Remembrance

I overslept that morning. I awoke fifteen minutes before my usual showtime at work, 45 until I had to be there, and a 45-minute drive. I looked at my alarm clock - 6:45am Mountain time.

I rushed through scraping my mug, brushing my fangs, and getting dressed. On the way out the door, I saw something on TV about an airplane hitting the WTC. My only fleeting thought was "WOW... that guy fucked up!" I ran out the door, hopped in the truck, and started heading down the highway.

I'd been listening to a new CD I bought for the previous day or two, Lions, by The Black Crowes if I remember correctly. About twenty minutes into my drive, the CD ended, and I ejected it to change CDs. That was when I heard live news broadcasts in DC, and knew there was something big going on. It was also the time I began speeding as fast as that little four cylinder engine could carry me safely.

Less than fifteen minutes after I arrived at work, went through security, got the bus into the tunnel and walked into my office, the main blast doors at NORAD were sealed behind me for the first "real world" event in decades. And of course, nobody in the building did any actual work... aside from the poor souls in the Air Warning Center, where I would wind up a few months later, back in uniform.

No TV, spotty internet two or three times over the course of the day, and lots of phone calls. Friends from all over calling to see if I was alright - even my Mom. All the airliners in the world would just leave a black streak on the 1700 feet of granite over my head, I told them. Being deaf and blind was the tough part.

I hated myself for leaving the Corps, thanked God I had at least gone back to the Reserves three months before. Had I been a bit wiser, I'd have found something to do that very day. For weeks, I watched cleanup crews, wishing like hell I could be there with them on a Caterpillar D7 or a J.I. Case 1150E - better yet, a 1155 - moving rubble, helping out by doing something I can do damn well. Every single day, I watched and wished I could be there on a piece of gear, lending a hand.

My unit got orders to deploy to Afghanistan, which I was calling daily for three months asking about. If I couldn't help at home, I wanted to go set some payback. Finally, in January, we got our deployment date - summer of 2004, we'd ship out. I couldn't wait that long. I jumped ship and put in for immediate mobilization orders, which I've been doing pretty much ever since.

Looking back... I think now that the day wasn't necessarily everything it originally seemed. But I know how I felt, what I wanted to do, and I know it brought me back to the Corps full-time.

I've put a lot of distance behind me since, too. I know a few friends who were in DC and New York that day, and thank God they all got through it. I've also stopped watching news at all on the day, although I make a point to take my own time and remember. And I know that I never did have the chance to help out, and I never will. I'm strangely okay with that, even though it's a genuine regret of mine.

That day and the weeks afterward put dozens of unimaginable and gruesome images, stories, and thoughts in my head. Like everyone else, there was the cycle of shock, disbelief, terror, helplessness, guilt, rage, and depression - some of those emotions went deeper than others, and for a very long time. And probably everyone went through that to some extent.

The big question for me, with several years left to formulate an answer, is how I'm going to explain it to my children when I can't even explain it to myself.