The 20th Remembrance - October 23, 2003




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Of Gettysburg and Normandy...

Of Gettysburg and Normandy The golden trumpet sounds. The solemn, soulful notes of taps Recalls those battlegrounds. Where thousands died for freedom, Their monument is raised, And the selflessness of sacrifice Is loudly sung and praised. But, lost and near forgotten, Without laurel wreath or fame, Are those who died for duty In a place without a name. Though they suffered, bled and perished On a hostile, distant shore There is little said in honor Of the dead from Salvador. In Panama they scorned our flag And mocked it stridently. And once again we sacrificed To keep it flying free. The island of Granada Sent a plaintive cry for aid, And a handful of her finest Was the price our nation paid. Their brothers sailed without them Into bloody Lebanon Where a madman came among them, And two hundred more were gone. Many men have died for freedom And their fame should never cease, But equal to that honor Are those few who died for peace. Bob Gannon Jacksonville, North Carolina

Beirut Veteran Tries Again to Organize Local Chapter

November 12, 2003 CYNDI BROWN JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF Since Jacksonville is home to the Beirut Memorial, Richard Ray thinks it's only fitting that the city is also home to a chapter of the Beirut Veterans of America. "I think there ought to be one here," said Ray, a retired Marine Corps gunnery sergeant. "That's where the memorial is." A meeting to form a local chapter of the organization dedicated to keeping alive the memory of those who died during the peacekeeping mission in Lebanon is set for 7 tonight at the Disabled American Veterans chapter hall, 301 Roosevelt Drive. All Beirut veterans and family members are invited. Ray, who is trying to gauge interest in forming a chapter, served as the BVA's local liaison for this year's service marking the 20th anniversary of the suicide bombing in Beirut, which claimed 241 lives on Oct. 23, 1983. He is also a Beirut veteran. Ray had served three tours in Vietnam. His mother, convinced he was pushing his luck, never thought her son would make it back to the United States after leaving for Lebanon and arriving in Beirut as part of "Dog Team" nine days after the bombing. "Mentally, it was like I got on the plane in Da Nang and got off in Beirut. The combat atmosphere was there. It was like deja vu," said Ray, who did come back - for his mother's funeral about a month later. Ray joined BVA about four years ago. The organization, however, was formed in 1992. Its motto, "The first duty is to remember," also describes its mission. "The idea is to perpetuate the memory of those who died," said Ray. Regular membership is open to those who served in the armed forces in Lebanon and with supporting units from June 1958 through March 1984. Affiliate membership is for those who served in the armed forces, but not in Lebanon, and want to support the organization. Associate membership is open to anyone who would like to support BVA. The organization has nearly 700 members across the country. "They're dotted all over the country, and the one place there should be one is here," said In the past, Ray tried to drum up interest in a local chapter without much luck. He thought the time was right to try again, especially with the high levels of participation in the events surrounding October's annual memorial service. Ray has no firm feel for how many people will show up or are even interested. "If people can't make it, they can at least call me," said Ray. "The more accurate the numbers, the better off I'll be." While the first meeting is primarily to gauge interest, Ray has been in contact with members of the national organization to find out the particulars of starting a chapter. "If the interest is there, we'll elect officers and we'll be off and running," said Ray. Those who show up, he said, can expect to be members of an active organization. "We're not going to be an organization with their hand out," Ray said. "We're going to be involved." The first subject he'd like to tackle is the lack of a stamp honoring troops killed in the Beirut attack. "I think a chapter here would have a little more influence with politicians on the stamp," said Ray. "Why can't we have a stamp for the guys who died in Beirut? "It just doesn't seem right that we don't have one." For more information on joining the Beirut Veterans of America, contact Ray at (910) 389-5186.

Widow’s Life Comes “Full Circle” at Beirut Service

October 29, 2003 CYNDI BROWN DAILY NEWS STAFF Heidi Crudale Legault was not going to attend the memorial service marking the 20th anniversary of the Oct. 23, 1983, Beirut attack that killed 241 servicemen, including her husband, Rick R. Crudale. "I wasn't even going to go," said Legault. "I, quite frankly, didn't want to go." But her friend Valerie Giblin, whose husband Timothy R. Giblin also died in the blast, insisted. Now Legault thinks she was meant to be here for this year's service. "I think it's destiny. Things are meant to happen for a reason," said Legault of a visit that turned into what she called "just a freak series of events." The coincidences started on their first full day in town, when the women went to the welcome reception at the USO of North Carolina the day before the service. Judy Pitchford, executive director of the USO, had set up a board where Beirut family members and veterans could leave photographs. At the top of the board, however, Pitchford had placed three photos - three unidentified Marines who had died in the bombing. Legault and Giblin walked past the board without looking at it, but Giblin's daughter called them back. "Hey, mom," she asked, "Did you see this?" Two of the photos were of Lance Cpl. Rick R. Crudale and Cpl. Timothy R. Giblin. "Michelle (Van Horn, USO assistant director) just happened to be walking past, and one of the girls grabbed her and said, 'Excuse me. These are our husbands,'" said Pitchford, who was surprised to find out that not only were the unidentified Marines the husbands of the two women, but that the women had come in from Rhode Island together. "I was just like, 'Oh my gosh.' Needless to say, it's pretty hard to catch me speechless. I just stood there with goose bumps, my jaw dropped open." Legault said she was also caught off guard. "I said, 'Why are Ricky and Timmy's pictures hanging up in the USO and nobody knows them?'" Legault had lived in Jacksonville with her second husband, retired Gunnery Sgt. Norman Legault, an old friend of Crudale's who served as Legault's escort for the funeral. And she visited the USO during that time, but she never saw the picture or even knew they had it. "It's like it wasn't meant for me to see it 'til now," she said. Legault and Giblin, both from Rhode Island, met 20 years ago, when Legault was holding a wake for her husband on the same day and at the same place Giblin was holding a funeral for hers. Now the men are buried side-by-side, along with Lance Cpl. Edward F. Iacovino Jr., another Rhode Islander who died in Beirut. Crudale's and Legault's newly identified photographs will also find a permanent home together. "I'm definitely going to hang them together," said Pitchford, who is going to incorporate the photographs into one frame in the USO's Beirut Room. "They need to be together." Giblin and Legault have remained friends since meeting so many years ago. But while Giblin makes the journey to Jacksonville every five years for the memorial service, Legault had only joined her for the tenth, when Legault was living at Camp Lejeune. And she swore this was going to be her last visit to the Beirut Memorial. "For 20 years, I haven't found one living person who knew my husband," said Legault, frustrated by that missing piece. Legault said she realized that most of the guys from Headquarters and Support, the company her husband was with, had died in the blast and that those who survived weren't ready to talk about it. However, she was adamant that someone should know him. "I just felt like why, oh why, can't I find anybody?" she asked. A couple of hours before her flight to return home, she finally did. She was doing last-minute shopping at the Camp Lejeune Main Exchange - and still asking Beirut veterans if they knew her Ricky. She even found one who had been on the same floor (three), but as much as she could see him searching, a memory of her husband just wasn't there. "He wanted to tell me yes so badly," she said. He couldn't. And that was it for Legault. "I said I'm done. I can't do this any more." But she did. In the parking lot and ready to head to the airport, Legault found some Marines who had been in Beirut with H&S, but they didn't know Crudale. She pulled out a picture that had been cut in half - one half, the half with Crudale on it, was in her wallet. The other half, well she was never sure why she still carried it. Until then, when the veterans said they knew the guys in the photo. But one of her friends who had come down with her for the ceremony also recognized one of the faces. "We were just talking to this guy," he said excitedly, as they ran back into the Exchange and found him. "Is this you?" she asked, waving the half-picture. "He goes, 'Hell, yeah, that's me,'" said Legault. Then she asked the same question she had been asking for 20 years: Do you know Ricky Crudale? "That's all I had to say," said Legault. "The tears were flowing down his face." The Beirut veteran had been Crudale's roommate. "That man grabbed me so tight. I whispered into his ear, 'I feel like I'm hugging my husband right now.'" She has since written to him, hoping he's willing to talk about that day 20 years ago and the man he spent six months sharing a room with. He said he was ready to talk. Legault called it the greatest gift God could have given her, next to her children, "And I never would have met him if Val didn't drag me down here," she said. Legault married her high school sweetheart, Rick R. Crudale, 18 days before he left for Lebanon and six months before he died at age 21. "My life feels like it's coming full circle Â… He was my high school sweetheart, my first love, my everything," said Legault of the man with whom she spent five and a half years. "I was engaged, married and widowed in 11 months. "Whoever did what they did took everything from me."

Community Comes Together for Fallen Sons

October 24, 2003 ERIC STEINKOPFF JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF Leather-clad bikers with long hair and beards stood shoulder to shoulder with Marines wearing crew cuts and immaculate uniforms. Elderly veterans sat in the stands rocking their grandchildren. All of them came together Thursday to honor the 241 servicemen killed 20 years ago in the Beirut bombing. “Things have never been quite the same since October 23, 1983,” former Marine commandant Gen. Al Gray told the estimated 1,500 who gathered at the Beirut Memorial for the annual observance. “The love — true warriors can say love — in this community is second to none.” But love was mixed with anger over terrorist attacks worldwide against Americans, a trend that many at the ceremony said began when a terrorist drove a truck full of explosives into the Beirut headquarters of 1st Battalion, 8th Marines who were deployed from Camp Lejeune. Gray was the 2nd Marine Division commander at the time of the bombing, and he roused the crowd Thursday. He linked the terrorist actions of 20 years ago to the attacks Sept. 11, 2001 at the World Trade Center and Pentagon. “Your warrior sons were indeed heroes and they contributed to freedom in this world,” Gray said. “But terror is a family of tactics that have been around for a long time. “It’s high time we woke up,” Gray said. “We should have seen September 11th coming. We need to get the word out to the American people (that) we’ve got to win this war on terrorism and it will take a long time.” But his comments were tempered with his own regrets about the Beirut bombing. “I was responsible for what happened,” Gray said. “They were my people.” The 10:30 a.m. observance was the day’s second at the memorial located at the entrance to Camp Johnson. It followed a 6 a.m. candlelight service for families of the Beirut victims. About 300 people attended the early event. At both observances, people walked to the memorial wall bearing the names all 273 Marines, sailors and soldiers who died in Lebanon. Some touched or gently stroked the inscribed names, while others found the experience too painful and simply stood back. Candles and floor lighting surrounded the monument at the early service. Men wiped tears from their eyes, some joining in as veterans and family members read the names of the fallen aloud against the sound of sniffles and the din of rush-hour traffic on nearby Lejeune Boulevard. “Every name has a memory and a face,” said retired Navy Cmdr. Danny Wheeler who was buried in the Beirut rubble for 5½ hours. “We came as peacekeepers and we believed in the mission. We were closer than brothers, but they are not mine, they are yours. We look forward to the day when we will see them again.” The reading of the names was timed to finish at 6:22 a.m. when the terrorist truck bomb exploded. “I was rescued, and then while I was lying in the hospital I read the list of names,” Wheeler said. “That hurt me more than the bombing — I wept the whole night.” The annual observance later that morning began by posting the colors and then the playing of the national anthem. Some in the audience began to weep. More tears came with the playing of “taps” and the “Marine’s Hymn,” and country music recording artist Eric Horner’s performance of his song “No Greater Love.” The song was inspired by Horner’s wife Debby, widow of Beirut victim Sgt. Richard Blankenship, and her son Richard. “This is my humble attempt to honor them,” Horner said. “It’s the least that I can do.” Many in attendance wished more people felt like Horner. “They never spoke of terrorism in Vietnam,” said Gray as he talked about the frustration created by peace activists or conscientious objectors. “We should have rounded them all up and sent them to Parris Island,” he said to a roar of approval from veterans. Some expressed disappointment with politicians. Many deaths at the hands of terrorists since the Beirut bombing could have been spared if the Lebanon mission had been expanded, said retired Maj. Bob Jordan, a Beirut survivor. “That opportunity was squandered by the faint-hearted politicians,” said Jordan, as several Beirut veterans in the crowd chuckled. “If there be trouble, let it be in my time — let my child have peace.” U.S. Rep. Walter B. Jones, R-N.C., reminded the crowd that he introduced legislation earlier this year in an attempt to force the U.S. Postal Service to issue a stamp to honor U.S. sacrifices in Beirut. “You are all heroes and America needs to recognize that,” Jones said. “Too many times those in Washington, D.C. have short memories, (but) there are those of us who will continue to remind them of the sacrifice you made.” Others noted how the bombing melded the area’s military and civilian communities together. “Jacksonville is a changed place from 20 years ago,” Mayor Elsie Smith said. “We mourned for lost loved ones and friends. We mourned as a community and that helped many with their grief. “A bond was created that has withstood two decades of testing.” Artist Abbé Godwin, who sculpted the statue of the serviceman who stands guard over the Beirut Memorial urged Americans to try to understand the military and the sacrifices made by troops and their families. “Even now there are hundreds of thousands of people literally dying to come to this country to have what most Americans take for granted,” she said. “If we could see through the eyes of our military for a moment, there would be standing room only for Veterans’ Day parades and our veterans would be made to feel like the treasure that they are.”

Families Know Etchings Well

October 24, 2003 CYNDI BROWN JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF “The names etched on this wall represent unique, extraordinary, irreplaceable human beings,” said Abbe Godwin, the sculptor who created the bronze statue at the Beirut Memorial in Jacksonville. She didn’t need to tell that to the families in attendance Thursday at a memorial ceremony marking the 20th anniversary of the Beirut bombing. The 273 names carved into the wall’s smooth granite surface represent the service members who died as a result of the Oct. 23, 1983, suicide bombing and other actions in Beirut, Lebanon, as well as three killed in Grenada. Each of those service members was also a son, a brother, a husband, a father. A natural Marine Michael Caleb Sauls played in the woods as a child. His mother said he could see clearly in the dark. So it was only natural that when Sauls, a Marine Corps corporal, went to Beirut, it was with a reconnaissance platoon. Most of the 21 recon guys in Beirut never made it home. Sauls was in that majority. Barbara Rockwell, Sauls’ mother, has missed only one Beirut Memorial ceremony over the years. “I never would have believed in a support group before this, but this is the greatest support group there is,” said Rockwell, who was steadily and happily interrupted as she talked by other parents, as well as Beirut survivors who knew her son. “In the beginning, even your own family didn’t want to talk about the person.” So she relies on those survivors to share stories about the young man that didn’t even tell his mom he was going to join the Marine Corps. “They make them real,” said Rockwell. “The world made them heroes.” At first, however, some of the survivors were hesitant to be around Rockwell and the other parents who had lost sons. They needn’t have been. “We just wanted to hug them and say, ‘Thank God you made it,’” said Rockwell. “I think we’ve helped them as much as they’ve helped us. In fact, I know we have.” Rockwell plans to stay in Jacksonville through Saturday, using the extra time to visit with friends, purchase Marine Corps memorabilia and visit the memorial at Camp Johnson. “You want to have some time to go back to the wall and have some quiet time,” she explained, since the service itself is “very emotional. It’s very solemn.” But that’s when, she said, you lean on the others. “You’re there for each other,” said Rockwell. “I’m so thrilled there’s so many folks here,” added Rockwell, pleased to see friends and strangers sharing stories and pictures. “We didn’t want them to be remembered for the bombing.” He knew something John Chipura, a radioman with 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, survived the Beirut bombing. But after returning home to New York, he told friends he would never make it to his 40th birthday. “Maybe he knew something we didn’t know,” said his brother Gerard. After completing his tour in the Marine Corps, John joined the New York Police Department. Twelve years later, “he finally came over to the fire department,” said Gerard, who, like their father, is also a firefighter. In 2001, when terrorists crashed jets into the two towers of the World Trade Center, John was sent with Ladder Co. 105 into the burning buildings. His sister, Nancy, worked in One World Trade Center, the North tower. She was also there in 1993, when a bomb was set off on the second level of its parking basement. “When I got home that day,” said Nancy, “Gerard and John were in the living room, and that’s what I expected to see (September 11th).” Instead, Nancy had been out of the tower for an hour when she found out John had been sent in. “For the rest of my journey,” said Nancy, who walked three hours to get home, “I just prayed and prayed and prayed.” John died that day at the World Trade Center — less than two months before his 40th birthday. “He died at the hands of terrorists on U.S. soil. That’s the ironic twist,” said Nancy, who joined her brother Gerard for the 20th annual Beirut Memorial ceremony — their first. “We came to represent John and because some of the Beirut families reached out to us after 9-11, and we wanted to meet them,” said Nancy. They already knew that John had tried to comfort those same families. “He reached out to so many people in those 18 years that we didn’t have a clue,” she added. “Then we saw the extent of his compassion.” A good man Will Hudson doesn’t foresee a career in the military. “Honestly, there’s still some resentment there, and there’s still so much hurt. I don’t think I could put myself in that position for my mom’s sake,” said Hudson, a junior at Furman University. “If anything happened to me like happened to my dad, she wouldn’t make it.” Hudson was 8 months old when his father, Navy Lt. j.g. John R. Hudson, died in the Beirut bombing. Twenty years later, Hudson and his mother made their first visit to the Beirut Memorial. “I just felt like I was ready for it, and it is overwhelming,” said Hudson. “The only identity I have of myself is to be here, meet the guys who knew my dad and where I came from. “It’s been hard,” added Hudson, his voice breaking with emotion and his eyes filling with tears. “There’s always been a void to who I am. Being at things like this helps fill that in a little bit.” Hudson said he learned his dad was a wonderful doctor who worked hard to do his best. “Everyone says that was my dad,” said Hudson, who also learned, “I’m just like him. It makes me want to strive to be like him in that I do my very best in what I do.” While Hudson said it helped to meet the men his dad worked alongside and knew him like Hudson never could, he had a more concrete — or at least granite — reason for being at the service. “The real reason I was here was to be at the memorial and see his name on the wall. To confront that has given me a peace,” said Hudson. “It hurts, and it was my biggest fear but it’s been the best part, for me, conquering that fear.” As Hudson walked back to join his mother, the Beirut survivor speaking to her looked at the young man and, even before introducing himself, told Hudson, “Your dad’s a good man.”

They Came in Peace

Wilmington Star News Oct. 24, 2003 By Trista Talton Jacksonville - Many approached the wall quietly, brushing their fingertips across the names engraved in the Beirut Memorial. This gray stone monument bearing the names of 241 servicemen killed in a terrorist attack 20 years ago seems to connect those killed with the ones they left behind. More than 2,000 people, including survivors and victims' families, gathered at the Beirut Memorial Thursday to remember those murdered in Lebanon. They came from all across the country - from gray-haired veterans sent to Beirut in the late 1950s to deal with an unstable political climate in the Middle East, to young children who paid tribute to grandfathers they never met. They were told the blood of innocent civilians and servicemen killed in terrorist attacks cry out to this country. "Now, we are locked in a global war against terrorism," said retired Marine Maj. Bob Jordan. "I have long wished we could have stayed in Beirut. We are engaged in World War III." Mr. Jordan said he believes future terrorist attacks could have been prevented if the military had not been pulled from the country just months after the attack on the Marine headquarters building. When he said "faint-hearted" politicians were to blame, a roar of applause and cheers followed. He was a public affairs officer in Beirut at the time of the 1983 bombing. He had the grim task of reporting the names of the dead to the world through the press after a Mercedes truck barreled past the perimeter fence, pulled up to the Battalion Landing Team headquarters building in Beirut, and its driver detonated 12,000 pounds of TNT fixed to the truck. The explosion obliterated the four-story building. Retired Gen. Alfred Gray, the 29th Marine Corps commandant, was Camp Lejeune's 2nd Marine Division commander when the Marine headquarters in Beirut was flattened by the blast. "We would have liked to have gone to Lebanon and cleaned it out to the Becca Valley," he said, referring to the days following the attack. "I was responsible for what happened. They were my people." "It's high time we woke up. Marines, we've been at war with terrorism since 23 October 1983 at least. When we look at the situation now, here we are locked in a very, very difficult struggle in the war on terrorism." America, Mr. Gray said, has to win the war. That's going to be a tough task, he said, because it means some harsh decisions need to be made. "Why don't we think about blowing a few people away before (terrorism) happens?" he said. The victims' families should be proud of themselves, Mr. Gray said. "You really did do what your sons wanted you to do, and you did carry on in your own way," he said. Thursday's anniversary ceremony was the first for Tom and Virginia Vasmus, who drove from Elizabeth City to remember the fallen. Mr. Vasmus was deployed to Beirut twice as a Marine corporal, once before the bombing and once after. He and his wife recall that Sunday morning, 20 years ago, when they first heard the headquarters building had been attacked. "When I got up, the death count was 10," he said. He lost a close friend that day to the blast. Hundreds with similar heartbreaking stories gathered under a blanket of stars early Thursday morning at the wall. Flames from the candles they held cast shadows across their faces, revealing tears. Each of the 241 names on the wall was read aloud in the minutes before the exact anniversary of the 6:22 a.m. bombing. It was a private ceremony for survivors and victims' families. The mid-morning ceremony was followed by a gun salute, three rifles fired three times. As Taps was played, soft sobs joined the somber melody. The Rev. Danny Wheeler, a Navy chaplain who was buried under rubble from the blast for five hours, gave the closing prayer. "We left our homes in order to give peace a chance," he said.

Quiet Remembrances for Survivors of Beirut Bombing Victims

By JAY COHEN Associated Press Writer Oct. 23, 2003 It has been more than 19 years since Lance Corporal George L. Dramis died in action in Beirut, one of the last casualties of the United States' peacekeeping mission there. Time has done nothing to dull his mother's memories. "Him being a Marine to me was the best thing in the whole wide world," said Luretta Dramis, who's retired and living in Palermo, N.J. "That's why we supported him and we do to this day. That was what he wanted to do and it was a great thing." She and about 2,000 other Beirut survivors, other veterans, family and friends gathered here to mark the 20th anniversary of the bombing of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines headquarters in Beirut. The attack killed 241 Marine, Navy and Army servicemen. A truck full of explosives tore open America's embassy and Marine barracks on Oct. 23, 1983, in an attack that eventually drove the U.S. military of Lebanon. The servicemen killed were the first American victims of a suicide bomb. No one acknowledges knowing who was behind the attack. The national Beirut memorial at Camp Lejeune was dedicated in 1986. Services have been held annually, but this remembrance, said retired Gunnery Sgt. Richard L. Ray, is particularly poignant. "There's a lot of people - veterans and survivors - who just haven't been able to come," said Ray, who acted as liaison between the Beirut Veterans of America and the city of Jacksonville as the remembrance was planned. "It has taken them 20 years to be able to go. Emotionally it has been too hard for them to come." Ray was working in Camp Lejeune's public affairs office in 1983. The morning of the attack, he was standing outside a chapel waiting for Mass when Major Gen. Al Gray, commanding general of the 2nd Marine Division, approached him and asked if he thought the priest would allow him to speak. Ray said he believed it would be fine. "I had never seen the look on his face before as he walked in," Ray said. "He was bewildered. That really struck me." Gray told the congregation that possibly dozens of Marines had lost their lives, but did not say where. Ray found out by watching television after the service. At 6 a.m. Thursday, a crowd of about 500 people gathered in the pre-dawn chill at the memorial to light candles and listen as veterans and family members read the names of victims. Most people looked at their candles and strained to hear names against the din of traffic headed to the main gate at Lejeune on N.C. Highway 24. Some people jammed their hands into jacket pockets to keep warm and one woman was wrapped in a red blanket emblazoned with the Marine Corps' globe and anchor symbol. The annual ceremony was to begin at 10:30 a.m. Military officials and family members planned to lay three wreaths at the memorial, commemorating the victims and their families. Gray and other military and political dignitaries were to speak. "During the first dedication, mothers came up to me and hugged me in tears," Ray said. "You couldn't help but get emotional when they did that. It's going to be like that for this occasion."

Beirut Bombing Defined Hometown

October 23, 2003 Op-Ed JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF The Oct. 23, 1983, bombing of the Marine barracks in Beirut is one of those events that - even 20 years later - is hard to fathom. The ground had barely stopped trembling on that terrible Sunday morning when the questions began. What happened to security? Why were U.S. troops clustered in such a vulnerable position? Why were Americans in Lebanon anyway? While fingers were being pointed in many directions in diplomatic and political circles, the queries were much more personal in nature in this hometown. Who didn't make it? Who did? What should we do next? Those were terrible hours that stretched into heart-wrenching days. Looking back, we now understand that at least part of our perplexity was symptomatic of a community-wide state of shock. We also realize that some of the toughest questions would never have answers. Sometimes you have to persevere without understanding. That is what we did. The point that struck like a dagger then, and still causes us great pain today, is that 241 precious lives were lost. As the rest of the world dealt with the international implications of the Beirut bombing, this community came together to mourn the husbands, fathers, sons, friends and neighbors who died. More than ever, we were as one. Jacksonville, Camp Lejeune, Onslow County, New River - all together in sorrow and suddenly bound by a commitment to preserve the memory of the fallen. For more than four decades, this community had struggled with its identity. Caught in the harsh glare of the national spotlight, with tears streaming down its face, it found one. The differences that divide military and civilian residents no longer seemed as important as those things that they have in common. As neighbors embraced neighbors, they also began to embrace what it means to live in Jacksonville and Onslow County, North Carolina. This is the place to which America looks when there's no place else left to turn. This is a place where the tightly woven fabric of community upholds the red, white and blue fabric of the American flag. This is the place where the armed forces are more than numbers - they are the men and women who pass out hymnals at church, coach third base for Little Leaguers and cruise the streets at night with car speakers thumping. This is the place where haircuts and accents may be different, but hearts beat the same. Planted in this new common ground were memorial trees. Built on these new realizations was a beautiful monument. Anchored by this new commitment was, at last, a sense of direction. People looked differently at such issues as improving our schools, protecting our natural resources and sharing emergency services. More importantly, people looked differently at each other. Like all memories, our recollections of the Beirut bombing are seen through the prism of the territory that lies between then and now. While the pain of that dark day 20 years ago will never go away, it is soothed by the fact that the community used the experience to become a better place to live. May that always be so. May we never forget.

Beirut Veteran Focusing on Character of Comrades

October 23, 2003 ERIC STEINKOPFF JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF Just hours before the 20th anniversary of the terrorist bombing in Beirut, a version of 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, under the command of Col. David Hough came home to Camp Lejeune. Ironically, both Hough 46, and the 1/8 were in Beirut when a truck bomber attacked the military barracks, killing 241 servicemen. Although Hough, who arrived this week with the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit, downplays his part in Beirut, on his command vehicle antennae are a small American flag and a blue flag with black letters that spell Beirut. He was a first lieutenant 20 years ago with 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company, 1/8. From his position on the southeast perimeter of the Beirut International Airport, Hough at the time could see much of what was happening as at least 16 different factions each tried to control the city under the eyes of the 22nd Marine Amphibious Unit. "What's not really known was that a great deal of fighting went on before that," Hough said of the bombing. Although much has been made of mistakes or limitations placed upon the Marines during the peacekeeping mission in Beirut that claimed the lives of 276 Americans, Hough prefers to focus on the character of people who worked with him. "There's nothing more amazing than a lance corporal," Hough said. "They're the guys that get it done, and their level of professionalism and loyalty is unsurpassed. They take their job very, very seriously." As a young lieutenant, Hough did not have many opportunities to spend time with then 22nd MAU commander Col. Timothy Geraghty, but he recalled one visit, a memory he rarely shares with civilians. "We were in an engagement early in the fighting, and we had a pretty good tussle all night long," Hough said. "We had been shooting all night, our nerves were frayed and we were tired." "He came up to me and said, 'Dave, where are they shooting from?'" Hough remembers. "I pointed up the hill and he slapped me on the back and said, 'Carry on.'" Little things such as professional respect, name recognition and the effort to visit a junior officer in a hostile fire zone meant a great deal to Hough. "The fact that he came down unshaven and unshowered and called me by my first name - I would have died for that man," Hough said. "He was an incredible leader."

Beirut Fallen Forever in Our Hearts

October 23, 2003 BONNIE THROCKMORTON JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF The words on the Beirut Memorial are both simple and poignant: "They Came in Peace." They were warriors, all, trained to do battle, to fight - and die if necessary - to bring order out of chaos. Instead, our Marines and Navy personnel were called upon to be peacekeepers in war-torn Beirut, Lebanon. It has been a generation now since we sent husbands, fathers, brothers and sons into an impossible situation. Yet isn't that what Marines have always done - gone where angels fear to tread. Theirs was not to wonder why, theirs was but to do or die. And with horrific swiftness, we lost them forever. Those who lived in this community on Oct. 23, 1983, will never forget that terrible, rainy Sunday morning. Word began spreading through the early-morning hours. When our telephone rang at 5 a.m., my Marine husband answered, listened and finally said, "I'm on my way." To me he said, "Heavy casualties in Beirut." It would be 24 hours before he returned. In those days, there were few cable news networks and no Internet. We would all be grateful for, of all people, Charles Kuralt. The usual light fare offered by his Sunday-morning program would be replaced with the horror of twisted metal, crushing concrete and shattered lives. How would we ever go on? What did mothers say to their children? The loss was so devastating that few even tried to understand. It was a time for thousands of questions with no acceptable answers. Instead, action was required. And act we did. It was a day in which hugs were exchanged, tears shed, meals cooked, children supervised and prayers beseeched. The next morning, the sun shone so brightly it was almost obscene. How could God give us sunshine with such sorrow in our hearts? We knew the death toll was staggering, but information was at such a premium. It would take weeks before we learned how extensive our losses were. I will always remember The Daily News' listing each day that showed the names of those who had sacrificed their lives for peace. As the list grew, so too did the heartache. The best and the worst In those mournful days, we saw the very best and worst of mankind. As the realization of this tragedy struck home, civilians and military joined together to share in each other's grief. In those times, most communities with a large military presence tended to live in an "us versus them" environment. The events of Oct. 23 would forever change this view as the lines blurred and people simply helped people with no thought as to who was "us" or "them". The worst of mankind arrived in news vans and satellite trucks with brightly colored logos. It was our first experience with the onslaught of the national media, and it did nothing to improve their image. While casualty officers made their painful visits to families of those lost, out-of-town media attempted to pay taxi drivers to follow the officers. It was the epitome of crass behavior in a community whose heart was broken. Two weeks after the bombing, a memorial service was held at Camp Lejeune. As we approached the banks of the New River where the service was scheduled, a driving rain swept in across the river, snapping the battalion flags as it drenched the mourners. It seemed appropriate that our remembrance of those lost should be accompanied by angels' tears. The service was to be a time of healing. Along with President Ronald Reagan and his wife, several injured survivors of the bomb blast were in attendance as well as the family members of those who had perished. As the rain turned the green Marine uniforms to black, a small child seated in the family section cried out above the downpour, "Where's my Daddy?" Our collective hearts broke. In the 20 years since that tragic day, that small child and others like him have faced the sad realization that Daddy couldn't come home. But if our community can offer anything to ease his pain, it is the fact that all of the dads, husbands, sons and brothers have been remembered. Through the ceaseless and unrelenting hard work of local citizens and the generosity of hundreds, Lejeune Boulevard is now lined with 271 Bradford pear trees. They serve as a living link between the gates of Camp Lejeune and the City of Jacksonville. At the end of this living memorial, one finds the Beirut Memorial. Funded and built with private donations, this memorial, dedicated on Oct. 23, 1986, stands as a tribute to the heroism of our military and a monument to their great sacrifice. As our community opens its arms to welcome Beirut family members and survivors, let them always know that we honor their loved ones and keep them in our hearts forever. Onslow County resident Bonnie Throckmorton is the consumer affairs columnist for The Daily News and a frequent contributor to the opinion pages. She can be contacted via e-mail at: bonnie@jdnews.com

Lebanon Bombing Haunts 20 Years Later

Associated Press October 22, 2003 BEIRUT, Lebanon - It was America's first encounter with the suicide bomb, initially its embassy, then its Marine barracks, blasted to shreds by a truckload of explosives that killed 241 servicemen and launched a new era in the Middle East. The reverberations are still being felt. Today the 19-year-old soldier on duty at Beirut airport's Parking C lot shrugs indifferently when told that this was where the doomed barracks stood. He wasn't even born when the bomb went off on Oct. 23, 1983. For many like him, it's a distant memory, one of scores of atrocities committed during Lebanon's 1975-1990 civil war. But for Washington it was a watershed. It ultimately drove the U.S. military out of Lebanon. A decade later American forces pulled out of Somalia, their mission again wrecked by violence. Today, as U.S. casualties mount in Iraq, some are asking whether the United States will walk away again. No way, insists President Bush. "The terrorists have cited the examples of Beirut and Somalia, claiming that if you inflict harm on Americans we will run from a challenge," he said recently. "In this they are mistaken." Nobody professes to know for sure just who was behind the bombings of 1983. They were claimed by Islamic Jihad, a shadowy group believed made up of Shiites loyal to Iran's late Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. It was generally thought to be the military arm of Hezbollah. Hezbollah leaders deny it. Imad Mughniyeh, Hezbollah's security chief at the time, is on an FBI wanted list with a $25 million bounty on his head, but for a different attack: the June 1985 hijacking of a TWA airliner at Beirut airport in which a U.S. Navy diver was killed and the passengers were held for 17 days. American intelligence officials describe Mughniyeh as Hezbollah's operations chief. One official, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said counterterrorism authorities don't have a fix on his location but acknowledged reports he had been sighted in Lebanon, Iran and Syria. U.S. authorities believe he remains active in plotting terrorist attacks but provided little detail on his recent activities. Hezbollah won't talk about Mughniyeh, and a Lebanese official said no one has managed to provide any proof he was involved in the barracks bombing. In May of this year, a federal judge in Washington blamed Iran for the 1983 barracks bombing and said Tehran would have to pay damages to survivors and relatives. The judge, ruling in a lawsuit filed by 153 families, said Hezbollah carried out the attack with the approval and funding of senior Iranian officials. The Marines came as peacekeepers to a country reeling from an Israeli invasion and occupation, and the massacre at the Palestinian refugee camps of Sabra and Chatilla perpetrated by Israel's Christian Lebanese allies. But the Americans got drawn into the conflict on the side of the Christian-led government, while Iran, then in full anti-American cry, supported Hezbollah, the Shiite guerrilla group fighting the Israelis. The Americans had already suffered a sharp terrorist blow in April 1983 when a Shiite Muslim suicide bomber rammed an explosives-packed van into the seaside U.S. Embassy in Beirut, killing 63 people, including 17 Americans. The U.S. soldiers who came six months later with a multinational force weren't the only victims of the bombing offensive. On the day the Marines were attacked, a separate and simultaneous blast killed 58 French paratroopers. The multinational force came to oversee the removal of Israeli, Syrian and Palestinian forces from Beirut. But in Lebanon, as in Iraq today, the Americans encountered populations with deep ethnic or religious differences and neighboring governments intent on influencing events. Many Lebanese distrusted the Americans' motives, believing the Reagan administration had given Israel an OK to invade Lebanon in June 1982 and later occupy Beirut. "There was a feeling that the Americans came to wipe out the traces of Israel's crimes in Lebanon rather than for peaceful purposes," said Talal Salman, publisher of the leftist As-Safir daily. "That's why the U.S. forces were not treated as friendly forces," Salman added. "They didn't come as Red Cross workers or Protestant preachers. They were regarded as Israel's partners." Edward S. Walker, a senior State Department official at that time, said the Marine bombing had a "very negative impact" because it convinced the United States to withdraw. "The long-term implications of that was it appeared to terrorists that ... all you have to do is hurt the Americans and you will get what you want," said Walker. "That's been a persistent problem for us." "I don't believe the Bush administration will back away from Iraq largely because of this," added Walker, who now heads the Washington-based Middle East Institute. Salman said Iraq's oil makes it more tempting than Lebanon, but he added he is sure the American occupation will be a catastrophe and its embattled soldiers will "withdraw from Iraq wailing."

Students Aided Push to Honor Beirut Fallen

October 22, 2003 TIMMI TOLER DAILY NEWS STAFF To Martha Warren, the Bradford pear trees that line the median of Lejeune Boulevard represent more than a memorial to the 241 service members killed in the Beirut bombing. "I still see them as people, even after all this time," she said. "They represent somebody who died for me and my country, even though we weren't at war at the time." Twenty years ago, Warren was a schoolteacher at Northwoods Park Junior High School, now known as Northwoods Park Middle, in Jacksonville. The Jacksonville resident was out of town on Oct. 23, 1983. When she turned on the evening news and learned what had transpired that day in Beirut, Lebanon, she was heartbroken. "To see the bombed-out building on TV - to know that it took the lives of 200 and some men from our community - I could not believe what was happening," she said. When Warren got home, she wanted to make something happen. "I saw a picture of Doris Downs (of the Jacksonville Beautification Commission) on the front page of the newspaper and the story about planting memorial trees. I decided I would start taking donations from my homeroom class. I knew we could get enough money for at least one tree," said Warren. "Another homeroom wanted to buy a tree also, so they started collecting money. Finally, the whole school was collecting money to buy trees." Warren also asked her students to donate something that could be auctioned to help raise money for the tree fund. Student Shannon Parrish gave an early Christmas gift from her mother: a Cabbage Patch doll. "Back then, everybody wanted one of those dolls," said Warren. Parrish's donation raised $1,500, and the school's efforts raised more than $3,000 - enough for 150 trees. The school's efforts attracted national attention. Two months after the bombing, donations were coming into Jacksonville City Hall at a rate of $400 to $500 a day - money that was earmarked for a permanent memorial to be built on Lejeune Boulevard at the entrance to Camp Johnson. Students from the school also sent letters to the families of the Marines and sailors who died in Beirut. "We were shaping young lives and teaching them to think of others, which is not usually how a middle school student thinks. The students put their own thoughts in those letters," said Warren, who retired in 1998 after 34 years of teaching. "A lot of the families wrote back. Every one of the families said that's where their son wanted to be - serving his country. None of them blamed anyone for the fact that their sons were there." The school held a candlelight memorial service on Dec. 16, 1983, to honor those who died in the bombing and to dedicate the trees. "Each candle had a name of one of the men that died written on it, and as those names were called, the students would light the candle and go up on stage," Warren said. "The most touching part was seeing 241 candles lit and then telling the students to blow out the candles. I said, 'This is how fast their lives were taken.' "I feel like the Lord really directed that ceremony in the way He wanted it to go." Looking back on that day now brings mixed emotions. "There's a feeling of sadness. It was a great sacrifice made not only by those men, but by their families," she said. "But there is also a feeling of gladness that people are still thinking about it. These men need to be remembered."

USO Keeps Beirut Memories on Display

October 22, 2003 CYNDI BROWN JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF Judy Pitchford likes to refer to the USO of North Carolina as "the happy place." This week, however, that name is not particularly fitting she said. The USO, located at 9 Tallman Street in downtown Jacksonville, is hosting a welcome reception today from 1 to 9 p.m. for Beirut veterans and the families who lost loved ones in the Beirut bombing 20 years ago Thursday. "I always call this the happy place, and that day is not happy," said Pitchford, USO executive director. "But I want it to be comforting. I want it to be welcoming. I want to let them know how much the community thinks of them all." To do so, Pitchford and a team of volunteers have been kept busy preparing for the hundreds expected to gather at their Jacksonville "home away from home." Much of their time recently has been devoted to one particular room off of the ballroom - the Beirut Room. Pitchford's ultimate goal was to have the room painted before the guests arrive, but time - and nature - would not allow it. There were signs near the enclosed ductwork of water damage, which was initially attributed to condensation from the air conditioner. Instead, it was a massive leak that required repair and new drywall, which base facilities completed this week. "It will be totally rearranged by the time they get here," she said, "... and I really do feel like this is going to be a showroom for the event. "They can file through and look in the room, and anything (Beirut-related) they want to leave behind and want to incorporate into the room, we can ensure that," added Pitchford, who is looking specifically for photos to add to the display in the room. Already lining the room's dark paneled walls are images related to Lebanon: Two prints that were sold as fund-raisers for the Beirut Memorial - one of the memorial before the statue was added and one after "the Peacekeeper" took his post in 1988. Photographs of Beirut. And, mostly, official portraits of some of the service members who died in the bombing. "We are by no means near the 273 we need," said Pitchford, who hopes to have at least one corresponding photo for each of the 273 names lining the memorial's wall. "I really do anticipate a lot of them being left after the remembrance." She also hopes someone this week can identify the "one or two" unknown Marines in photographs currently displayed at the USO. While the photographs have been hanging in the room for years, the upcoming reunion presented the opportune time to organize the display and "just make it a much more attractive display here," she said. "You'll just see a much nicer display." All of the photographs the USO has received will be matted in collage arrangements "to show the bond that is definitely there between them all. I would hate to have any of them left alone." Each grouping, which will also include identification information on each picture, will be related to the type of photograph - official Marine Corps portraits will be grouped together for example, as will photographs of Beirut Marines before they enlisted - but not by unit. There is, said Pitchford, a reason for doing so. "They're all in one big platoon now," she said. The individual collages will then surround the Beirut prints and other Beirut memorabilia donated to the USO. Last week, Pitchford sorted through the approximately 20 photographs that came in after the Beirut Veterans of America newsletter, Root Scoop, sent out a call earlier this year. After reading each accompanying letter, Pitchford took a moment to look at the corresponding photograph of each man - although most looked like it hadn't been long since they would have been called boys. "These are my peers," said the retired gunnery sergeant. "I was in two-and-a-half years when this happened." Pitchford hopes the families and veterans who make their way into the USO will understand the reasons such an effort has been made to welcome them. "The family and friends can almost understand how much we appreciate them," said Pitchford. "The veterans, the survivors, they're a whole other group you have to think about. Being there and seeing it and experiencing it, it's a different attitude than the family members have. "What do you say to these people?" she asked. "All I can do is offer comfort and closure."
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Marine Barracks Bombing 20 Years Ago Left Global Legacy

The Associated Press Oct. 19, 2003 CHARLOTTE, N.C. (AP) - A truck bomb ripped through the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut 20 years ago this week, marking the first major assault in a two-decade terrorist war that culminated on Sept. 11, 2001. The shocking attack killed 241 U.S. servicemen in a single strike. Most of the Marines were stationed at Camp Lejeune. The names of those who died are inscribed on a memorial at the Onslow County base. About 2,000 Beirut veterans and family members will gather Thursday at Camp Lejeune to mourn fallen comrades and remember a doomed mission. The bombing on Oct. 23, 1983, drove the military from its peacekeeping mission in Lebanon and provided a blueprint for attacking Americans. The retreat of U.S. forces sent an unintended message to terrorists that enough body bags would prompt Western withdrawal, said John Lehman, then-secretary of the Navy, who today is a member of the independent commission investigating the Sept. 11 attacks. "There's no question it was a major cause of 9-11," he said. "We told the world that terrorism succeeds." The 24th Marine Amphibious Unit from Camp Lejeune landed in Beirut in May 1983. Their mission was to provide stability in a country wracked by civil war. It proved futile. Within weeks, some Marines said they had seen and heard so many clashes they could pick out which factions were fighting and the weapons being fired by the sound and color of the flashes. At dawn that October morning, Sgt. Steve Russell supervised guards at the main entrance to the Beirut barracks as most Marines slept. No one worried about the familiar-looking yellow Mercedes truck circling the parking lot of the Marine base. The troops didn't know the terrorist group Hezbollah had replaced the real water-delivery truck with one the FBI later said carried the largest non-nuclear explosive device ever created. The truck circled the parking lot at 6:22 a.m. and crashed through the barbed wire. Guards struggled to get off a shot. Russell told others and later testified that he heard the noise, turned and ran as the truck gunned for his guard shack. It smashed through a sandbag barrier and rammed into the lobby. Russell ran through the building atrium and out the other side. "Hit the deck!" he screamed as he ran. "Hit the deck!" The driver smiled. Flames leapt from the truck. The suicide bomber's payload flattened the entire four-story barracks. The explosion ripped the steel door from Maj. Bob Jordan's quarters 100 yards away. He walked through smoke and dust. The smell of burnt flesh mixed with the stench of propane and powder from the explosives. Jordan was struck by the eerie silence; other Marines heard their trapped comrades moaning. Lance Cpl. Mike Toma, a 20-year-old from Pittsburgh who joined the Marines right out of high school, was laying on a slab of concrete when he struggled into consciousness. Rubble had collapsed on him and his best friend. Toma could barely breathe. Dust filled his collapsed lung. He felt pain in his hip, where he later learned a piece of bone had chipped off. He couldn't hear anything but ringing. One of his eardrums had ruptured. Rescuers remember lifting concrete chunks larger than coffee tables, searching for bodies. Toma was one of the first Marines found alive. When they pulled him out, he couldn't understand why he could see bright, blue sky instead of the barracks that normally towered above him. Someone had to explain days later that it wasn't just Toma and his bunkmates who had been hit. About 80 Marines were found alive in the rubble. One of the dead was Lance Cpl. Johnny Copeland, who had sent his last letters home to Alamance County just days before. Copeland might have risen at dawn to work out, as he usually did. His friends aren't sure. His parents in Burlington received his last five letters the day after the bombing, not yet knowing his fate. Copeland had written that he was scared and frustrated by the constant shellings and the search for car bombs. "Mom and Dad," he wrote, "sometimes I think I'm going to lose it."

Fallen, Not Forgotten ~ Remembering the Lives Lost in Beirut

Wilmington Star News By Trista Talton, Staff Writer Oct. 19, 2003 The blast knocked Dan Cuddeback Jr. across the room while he was brushing his teeth in the early morning of Oct. 23, 1983. "I think I bit my toothbrush in half," he said recently from his Millteron, N.Y., home. This is the first time in 20 years Mr. Cuddeback, a former Marine, has spoken about the horror he endured following the terrorist attack that killed 241 Marines and sailors in Beirut, Lebanon. He will join other survivors and victims' families at a memorial service Thursday marking the 20th anniversary of the tragedy. They came in peace. Those words are inscribed in a stone wall in Jacksonville marked by the names of those who didn't return from what was dubbed a peacekeeping mission in Beirut. A bronze statue of a Marine overlooks the wall, almost like a sentry guarding his post. In the early 1980s, Israeli forces invaded Lebanon in an attack on anti-Israeli forces. Concerned about the region's stability, then-President Ronald Reagan decided to send Marines and sailors to help restore stability and protect the Beirut airport. Near the end of a six-month deployment in Beirut, the peacekeepers were attacked by a lone terrorist. It happened in a flash. The Mercedes stake-bed truck barreled past the perimeter fence, pulled up to the Battalion Landing Team headquarters building at Beirut International Airport, and its driver detonated 12,000 pounds of TNT fixed to the truck. The explosion obliterated the four-story building where many were sleeping or just waking for breakfast. Mr. Cuddeback was in a building about 250 feet from the main barracks. He awoke early to be at the head of the chow line for a hot breakfast. The bomb detonated at 6:22 a.m. "My ears were ringing," Mr. Cuddeback said. "Chunks of concrete were coming down. We didn't know what to do exactly." He started running toward the barracks and told Marines in his platoon to take cover in a nearby bunker. "It was an ungodly, freaking mess. It was gone. There were guys walking around that were bad off. We found bodies everywhere," Mr. Cuddeback said. For four sleepless days, he helped pull bodies and body parts from the wreckage. "We worked solid. We tried to get a body count and it was virtually impossible. Every time I found somebody I looked at their face, if they had one," he said. He carried the bodies of friends and acquaintances to a makeshift morgue set up in a nearby hangar bay. He remembers digging in a hole 26 feet deep and finding the truck's axle. Eighteen years later, Mr. Cuddeback, a retired police officer, volunteered to head to New York City to help fellow officers following the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks that toppled the Twin Towers. He couldn't stop crying that day, heeding the advice of a colleague who suggested he not go. He will visit the Beirut Memorial for the first time this week. The thought scares him. He tried to visit the wall several years ago and couldn't convince himself to get out of the car. "I've blocked this out long enough," Mr. Cuddeback said. We left as victims Master Sgt. John Nash has shared his story of survival and heartbreak with young Marines for years. He used to cry every time he spoke about the bombing. He doesn't anymore. He was fresh out of boot camp when he was sent to Beirut. His plans were to stay in the Marine Corps for four years. Oct. 23, 1983, changed his future. That morning he was lying in his cot, talking with another corporal about getting breakfast. Needless to say, he didn't get that chance. "When the bomb exploded -- there are no words to explain how loud it was," Master Sgt. Nash said in his Jacksonville home. "Everybody was buried. Cement, wood, everything was laying on top of us." He and the corporal he was talking with that morning were blown across the building. They lay motionless for more than 10 minutes, afraid to move or talk for fear that whoever launched the attack may have been waiting to shoot. They heard a senior Marine call out for survivors. Master Sgt. Nash and the corporal began digging out of the rubble, calling to each other. They couldn't see through the thick, black smoke lingering over the crumbled building. Less than an hour after the blast, they knew it was a terrorist attack. Master Sgt. Nash began looking for other survivors. "All the dead guys, you just leave them there. You couldn't help those," he said. He found no more than 10 alive, but none survived more than a few minutes. Those he found alive shared their last words with him. Many of them, he said, had a sense of humor. He recalls one dying Marine who jokingly asked for a doughnut and coffee. As rescuers began pulling debris off his body, he yelled in pain. Minutes later, the screaming stopped. "You're thinking, 'Who are we going to find next? Who is still alive? Why would anyone do something this devastating?' We went there as peacekeepers. When we left, we left as victims," Master Sgt. Nash said. Closer than brothers When the Rev. Danny Wheeler opened his eyes following a good night's sleep, the dust was settling and his body was crouched under a mound of debris. "I was buried alive," Rev. Wheeler said. "There was no way out. I was completely pinned. There was a heavy piece of concrete on my back." Fighting panic, Rev. Wheeler, a former Navy chaplain who now pastors Milltown Lutheran Church in Wisconsin, prayed and sang Amazing Grace. As he called to God for help, he heard others buried, crying similar pleas. "I prayed a prayer, 'Either kill me now or let me live,'" he said. "I let go and felt a deep peace. I didn't feel abandoned. I felt that I was going to be seeing God, face to face, very soon. I wasn't afraid anymore." The purple advent stole Rev. Wheeler draped around his neck led to his rescue. The cloth, eventually spotted by another chaplain, clung to the mound of debris above him. The cloth was used as a pillow on Rev. Wheeler's stretcher when he was evacuated to a hospital in Naples, Italy. He was the last survivor of about 60 pulled from the debris. He asked a nurse at the hospital, where he recovered from burns and soft-tissue damage, to read the names of those who died. He had baptized one of the dead the day before the bombing. "I still grieve. I still hurt over the loss. Those wounds will never heal. I still remember vividly that day. I will never forget, and that's the most important thing. I'm still saddened," Rev. Wheeler said. "I suffered such a loss that I was unable to do my job. Putting a uniform on was difficult initially. We were closer than brothers. They meant everything to me." Every Oct. 23, Rev. Wheeler goes into seclusion. He prays for and talks to those friends, the brothers, he lost. It took him 15 years to get the courage to visit the memorial. "They were the best part of me," he said. "I look forward to meeting them again some day, too. I've got that faith, that hope." It still hurts Price Troche was at the end of the Beirut airport runway that morning, listening to music through headphones. "I looked down and it was a big ball of smoke," he said. The Oakland, Calif., police officer was a 21-year-old corporal. He thought the compound had been hit by artillery fire. He was the squad leader of a gun crew. All five of his crewmembers were killed. He was allowed to get to the building the next day. "You go down there and you look and think, 'This can't be it.' The smell of explosive sulfur -- it just made you sick to your stomach. It's been 20 years and I still get a little emotional about the whole thing. It still hurts." Three thousand miles from the small town that has built a memorial to those killed, Mr. Troche feels isolated when he tries to talk about that day. "Nobody remembers, and that really hurts," he said. "We really feel that people just forgot about us. I know a lot of us have bitter feelings about the whole thing." This will be the first time the Brentwood, Calif., resident will visit the memorial wall. "I need to pay my respects after 20 years," he said. He did what he wanted to do Lance Cpl. Edward Iacovino Jr. liked to fix cars. When he was told by a Marine recruiter he could be a mechanic in the Marine Corps, he told his parents they'd get a visit from the recruiter. Elizabeth Iacovino and her husband, Edward Sr., had to sign for Eddie to join the military at the tender age of 17. When he reported to Beirut less than three years later, he sent his parents a letter telling them he volunteered to be on a machine gun team. "My heart dropped," Mrs. Iacovino said. "There was nothing he was afraid of. He did what he wanted to do." She awoke Oct. 23 to a radio broadcast about the bombing. "I was so stunned I didn't know whether I was coming or going," Mrs. Iacovino said. A week later, the military confirmed her 20-year-old son was dead. "You don't get over it. I felt like I had a hole in my heart and I was empty inside," Mrs. Iacovino said. She's convinced her husband's death several years ago was caused by a broken heart. "Even in Iraq, when I hear that a boy's been killed, I just shake," she said. "I know how that mother must feel." Life without a father She thought her dad was invincible. First Sgt. David Battle survived three tours in Vietnam and was two years away from retirement. Amy Battle Taylor was 11 when she said goodbye to her father the day he left for Lebanon. She and her mother saw the flattened building on the television screen weeks before she expected her father home for Christmas. "It was just instant denial," Mrs. Taylor said. Family friends pointed out an injured Marine who looked like Mrs. Taylor's father on television. She viewed the footage and knew it wasn't him. When the casualty team pulled up in their driveway, the Taylors thought the men approaching the house were coming to tell them First Sgt. Battle was one of the injured. "I heard my mother scream," Mrs. Taylor said. It was then she remembered her father's parting words to take care of her mother. She did. "I refused to eat or sleep. I didn't want to fall asleep in case my mom needed me," she said. She talked to her pets; they would listen and not react sadly to what had happened. And, she tore up Marine Corps memorabilia. "I still get mad," she said. "I had letters from my dad that were sent to me about how the Marines had asked for a tank in front of that building. "They weren't allowed to protect themselves, she said. She's accepted that her father will not be present at major life events. He wasn't there for high school and college graduation. He was absent on her wedding day and for the birth of her daughter. He's not there Judy Gorchinski told herself her husband, Chief Michael Gorchinski was on the Naval battleship New Jersey when the bomb exploded. She went to church that Sunday morning in San Diego, Calif., where she was assured he was OK. When three sailors in their white uniforms knocked on her door Monday night, she didn't open the door. "I saw six white legs, and I kept going," Mrs. Gorchinski said. The sailors let themselves into the house and told Mrs. Gorchinski her husband was missing. He volunteered to leave the ship the day before the attack to help Marines fix radar equipment. She endured a week of hell, clinging to the hope that her husband was alive. By the end of the week, she was told her husband of 12 years was dead. Her life as a single mother of three began. Her son had to grow up without the teachings of his father. Her baby girl, only 10 months at the time, never knew him. "In the beginning it was one foot in front of the other," Mrs. Gorchinski said. "It gets a little easier and it never goes away. For many years the grieving had to be put on the back burner. I had three kids to raise." She regrets not putting her children in contact with sailors who knew their father. At the time, she focused on going through the motions -- school, manners, a good home. Mrs. Gorchinski was devastated when terrorists crashed airplanes into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and a barren field in Pennsylvania two years ago. "I was reliving Beirut all over again," she said. "No one will ever forget 9-11. But not Beirut. It happened far, far away. The families have each other. We all understand what we've gone through, and the rest of the country doesn't." Mrs. Gorchinski is finally getting her chance to mourn and to heal. She hopes for closure when she joins the memorial service for the first time Thursday. "Mike was just one of 240 we lost on that day. In the end, the story is the same," she said.

Peacekeeper Stands Guard at Memorial

October 19, 2003 TIMMI TOLER JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF He exists because others don't. On the left hand is a wedding ring. In the right hand an M-16 rifle. The eyes keep watch - a look of determination frozen on the bronze face. He is 6 feet tall and stands over the names of the fallen listed on the Beirut Memorial wall. To those who visit the site off Lejeune Boulevard, the statue is known as "The Peacekeeper." To Abbé Godwin, the artist who created it, the figure will always be "The Guardian of Freedom." There are things today that Godwin can't remember about the statue, partly due to time and partly due to the emotions it evokes in her. Godwin was born in Jacksonville but raised in Wilmington, still close enough to know Camp Lejeune and the Marine Corps. Her dad was in the Air Force, and when she chose a husband, she married a Marine. She also grew up in a family that refused to be a part of the anger and speculation about the Vietnam War that permeated the country at the time. They kept her mindful of the military - of duty and purpose. "I remember looking out our window when I was little. It was pouring rain, and these two young men were walking down the road, soaking wet. I could tell by their hair that they were Marines," Godwin said. "My mom took them in. She knew they were good men." They were men that Godwin has captured in sketches on paper and set free in bronze. Her sculptures are so realistic, they're often chilling. She finished graduate school at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in 1975 and made a home there. She's been perfecting her craft ever since. Creating "The Peacekeeper" wasn't a job she was sure she wanted at first. She had just finished "After the Firefight" at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Raleigh, a sculpture that depicts two infantrymen carrying a wounded comrade. When Beirut Memorial organizers in Jacksonville contacted her in 1986 about creating a statue recalling the 241 troops killed in the Oct. 23, 1983 terrorist bombing of a military barracks, Godwin wasn't sure she would do it. She visited Jacksonville and the memorial site at Camp Johnson where the memorial wall already had been constructed. She talked to people around the city. "I remember that day very well," Godwin said. "Seeing the names on the wall that represented real human beings and what they did for this country - I wanted to do it because I knew what it meant." But completing the job meant going back to that emotional well where she had spent the previous 18 months working on the Vietnam memorial. "You're working long days and I don't mean in hours," she said. "It wakes up all sorts of feelings." For the next 13 months, she worked on "The Peacekeeper." Her challenge was to make a standing figure that fit the existing memorial. Her goal was to create a point of departure from which people could think. "The men and women for whom memorials like this are built deserve time for you to come and think about them," she said. "You honor people by the amount of time you are willing to give them. If anybody deserves that time and attention, these people do." She last saw "The Peacekeeper" three years ago when she visited the area. She'll see him again on Thursday when she speaks at the 20th observance of the Beirut bombing. For Godwin, "The Peacekeeper" represents more than a monument to lives lost. He represents a shift in the tide of how the nation treats members of the military. "I can't help but think of the contrast in the way our servicemen and women are seen now compared to what happened during Vietnam, Beirut and Grenada," she said. "Beirut seemed to be the beginning of the mood of this country changing toward the military, but I feel like these men still didn't get the outpouring of love that they deserved. "Now, especially after 9-11, it seems that love is now quick to be shown. The poignancy of that is sometimes hard."

Bond was Formed from Beirut Ashes

Op-Ed October 19, 2003 JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF They began digging for those still covered by debris while the air swirled thick with dust around them. The search for survivors continued even as the rubble shifted, raining bits of rock and dirt on the men who dug as if someone's life depended on them. And when they were through, over 200 good men - fathers, sons, brothers and husbands - would return home, not hanging over the side of their ships, waving greetings to their families, but in flag-draped coffins accompanied by the lonely swell of taps. Oct. 23, 1983, arrived wet and foul in Onslow County. Gray clouds poured rain as Marines gathered aboard Camp Lejeune to prepare for an emergency deployment to Beirut to assist their brothers-in-arms. Beirut was a once-beautiful city turned into a junkyard by bombs and street-fighting. It was where a contingent of U.S. Marines and sailors, sent as part of a multinational peacekeeping force, spent their days counting the moments until they'd be on their way back home. The troops from Lejeune found Beirut dusty and dry in contrast to the cool autumn days they were used to. Time passed slowly in the sweltering heat of war-torn Lebanon until the early morning of that October Sunday, when a terrorist bomb slammed into Marine Headquarters, destroying the barracks where they slept. An ocean away, the news hit home with devastating consequences. Families found themselves waiting for one of those tell-tale knocks on the door, peering through the curtains whenever a car pulled up, both hungering for - and dreading - word of their loved ones. Teams dispatched to break the news made their rounds throughout the next few days, slogging through the dismal hours with unpleasant purpose. All eyes followed as they broke the news that so many of the men serving in Beirut wouldn't be coming back alive. An entire community went into mourning. Time is touted as a great healer. Perhaps that's true. But, looking back over the 20 years since the bombing of Marine Headquarters in which so many members of this community lost their lives, it's hard to be dispassionate about the events that transpired. Hard to reconcile the deaths of so many to a footnote in a history book. Hard to forget the numbers represent living, breathing human beings who were an inalienable part of life in Onslow County and Camp Lejeune. But while the terrorists who targeted the Marine barracks may have destroyed 241 lives, they also accomplished something they certainly hadn't meant to do: They strengthened the resolve of the American people, and, locally, brought the disparate halves of this community together. When the walls of the Marine barracks came down, a new one went up. But unlike the barracks' walls, which were designed to keep people out, the new one was constructed to bring people together. The Beirut Memorial, built to symbolize the unique relationship between the military and the civilian communities in Onslow County, became more than just a monument to the dead. It became a symbol of how the living should see their lives as intertwined. Two halves of the same whole. Brothers under the skin. It took a disaster to bring cohesiveness to this community, but the unity stemming from that autumn day lingers not simply because we share a common grief. It's there because Onslow County's civilian and military residents united in brotherhood, spirit and common purpose in the days following the terrorist attack, forming a bond that won't be broken. Not by anyone - least of all the cowards who think to terrorize this great nation.

Tributes Collect at Shrine

October 19, 2003 TIMMI TOLER JACKSONVILLE DAILY NEWS STAFF At the Beirut Memorial, usually at the foot of "The Peacekeeper," they find them - a faded picture of a mother and child, a candle with an American flag beside it or a patch with military insignia. The tributes to the troops killed in the 1983 terrorist bombing range from the obvious - a handmade wreath with flowers - to the obscure, a single Marlboro cigarette enclosed in a cellophane bag. A folded letter written by a sailor asks if he should remain in the Navy. A journal logs the thoughts written by a Marine just days before 9-11. Since the Beirut Memorial was dedicated in 1986 at the entrance to Camp Johnson, mementos from the past or pieces of the present have been left behind by visitors. Since 1989 when the statue was put in place, most have been dropped at its feet. That doesn't surprise Ron Bower, a member of the Beirut Advisory Board who has written a historical account of the Beirut Memorial. The memorial was planned shortly after the attack that killed 241 service members, most of them Marines and sailors from Camp Lejeune. The 20th anniversary of the Oct. 23 bombing will be recalled with observances Thursday at the site in Jacksonville. "It's a place that maintains a great deal of emotional sanctity," Bower said. "It offers a place where people can come and renew their spirit." And the items they leave behind are handled with care. Master Sgt. Ed Wafford, facilities chief at Marine Combat Service Support Schools, is in charge of the Marine detail at Camp Johnson. Its members collect these items on a daily basis. Flowers are left at the memorial for a week then removed. The rest of the items are carefully itemized in a log book, and then sent to the Camp Lejeune base historian. Wafford's crew, which also safeguards the memorial, has collected more than 20 items this year. "The most common items we find are flowers and flags; you can only imagine what the people were thinking that left them behind," said Wafford. "When you see the awards, medals and photographs left behind, you can't help but pay reverence and respect to it - you know that person is going through some sort of healing process." Wafford said letters are a common find, and the Marines have guidelines on how to deal with them. "If they're not sealed, they are OK to read," said Wafford. "If they are sealed, they stay sealed. We respect the privacy of the person that wrote it." Bower said the site remains powerful even 20 years after the act of terrorism. "It offers an emotional bond for people," Bower said. "It's similar to touching the headstone at a gravesite and being able to tell that person, 'I'm here.'" He said he also believes it offers a point of departure for visitors who may not have known any of the men whose names are engraved in the wall. "People can go there and understand that there are things much bigger than themselves and what's happening to them on a daily basis. They can see that in the grand scheme of life, those things aren't that important."

Beirut 20 Years Later: Were the Lessons Buried With Them?

by Sgt. A. C. Strong MARINE CORPS AIR STATION MIRAMAR, California Oct. 16, 2003 "There are moments in life that shape who you are, what you think, what you know, even what you believe," said retired 1st Sgt. Richard B. Truman, "And it stays with you. The Beirut bombing was one of those." October 23, 1983, 241 Marines and fellow servicemembers were killed and more than 100 wounded, when a truck carrying explosives slammed through the guard posts and entered the Battalion Landing Team headquarters building of the Marine Amphibious Unit compound, Beirut, Lebanon. The bombing of the BLT headquarters, whose duties included acting as a contingent to the multinational peacekeeping force, was even more shocking to the American public, as it came on the heels of the bombing of the American Embassy in Beirut which occurred in April of the same year. August 25, 1982, Col. Stuart Knoll, commanding officer, Marine Aircraft Group 16, 3rd Marine Aircraft Wing, remembers arriving in Beirut. Knoll, then a captain with 2nd Air and Naval Gunfire Liaison Company, was working as a communications relay. "The positive outlook of the Lebanese people at that time is something I will always remember," said Knoll, who shipped out prior to the embassy bombing. "We were there on a peacekeeping mission." Even with the bombing of the embassy in April of 1983, the posture did not change for the incoming Marines including 1st Battalion, 8th Marines. They were there to "maintain the perimeter," said Brig. Gen. Christian B. Cowdrey, commanding general, Marine Air Ground Task Force Training Command Twentynine Palms, Calif. "May of 1983, 1/8 landed to assume duties..." said Cowdrey. "Although our embassy had been blown up, we were still very well received by the community. There was no change in mission and we continued to provide security to West Beirut as a part of our mission." According to then Capt. Cowdrey, rifle company commander, Charlie Co., between the time of the embassy bombing and the BLT headquarters bombing, "Marines trained, organized and assisted" the Lebanese army so they could work autonomously upon the departure of the peacekeeping force. They were to provide a safe haven for the unprotected. At 6:21 a.m., the Marines in the barracks were sleeping. Company C was on duty maintaining the perimeter. Because it was Sunday, the Marines offshore, aboard the USS Iwo Jima, were still sleeping. At 6:22 a.m., that all changed when a truck carrying explosives slammed through guard posts and crashed into the headquarters building. According to a Department of Defense spokesman at the time, "The force of the explosion ripped the building from its foundation. The building then imploded upon itself." "I saw the mushroom cloud," said Cowdrey, who was 500-meters from the building. "It was surreal. We attempted to make radio contact, but no one answered." The Marines of Co. C, with Cowdrey, moved across the runway to where moments before there was a building. "There was just rubble with a crater in the center," he said. "Everything in the periphery was blown back, trees were blown over. Some things simply vaporized." The captain and his Marines immediately began rescue efforts. "I couldn't even recognize the men we were pulling out," Cowdrey said thoughtfully. "I remember pulling Chaplain Wheeler out of the rubble, and I talked to him. He was conscious. Most ... most you couldn't identify." According to the general, all were covered in a thick, gray dust. "You couldn't tell black from white, old from young. They were in sleep clothes, gym clothes," he said. "If you found someone alive in the concrete that entombed them, if you found a pulse at all, you hurried them away." As their efforts continued, rescuers were confronted with the very real possibility that their efforts to rescue one would rain debris on another. Marines and Sailors worked to organize aid stations, that would be used to triage, stabilize and prepare for the evacuation of the casualties to the USS Iwo Jima. Aboard ship, the sleepy Sunday went from "zero to hell" according to then Cpl. Truman, as the medical personnel worked to treat the ever-increasing number of wounded. Truman was released from his regular duties as CH-46 crew chief for Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron 162, because prior to his enlistment in the Marine Corps, he was a trained emergency medical technician - and they needed all the help they could get. "The hangar deck was full of wounded," said Truman. "There were all kinds of injuries - burns, broken bones, and crushing injuries." Truman was to stick with the surgeon as he went from crew chief to starting IV's and triaging the wounded. "I had my hand pressed hard against a wound and I looked down," taking a breath, he said, "And I knew them. We knew them." As the days passed, the rescue efforts became recovery efforts. "And those of us that were left behind, we stayed and continued the mission," said Cowdrey. In the states and abroad, Marines and fellow Americans were shocked at what was called, at the time, the "largest terrorist attack in United States history." Many looked for blame. "I was angry," said Knoll. "Like we should have seen it coming." "I'll tell you someone who, in my opinion, bore the brunt of the blame but was one of the finest commanders I've served under, Col. Tim Gerahty," said Cowdrey. "He recognized and understood from a national, theater and tactical perspective." The general also spoke highly of Lt. Col. Larry Gerlach who was the commanding officer, 1/8, and injured in the bombing. "Here's a man that is in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, and now has a letter in his record finding him to blame for what occurred. But he was a good commander and I learned a lot from him." The general seemed frustrated that many today seem to have forgotten the lessons from Beirut. Knoll said, "After all of these years Lebanon really doesn't seem any better off or any more stable. There really seems to be no solution to some of these Middle East problems, at least in this case this seems to be true." "It's not something that is remembered as it should be," Cowdrey said. "We were there for almost two years, for a very noble mission. "It should be remembered like this - a group of young Marines, principally from 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, gave their lives for a very noble cause - to secure peace in a land that had been in civil war for decades. I was in the building the night before it blew. We were remembering Mike Ohler (a Marine captain killed by sniper fire in Beirut, a week prior to the BLT building bombing). All of us knew that we were there to support peace. They were proud of what they were doing, recognized the risk and were willing to take the risk to secure peace." The lessons learned in Beirut are applicable today. "I learned from it and carried that with me when I took my Marines into Operation Iraqi Freedom. I drew on it to tell them what to expect, because it's a different environment and things that make sense in the U.S. just don't make sense there," said Knoll. "Beirut '82 through '83 is a case-study in War College when discussing mission creep, rules of engagement and U.S. policy. It's important for leadership to study this when deciding to commit forces, so we have the right numbers, right reasons, and the rules of engagement," Cowdrey added. September 9, 2003, a federal judge assigned responsibility for the embassy bombing to Iran, awarding $123 million to the 29 victims and their families. According to the Associated Press, U.S. District Judge John D. Bates concluded, "Iran was ultimately responsible for the radical Islamic group Hezbollah detonating a car loaded with explosives inside the embassy entrance on April 18, 1983." It is reported to be the first large-scale attack on an American embassy anywhere in the world and was considered a "watershed act that ushered in two decades of terrorist attacks on U.S. targets overseas and at home." No one has been assigned blame for the Oct. 23 blast, which took 10 times as many lives. "We shoulder the responsibility," said Cowdrey. "Every one of them had families. Any servicemember who dies in a foreign land should be shown the same compassionate admiration and respect as those who died in 9-11. Every one of them should be remembered." Editor's note: Some quotes are taken from interviews from Sgt. Strong's previous story on Beirut. Also, thanks goes to Cpl. Julie A. Paynter, MCAGCC Twentynine Palms, Public Affairs, for her contribution.

They Came in Peace

They Came In Peace The American Legion Magazine October, 2003 By Tom Griggs The Lebanese capital was hotter than usual one summer afternoon in 1983. The Beirut sky was afire. U.S. Marines pulled their helmets tight over their heads as 122-mm Katyusha rockets scorched the air above them. Supposedly the rockets were headed to the Lebanese Armed Forces positions, but some impacted in the Marines’ area at the Beirut International Airport. The harassment by fire came from the Druzes – an offshoot Muslim sect – in the Shouf Mountains overlooking Beirut. The Druzes were sending a message to the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit, the U.S. contingent of the Multinational Peacekeeping Force. It was not the first Druze rocket or artillery attack. The 24th MAU commander, Col. Tim Geraghty, decided it was time for a little intercultural communication. The M198 155-mm howitzers of Charlie Battery were loaded and the Druze rocket position computed. Two howitzers roared as two rounds were sent soaring toward the Druze position. Both rounds burst directly above their target, and two illumination flares floated down from those bursts. The Marines’ message was clear. They had zeroed in on the Druze position, and more enemy rockets meant answering to Marine artillery and the kind of rounds that explode. The attack ended. Leathernecks in Lebanon that summer were being drawn into a Beirut situation that was growing violent due to several factors. First, the numerous factions that called Lebanon home were embroiled in what they saw as a jousting for equal representation in a government formed some 40 years earlier after France declared Lebanon independent. Political representation had been divvied up according to majority and minority populations. The largest population consisted of the Maronite Christians, followed by the Sunni Muslims, Shiite Muslims, Greek Orthodox, Greek Catholics, Druzes and more. As The majority, the Maronites were given the presidency and the largest voice in the chamber of deputies, or parliament – 30 of the 96 chamber seats. The position of prime minister went to the Sunnis, along with 20 seats in the chamber. The Shiites filled 19 chamber seats, the Druzes only six. By 1983, the population ratios in Lebanon had changed. The Shiites had become the majority and wanted majority rule. Others sects also wanted a realignment. The Maronites did not agree. Add to that situation the aggressive Christian Phalange militia, Shiite Amal militia and Hezbollah, or “Party of God.” Stir in the warring Syrians and Israelis. Trouble, indeed, was brewing. Mission of Presence The nucleus of the MAU was Battalion Landing Team 1/8 – the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines and support units – commanded by Lt. Col. Larry Gerlach. The MAU also had the 24th MAU Service Support Group (MSSG) and a reinforced Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron 162 , consisting of the squadron’s CH-46s plus Hueys and Cobras. It was not a unit sent in to kick butt and take names. They were peacekeepers. They were handed a so-called “mission of presence.” They were to carry out that mission with the French, Italians and British. Geraghty’s 24th MAU was the third Marine amphibious unit to serve with the multinational force. The peacekeepers of the first two MAUs in Beirut, in 1982 and the first part of 1983, could say their mission of presence in order to keep peace really was working. Their presence certainly appeared to help stabilize the volatile situation – until mid-spring 1983. On April 18, a van loaded with explosives drove into the driveway in the front courtyard of the American Embassy in Beirut and detonated, destroying the embassy building and killing 63. When Geraghty brought his 24th MAU Marines ashore at the end of May to relieve the 22d MAU, he was well aware Beirut was becoming ever more dangerous. And when Druze rockets and artillery started coming in, his concerns only increased. Geraghty had to interface with the Maronite-dominated government and the new Lebanese military without appearing to take sides. Yet, with some factions becoming restless and the Marines required to refrain from reacting with fire, the mission became a significant challenge. “The rules of engagement were tolerable, but things deteriorated and changed very fast,” Geraghty recalls 20 years later. “This crowd was serious in their goal to drive us out.” Determined to carry out peacekeeping duties and to keep his Marines focused, Geraghty sent his troops on daily mobile jeep patrols throughout Beirut and foot patrols through Hay-es-Salaam, a poor Shi‘ite neighborhood adjacent to the Marines’ airport perimeter positions. The gyrenes affectionately called the downtrodden community “Hooterville.” As the summer weather got hotter, so did the precarious situation in Beirut. The Marines continued to dodge incoming rockets and artillery, and they soon were ducking sporadic small-arms sniper fire. An Israeli withdrawal from the Shouf Mountains and Beirut itself at the end of August created more chaos. Though the Marines and Israelis were never very sociable – cool and standoffish was more like it – the no-nonsense Israeli Defense Force did stabilize eastern Beirut and the Shouf. That ended with their Aug. 28 pullout, and the Marines almost immediately suffered their first killed in action. The Marines received small-arms fire from Shiite Amal militiamen all that day. The action escalated the next morning with a mortar attack. The mortar men walked 82-mm rounds into Alpha Company, finally scoring a lethal hit that killed the 1st Platoon commander, 2nd Lt. George Losey, and the platoon sergeant, Staff Sgt. Alexander Ortega. The Marines’ peacekeeping mission suddenly turned deadly. When incoming rounds continued after warning shots of illumination from Charlie Battery, Geraghty gave the command to load all six of the battery’s M198s with HE – high explosive. The artillerymen cut loose, sending the 155 mm rounds to the mortar position, destroying it. Squeezed The Israeli withdrawal and the increased aggressiveness of Amal and Druze fighters brought an end to Marine mobile and foot patrols. Battles between Muslim factions and the Lebanese Armed Forces – whose ranks were filled by Christians and Muslims – became frequent and furious, always spilling over into the 24th MAU airport area and always endangering the Lebanese Scientific University, where the BLT positioned one of its rifle companies. Throughout September and into October, peace was elusive. “The situation had deteriorated more,” Geraghty recalls. “By October, we were down to one single route to the embassy. To get to the university, we could no longer walk in. We were being squeezed.” Maj. Bob Jordan served as Geraghty’s public affairs officer. He recounts that the colonel’s concerns were never heeded, that President Reagan was poorly advised, and that any suggestions from the field that the situation in Beirut was different than perceived in Washington were never allowed to go far up the chain of command. “The local commander’s prerogatives were limited by the administration, the State Department and by a complex higher command structure that was not flexible enough to respond to the fast-paced dynamics of the situation on the ground,” Jordan contends. The colonel’s concerns went beyond rockets, artillery and sniper fire. “I determined before and upon our arrival that terrorism w