too painful to share. This would be another one of those times.

My husband never met a stranger. If he saw the cafeteria lady, the elevator operator, or the receptionist at a company he did business with, the next time he saw them he would remember their faces and know their names. How much more difficult it must have been for him that day because not only did he lose a work friend, Tony, but he would remember the faces of all those lost who he had been in meetings with and those who kept the day-to-day running of the companies. He would be able to picture the offices and imagine the chaos.

Until I started writing this, I don’t think I ever gave myself permission to put into words how I felt about that day. After all, I was still standing. I wasn’t in the city that day. It didn’t affect me directly. Did it? It’s amazing how much we can suppress. In all these years, I have never been back to New York. September 11, 2001 became for me, as Don McLean wrote in the lyrics for the song “American Pie” “the day the music died.”

On what started out as an ordinary day, the world, ours included, had changed forever.

Remembering Tub

July 17, 2023