This is it, I realized. I won’t see them again. . . .
Mel
For Matt, our twelve-year-old son, and me, September 11 began as a normal day, complete with homeschooling. Earlier that year, because of some classroom situations in Matt’s public school, we had decided to take him out for a year to homeschool him.
While we were working on a science experiment, my friend Joyce phoned. “Mel, a plane just smashed into the World Trade Center!” Matt and I moved into the living room and flipped on the television for a bit. We watched as the second plane flew into the other tower. Matt kept asking me questions, but I could only answer, “Honey, I have no idea what is going on.”
It never dawned on me that what we’d just seen on television might be a terrorist attack.
I wanted to keep watching, but I was also homeschooling. “Okay, Matt, let’s get back to your studies,” I told him and turned off the television. We’d just finished an experiment using pie pans and water to show how water evaporates and leaves a residue behind. We were so excited that this experiment had actually worked since Matt and I weren’t too great at science experiments. We’d even left the pie pan sitting out to reenact our successful experiment for Brian later that evening when he arrived home.
Matt and I moved back to the kitchen island to work on our history lesson.
Actually, as I thought about it later, I realized how odd it was that we turned off the television. Normally I wouldn’t have done that. I would have phoned or e-mailed Brian at work to give him the news. Yet for some reason I had an uneasy feeling about calling him.
We were in the middle of history when our neighbor Sara called. “Is your TV on?” she asked. Her voice sounded panicky.
“No, we’re working on history.”
“The Pentagon has been hit.”
I nearly dropped the phone. I couldn’t believe it. I yelled to Matt, “The Pentagon has been hit!” and raced toward the television.
It felt as if I were running in slow motion to get to that television.
I flipped it on and watched in horror as giant flames shot from the gaping hole in the side of the Pentagon. The news showed an aerial view of the flames everywhere and the black smoke spewing from the building.
Then I spotted the Pentagon air traffic control tower and helipad. Behind it I could see the blazing fire and smoke.
I gasped. Oh no. No, no, no!
Matt kept saying, “Mom, that’s not Dad’s side of the building! Dad is on the other side of the building! It’s not him.”
But I knew the truth. Brian’s office was behind that helipad—and his window had flames coming out of it. Brian’s department had just moved into that newly renovated wedge of the Pentagon eight to ten weeks earlier. When he’d moved in, I had gone with him to help unpack boxes. I had sat at his desk and watched the rain fall on that helipad. I had looked out that window that now had flames spitting from it.
“Mom,” Matt said, increasingly looking scared, “that’s not Dad!”
“Honey, I pray you’re right,” was all I could say. I felt in my heart he wasn’t right. But what could I say to him? “No, Matt, you’re wrong”? I knew that no matter what happened, I had to be strong for my son. I couldn’t fall apart.
Yet all I really wanted to do was to start screaming. For us, for Brian. Instead, with a calm that was not my own, I said, “Matt, honey, let’s pray for Dad.”
I’ve never prayed so hard in my life. We prayed for Brian to be safe, for him not to be in the office, for him to be out running an errand, retrieving documents, in a meeting, even getting a doughnut for his boss! Something, anything. Just please, please don’t let him be in his office.
After Matt and I prayed, I tried to call Brian’s office, and the phone rang and rang, as if nothing had happened and yet all of the people were suddenly gone. It was creepy. Then I called Brian’s cell phone. While I knew he wouldn’t have his cell phone on because it didn’t work inside the thick walls of the Pentagon, I was hoping against hope that, for some reason, he might have turned it on. When I got his voice mail, I hung up.
We were glued to the television set. The more I watched the gruesomeness, the enormity of what had happened, the more my heart told me this wasn’t going to be a good outcome. I sat on the couch and knew that if Brian had been sitting at his desk or in his department, he was now standing at the throne of God. We would never see him again.
My mind battled between staying calm and going hysterical. I knew I couldn’t think the worst or I would fall apart. So I called my friend Debbie Vance, who attends our church, and explained that I was sure we were in big trouble. Then I asked her to come over. I needed a friend for comfort and support, someone just to sit with me. I also asked her to call our church and tell our pastors that Brian was in the area of the Pentagon that had been hit and to ask them to pray for him.
While we waited for Debbie to arrive, Matt started to melt down. He became overwhelmed with the realization of what was happening and began punching the walls in the dining room. He cried. He yelled. He groaned. He paced back and forth around the house. And he kept telling me, “No, Dad’s okay. It’s not his side of the building. He’s fine. Fine.”
It was gut-wrenching to watch him. No twelve-year-old should have to go through what our son did. No mom should have to watch, helpless. It was agonizing to feel so intensely powerless.
While we waited for any word, I phoned Brian’s mom, his brother, Wade, and my best friend, Karen, in North Carolina. I told them that Brian’s area had been hit, but that was all I knew.
That was the most difficult—not knowing. I was watching my husband’s office burning and had no idea where he was or how he was. I needed to know what had happened to him. I needed to know he was alive.
Just then the doorbell rang. It was one of my neighbors, who wanted to offer support but didn’t know what to say. We stood awkwardly silent at the door for a few minutes, then I told him I needed to get back to the television, to see if the newscasters had any more details.
Finally Matt couldn’t take it anymore. “I have to get out of here,” he said and ran out of the house.
I called my sister, Connie. I was pretty calm talking to everybody else—I was able to give them what details I knew to get through the conversations. But as soon as Connie answered the phone, I started to sob.
“I don’t know how I can do this without Brian,” I cried. “I don’t think he’s going to survive this. What am I going to do? How are Matt and I going to go on? How is Matt going to go on without a dad?” We both sobbed uncontrollably on the phone. But when Matt returned, I wiped my eyes, told Connie I needed to go, then tried to pull myself together.
We waited and watched TV for another two hours. While we waited to hear news of Brian, Matt took several walks. And all the while I kept praying—praying for the best but thinking the worst.
Brian
I’d stopped moving. This is the end, I thought. I was still gasping for air; it felt as if I’d opened an oven door and was breathing in the hot air. Yet I wouldn’t struggle anymore—even though the fire and pain seared through my body. At that moment the building became absolutely quiet to me. I didn’t hear the shrill, blaring sounds still screeching around me.
I lay on the floor and wondered when my soul would depart from my body—and what it would feel like. While I didn’t know exactly what to expect, I knew it had to be better than what I was currently enduring. As I focused on eternity, I was enveloped by an absolute silence, an absolute peace . . . as if what was happening in the building wasn’t really happening. I was separated from everything going on around me. God was in that place with me—it was just him and me. And while the pain was excruciating, I felt indescribable peace.
I waited to see the light of that tunnel into eternity, which I’d heard so many people with near-death experiences discuss. So I waited.
And waited.
But the light never came.
I lay there waiting, with my face t
oward the ground. While it may have taken no more than two minutes, it felt like hours. I had no sense of time or space. I started to think, Okay, Lord. Come on. Let’s get on with this thing. What are you waiting for? I’m here. I’m ready.
Suddenly, on the left side of my face, I felt something trickle past my eye and run down my cheek. It wasn’t a huge gush, just a small stream. It wasn’t warm, so I knew it wasn’t blood. It was cold; it was water. Somehow I had landed under one of the working sprinkler systems, and the sprinkler began dousing the fire that was consuming me.
My face was the only place I could feel the water. Because of my sensory overload, the rest of my body was reacting as if I were completely numb, so I didn’t know if I was wet anywhere else. I just knew I was no longer on fire.
Smoke still swirled around me; nothing had changed. But with the touch of that water, everything changed: My courage was renewed to try to escape again.
I opened my eyes. My face was pointed toward the ground. As I looked around at floor level I could see large pieces of sheet rock, splintered two-by-fours, glass, aluminum framing, ceiling panels, lighting fixtures, electrical wiring everywhere.
I could see the floor because the smoke was still above me, so I glanced behind me. It was black. Then I looked in front of me and saw a dim light in the distance, down a long stretch of corridor. It was like being out at sea and seeing a fog lamp but not the source of the lamp; you just see the effects of it. While I couldn’t see where the light was coming from, I could see its effects on the floor.
I knew I was in the corridor, in close proximity to the point of impact. I sensed that I was still close to the bathroom.
Somehow I was able to get some of my bearings. I squinted down the corridor behind me toward the E-Ring and could see the total darkness.
Suddenly I was reoriented. The fire was out around me. Okay, I’m not dead yet, I thought, so now I need to get to medical attention—quickly.
The rest of the corridor filled with black smoke. I knew now I had to move rapidly toward the light, which I figured was toward the A-Ring, toward the inner court of the Pentagon. Since I was between the D- and E-Rings, the A-Ring was at least fifty yards away, half the length of a football field. And everything was completely dark.
I took a deep breath, coughed, and tried to get to my feet again. This time it didn’t seem to take as much effort. I reached out my arm and located a wall beside me, which I used to hoist myself up. I determined I was lying next to the far wall, across from the bathroom.
I still had trouble balancing, and I bounced into the walls. But slowly I began to stagger, stiffly groping my way down the corridor, over the rubble, and toward the light.
There was enough light for me to see the damage to my arms. I saw a large chunk of skin dangling from my left arm. Mostly my arm was black. Not only was I burned, I was covered with ash, dirt, soot, and debris.
My survival instincts clicked on again. I tried not to think about what I’d seen hanging from my arm.
In the meantime I struggled to breathe. My lungs had been burned from the intense heat, and I had inhaled aerosolized fuel. I could taste the jet fuel in my mouth. I breathed in smoke, choking and coughing. Even though I was breathing, my body was still being deprived of oxygen, as if I was holding my breath. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. I tried to suck in the oxygen, but I just couldn’t get any.
My adrenaline kicked in. I realized that while I was no longer on fire, I was still in serious trouble. I started to stagger more quickly—almost frantically—over or around the debris. Once I started moving down the corridor away from the smoke, there was still enough light for me to see more of the extent of the damage from the concussion and blast. Flimsy ceiling tiles flapped around, and other light fixtures and electrical lines dangled dangerously.
I knew I had to walk straight down the closed corridor; I couldn’t enter any of the other rings to reach safety because each ring could be accessed only with a special security badge. I wasn’t cleared for those rings, and anyway, my badge was cooked.
As I worked my way toward the B-Ring, I noticed I couldn’t see the escalators at the end of the corridor in the A-Ring.
This is bad, I realized. The fire door between the B-Ring and A-Ring had been closed. Behind me was the point of impact. To my front, the fire door. To my left all access doors were locked. To my right everything was still covered by the renovation plywood from the areas under construction.
There was no escape.
Two
Road to Survival
Brian
I made it all the way to safety, and there is no safety! I thought. This can’t be happening!
I knew my second chance at life was over. I was trapped and now was forced to wait helplessly for the rapidly approaching fire and smoke to catch up to me.
In the newly renovated section of the Pentagon, they had installed automated fire doors to ensure that if a fire broke out in that corridor, it would be unable to spread to the rest of the building. It was certainly doing its job for the building; the fire wouldn’t be able to spread through the Pentagon. But it wasn’t good for me. I couldn’t get out.
I didn’t know what I was going to do—and the smoke from the point of impact was rushing down the corridor, making it impossible to find any good air.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a locked door to the B-Ring opened.
Out came Colonel Roy Wallace, who stepped into the corridor to see if he could work his way around the building.
Once he opened the access door, he noticed the dense smoke. And he noticed me. From his startled look, I must have seemed ghastly. I was black from the burns and the soot. Sections of my pants were either gone or had melted into my skin. The back of my shirt was completely gone; the front was still there and soaked in blood. And I was soaking wet from the sprinklers, which before now I hadn’t realized.
Next, Lieutenant Colonel Bill McKinnon stepped into the corridor. I recognized him immediately. Bill and I knew each other as students at Command and General Staff College in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. We started our assignments at the Pentagon on the same day. Many days we would go to the Pentagon Officers’ Athletic Club (POAC) to work out, or we’d run together and talk about the events of the day.
Roy started toward me as I saw Bill. I’m saved! I thought with relief as I collapsed at Roy’s feet. Bill yelled behind him, “Hey, guys, come here! We’ve got one out here.” That was a shock—while I recognized Bill, he didn’t recognize me. What do I look like? I wondered.
Six officers rushed toward me and began to pick me up. As they lifted me, the pain became unbearable. “Put me down! Put me down!” I yelled. “No, don’t touch me! It hurts!” I grabbed Bill’s shirt with my right hand and saw that my hand was bloody; shreds of skin were falling off my fingers. My arms were burned all the way up to my armpits. I felt cooked, like a hot dog that’s been on the grill too long. The inside may still be meaty, but the outside is blackened and hard. So when you touch the outside, it begins to flake off.
As I kept screaming for them not to touch me, they grasped hands with each other underneath my back and legs. They moved me into the B-Ring office area and began to walk quickly to safety and medical help.
I began to shout at Bill, “Call Mel! Call Mel and tell her I’m alive.” But Bill didn’t know who I was. He couldn’t recognize me, and he couldn’t read any of my IDs. Both my identification/access badge and my metal nametag that was pinned to my uniform shirt were melted and covered with blood. But the whole time they were moving me I kept shouting to Bill, “Call Mel!” and then, “Put me down!”
It seemed as if the pain was worse than when I was on fire. Maybe it was because I knew at this point I wasn’t dying, so I was able to concentrate on the pain. Earlier, the pain was irrelevant because I knew my death was imminent. But this time I hurt because the men were now using burned parts of my body to hold my entire body weight.
The officers moved me from the B-Rin
g of Corridor 4 to the A-Ring between Corridors 5 and 6, which was about fifty to sixty yards. The A-Ring is the innermost ring of the Pentagon; it opens into the courtyard. The officers took me to the Redskins snack bar, which had become an informal gathering place where some personnel from the Pentagon clinic had set up a medical triage area. I knew we couldn’t stay there long because it was damaged by the fire and flooding from the sprinkler system. The sprinklers were still going off, and the fire alarms were still blaring. The electricity had been cut from most of that section of the building, so we were moving in partial darkness, except for the light coming through the Kevlar-coated, green-yellow-tinted windows. It wasn’t as black as in the corridor, but it was still eerily dark. Most of the people had evacuated the building to the inner courtyard or out of the Pentagon completely.
When they finally set me down by a staircase that leads into the center main courtyard in the A-Ring, it seemed as if medical staff were there immediately. To keep my mind off the pain, I tried to focus on my surroundings. Since we were right by a staircase that led from the third, fourth, and fifth floors down to the first floor, hundreds of people were scrambling down the staircase to get out of the building and into the courtyard.
I noticed there were already three other injured people at the triage area, and then another one or two joined us. I couldn’t see the other people’s injuries, but I was able to get a better sense of what kind of shape I was in.
My face was already puffing; I could feel the swelling. And my eyes were beginning to swell shut. But I could see enough to recognize I was severely burned.
I’d been burned badly on my leg while I was stationed in Korea in 1985 when a hot-water hose burst off a spigot and gave me second-degree burns. I remember seeing the blistered skin where I’d been burned.
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