One morning years ago, I packed a bag to fly back to Washington and finish two seminars I was then teaching as a military communication contractor. One seminar was for a secure command, the other for the U.S. Navy, and a junior rating had stuck us in the basement, in the only room available. Over 28,000 people work in the Pentagon daily, so it’s crowded but not jammed – one can walk past security cameras, surrender a cell phone with batteries removed, sit at a desk behind electronic locked doors and feel privacy and space.
This class was for Navy captains, some of the finest; we discussed effective communication under intense pressure, beyond live-fire scenarios. One officer from Puerto Rico had a slight Hispanic accent which concerned him more than his superiors, so we spoke of how Spanish accents syllables more emphatically than the flat consonants of the American midwest.
Tuning ears to small differences in sound saves lives in combat, but his obstacle lay with diminishing posts for promotable officers as he neared senior command. Of course, the captain stepped up and did well.
He was then assigned to “monitor screens” for global naval deployments on the following Tuesday, so we moved the final session forward two days. It never met.
Instead, I turned on the TV to see a second plane smash into the World Trade Center, and for the next two weeks I hunted until all my students had been located or shipped out to address new security issues.
A third plane had roared into the ground at the Pentagon’s Army command side, incinerating our meeting space and 40+ skilled Naval operatives. Lt. Gen. Tim Maud, 3rd ranked US Army officer, died instantly with all his staff and top colonels, three floors above. The destroyed sector was rebuilt, leaving one concrete block soot-blackened, high up on the outside.
A white rose wreath was put outside the General’s former door and a large quilt displayed in the main lobby, picturing men and women who died that day whose names could be released. I drove by at 5 a.m. before the rebuild to see a gaping black hole, guarded with tanks and klieg lights, where destroyed offices had been.
It was a war with no front lines, the concept no longer applied, but the U.S, long a beacon of freedom, has hosted people seeking this for many years. Before the 9/11 attack, I met the son of one of these, a blond colonel with a German surname who shared his father’s story: During WW II, a boy of ten was abandoned in an old house near the front with a rifle and instructions: shoot Americans or they will kill you. The battle drew closer; a uniform appeared in the door. Frozen, the boy did not fire. The American reached into his pocket and offered a candy bar.
Years later, the boy became a U.S. citizen. His tall son stood before me, serving the country which his father was once told was the most evil on earth, because German citizenry – many of them well educated - had believed it.
In these days of challenge for America, when extreme opinions and ideas clash and neither side credits the other with good will, let us remember children like the colonel’s dad. They will live in the nation which we are still creating together. Pray earnestly that it remains a good one.
Linda Berry is a Northsider.
