9/11 Stories from Readers & Friends

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Everyone who had anything to do with caring for others had to change their priorities: military, FBI, every police officer, teachers, let alone all the first responders in New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania.

On 9/11, Aussie & Kiwi forces participating in a major joint exercise in Hawaii mourned alongside their American counterparts. Even among our allies, priorities were realigning in real time.

The Australian and New Zealand unit unexpectedly formed up and simply marched off the field, recognizing that the exercise could not continue. An event planned for more than a year was set aside without debate or orders as they turned their attention to the far more serious work ahead.

A regular school day until the first plane hit.

Students were separated into 2 groups. The school administrators decided to pull the Seniors and Juniors into the auditorium due to the major news event. At this point in time only the first plane had hit. 

Freshmen and Sophomores were sent home with their parents. The older students were only told to sit down and watch the news with no explanation. As they took their seats, the second plane hit. The auditorium itself exploded in tears and screams from some that masked the collective gasp from all. Shortly thereafter, ASVAB testing became standardized for everyone -- Sophomores and above in the school would be tested going forward.

September 11th is my ex-wife’s birthday. Called her first thing like always. Normal PT, then classroom around 0830. Instructors late—very unusual.

One walks in: “Sergeants, we are at war.” CNN on. Smoke from the towers. Nobody comprehended until they fell. Got quiet. Damn quiet. Pure anger mixed with resoluteness.

Fellow NCO from 101st, tears streaming: “My cousin is a stewardess on the American Airlines flight that hit the tower.”

Hotel doors open, going between rooms. The live video—the jumpers. That thud. Firemen's eyes. World changed that morning.

Couldn’t reach my ex-wife for hours. Classes suspended. Base locked down. Finally got through 1330—Ft. Bragg shut down, every entry manned by MPs and 504th PIR.

We’re watching President Bush on live TV—he’s doing a school visit, reading to kids and our teacher put it on in the classroom. Suddenly our windows start shaking. No warning. Like a distant rocket launch.

Fifteen seconds later, we see a related event happen on the TV screen—someone leans in and whispers in the President’s ear. That unscripted moment. His face changes. Our teacher goes pale.

[Bridgeport is 48 miles from Ground Zero.]

We felt 9/11. We physically felt it.

[Ed. note: the storyteller holds his hand about 12 inches above the bar top, shaking it back and forth—“boom boom boom boom boom”—as he brings his hand down to the surface..]

I was 8 years old in 2001 let me think now so that would've been 2nd grade.

The TV in our classroom was used for morning announcements and not too much else.  The teacher turned on the TV suddenly and we saw the videos of the towers being hit.

We had a class of about 25 kids. Most of my classmates had parents on Patrick Air Force Base (now Space Force Base). Those kids were immediately picked up individually by their parents and gone.

Maybe only 10 of us were left sitting in a mostly empty classroom.

0330, Hawaii time. Phone rings.

The Command Duty Officer called me. I turned on the television, took a fast shower, and knew immediately—everything was about to change. I had my wife drive me to the base.

At the gate, the guard said, “Sir, you’re in early today.” I said, “You’ve got a TV there, right? Turn it to the news. The United States has been attacked.”

I reached my ship prior to 0415. By 0600 the entire base was locked down. All flights grounded. The Navy put ships to sea immediately—establishing air picket lines to protect the islands against potential hostile aircraft.

I lost an Academy classmate that day. I stood in his wedding. We served on the same first ship after graduation. He was assigned to the Pentagon. That section had just been rebuilt. He moved into his new office the day before.

That Friday I was scheduled to turn over command of my own ship. My commodore was in Bremerton, making deployment preparations. U.S. airspace was still closed. He called and said, “I won’t be able to fly back for the change of command. Go ahead and make it happen.”

As a young man, I was handpicked for a role directly beside the President. If you’ve ever seen the Marine standing outside the helicopter, saluting and then boarding with him—that was me. Eighteen years old. Standing tall. I flew missions for President Reagan. Yes, the Gipper.

I was out of the Marines when 9/11 happened. I was in a hotel conference room for a meeting when the front desk staff came in with an urgent message is CEO Pat Baird here? He stepped out to take the call. The rest of us shifted to the bar to watch what was unfolding on the TVs.

When Pat returned, he told us the call was about the TransAmerica building—it was a likely target. He owned the tower. They wanted it secured immediately. We watched the second plane hit. Just then the Admiral in our group pointed: “That’s no accident. We’re at war.”

Because of my White House experience, I could already picture the machinery shifting into motion. I envisioned Air Force One’s emergency departure before it was announced. I could see Marine One’s blades already spinning back in Washington. I could see Marines being surged to embassies—175 locations worldwide—security protocols tightening, strategic plans recalibrating, allies calling in, the Situation Room filling, the pressure to get leadership back to DC, and every decision weighed carefully to keep the nation steady. It was a critical moment, and I knew the people handling it were giving everything they had.

What I didn’t expect—what stopped me cold—was the evacuation of the White House.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I had the drive shift on 9/11. Popular station, big wattage—I hosted my own evening show also, spinning trance, tropical reggae, all the 2000s hits. It was quite the time for music creativity.

That day, the playlist was typical: Jean Paul bringing that Jamaican reggae sound—huge already at home, huge now in Miami, about to go nationwide. Paul van Dyk’s trance. Alicia Keys. Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me.” OutKast’s “Miss Jackson.” Ja Rule at his peak. Nelly.

Jay-Z had just released The Blueprint—his sixth studio album dropped that morning, September 11, 2001.

Everything good until the audio engineer walked in with a printout. News updates. I only spoke to introduce tracks. I’d never read news before—not even over a high school morning meeting amplifier.

But I began to read.

The updates kept coming and I continued reading them on air. I was actually pretty good in the moment.

I stopped DJing maybe what a dozen years ago when my daughter was born. Stepped away from pop culture to concentrate on her. But 9/11? Yes. I remember that day clearly.

Afterward, four of us DJs sat down in a room and read every victim’s name into the mic. Each of us taking a turn across four long lists. The recordings were sliced up and we honored a rotating handful of names between songs on the air in Miami until every name was called.