MEMORIES OF 9/11 AND THE PENTAGON

As a young child, during the early years of my father’s career in the US Army, We lived South Post, Fort Myer. I used the Pentagon as a playground, the Army Chief of Staffs office as a place to have lunch with Dad.

I would run from our billet past the post swimming pool, through the tunnel under the highway, up to the west lawn of the building. I would always stop and gaze at the helicopters on the recently constructed heliport. Then I’d hurry so my Dad wouldn’t have to wait for the lunch I carried.

I remember running the halls to his office beside the chiefs. I don’t recall which level or ring, but I always knew when I was in the right area because of the portraits on the walls. These were a history of the men who commanded the US Army. Some stood with sabers at their sides. General MacArthur is a particular recollection, staring off into the distance. Each one a man of bearing, proud and strong: stars and ribbons on their chests, gold braids on their caps. Each has a stern look and serious gaze, none smile. As a child, I was always proud of those men and of my Dad’s work.

Seven years ago this morning, I lived in Rosslyn Virginia. I began my day by trying to make my morning calls but the network was overloaded. A short time later my close friend and Attorney got a call through and told me to turn on the TV, that a plane had hit the WTC. Just after I turned on the set they flashed a report that another plane had hit the Pentagon. When I heard the report about the plane crashing into the Pentagon I knew I had to do something. I didn’t know what I could do, but I had to help. I ended the call and hopped on my bicycle for the 2 mile ride to the Pentagon. I rode past the Iwo Jima monument and Netherlands Carillon, alongside the tombs of the navy and marine vets, past the tombs of the Vietnam casualties, interred in ground where I used to live and play those many years ago.

I rode over the tunnel I used to run through and reached a scene of mass devastation. I knew a plane had crashed there, but I didn’t notice it. All I saw was smoke and fire. I immediately began to help in any way I could. I didn’t try to enter the building, it just never occurred to me to do so. I consoled and offered aid to fellow citizens as they fled the burning building. I watched and helped as the injured and burned were laid out for triage in the south parking lot. The memory of those faces and burned bodies are etched in my heart and mind forever. Hours later, I returned to my bike and sat on the ground with my head in my hands, too weary and heartsick to face the trip home.

Two days later, I rode the same path with my nephew, again on bicycles and watched side by side with many other shocked and numb people as a huge flag was flown over the side of pentagon building.

This morning, seven years later, I returned to the west side of the Pentagon. As I watched the same huge flag fly over the side of the building I cried openly and without shame. I cried for the loss of life, not only here in the US, but also in Afghanistan and Iraq. A number much greater than those lost on that September morning.

I listened to President Bush’s the words of dedication and watched as our honor guard uncovered the individual memorial benches. Tears continued to run down my cheeks. I cried because the memories of some of these people, whose names I didn’t know and whose faces I could never place with a name on a bench, overwhelmed me.

I also cried because I realized that the Pentagon, once the largest building in the world, my childhood playground and a major thread throughout my life, was a symbol of war and human destruction. Yet, one of the strongest emotions I felt this morning was a sense of pride at the appropriateness of our American flag flying across the face of the Pentagon.

I am mortified by these revelations and am having a hard time coming to terms with the dichotomy of thoughts and feelings. I am suffering a loss of innocence I didn't realize I retained.I don't know where these feelings and emotions will take me. It will take quite a while to sort through them. They are as profound as the feelings I felt on the morning of 9/11/2001.

I celebrated our entry into Afghanistan, but I did not support the invasion of Iraq. I believe deeply in the ideals of the United States and will continue to do so throughout my life. I will proudly continue do what little is in my power to help preserve and protect her ideals. Some call me naïve. Some sarcastically call me an idealist.

I still do believe in the American dream. So yes, I guess I am an idealist, an American idealist. I carry a little card, offered as a gift many years ago, which states "Believe in the magic of your dreams". The dream of America lives on in my heart. I consider it a badge of honor. I just hope I am able to maintain this sense of idealism throughout the balance of my life.

Today, as I write these words, after a lifetime in which I’ve experienced Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, Afghanistan and the 2 Iraq incursions, as well as the Iranian hostage crisis, the bombing of our African embassies, The Palestinian military building and the USS Cole: I think back to those portraits on the walls of the Pentagon and I wonder. I wonder if those men and their bosses, our Presidents, current and past, led our nation on the right path. I wonder if Hiroshima and Nagasaki might have rippled through time in a way that these many years later will achieve their ultimate destruction. Not through an actual explosion, but through the fear of one and the perception that we must protect ourselves from it. I wonder if the idea of a military safety net has overflowed it banks to become the societal safety net of bloated government. I sit here and wonder about a building of immense proportion, my childhood playground, which is dedicated to war. I wonder.