Readers share their memories of 9/11

Others share their stories of Sept. 11

On 9/11/01, my wife and I were at our home in Gaithersburg, Md., getting ready to go to Bethesda Naval Hospital for a post-pregnancy check-up for my wife (our son was born on Aug. 15) when a friend of mine in Massachusetts called and said "turn on the TV."

The images we saw were of the WTC’s north tower smoking and obviously on fire. Not clear what had happened, other than the building was on fire. Shortly after, the second plane hit the south tower, and we both knew an attack was occurring (both my wife and I were U.S. Army majors at the time). As we were departing for the hospital, the report came (over the radio) that the Pentagon had just been struck by a plane and that there could be several other planes ready to hit the Capitol building or other targets.

We also got the report that the Bethesda Naval Hospital had been closed (as had Walter Reed Army Hospital) to prepare for potential casualties from the Pentagon attack. Subsequently, we had to divert to a civilian hospital. As we were checking in at the hospital, I called my unit at Fort Meade, Md., to let them know I was OK and not at the Pentagon (I was outprocessing my old unit and had been assigned to one of the Army offices in the Pentagon). I also called the Army Operations Center in the Pentagon, as my wife was assigned there, to let them know she was OK.

As I was calling (outside the hospital on my cell), two Air Force F-16 jets streaked down towards D.C. Several more fighters could be heard, as well. Once we came home and linked up with her parents, who were visiting from Hawaii and taking care of our 1-month-old son, we received over 15 phone calls from friends and family attempting to see if we were OK and/or had we been in the Pentagon during the attack, as well as numerous emails.

Thinking back, I believe my strongest memory of the day was twofold: that the U.S. was under attack and there was nothing I or my wife could do to help. Next, if our son hadn’t been born three weeks before, ensuring both of us were on leave, and there hadn’t been complications requiring my wife go to the hospital on 9/11, I probably would have been in the Pentagon during the attack.At the same time, the office I was assigned to had only moved to a new location several months before, with the original office being totally

9/11 stories

destroyed (all the folks in the new office made it out OK.) Unfortunately, one of those killed in the attack, an Army major, was someone that my wife had served with in Korea only a few years before; we understand he had been in a meeting in an office on the outer portion of the Pentagon, very close to the point of impact.

From an effects aspect, we contributed to the Pentagon Memorial’s construction and I observed the ceremony one year later at the rebuilt site of the destruction to the Pentagon (the rebuild operation was code named Operation Phoenix). I also attended the one-year memorial inside the center courtyard of the Pentagon. Further, my wife received a small chunk of the limestone outer facade from the rubble as a memento for being assigned to the Army Operations Center at the time of the attack (an office she returned to after her maternity leave).

At the grass-roots level, there was a lot of patriotism and coming together of Americans. Much pride over our civil servants (police, firefighters) and our military was very evident. However, I did feel that (then) at our country’s leadership level there was too much emphasis on "going it alone" to face those who had attacked us. A British three-star general summed up the "go-it-alone-without-your-friends" aspect during a seminar I attended in the Pentagon a few months after the attack. The seminar was on post-Cold War NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organization) and the British officer noted (paraphrase), "When I heard about the attack on the U.S., I gathered my kit bag (his equipment) and waited by the phone for a call from the U.S. to come help … it never came."

— Pat Filbert

I have recently moved to Las Vegas and was born and raised in New York (Bronx/Brooklyn). I worked my whole life in New York City.

I love Las Vegas because it is very patriotic unlike New York City. Here, you are proud to be an American. They honor the servicemen and women and respect the veterans as well. This past Fourth of July, I observed everyone wearing red, white and blue. I hope New York is doing something really nice this year besides reading the names of the victims. Every year, I listen for Clyde Frazier, Jr.’s name to be read. He was my co-worker’s brother who died that horrible day. I still get sad thinking of those once beautiful buildings going down and those people losing their lives for nothing. I am unable to watch any footage from 9/11 because it hurts knowing how all those people died. Being on the subway and heading to work that day, not even knowing why the lady was covered with soot who boarded the train at Wall Street, mumbling that a plane crashed into the tower, and then watching it all from the office window was too much. Trying to get home that night, the A train eerily crept through the World Trade Center stop (the platform completely deserted and covered with soot), people packed up against each other like sardines and not saying a word, others crying … the sorrow was surreal. So for the past 9 years, I have lit a candle in memory of Clyde Frazier, Jr. and for all the other lives and souls that were lost on that very mournful day.

— Dorothy Minieri

I was a resident of Nevada for a short two years on the terrible morning of Sept. 11. Our phone rang at 6 a.m.–our New York office was calling to tell us that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center, and they could see the smoke from our building in Queens. On television, we watched in horror as the second plane crashed. Frantically, we tried to reach our families back in New York — brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, friends — and we couldn’t get through. It wasn’t until evening that we finally received confirmation that our loved ones were safe.

— Donna Lattanzio

Editor’s note: For the rest of this letter and to read more letters, go to lvrj.com/view.

My partner’s sister walked from her office building downtown all the way across to the Brooklyn Bridge the famous photo of the man covered in white dust who took shelter in a store across from the Trade Center, was the 70-year-old father of a friend; my cousin lost six of his friends who were working at Cantor Fitzgerald — all of whom had stood up for him at his wedding three weeks earlier. Just remembering all of this makes my heart break.

Along with the rest of the world, we cried, we cursed, we threatened, we prayed. We went to church — the denomination didn’t matter. We hung out flags and showed our patriotism and love for our great country.

Each year, on the anniversary of 9/11, we hang a big American flag outside of our office. We place before and after pictures of the World Trade Center in our lobby; a sign on our front door screams, "Never Forget." This year, we will be hanging the photo of Bin Laden that covered the front page of the Las Vegas Review-Journal on May 2 with the fantastic headline: DEAD.

— Donna Lattanzio

"The Ultimate Three Forty Three"

On the, oh so dreadful of September one & one,

telephone lines were being dialed with that famous number 911.

the emergency number and the day, they were the very same.

This clue, it told no one there would be a great big flame.

When the first plane hit its target, they all rushed olut to the scene.

The saving of many people was not just a simple dream.

With the hitting of the second plane, from deep within they knew,

their getting out alive would include but just a few.

Three hundred and forty three, the number of firefighters who would die.

True to their honorable profession is the only reason why.

As the oh so very tall buildings both came tumbling down,

trapped unable to all get out, they heard the deadly sound..

In very sincere deep despair, they all had bowed their heads.

"No peace on Earth today," they thought, and these words were sadly said.

With hate so strong since these terrorists’ birth,

no more will we ever have peace upon this great Earth.

They all believed in God, the three forty three,

and they will come back to life in our memory.

Our heroes forever, they will always be,

in death, not in life, as you can now see.

The feeling they held, inside and so deep,

they knew God was not dead, nor ever does he sleep.

If you believe in your God, the wrong will surely fall,

with only the right to prevail.

The three forty three were lost and sent unto God,

taken so quickly, it was sorrowfully odd.

Their services were needed right then and there,

and the question was answered in one word — a prayer.

Now the three forty three are working high and above,

in places that fly the little white dove.

They are still helping others in their own peculiar way,

and we will always remember them as we kneel down to pray.

The three forty three will remain in our lives.

They will live in our memory, reminding us of strife.

At God’s special request they were called quickly home,

where God placed them in new pastures to live and to roam.

September one, one — year, zero one — was a disastrous day,

to send these heroes homeward in this terrifying way.

Believe in the good Lord and the wrong surely will fail,

and all the terrorists will burn up in hell.

— Bill Hunt

Sept. 11 is a day that this generation and hopefully future generations will mark with reflection as I do. I am one of the fortunate people honored to spend seven months of my life working at ground zero. I lived in a small town just north of Boston, an area with many victims as two of the planes flew out of Boston’s Logan Airport. My town lost a young family of three on their way to Disneyland for a vacation.

I was asked to go to New York for a week following the attacks. The company I worked for was one of the prime contractors working at ground zero. I knew from having seen other types of disasters that this was something different. Before I had even reached the second checkpoint, I called my home office and extended my assignment.

In the early days, workers entered the zone passing through crowds of people that cheered, patted us on the back, handed us bottles of water. Some had a lost look in their eyes as they handed you a flier with a picture of their loved one and a description with the word "MISSING." I worked in what eventually became the Port Authority sector. The Port Authority Police Department (PAPD) lost 37 officers that day. The loss of 37 officers that day represents the largest loss of life by a police department on a single day in U.S. history. They are often referred to as the PAPD 37.

During my time there I worked with uniform service personnel, engineers, iron workers, operating engineers, laborers, truck drivers, barge personnel, too many trades to mention from all over the United States and Canada. From the organizations that fed us (the Salvation Army, the Red Cross and the people from Austin, Texas, that set up a barbecue smoker off Church Street) to St. Paul’s Church where we slept in the pews we felt at home, we were family. On that day and for some time after, Americans became less focused on differences and had a genuine caring about each other. We were one big family suffering one big loss.

It all hit home one night. After working a 12-hour shift, tired and drawn, a co-worker and I were sitting in a pizza place getting a bite to eat before going back to The Pile. A woman walked up and asked us if we were ground zero workers. She talked to us a bit, told us to be safe and handed us a card with the picture of a young man. On the back was his name —- Carl Bini of Rescue 5. She told us he was missing, gave us a hug and thanked us for helping bring him home from his last mission. There were similar things to remind us over the time that we were part of something big. It didn’t matter who we were, where we came from, or anything else. We were making a difference.

It took a while to realize, but the difference was also being made in us. The difference showed in some of us sooner than others. I carried memories of the place, good and bad, for years. Had trouble holding onto jobs, trouble sleeping, had a few health problems. A year ago, at the Atomic Testing Museum, I had the opportunity to take part in the consecration of a piece of steel from the World Trade Center. I saw that people were still touched by the events of that day and were drawn to anything that memorialized the event and the victims. As we approach the 10-year commemoration, I joined the group 911 Remembrance here in Las Vegas (911remembrancelasvegas.org). The mission of the group is "celebration of life, reverence for our survivors, and memory of our fallen through the events of 9/11 Remembrance, Igniting The Spirit Of Unity we felt so strongly on that day, a decade ago, and still have today."

Of course my mind will turn to the victims of that day but also those victims with health problems associated with ground zero and the service men and women fighting the war on terror. I will spend this time reflecting on the sacrifices made by those that performed heroic acts in the days and weeks following this event: helping families by recovering a victim, the people that fed us and gave us warm, dry clothes on cold and rainy nights, and the recovery dogs that worked selflessly. I will also reflect on one dog in particular, "Sirius" (Badge No. 17), a Port Authority bomb-sniffing dog recovered in January 2002. To this day, I refer to the PAPD officers lost that day as the PAPD 38, adding "Sirius" to the list of 37 officers. He was the only animal to die on 9/11 and rarely identified on the list of victims.

As we approach this day 10 years later, consider taking part in the 911 Remembrance activities here in Las Vegas. Also, consider making a donation to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. Thank a service man or woman for their service. More importantly look at your family and always make sure they know you love them. After having looked into the lost eyes of people that missed that last conversation, I know that may be the greatest gift you can give to yourself or your family.

— Duane Matters Jr., former ground-zero worker and 911 Remembrance Committee member

September is here. Whenever September comes, I open my old journal as if it were an annual event. It is because the 9/11 attacks became real in my life: I had to send my husband, an Air Force helicopter pilot, to war. Flying a helicopter in a war zone is a perilous business. In that journal, I find a pilot’s wife who, on a day-to-day basis, is praying for her husband’s safe return. I want to share one of those days with you now.

In 2003, from March 21-25, I attended the meeting of the American Association for Applied Linguistics in Arlington, Va., to pay special thanks to the scholars whose theories I had drawn upon for my doctoral dissertation. On Sunday, March 23, there was a special discussion regarding Anti-War against Iraq & War-Discourse, which started at 8 p.m. and was supposed to last until 9 p.m. The agenda was to protest the war and the manipulative war-discourse that might misguide American citizens. Because I was the only one in the conference whose husband was a serviceman who had been deployed to Afghanistan, I did not want to attend a discussion that might leave me subject to derision.

At about 9 p.m., while waiting in the lobby, I got a phone call from the commander of the 41st Rescue Squadron at Moody Air Force Base, saying that he just wanted to let me know that my husband was fine. Thinking that it was a routine call, I just thanked him and hung up the phone with no further questions. Then, I found that I was seized by and shivering with a groundless fear: "Why him? It’s his wife that usually calls me —- not him! Why did he call on my cell phone, when he could have left a message on the phone at home?" Then the nightmare that I had of my husband flying slow motion in the air, a sudden the sandstorm swirling over his helicopter as his helicopter crashed to the ground, made my body tremble enough to drop my phone.

My cell rang again, then. "Oh, it’s from a base operator. It’s from Chris!" With excitement, I answered his call in machine-gun fashion: with a fast-paced, high-pitched voice. "Hi, honey! How are you doing? Are you doing OK? Are you taking your vitamins?" Despite providing affirmative answers, he answered all my machine-gunned questions in a tone that made it clear to me that he was very upset. "Honey, we had a mission to rescue two Afghani children. During mid-air refueling, one of the aircraft crashed, and we lost six of our guys, but I am fine."

My heart just dropped and uncontrollable tears started streaming down my cheeks. The tears were partly because of the relief that I felt in learning that my husband was safe; but other tears were for the family members of the 41st Squadron, who had lost their loved ones, even though I did not know who they were at the time. Finally, the tears were for the trauma that other crewmembers in my husband’s helicopter, that had seen their friends crash and die, had to face.

That night, after a few hours of tossing and turning, I went down to the bar on the first floor to have a drink, which seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances. When I saw all the people in nice suits having wine and enjoying themselves, I suddenly felt that I did not belong there with them. My inner voice kept saying to me: "You don’t belong here. You gotta go home to be with the spouses of your squadron."

While these scholars are enjoying their freedom, chatting, laughing, drinking and discussing the theories and methodologies that they treasure, our loved ones serving in the military are fighting for that freedom at the cost of their own freedom, and sometimes, at the cost of their own lives.

However, I decided to stay and mingle with them when I remembered what my husband told me on the phone: "One of the reasons that we are all here is so that those at home can afford to enjoy themselves and live their lives without any threat to their freedom. My friends have paid for others to have a decent life. The Air Force Rescue motto is: "These Things We Do That Others May Live," and they truly live by it. Until that night I hadn’t fully realized the significance of those words, nor had I appreciated the position that we, as military spouses, take.

One of the greatest things about America, my adopted country since my marriage, is that with freedom of speech, everyone is welcome to express an opinion. Therefore, I dare now to express my own opinion. We, as citizens of the United States, need to learn to support our troops once an action is taken by our country. We have to put all our love, prayers and hearts so that our loved ones come home safely. I also want to plead to the general public to express whatever opinions you have about the war, but please don’t be "anti-servicemen," as was the case, unfortunately, during the Vietnam War.

Today every member of the armed forces is a volunteer. Even if they join before Sept. 11, everyone has had the opportunity to either remain a civilian or leave military service (the last time the United States fought a war with an all-volunteer force was the American Revolution). We have to understand that freedom is not free. It costs somebody else his/her freedom in order to protect the freedom that most of us take for granted. Freedom is not a priori (a right given by birth), but protected and maintained by those who stand willing to sacrifice their own.

That night, when the HH-60 crashed during a rescue mission in Afghanistan, I realized who I am, and where I stand. I am the proud spouse of a serviceman, and I stand right beside him regardless of the geographical distance between us.

Please keep this in mind if you choose to protest the war and speak out against those who wear the uniform of our great country: The right and freedom to protest and to speak one’s mind has never been won by anti-war protesters. This right has been fought for, defended by and paid for through wars fought and won by our brave military men and women, some of whom paid the ultimate price: their lives.

— Hyunsook Hwang