The Days Forward

West Point Class of 1969

Suzanne Rice

Morelock – 9-11 – Rising from the Ashes – 2001

The venue from which I learned of the attack on the Twin Towers and then watched it unfold on TV is haunted by an eerie coincidence of shared fiery destruction and subsequent Phoenix-like rising from the ashes.

         Like our parents and grandparents who remembered exactly where they were and precisely what they were doing when they first heard the news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941 (killing 2,403 US military, mostly US Navy sailors, and civilians while wounding 1,178 others), we members of the Long Gray Line surely vividly recall where we were and what we were doing on September 11, 2001 when we learned of the deadliest terrorist attack in history. The coordinated hijacking of four commercial airlines by 19 Islamist terrorist destroyed all four aircraft, both World Trade Towers and a large section of the Pentagon’s west wall, while killing nearly 3,000 people and injuring thousands more. Modern communications technology and today’s 24/7 saturation news coverage of breaking events stimulate our recollections through vivid images as those of us who learned early of the initial attack watched the horrific events unfold in near real time on live television – feeling shocked, frustrated and helpless at not being able to shoot back.

Yet, my own recollections of the attacks are further haunted by an eerie historical coincidence that links the 9-11-01 attacks to the venue from which I watched it unfold that morning: like the Trade Towers and the Pentagon, the historic building I watched the attacks from had earlier been totally destroyed through fiery inferno and a rain of flaming destruction falling from the sky – twice! – but each time it had been destroyed by flames and explosions, it had risen, Phoenix-like, from its ashes. But it was only after the September 11 twin towers (resurrected as One World Trade Center) and the damaged Pentagon targets also “arose Phoenix-like from their ashes” years later that the ironic coincidence between the 9-11-01 attacks and the venue from which I watched it unfold, the twice-destroyed-twice-arisen Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury struck an eerie, haunting chord with me.

On September 11, 2001, I was working in my office just over one year into my first post-retirement job as the Executive Director of the Winston Churchill Memorial & Library (today its title is The National Churchill Museum) located on the campus of Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri (population 12,000).

Jerry at the Entrance of the Churchill Memorial and Library1

The Churchill Memorial, officially opened in 1969, was established to memorialize the site of Churchill’s famous “Iron Curtain” speech (he titled it then, “Sinews of Peace”) which he (accompanied by US President Harry S. Truman) delivered at Westminster College on March 5, 1946 warning that an “Iron Curtain” had descended across Europe separating the western democracies from the Soviet Union’s totalitarian communist dictatorship and its puppet states.

Churchill Statue, Church Tower and Bell Cupola in 2001

In 1964, College officials and other supporters located what they considered an appropriate venue within which to house the Churchill Memorial – the Blitz-bombed, roofless remains of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury, which then sat in London about a quarter-mile northeast of world-famed St. Paul’s Cathedral. London city officials and the British government granted permission for the remains of the church to be moved to Fulton, where the church was meticulously reassembled and carefully restored to its pre-Blitz-bombing design.

The Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury dates back to a parish church originally built in the 12th century but which was destroyed by a fiery inferno in the September 1666 Great Fire of London which gutted the old medieval City of London.

London in Flames 1666 (Artist unknown, 1675)

The church’s first “Phoenix-like” rising from those ashes occurred in the 1670s when it was redesigned and rebuilt by the famed English astronomer, mathematician, physicist and architectural genius, Sir Christopher Wren as one of the 52 London churches he undertook in the rebuilding of post-Great Fire London. Wren’s redesigned, rebuilt, rededicated Church of St. Mary, Aldermanbury, which also incorporated foundation stones and crypt steps from the original 12th century parish church, was completed in 1677. There it stood for nearly 300 years — until the night of December 29-30, 1940.

In accordance with Nazi Führer Adolf Hitler’s directive to concentrate the Luftwaffe’s ongoing Blitz bombings of England on area/terror bombing, 136 German bombers dropped 100,000 incendiary bombs on London that night, targeting mainly non-residential areas containing mostly public buildings such as churches and government offices. Although that targeting meant civilian casualties were uncharacteristically light (160 killed, 500 wounded), the December 29-30, 1940 Luftwaffe raid destroyed or heavily damaged hundreds of buildings, burning out a larger area than the 1666 Great Fire, causing it to be deemed “The Second Great Fire of London.” This is the same Blitz raid that damaged St. Paul’s Cathedral which is famously seen burning in Herbert Mason’s iconic photo that’s been described as “a symbol of togetherness, survival and suffering.”

St Paul’s Survives: Herbert Mason’s photograph of St. Paul’s Cathedral taken on 29/30 December 1940

But St. Paul’s was more fortunate than the Church of St. Mary, Aldermanbury which was completely gutted and left roofless by the incendiary bomb’s conflagration. From that night in 1940 until the remains and all usable stones of St. Mary’s were shipped to Fulton in 1965 to be rebuilt and restored, the church was left a smoke-blackened ruin consisting of little else but a foundation and four walls.

The Church of St. Mary, Aldermanbury’s second Phoenix-like rising from its ashes took place from 1965 to 1969 when its stones – including some of the foundation stones and crypt steps of the original 12th century parish church – were shipped to Fulton and meticulously rebuilt to Wren’s original design as an active church and to house the Winston Churchill Memorial & Library. It was dedicated in 1969. Noted Wren biographer, Lisa Jardine (On a Grander Scale: The Outstanding Life of Sir Christopher Wren, Harper, 2003), calls this rebuilt church in Fulton the most “authentic” Wren church standing today since it was rebuilt exactly to Wren’s 1677 specifications (i.e. none of the unnecessary changes the well-meaning but self-absorbed and esthetically-ignorant Victorians had made, such as the kitschy stained-glass windows they added to replace Wren’s original, characteristic clear-glass windows, were included in the restored church).

Reconstructed Church of St. Mary, Aldermanbury in Fulton, MO2

Therefore, in an ironic historical coincidence with the 9-11-01 terrorist attacks, the church twice arose from its ashes just as One World Trade Center and the damaged Pentagon did out of the rubble of the terrorist attack. Yet, that eerie “connection” to the September 11 attacks occurred to me some years later and was not my initial reaction when my Churchill Memorial Curator and Assistant Director breathlessly pushed through the door into my office located in the church’s undercroft (a fancy name for “church basement” which contains the Memorial offices, the Churchill Museum, the Library collection of books and Churchill papers and the Clementine Churchill Reading Room) around 8 a.m. (Central Time) that day exclaiming, “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!” He then quickly raced back out, heading to the staff offices’ TV set to watch more of the unfolding coverage.

I was just then putting finishing touches on a Power-Point slide show for a presentation I was to make to the RAF Eagle Squadron Association, the group of WWII American fighter pilot veterans who’d volunteered in 1940-1941 before the US entered WWII and flew for the RAF in the Battle of Britain in 1940-1942, then were amalgamated into the US Army Air Forces in September 1942.

American Pilots of No. 71 Eagle Squadron Rush to Hawker Hurricane, 17 March 1941

Given the RAF Eagle Squadron’s and the Churchill Memorial’s Church of St. Mary’s obvious connection to the Blitz, the church earlier had been designated the squadron association’s “official chapel.” I was scheduled to fly to Reno, Nevada the next day to address their reunion at Lake Tahoe and, especially, get a once-in-a-lifetime chance to interview these heroic veterans, so I was working against the clock to get my slide show done. Needless to say, with all commercial flights soon grounded, my trip to Lake Tahoe and attendance at the Eagle Squadron reunion and a chance to get historic interviews never took place.

My immediate reaction to my Curator’s breathless announcement about “a plane crashed into the World Trade Center” was, typically, the historian in me quickly thinking of historical precedents (I’d managed to get a Master’s and a PhD in history while on active duty, spent my last five years active duty tour, 1994-1999, as head of the history department at Ft. Leavenworth’s Command & General Staff College, and was then also teaching history courses at Westminster as an adjunct professor in addition to my Executive Director “day job”). So, being naturally history-minded, my first reaction was to mutter “Not again!” as I recalled the July 28, 1945 aircraft crash accident in New York City in which a US Army Air Forces B-25D-20 Mitchell medium bomber with a crew of 3 flying in heavy fog crashed at 9:40 a.m. that day into the north side of the Empire State Building – then the world’s tallest building until, ironically, the World Trade Center’s first tower was topped out in 1970 – embedding itself into the building in the 18-by-20-foot hole the crash had created between the 78th and 80th floors.

B-25 BOMBER CRASHES INTO EMPIRE STATE BUILDING [9:40 a.m. JULY 28, 1945]

 The crash killed 14 people, including all 3 crewmen, and injured two-dozen more. That was the only “historical precedent” that came to my mind  but that “another accident” thought vanished when my Curator raced back into my office a few minutes later crying out, “Another plane just crashed into the World Trade Center’s other tower!” It then became obvious that these two plane crashes were definitely not accidents – clearly, the Twin Towers had been the targets of a planned, coordinated attack, presumably the work of some as-yet-unidentified terrorist organization.

         Immediately ending my speculation on “accidental plane crashes” historical precedents, I dropped everything I was working on for the Eagle Squadron speech and raced to the staff offices’ TV set to watch the minute-by-minute news coverage. We watched in disbelief as the deadly attacks’ time-line was repeatedly recounted by stunned TV anchors and on-scene reporters, then looked on in shock and horror as the attacks continued to play out: 8:46 (Eastern time) – North Tower crash (American flight 11); 9:03 – South Tower crash (United flight 175); 9:37 – Pentagon crash (American flight 77); 10:03 — Flt 93, Stonycreek Township, PA crash (United flight 93). Later, the tally of casualties was determined to be 2,977 victims killed (plus 19 dead Al-Qaeda jihadist terrorist hijackers – 15 of them Saudis, one Egyptian, one Lebanese, and two UAE citizens) and thousands of victims injured (representing 102 countries).

I later found out that among the 125 victims killed while working in the Pentagon that day (in addition to the 64 passengers, crew and hijackers on flight 77 of course) was Lt. Col. ret. Gary F. Smith, a 55-year-old DA civilian in the Army staff’s Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel (ODCSPER) who was attending a meeting with his boss in an office unfortunately located at flight 77’s point of initial impact along the Pentagon’s west wall. Gary was my friend and officemate for three years during a previous Pentagon tour in ODCSPER’s Leadership Division when both of us were still on active duty.

My friend Gary features in a final, unexplainable September 11 coincidence I experienced on the attack’s one-year anniversary. As an ex officio member of the Westminster College cabinet, I regularly attended the weekly cabinet meetings in the college president’s conference room. Since that week’s meeting occurred on September 11, 2002, it coincided with an ongoing ceremony of remembrance, organized by the college students, which was taking place on campus grounds, consisting of shifts of students reading aloud over a loudspeaker the long list of names of all 2,977 9-11-01 fatality victims, listed alphabetically. After the cabinet meeting had adjourned and at just the exact moment I happened to walk outside, I heard read over the loudspeaker, “…Gary F. Smith, the Pentagon…”

Rest In Peace, Gary, and all victims of the 9-11 attacks

1 The undercroft of the Christopher Wren-designed Church of St. Mary, Aldermanbury houses

the National Churchill Museum, staff offices, and a gift shop.

2 In 1965-1969, the London church was moved to Fulton, Missouri’s Westminster College campus, rebuilt with original foundation stones and restored to its 1677 Christopher Wren design to house the Winston Churchill Memorial & Library.

Remembering “The Forgotten War”

It was a dreary summer morning in July. I was out early for my daily walk before it got too hot to be outside. I headed to the city hall/library complex to walk and to return a CD to the library. As I approached, I first saw some caution tape near the city flagpole. What is happening here on a random Saturday morning in July? It isn’t Fourth of July or Flag Day, Memorial Day or Veterans’ Day. What is it that they are commemorating on July 27?  As I got closer, I noticed that the men had VFW hats on their heads. Still couldn’t figure out what they might be remembering.

Saluting the Flag (courtesy of Mark Gelhardt)

    I went about getting my steps in for the day while thinking it was none of my business what they were doing there early on a Saturday morning. I couldn’t help myself; I had to find out, so I walked a little closer and got there just as their ceremony was finishing. I noticed someone I knew. He is a deacon at our church. I walked up to him and asked what they were doing. With a bright smile of pride on his face he said, “Today is the seventy-first anniversary of the end of the Korea War.”

Seventy-one Years Later (courtesy of Mark Gelhardt)

They were all veterans of the Korean War, and they were there to remember their fallen friends and commemorate their service to our country. They didn’t have to know each other from their days in Korea, but they were brothers in patriotism for their country.

      I hadn’t finished my walk so I left his side wishing that I had asked sooner because I would have liked to join in their memorial to their fallen friends and their service. I spent the rest of my walk thinking of my own time in Korea and my connection to these wonderful veterans, most of them in their mid-90’s. Having lived in Korea for almost a year while my husband was assigned to the Second Infantry Division 1973-74, twenty years after the end of the Korean War, I had a special place in my heart for them. Had I known about their ceremony, I might have shared with them what Korea was like 20 years after their service there. Too bad.

Remembering Their Comrades (courtesy of Mark Gelhardt)

     I was three years old when the Korean War started and wasn’t aware of what was going on across the world. It did come into focus when I got to first grade. One of my classmates had intimate knowledge of the Korean War. Her father was a veteran fighter pilot from World War II. In fact, her parents met in France when her mother was an Army nurse there. In Korea, he was flying a B-26B Invader with the 13th Bomber Squadron, 3rd Bomber Group over North Korea. He was killed on a night intruder mission and presumed dead on February 28,1954, having been shot down on August 10, 1952. Can you imagine the pain for that little family in a small Midwestern farm town as they waited for news? My friend was only six years old and her younger sister just three when news of their father was official. It was a sadness their friends helped his family carry for many years.

      The presence of the men at the flagpole also reminded me of before I got on the plane to fly unauthorized to Korea in June 1973. Before I left my hometown (same Midwestern town), one of the teachers at the high school where I was teaching while Bill was in Korea came up to me and said he had heard I was leaving for Korea at the end of the school year. He said he was a veteran of the Korean War and told me a little about his wartime experiences. He showed me a couple of black and white photos of his war-time experience – several of them near the Deoksugung Palace. They showed the devastation of war, just what he had encountered. He asked me to go to the Deoksugung Palace while I was in Korea so that I could tell him about it when I returned; he described it as on the outskirts of the capital, Seoul. Those were my only instructions.

Deoksugung Palace

           

By the time I got there in 1973, the Palace was in the middle of Seoul, a bustling, modern capital. Like many who served in the Korean War, he had not spoken much about his service, but he was proud of answering the call of his country.

     I had a unique year in Korea (other stories may be found here on thedayforward). It was nothing like the years of the Korean War, but also nothing like I had experienced at home in the U.S. or in Germany. It was still, twenty years after the War, a more primitive place with dirt roads, open-air markets and only a little Western influence. Kimchi was made in each home in large clay vats kept on the roof to “marinate” in the sun for months before it was ready to eat. Kimchee along with rice were staples of the Korean diet and each family had their own recipe. There was no central heating; instead, most houses used large charcoal blocks for heating the floor (ondol heating). No indoor plumbing. There were few personal automobiles; no soldiers had a personal vehicle. To get anywhere, we had to hail a “kimchee cab” or get on the bus. Yet, Korea was not at war and American soldiers were still there at the DMZ as well as scattered on posts all throughout the country to keep the peace. These were successors-brothers of the men near the flagpole on that July morning.

     Forty years later, our son, also a field artilleryman, was stationed in Korea. Oddly enough, he was assigned to the same battalion in which his father had served those many years before. In the intervening years, 1/15 FA had moved nearer the DMZ at Camp Casey/Hovey. After he got to Korea, I asked him to go visit the family in whose home I had lived in 1973-74. Things had changed even more spectacularly than in the twenty years between the Korean War and my own time there. When I suggested a trip to Ui Jong Bu to visit our friends, he replied, “I’m sure they are not there, anymore.”  In place of the small, family homes surrounding the open-air market (not far from Camp Red Cloud), had grown an 11-story shopping mall. Underneath the mall was a high-speed rail line going from Dongducheon (Camp Casey) to Seoul. (While I was there in the 1970’s, the bus from Ui Jong Bu to Seoul took one hour – from Camp Casey add another hour.)  On their high-speed rail, it took only 15 minutes from Camp Casey to Seoul!

      The world in Korea had changed in those years and was now modern. Thanks go to the men at the flagpole on the dreary morning in July. Their love of our Country and their willingness to sacrifice brought better times for the South Korean people. Remembering and commemorating those they lost in combat was important to them 71 years later. (36,634 brave Americans gave their lives because their country asked them to serve in Korea.) It is often called “The Forgotten War”, but on this cloudy Saturday, it was not forgotten – their service will always live in the hearts of these patriots. God bless them.

Thank a soldier.

Editors note: The Korean War Veterans Memorial is located in Washington, D.C. southeast of the Lincoln Memorial. It is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It depicts a company of soldiers in the Korean War. It was dedicated in 1995. From my experience living in Korea for almost a year, through a hot summer and a frigid winter, it was a terrible place for a war (Is there a good place?). The summers are oppressively hot and humid (no air conditioning in 1973 or 1953); the winters were terribly cold. When Bill was pay officer, he had to drive in an open jeep from 4P1 (a forward operating base near the DMZ where a battery would be at all times to counter any invasion from the North) to Camp Stanley (about 20 miles) to get cash to pay his soldiers. It was 35 degrees below zero for that trip – he was almost frozen when he got to Ui Jong Bu – then, he had to drive back! At the Memorial, you will see the soldiers in all their gear. They needed every layer to survive the frigid weather. Go see the Memorial next time you are in D.C. https://www.nps.gov/kowa/kowahome.htm

The Parable of the Dumb Lieutenant and the Good Samaritan – 1970

     T’was in the summer of 1970 that I, with my wife, Pat, and newborn baby Jim, traveled the long road from Fort Bragg, North Carolina to Northern Virginia seeking refuge for them.  I had been summoned by the rulers of the land to do my sworn duty on the fields of battle (Vietnam).  Thusly, I spent the few days remaining to us settling them into place with her nuclear family.  Whilst in the midst of the necessary preparations, I journeyed to Fort Belvoir to purchase from the market there (the PX) accoutrements to tend to our immediate future.  And, lo, there I espied a document (the Army Times) with the posted listing of the entire cohort of 2nd Lieutenants newly promoted to the esteemed rank of 1st Lieutenant.  Yea, verily, therein was the clearly legible name:  James Richard McDonough.

     I hastened back to tell Pat the exciting news but, on the way, realized that the day of promotion had already come and gone (the aforementioned document being a dated one of a week or so before) and since I had already departed my prior unit (which had itself since departed Fort Bragg for a long-duration military exercise) I was stuck — or so I believed–with not being promoted.  The more I thought about it, the greater became my consternation. With no one to promote me, would I now fall behind my year group, even if only by a few weeks?  And what of my pay?  Would the greater bonanza of a 1st Lieutenant’s salary be denied to me?  To whom could I turn to get promoted properly?  Should I ask the cadre at Jungle Warfare School (my next stop on the way to Vietnam) if they could promote me?  Should I ask my company commander when I got to Vietnam?  And what insignia should I wear in the meantime – the gold bar I now wore or the silver one that signifies the higher rank?  These and several other troubling thoughts laid heavy on my mind.

     However, being properly prepared by my four years at West Point to face even the greatest of challenges, I steadied myself and by the time I arrived at Pat’s side had resolved to take the initiative to straighten things out. After sharing the good news of a promotion (only lightly indicating any concerns), I announced that the very next day we would travel to Fort McNair in nearby Washington to get some clarifying instructions.  Why Fort McNair? I had no idea (so work the minds of Lieutenants).  Although I detected a look of bewilderment in Pat’s eyes, she nevertheless trusted my vast knowledge of military matters and consented to accompanying me.

Ft. McNair Along the Potomac River, Washington, D.C. (Kidskiddle.com)

     The next morning, we arose early and arrived soon enough at McNair, where I showed my military acumen by asking the MP at the gate how I might find the “personnel office”. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I don’t know,” he answered, “perhaps you could ask someone on post.  Now could you please drive through so the cars behind you can get by.”  It was a reasonable answer, I thought, although I was surprised that he didn’t know.  Perhaps I should have been more specific.

      At any rate, once we parked, I followed his advice and asked a few uniformed officers and non-commissioned officers passing by where the appropriate office was, always being sure to render proper military courtesies when doing so.  Although all were polite, none were quite sure what I meant.  One, however, did suggest that at the far end of the nearby parade field was a large ‘administrative’ building that might hold the answer.  So, with our objective in sight, off we went.

     All such ‘administrative’ buildings, at least in those days, tended to be a maze in themselves.  Once we passed through the front doors, we saw only long hallways and unintelligible acronyms abutting each room. Bit by bit, however, we resolutely made our way, now and then asking directions and, for the most part, getting bemused looks back for our trouble.  Finally, one charitable soul thought about it a bit and gave us a floor and room number to head toward.  I sensed we were closing in on our quarry.

     Here, a nice lady took a moment to ask us why we were there and what help we might need.  She listened to my summarization of the issue at hand and then she asked that we wait for a moment while she went to yet another room nearby.  A short time later, she returned and asked us to accompany her to meet the official who ‘might’ be able to help.  Here we met an Army Major (whose name I am ashamed to admit I do not recall) who politely invited us to sit and explain to him what was going on.  So, I did, to which he listened both patiently and keenly before excusing himself, leaving Pat and me alone for what seemed like a long time.  When he returned, he resumed his seat and reopened the conversation by asking us many questions about our backgrounds, how we met, where I was headed, did we have children, and so on.  To say that he was engaging would be an understatement.  I enjoyed the discussion, but quietly wondered why he was so curious, why he was able to pass so much time with us, what he actually did on this post, and why he just didn’t tell me what I had to do to get the promotion matter settled and done with.

      After about 30 minutes or more, the door opened a crack and a uniformed figure signaled to the Major.  Nodding to Pat and me, our host then arose, told us how much he had enjoyed our talk and asked that we join him as he led us towards yet another room where he stood back and gestured for us to open the door and go in.  We did.

     Therein stood a gathering of a dozen people or so, some in uniform, some without.  On a table in the corner stood several refreshments – a small cake, a tray of cookies, a pitcher of Kool Aid.  A flag stood at the head of the room, where the Major invited us to stand. 

Preparing to “Publish the Orders”  (DVIDS)

He then directed a non-commissioned officer to “Publish the Orders”, after which he produced two silver bars, giving one to Pat to pin on my hat while he affixed the other to my collar.  I was promoted!  I was also stunned, even as the line of strangers came by to shake hands and offer their congratulations.

     In the hours, weeks, and ultimately years that followed I reflected on the lessons of that morning.  I was not to believe that anytime and anywhere in every headquarters on every post an officer and his team of supporters are standing by for a wayward lieutenant to saunter in to be promoted. The good Major surely had many pressing things to do, but he did not let it preclude him from looking after a naïve lieutenant and his wife.  He did not ask for reimbursement for the lieutenant bars or the refreshments, which he surely purchased himself.  He did not make me feel self-conscious about my foolish and needless concerns about ‘not being promoted on time.”  He did not bemoan the unexpected interruption to his day and the work-time loss of the people he gathered.  Instead, he honored both Pat and me without the slightest reference to himself and in so doing showed me what leadership is all about – taking care of people over whom you have the authority to act and the capacity to help.

      It was an example that I have never forgotten and have endeavored to emulate ever since whenever the opportunity arose.  And although I look back upon the occasion with a significant degree of embarrassment, I realize what a wonderful and priceless moment it was.

Newly Promoted First Lieutenant McDonough & Family

9-11 Experience from Abroad – 2001

     When 9/11 happened, I was working for British Petroleum whose headquarters was in London.  In the afternoon on 9/11 I flew on a 1 ½ hour British Airline flight from London to Brussels for some business meetings. I had just gotten off the plane when I saw a news flash on the airport TV that a plane had hit one of the Trade Towers in New York City.  Initially, the reporting seemed like it was a private aircraft.  I immediately called my daughter who I thought was working at her company’s upper east side NYC office.  She was actually in her Chicago office but had been in contact with her NYC colleagues.  Her colleagues did not have to evacuate, as did my brother-in-law who was near the Wall Street area and had to walk 10 miles back to his home in Brooklyn.  She also said it appeared to be a private small plane.  As I watched the TV it was revealed that a large passenger jet hit the Trade Tower.

              Viewing the Terrible News

     As I watched the TV, a second plane hit, and I knew it was a big problem.  I immediately had this urge, which is hard to explain, to get back home.  It never entered my mind to be concerned about flying since I flew almost every week to some place. I tried to book a flight from Brussel to London to fly back to Chicago to catch an American Airline flight but could only get an early morning next day flight on British Airlines.  I called my colleague to cancel my Brussels meeting. My colleague seemed to be as concerned as I was and therefore understood why I couldn’t attend any meetings. I stayed up most of the night watching TV as events unfolded.

Reporting from Britain 9-12-01 (London Times)

     Once I got into London, I then tried to book a flight back to Chicago but at that point all planes were grounded.  I booked myself into a hotel at Heathrow airport and continued trying to get on the next available flight to Chicago. Oddly, the hotel was filled with Americans trying to do the same thing as me.   I stayed up most of the night trying to get on a flight to Chicago and watching the reporting about the attack. I was flying on American Airlines which was not only my company’s airline of choice, but since I have flown so much, I was in the top of their flyer status group.  This allowed me to have a direct line to the “privileged class” customer service and therefore getting me priority on booking a flight.  Despite all of that, I couldn’t get on a flight for three days. Even then, I could “only” get a coach seat, which to normal people was great, but to a “travel snob” who only flew business or first class, it was a downgrade.  BUT I didn’t care, I just wanted to get home.  When I finally boarded the plane, coach seating was filled with people like myself.  I did feel sorry for those people who had regular coach seats on previously cancelled flights because they had very little status with American Airlines and had to wait in the back of the reservation line.

Trying to Get Home

     During the three-day wait, I only interfaced with fellow American business travelers who were at the hotel.  We didn’t know much and only speculated.  I didn’t sense any fear.  Everyone was just fixated on getting back to America.  No one left the hotel, which was a shuttle-bus ride from the airport terminal, since we were waiting to be contacted about what flight we could get onto, then get to the airport as soon as possible

     As it turned out, I was on the first European flight to land at O’Hare.  It was very eerie to fly over O’Hare and not see any planes on the runway.  After going through Customs, again being the first people to go through Customs, I thought I would run into a lot of cameras and reporters, but it didn’t happen.  I got a taxi, got home and felt I was back where I belonged.

     Of course, my family was very glad I made it back home.  As I look back, my mission became to get home, and I thought of nothing else.  It wasn’t until I was home that I realized how paralyzed everything was and how scared everyone was.

Down Under…With No Reserve ‘Chute – 1978

     I certainly claim no expertise or long experience in parachuting, as do many classmates and “master blaster” friends, some with hundreds of static-line and free-fall jumps.  My brief parachuting career consisted of only 7 static-line jumps, each uniquely exciting.  But my last jump was my most memorable by far:  a “water descent” into the shark-infested waters of the South Pacific off the coast of Australia … without a reserve ‘chute!

     A little background.  In August 1967, I was among the first group of USMA cadets to be allowed to attend the US Army Parachute School at Ft Benning, GA, as an extra cadet training experience following my required month-long troop training assignment (known then as AOT – Army Orientation Training) in a regular Army unit.  To be part of this privileged group, we volunteered to give up 3 weeks of our 4-week cadet summer leave.  What a deal!  We made all five of our jumps from the venerable US Air Force C-119 Flying Boxcar, earning the coveted silver wings of an Army Paratrooper.

US Army Parachute Wings
C-119 Flying Boxcar Dropping Airborne Troopers

     As an aside, it was during that training period that Hollywood legend John Wayne visited Ft. Benning to film scenes of real soldiers in airborne training as part of his new movie, The Green Berets.  We airborne trainees were offered the opportunity to be part of the filming of that movie if we were willing to report for an extra day of training on Saturday, a rare day off.  Because I had previously made plans to meet my girlfriend in Atlanta, I turned down John Wayne’s kind offer of “stardom” and headed to Atlanta instead.  Good thing, too: that girlfriend has been my wife for over 50 years now!

     Just two years later, January 1970, as a 2d LT in the Florida phase of Ranger School, I parachuted into Eglin Airfield marking my 6th jump.  With no future assignments to airborne outfits, I thought my jumping days were over.  Until 1978, that is…

      During my tour as a Tactical Officer at USMA from 1976 to 1979, I was selected to be the Officer in Charge of the Australian Royal Military College (RMC) Exchange.  Well, someone had to do it!  This duty included escorting 4 outstanding First Class (senior) USMA Cadets to Australia for 2 weeks in August 1978, which, incidentally, was in the dead of winter “Down Under.” 

Author (r) with 4 USMA cadets at the RMC in Duntroon

     Our schedule was packed with touring, starting at the RMC in Duntroon, sightseeing around the capital at Canberra, visiting the US Ambassador to Australia, being “wined and dined” at various social events, and participating in classes and military training.  The Australian military at the time had a very “macho” culture and we were challenged daily to show our friends whether we had the “right stuff.”  Their biggest challenge lay ahead.

     That challenge and a major highlight of our trip came as an invitation to visit the Australian Army Parachute Training School at Williamtown.  Located on the Pacific coast near Newcastle in New South Wales, it’s about 100 miles north of Sydney.

     The Parachute School senior officer and staff warmly welcomed us and laid out their plans for our day:  we were invited to make a “water descent” into the shark-infested waters off the coast!  No worries!  We were to be plucked out of the water quickly by fast boats.  With my 3 airborne-qualified cadets, we four Yanks enthusiastically accepted the Aussie invitation and challenge to jump with our Australian counterparts:  4 RMC cadets and their Australian Army captain.

     As we suited up for the jump, I noticed we would be using the standard T-10 parachute, similar to what I had used in all my jumps.  One major difference, however …  when I asked for my reserve ‘chute, I was told “it was not needed; it would only get wet!”

Author (l) and Australian Army Captain Counterpart
T-10 Parachute

     Our instructions were simple: once we jumped from the aircraft, we were to keep our eyes on the 500-foothills surrounding Williamtown.  Then, when about eye-level with them, to turn our quick release buckle and strike it to loosen all our parachute harness straps – that meant we would then be dangling by the 2 straps under our armpits 500 feet above the water – not a comfortable idea, but better than getting entangled in the straps, lines, and canopy when we hit the water.

Quick Release Buckle for a T-10 Parachute Harness

     We four Americans boarded the aircraft, an Australian RAAF Caribou, and sat opposite our 5 Australian friends.  It was a beautiful day, although the winds seemed brisk on the ground.  Aboard our lead plane was a “wind dummy” which the Aussies planned to kick out to measure windspeed and direction for safety.

RAAF De Havilland Canada DHC-4A Caribou

     On the first pass at jump altitude, the Aussie “stick,” led by my counterpart captain, briskly walked off the lowered rear ramp while we watched as their canopies fully deployed and the ramp closed up.  Next pass would be our turn.

     Within a few minutes, our plane looped back over the water, the ramp dropped open, and the green GO light popped on.  I led my 3 cadets off the ramp into the cool air and watched as each of our ‘chutes fully opened.  I guess we didn’t need that reserve after all!

     Not much time to think, though, as I descended rapidly and popped the quick release button at about 500 feet and dangled by two harness straps under my arms.  As I neared the water, I then became aware of the high wind speed.  During my final 50-foot descent to splashdown, I was sailing horizontally on my back above the water.  I pulled my arms up over my head, slipped out of the harness straps, hit the water and watched my chute still fully inflated and sailing away, greatly relieved to be unentangled.  And, true to their word, the Aussies plucked us all out of the drink quickly and sped us to shore.

     Now safely on shore with my cadets, the senior Aussie Parachute School officer explained that all remaining jumps after ours were cancelled because wind speed had exceeded 20 knots, well above the safe jump limit.  He then told us that the Aussie captain who jumped ahead of us had been blown ashore and landed on top of a building, breaking his leg and barely missing a high-tension line.  He quickly added, “No worries, mate!  We didn’t want to disappoint you Yanks by cancelling the jump too soon before you had your chance!” 

     Needless to say, we were all thankful he did not cancel the jump and very grateful that the water descent ended safely for us.  But mostly, we Yanks knew that the Aussies knew we met their challenge and upheld the honor of the Corps!