“We had 150 people in there, for four nights in a row,” Thompson says. “The club was upside down with these people, hectic, warm and hot. We made a lot of good friends out of it.”
The television was tuned to CNN, and the frantic staff of seven couldn’t serve enough beers.
The bar played host to a ceremony in which outsiders are recognized as honorary Newfoundlanders. They explain it this way: Get on your knees; kiss a codfish on the lips to recognize the area’s abundant fishing industry; eat a cake of the local hard bread—so hard it needs to be soaked in water; pound down some “screech,” the dark heady rum; and praise Newfoundland.
“That’s basically it,” Noseworthy says. “You’ve drank our liquor, you’ve kissed our fish, you’ve eaten our bread. Now you’re an honorary Newfoundlander.”
Locals estimate about 90 percent of the town pitched in. And then just like that, the visitors were gone.
Security checkpoints had been cleared and Flight 929 was ready to come home.
The return flight was quick and everyone uneasy. Captain Ballard pulled Cercone aside and told him: Don’t let anyone get through to the cockpit.
Flight 929 landed at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago around 1:00 P.M. September 15, the last of the diverted planes to touch down.
Members of the United ground crew had formed a corridor with their trucks; they were waving United States flags and clapping.
“It just hit you right here,” Cercone says, pounding his stomach. “Everyone was hugging, everyone was crying.”
Later he had a steak dinner at Gibson’s on Rush Street and a good night’s sleep at a nearby hotel. On Monday, Cercone was back in Seattle, back to his life, back to his routine.
Michael Ko
[EDITORS’ NOTE: The visitors have responded by donating $51,000 to the town of Gander, and passengers from one particular flight started a scholarship fund worth $19,000 and “still growing.”]
Smallest Gestures
I expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.
Etienne DeGrellet
It’s 10:30 P.M. on September 11, and I am pumping up a double air mattress with a manual air pump at Halifax’s Exhibition Park. Along with many other Haligonians, I arrived here around 8 P.M. to see if I could help make life a little easier for the stranded passengers. I think it’s my fifteenth mattress, and I’m tired, hot and sweaty. An older woman lying on a mattress in a donated sleeping bag looks up at me and says something. All I hear is the word “tea.” I stop my pumping and say, “Sure, I’ll definitely find you a cup of a tea.” She looks up at me and says, “Not for me, for you.”
I tell her that I appreciate the offer but that I am fine for the moment. She looks rather solemn as she lies there, by herself, amidst hundreds of other airline passengers who are wandering in and trying to find beds. She is lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. I comment that it must have been a long day for her.
She is from New York and had been visiting England. She was on a British Airways plane that was rerouted to Halifax in the wake of the terrible events taking place in New York. She begins to tell me about her husband and two daughters who live in New York, and how she would imagine that one of her daughters and her fiancé must be terribly busy as they are both doctors.
Then I ask her the inevitable question, “Have you been in touch with your family?”
Her eyes move from looking at me, to looking at the ground. She says that she hasn’t been able to get in touch yet, but that she is confident they’re okay, and that they know she’s okay. As she talks, I can hear the hesitation and worry in her voice.
I quietly sit next to her and tell her that I work for the local cell-phone company, and offer her my phone to call her husband. A smile spreads across her face as I ask her for the number. It takes us four tries to get through, but finally, I hear ringing on the other end of the phone. I hand her the phone, she takes it, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the quivering voice that I heard next. . . .
“Joseph? I’m safe. I’m in Halifax.”
She talks for about five minutes and finds out that her family is fine. As Joseph describes the day’s events to her, she listens silently with widened eyes and a hand covering her mouth. She asks him to let her daughters know she’s okay and before she hangs up, she says, “The Canadians are wonderful. I am so impressed with Halifax.” I smile as she hands me the phone. I squeeze her hand, say good-bye and, as I’m walking away, she says, “Thank you so much. Now I can sleep tonight.”
As I gather my pump and head towards my next air mattress, I think about how impressed and proud I am of Halifax, too. I am proud of my mom for helping to find sleeping mats for people at the Dartmouth Sportsplex; I am proud of my brother who stood in line for more than three hours with eight of his colleagues from Mountain Equipment Co-Op to donate blood; I am proud of my boyfriend who helped prepare Mount Saint Vincent University for stranded passengers; and I am proud of my colleagues at MTT Mobility who scrambled around the office all afternoon gathering cell phones to donate to the cause.
In the wake of tragedy like the world experienced on September 11, everyone feels helpless. My experience at Exhibition Park has reminded me of the truth in the old saying, “Every little thing counts.” It could be a two-dollar phone call, a thought, a prayer, a donation or a hug—no matter what it is, please remember that it does count.
The smallest gestures clumped together and piled on top of each other can make a world of difference.
Deanna Cogdon
Dear Dad
Both at home and abroad, we shall persevere along our course, however the winds may blow.
Sir Winston Churchill
Sept. 14, 2001
Dear Dad,
Well, we are still out at sea, with little direction as to what our next priority is. The remainder of our port visits, which were to be centered around max liberty and goodwill to the United Kingdom, have all but been cancelled. We have spent every day since the attacks going back and forth within imaginary boxes drawn in the ocean, standing high security watches, and trying to make the best of our time. It hasn’t been that much fun I must confess, and to be even more honest, a lot of people are frustrated at the fact that they either can’t be home, or we don’t have more direction right now. We have seen the articles and the photographs, and they are sickening. Being isolated as we are, I don’t think we appreciate the full scope of what is happening back home, but we are definitely feeling the effects. About two hours ago, the junior officers were called to the bridge to conduct ship-handling drills. We were about to do a man overboard drill when we got a call from the LUTJENS (D185), a German warship that was moored ahead of us on the pier in Plymouth, England. While in port, the WINSTON S. CHURCHILL and LUTJENS got together for a sports day/cookout on our fantail, and we made some pretty good friends. Now at sea, they called over on bridge-to-bridge, requesting to pass us close up on our port side to say good-bye.
We prepared to render them honors on the bridge wing, and the Captain told the crew to come topside to wish them farewell. As they were making their approach, our conning officer announced through her binoculars that they were flying an American flag. As they came even closer, we saw that it was flying at half-mast. The bridge wing was crowded with people as the boatswain’s mate blew two whistles—Attention to Port—the ship came up alongside and we saw that the entire crew of the German ship were manning the rails, in their dress blues. They had made up a sign that was displayed on the side that read “We Stand By You.” Needless to say, there was not a dry eye on the bridge as they stayed alongside us for a few minutes as we cut our salutes. It was probably the most powerful thing I have seen in my entire life and more than a few of us fought to retain our composure.
It was a beautiful day outside today. We are no longer at libe
rty to divulge over unsecure e-mail our location, but we could not have asked for a finer day at sea. The German Navy did an incredible thing for this crew, and it has truly been the highest point in the days since the attacks. It’s amazing to think that only a half-century ago that things were quite different, and to see the unity that is being demonstrated throughout Europe and the world makes us all feel proud to be out here doing our job. I’ll write you when I know more about when I’ll be home, but for now, this is probably the best news that I could send you. Love you guys.
Megan
Megan M. Hallinan, ENS
Submitted by Thomas Phillips
Photo by PH2 Shane McCoy/U.S. Navy.
Four Simple Words
How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment to improve the world.
Anne Frank
One day after the terrorist attacks in New York, Washington and Pennsylvania, a man stood on the street of a foreign country with an American flag and a sign. I didn’t really have time to look; I was busy and in a state of shock over the recent events. Yet something compelled me to stop. What did this man want to say about my country? Would I have to defend mom, apple pie and rock ’n’ roll so far from home? I crossed the street. On his sign were four simple words I will never forget: “Wir alle sind Amerikaner.”
The country was Switzerland, and it is my second home. It is also stubbornly neutral and not even a member of the United Nations. Also neutral, in his own way, is Erwin Handschin, the man with the American flag and the sign. Not a member of any political party, union or club, he has never been to America and doesn’t even speak English. This country and this man do not take positions, generally speaking. But on September 12, 2001, Herr Handschin woke up near Zurich and felt compelled to hold a one-man demonstration. Walking the streets of the largest Swiss city, he carried an American flag over his shoulder and a sign that proclaimed, “Wir alle sind Amerikaner.” Many people congratulated him or clapped their approval. Because I speak German, I knew immediately what the words meant, but their deeper meaning only became clear a few minutes later.
I introduced myself and a conversation developed. The sixty-year-old had gotten up early that morning and written his feelings down on a piece of paper. He wanted to show that his heart went out to Americans, that he had compassion for them in their time of grief and confusion. As we talked, the deeper meaning of his sign became apparent to me: What America stands for is what most people everywhere stand for. The spirit and the ideals of our country are what is best about being human. They are what men and women all over the world envy and identify with: freedom, democracy, courage, compassion. And yes, even rock ’n’ roll.
Today, the streets in Zurich are more or less back to normal. Bankers, barons and businessmen walk these noble strassen. Neutrality is secure. But as I stroll through the city these days, Erwin’s nonneutral words accompany me: We are all Americans. It is one reason why our country will prevail.
The evening after his one-man demonstration, Erwin went back to his apartment, cooked some dinner and went to bed at around midnight. He didn’t sleep right away; instead, he lay in bed and thought to himself, Today you did something good, something that embodies the spirit of people everywhere. Indeed you did, Erwin.
We are all Americans.
Arthur Bowler
Hope from Abroad
You cannot spill a drop of American blood without spilling the blood of the whole world. .
. . We are not a nation, so much as a world.
Herman Melville
Omaha Beach, France. We’d spent most of the day on the road and had just sat down for a late dinner—8:30 P.M. in France, 4:30 P.M. in New York—when we heard the news.
The couple at the table next to us was from Ireland, and when they recognized our accents—we were, I believe, the only Americans in the seafront restaurant—the man asked if we knew.
Knew what?
And so it began for us: two Americans learning that more than 5,000 people back home had been murdered by terrorists.
Two Americans lost in the atrocities of the past—we were researching World War II for a book I’m writing—suddenly confronted with an atrocity of the present.
Two Americans who, for the next week, would be buffered—and frustrated—by being an ocean away from a homeland in mourning.
What a strange juxtaposition: to be listening to the waves wash ashore at Normandy, where fifty-seven years before, Allied troops stormed ashore to liberate northern Europe from the grasp of Germany—and, at the same time, watching CNN images of the World Trade Center collapsing after being attacked by terrorists.
Evil, I was reminded, never goes away. It simply lurks in the shadows of time, morphs to fit the technological advances and springs on another generation. Hitler, bin Laden—the monsters change, the methods change, but the madness that motivates them does not.
Earlier that day, we’d walked through the preserved ruins of a French village, Oradour-Sur-Glane. There, on June 10, 1944, its few hundred residents—like millions of New Yorkers on September 11, 2001—awoke to a place of peace and prosperity. But with the same suddenness as the attack on the World Trade Center, German troops rolled into town and massacred virtually everyone: men, women and children.
By the end of the day, 642 lay dead and the village had been burned to its stone foundations.
“Man’s inhumanity to man,” I heard a man mutter after witnessing the chilling remains of the village, eerily replete with everything from charred dishes to children’s bikes.
The next morning—the day after we’d heard the news from home—we walked among the 9,386 graves at the American Military Cemetery above Omaha Beach.
Chimes played “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” American and French flags, both at half-staff, fluttered in the brisk breeze. And on the beach below, a couple of sand yachts slalomed beside surf once colored with blood.
Now came news of more blood following an attack that, unlike the Normandy invasion, wasn’t done to liberate the oppressed, but to oppress the liberated.
Not until we placed a phone call home did we realize the scope of the terrorist attack. We were traveling France’s back roads and didn’t see English newspapers and English TV broadcasts until days later.
In a sense, the language barrier protected us from the pain; we weren’t barraged, as others were, with constant news reports. Nor, because of the language difference, were we conversing with others about what had happened.
And yet, being thousands of miles away from our friends, family and community also meant a strange sense of disconnectedness tinged with guilt. No matter how far off the beaten path we ventured, sometimes on roads not much wider than our rented Renault, the news from home stalked us.
Meanwhile, though, we sensed that America’s pain was Europe’s pain. While we were at a D-Day museum, a British schoolmaster cautioned his students to treat Americans with extra respect because of what had happened. On back roads in Luxembourg, the country’s flags hung from windows, tied with black “mourning” bands. Once, not far from where Allied troops fought German troops in the bitter Battle of the Bulge, we came across a memorial for the 80th Infantry. It overlooked a beautiful valley and was anchored by two flags, both half-staffed: an American flag and a Luxembourg flag.
We couldn’t help but notice the Stars and Stripes had, in the heavy wind, ripped loose from one of its two grommets. It was flying wildly out of control—and yet with a certain amount of tenacity, battered but not beaten, like the country itself.
Finally, on a drizzly Saturday, not far from Liege, Belgium, and the German border, we scanned the white markers of yet another American military cemetery, where more than 7,000 U.S. soldiers had been buried. As I looked at the sea of white crosses and Star of David symbols, I couldn’t help but think this was roughly the number of people who had died in the terrorist attacks.
It left me feeling despondent, contrasting the pain of the past with the pain of the present. Would we
ever get beyond man’s humanity to man? Hadn’t the world learned anything in the last half-century-plus?
But just when I had resigned myself to a bleak world in which nobody seemed to care about one another, an incident whispered hope to me.
I’d been interviewing the cemetery’s supervisor—the subject of a book I’m writing was once buried on these grounds—when a man with a handful of daisies poked his head in the door.
He was roughly the same age that many of these U.S. soldiers from World War II would have been had they lived. He was German. He spoke little English. And he was, I discerned, seeking a vase.
“Who are the flowers for?” asked the supervisor.
“For New York,” he said, “and Washington.”
Bob Welch
Did You See Me?
God is known by many different names and many different traditions, but identified by one consistant feeling: love, love for humanity, particularly love for our children. Love does eventually conquer hate, but it needs our help.
Rudolph Giuliani
Did you see me?
I joined with hundreds of my fellow Canadians today, in the shadow of the Detroit skyline, to pay my respects to my American brothers and sisters. I watched as utility workers, stationed in bucket trucks, rose high above the crowd to fly the Stars and Stripes and the Maple Leaf. I shivered as the wind picked up, at just the right moment, and the flags snapped to attention, their colors bright.
Did you see me?
I was the Canadian veteran in full-dress uniform, my military medals shining brightly, whose voice quivered as we sang “O Canada.” I thought of the battles we fought together sixty years ago, side by side, united in our common cause. I remembered my comrades, American and Canadian, lost in war, far across the ocean.