Memories of Mike : A family remembers its fallen son

Benton County Daily Record
Memories of Mike : A family remembers its fallen son

By Jessica Weekley Staff Writer jessicaw@nwanews.com

Posted on Monday, May 25, 2009



Siloam Sunday photograph by Gary Burton Ron Evans, left, commander of Siloam Springs American Legion Post 29, and Bennett Howell, World War II veteran and former POW, place a flag on the grave of David "Mike" Randolph at Oak Hill Cemetery on Saturday. Randolph was one of 241 U.S. Marines killed Oct. 23, 1983, by a suicide bomber in Beirut, Lebanon. The Legion will hold its annual Memorial Day service at 11 a.m. Monday at the Community Building in Siloam Springs.

Long before David Michael Randolph wore military-issue camouflage fatigues with his lips set in a grim line, he wore a pair of slick blue running shorts and Nike tennis shoes.

Before he took up a weapon and pledged his life to the United States Constitution, he was a knobby kneed little boy monkeying with his four younger siblings in California.

He loved to fish, stretch his well muscled legs during a long run and hoist his youngest brother into the air balanced on the balls of his feet.

In the early Sunday morning hours of Oct. 23, 1983, he was resting on a cot in U.S. Marines barracks at Beirut (Lebanon) International Airport .

After barreling through barbed wire and past bellowing security officers, a yellow truck hauling more than 12,000 pounds of dynamite crashed through the wall nearest Randolph.

It took less than a second for the five-ton Mercedes-Benz to detonate.

"I don't know how many total Marines were there that day, but he was one of the 243 that died," said Randolph's father and namesake, David Randolph. "What they told me was that my son was in the corner on his cot where he slept. The building collapsed in such a way that a sergeant, whose bed was across the room, survived without a mark on him."

The blasts led to the withdrawal of the International Peacekeeping Force from Lebanon, where troops from the United States and France had been stationed since the withdrawal of the Palestine Liberation Organization after the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon.

David and his wife, Virginia, were told their son was the closest person

to the truck when it exploded. Today, from their home in West Siloam Springs, Okla., the couple easily remember the day, more than 25 years ago, when news came pouring out of the television and radio that the airport turned-Marine barracks where their son was stationed had been devastatingly bombed.

"There were guys on the second and third floor, and it blew them right out of the windows. Some of them survived," David said. "Others were thrown off the roof. Even some of them made it out of there alive."

Randolph, known to family and friends as "Mike," didn't survive the blast.

Three weeks prior to his death, on Oct. 1, he had celebrated his 19th birthday thousands of miles away from his family. He had no way of knowing the letters he wrote would be delivered to his parents weeks after he died.

"His letters kept coming, even after," David said. "It's not easy to read a letter after the fact."

For three months following the bombing, the military listed Mike as missing.

Just days before Christmas, the Randolph family met some unwelcome visitors at their front door. David had spent weeks calling military officials with inquiries of Mike's status but had been given little information.

However unwanted the knocks were, the visitors dressed in military uniforms were expected.


"Months went by, and finally they came to the house one night," David said. "There were five of them. They said, 'We've identified your son.' Of course, I knew it wasn't good if it took that long."

It wasn't until the final day of the year in 1983 that his family was able to hold a memorial service in his honor.

Mike and another Marine were the last to be identified at a forensics lab in Hawaii. In a flag-draped steel coffin, Mike's remains arrived on a plane in Tulsa, Okla., the last week of December.

"It was just before Christmas, and we decided to wait until after to have a service - for the kids, for everybody." David said. "God, it was cold that day. We were told it was the coldest winter they had had here in a hundred years."

The Randolphs, natives of California, had lived on Franklin Street in Siloam Springs for less than six months before the death of their eldest son.

Without Mike, who had enlisted in the Marines at 17 years old, the blended family moved to the area from El Centro, Calif., in July 1983 to be near Virginia's family. Within one day of finding a place to live, David had been hired by Allen Canning Co. as a truck driver.

"So many people ... complete strangers came out, cooked food, donated," Virginia said. "It was amazing. I don't think if we'd still been in California we would've had so much support. I really don't."

More than 1,000 people, including military officials, state represen tatives, two busloads of Marines, area residents and family attended the memorial service.
Posthumously, Mike was promoted to lance corporal.

A 21-gun salute and the solemn sound of taps heralded the end of the service at the Oak Hill Cemetery.

"I think it was the hardest thing that we ever did, signing those papers to let him go into the Marines," Virginia said. "If he wanted it bad enough to graduate early at 16, and worked that hard for it, what else could we do?"

Soon after boot camp at Camp Pendleton, Calif., Mike visited his family in Oregon, where they had moved for a brief period before coming to Arkansas.

Mike never made it to see the family's new home in Siloam Springs before he was shipped to Beirut from Camp Lejeune, N.C.

"After all of this happened, in 1985 or so, the base where he was stationed in Maryland asked if they could name a building after him," David said. "Now, when you walk in the front door, in front of the memorial, there's this picture of him. They said as long as that building was there, his picture would be, too."

Standing next to the highest ranking enlisted Marine in the United States, David was invited to cut the ribbon during the dedication ceremony.

"With four kids at home, I was short on money then, but when I told my boss what they were doing with the building, he said he thought we might be able to work something out," he said. "I took a load up there and went over to the building. Right after it all happened, I took a week off from work, but after that I went back, I couldn't just sit around. They paid me just like I had been there."

Today, a gleaming Purple Heart and other decorations of honor hang on the wall of the Randolphs' home.

Despite the pride the family has for Mike's service to his country, accompanied by the constant reminder of framed photos hanging on walls, Mike is remembered for much more than the time he spent in the Marines and his tragic death.

He loved cross-country track, was idolized by his two younger brothers and two younger sisters and would eat anything placed in front of him. His hazel eyes changed colors depending on the shirt that he wore, Virginia noted.

On family fishing trips to the All American Canal in California, Mike would often pull large fish out of the water.

He was popular in high school and had the time of his life with a friend when he went to Greece on a brief furlough from the military.

Today, the Randolphs have six grandchildren and four great grandchildren. They live a quiet, content life in West Siloam Springs.

But they have never forgotten Mike or the sacrifice that he made on Oct. 23, 1983.

"My consolation is that he was a good kid," David said. "I'm a firm believer that when it's your time to go, you're going. I wished it had been longer, but he was here as long as he was supposed to be."

He Planted the Trees and has never forgotten

Sunday, May 24, 2009
Era ends for a Memorial Day veteran
Harold 'Bud' Hohl has been the driving force behind decades of ceremonies in Costa Mesa.
By SAM MILLER


The Orange County Register
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There's a picture that Bud Hohl likes to show off, of a flagpole in a Costa Mesa cemetery. The expanse of empty land behind it stretches to Tustin.

In 1954, when the photo was taken, Harbor Rest Memorial Park asked the Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 3536 to dedicate the flagpole. Hohl, then a 34-year-old Marine pilot, agreed. One of Orange County's longest stage careers was born.

For five and a half decades, Hohl has been the organizer and MC of Post 3536's annual Memorial Day ceremony. But now, with his health failing, Hohl has stepped down and today's ceremony will be the first he's sitting out since 1978, when he attended a friend's funeral.

"I was told to keep my mouth shut," joked Hohl, 89. "This is the first year I really haven't said something."

He'll be succeeded by Jack Hammett, a former Costa Mesa mayor who spent 22 years in the Navy.

"It's an attitude that all military men accept," Hammett said. "We all learn and accept stepping back and letting the young person take over once you've done your duty. Very well done, thank you, next."

Harold 'Bud' Hohl was mining hard rock in Arizona and caring for his widowed mother before he enlisted in 1942. He joined the Marines as a pilot, thinking that he might be stationed with his brother, also a Marine. (He wasn't.)

During World War II, he flew with the squadron known as the Death Rattlers, shooting down Japanese kamikaze pilots before they could attack the ring of American ships that surrounded the islands of Okinawa. The Death Rattlers were the most decorated squadron of the war, developing sophisticated analytical methods to shoot down 124 Japanese planes. Hohl – known by his fellow pilots as "Loophole" – shot down one of them on his first day.

Over the next 22 years, he spent 7,000 hours flying for the Marines. He flew supplies in the Korean War, and shuttled generals to their golf games during peacetime. He was stationed at El Toro for much of the 1950s, and Orange County became his home.

Whenever somebody asked the local VFW for something, Hohl stepped up.

"He is a person that did everything himself, because he couldn't get anybody else to help him," said Ted Marinos, who has volunteered alongside Hohl for 50 years. "You know how volunteers are."

"Semper Fi," Hohl's son, Bud Jr., explains.

Hohl chuckles. "Yeah, Semper Fi. It was the Marine Corps way of doing things you're asked. I believed in the Marine Corps. And I believed in the VFW. So whatever came along, I took an active role in it. If somebody wanted it done, all they had to do was yell out, 'Hey Loop!'"

He built a replica of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for one Memorial Day ceremony. He built a replica of the Iwo Jima flag raising out of lava rocks. He planted trees in memory of the Marines killed by a terrorist blast in Beirut.

He'd love to still be leading the ceremony. "I'm down to a point where I just have a hard time finding the words," he said. He speaks with long pauses and his eyes closed, and a breathing tube in his nose.

He has dreamed for more than a decade of a large eagle monument in the cemetery. A few years ago, he found the right eagle in an antique store in Spokane, Wash. – a brass-colored statue, 6 feet tall, salvaged from the front of an Argentine bank. The monument is ready for installation once he gets the right text to have printed on its sides. He expects to dedicate it this year.

"That's his ace in the hole, before he leaves his country," Marinos says.

The Costa Mesa Memorial Day ceremony is at 11 a.m. Monday at Harbor Lawn-Mt. Olive Memorial Park, 1625 Gisler Ave.

Contact the writer: 714-796-7884 or sammiller@ocregister.com

Marine honors the memory of the fallen

Bear Cieri/Daily News correspondent
Bellingham Memorial Day Parade Grand Marshal Stephen Russell.

By Michelle Laczkoski/Daily News staff
GHS
Posted May 16, 2009 @ 11:50 PM
BELLINGHAM —

To Stephen Russell, Memorial Day marks a day to stop, reflect and give due respect to the heroes who have served America.

Russell is one of those heroes.

The grand marshal of today's Memorial Day parade, Russell will pay tribute to all servicemen, especially his 241 brothers who died beside him in Beirut on a peacekeeping force in 1983.

Russell, who is now a retired Marine, survived a harrowing attack on Oct. 23, 1983, when two truck bombs struck separate buildings in Beirut, where American troops were housed. Of 241 Americans killed, 220 were Marines.

Russell was among the 60 Americans injured in the blasts. Just three weeks before he was set to return home, Russell was taken by medical helicopter from Lebanon with a cracked pelvis, broken femur and hand.

"I shouldn't be alive," Russell, 53, said last week from his kitchen table. "They said I wouldn't walk again. But I was determined to stay."

Just one year later, Russell returned to full duty.

"I fought it, I wanted to continue serving," he said.

Russell, a Bellingham native, promised his wife he would retire from the Marines and secure a comfortable life for his family.

"I loved every second of it except for that one second," he said, referring to the barracks bombing in Beirut.

Following his recovery at Camp Lejeune, N.C., Russell went onto Camp Geiger's School of Infantry. Later, he worked as a drill instructor on Parris Island in South Carolina.

Eventually Russell's injuries from Beirut "caught up" to him.

"I couldn't compete with my peers," he said.

The Marine Corps placed Russell on temporary disability. He retired from the Corps in 1994.

Settling back into civilian life with his wife and two children wasn't easy. It remains a struggle.

"I still feel sore, aches and pains," he said. "I toss and turn all night."

Jim Hastings, chairman of the Memorial and Veterans Day Committee, said the committee unanimously chose Russell to lead the annual parade.

"We wanted to pay honor to Marines who lost their lives in Beirut," Hastings said. "Having someone like that right in our town, he was an obvious choice."

Though Memorial Day "brings back bad memories," a humble Russell said it is vital to pay tribute to the nation's fallen.

"That's what my loyalty is all about, those guys, all 241, the dead," he said.

The parade will feature town officials, police, firefighters, bagpipes and several local high school bands.

Following the procession from the high school to the town common, there will be a ceremony with several speakers at the gazebo.

Russell will also speak and honor those who have given the ultimate sacrifice.

"Many gave all, some gave a little and too many gave everything," he said.

Many have forgotten the attack in Beirut, but the terrorist attack is fresh in Russell's mind.

"Everyday, it's here," he said, pointing to his head. "People say, 'Let it go.' I have no desire to let it go. I was a part of it."

Michelle Laczkoski can be reached at mlaczkos@cnc.com or 508-634-7556.

John Rice Hudson USN Beirut Navy Hero

By Damon Cline

John Rice Hudson, by all accounts, had a promising future.

The 1981 graduate of the Medical College of Georgia School of Medicine had a beautiful wife, a healthy newborn son and dreams of opening a family medical practice in middle Georgia. The 28-year-old Naval lieutenant and physician was well-liked for his easygoing personality and his peers admired his ability to excel at seemingly any task, be it surgery, making music or overhauling a car engine.

But his future was cut short on Oct. 23, 1983, when he and 240 other military personnel stationed in Beirut, Lebanon, were killed when a suicide bomber drove an explosive-laden truck into the U.S. Marines' barracks.

The attack – the deadliest single assault on U.S. servicemen since World War II – was largely forgotten by the public until 9-11 brought it back into the American conscience.

In the minds of Dr. Hudson’s family, however, it never faded from memory.

“For 99 percent of Americans, terrorism started on Sept. 11, 2001,” said Dr. Hudson’s son, Will, who was 8 months old when his father died. “For my mom and me, terrorism started on Oct. 23, 1983.”

AN EXTRAORDINARY PERSONALITY

Dr. Hudson was the eldest of Samuel and Losie Hudson’s three children. The family moved often during his father’s 23-year career in the U.S. Army, where he was a decorated veteran of the Korea and Vietnam wars.

The family eventually settled in Fayette County near Atlanta, where Dr. Hudson met David Anders, a fellow trombone player in the elementary school band. The two remained best friends through high school and were inseparable as roommates at the University of Georgia and MCG, which Dr. Hudson paid for through a Navy scholarship that required him to enlist after medical school.

Dr. Anders, who now practices internal medicine in Fayette County, said Dr. Hudson had an extraordinary personality.

“He enjoyed life to the fullest and wanted everyone to come along for the ride,” he said. “When you get together with people and talk about John, even 25 years later, you can’t get two or three minutes before somebody has a big belly laugh over something he did.”

His antics, including wearing a gorilla suit to the student center and strolling into his anatomy finals playing his trombone, tested the patience of administrators but provided comic relief to his stressed-out classmates.

“His friends have told me he was the guy who made everyone loosen up and enjoy themselves,” Will said.

Those who knew him cited an almost childlike innocence.

“John had a real dry sense of humor, but he was a very caring person” said Dr. Bob Parrish, former MCG chief of pediatric surgery and founding member of Code 99, a band Dr. Hudson played with for two years.

Dr. Hudson was a sophomore in 1979 when he met his future wife, Lisa, at an Augusta night spot. He had gone to pick up an amplifier he loaned to a friend but ended up staying once he saw the 23-year-old registered nurse from Milledgeville, Ga. He called her the next day and the two hit if off immediately.

“He was so unpretentious,” Lisa recalled. “He was probably the smartest man I've ever known, but he was so unpretentious about it.”

The two discussed marriage, but Dr. Hudson initially wanted to put off a wedding date until after completing his military commitment.

“He made up his mind he was going to complete medical school and pay back his time to the Navy before he settled down,” Lisa said. “But I interrupted that process.”

The two were married on Sept. 13, 1980, with Dr. Anders as best man.

“I lost a good roommate,” Dr. Anders said. “But she got a good one.”

SEMPER FIDELIS

Dr. Hudson enlisted in the Navy, which provides health care services to the U.S. Marine Corps, after completing the first year of his residency at MCG. The newlyweds moved to Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, N.C., where Will was born on Feb. 15, 1983.

Having grown up an Army brat, Dr. Hudson was comfortable with military service. However, he was far from the average recruit.

Will recalled one particular story relayed to him by his father's commanding officer, Lt. Col. Larry Gerlach, whose injuries during the barracks bombing made him a paraplegic.

“My dad would drive the officers crazy because he wouldn't put his boots on,” Will said. “He told them, 'These boots are putting blisters on my feet. If I was seeing a patient who had blisters like these, I would tell him to stop wearing these boots.' My dad was a doctor first and foremost.”

Dr. Hudson's service was uneventful until then-President Ronald Reagan ordered the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment to participate in a multinational peacekeeping mission in Lebanon, which was in the midst of a civil war.

He left for Beirut on April 9, 1983. The Marines set up their headquarters at the Beirut International Airport and were initially successful at preventing attacks from militant factions operating in the country.

However, as the year wore on, it became clear to Dr. Hudson that militants were becoming increasingly confrontational.

“Rockets and artillery are coming into our area but we don’t shoot back because we’re not supposed to be in a war, but we are in a war,” he said in a taped message to his wife on Sept. 5. “We’re in a combat war zone.”

‘THINGS ARE SO DIFFERENT HERE’

Randy Gaddo was a 30-year-old staff sergeant and combat correspondent when he served in Beirut, which many of the 1,200 Marines referred to as “The Root.”

He said Dr. Hudson was well-known around the compound.

“Everybody knew who the battalion surgeon was,” said Mr. Gaddo, who now lives in Peachtree City, Ga. “All the medical people were considered very special people, but he was the only qualified doc on shore. The other guys were called docs, but they were really medical techs.”

Most of Dr. Hudson’s skills went unused early in the deployment. On one recording he said he was unable to practice “99 percent of the knowledge” he learned in medical school. Even depression was rare among the troops.

“They like being Marines and they like the job they have to do,” he said. “They motivate themselves. I’m really impressed with them.”

However, Dr. Hudson became concerned about his fellow troops – and his own wellbeing – as the skirmishes intensified. Marines no longer came to his basement clinic with sore throats and earaches; they now had bullet and shrapnel wounds. In an Aug. 31, 1983 postcard to Dr. Anders, he said he was worried about “coming home in a box or altered state,” and that “things are so different here, more than anything you could ever imagine.”

And he continued to express his dismay at the rules of engagement. Weapons were constantly pointed at the Marines, but they were prohibited from actively engaging the enemy unless fired upon. Dr. Hudson wrote about the futility to Sen. Sam Nunn, then chairman of the U.S. Senate Committee on Armed Services.

In one of Dr. Hudson’s last communications, a tape sent to a freelance reporter in Atlanta, he referred to the troops as “sitting pigeons.”

“We actually can watch them build a bunker by day, see them put ammunition into the bunker, and you know what’s going on,” he said on the tape. “They can kill, maim, seriously injure Marines and sailors, and then – once they’ve shot – you have the option of shooting back.”

Dr. Hudson reunited with his wife and 6-month-old son in Greece while on leave from the base from Aug. 20-28. It was the last time they would see him.

SHATTERING THE SILENCE

The Root was peaceful during early dawn on Oct. 23, 1983. The cacophony of distant artillery fire had fallen silent.

At around 6 a.m. Staff Sgt. Gaddo had stepped outside his bunker to enjoy the morning sun before walking to the barracks, where he planned to develop eight rolls of film in a makeshift photo lab on the second floor.

“I started walking over there – it was less than a minute’s walk, maybe a couple hundred yards – then I just stopped,” he said. “It was just such a beautiful morning, very quiet. I just thought it was too good of a morning to go inside, so I turned around and went back to get a cup of coffee.”

The decision saved his life.

At approximately 6:20 a.m., a truck packed with explosives accelerated through the compound’s gate, barreling past two sentry posts and another gate before crashing into the lobby of the barracks. The Marines, under strict rules of engagement, barely had time to load and shoulder their weapons before the suicide bomber detonated explosives equivalent to six tons of TNT.

“I heard a couple of shots go off, then I felt the heat of the blast,” Mr. Gaddo said. “The shock wave threw me back like a rag doll. I thought we had been hit by an artillery shell.”

Those not killed by the blast were crushed when the four-story, reinforced-concrete building collapsed into a heap of rubble.

Seven time zones to the west, the sun had set on suburban Atlanta. Earlier that day, Dr. Anders proposed to his girlfriend, Kenya, in Stone Mountain, Ga. He had alluded to the pending engagement in letters to Dr. Hudson, and had asked his childhood friend to be best man at the wedding.

He went to sleep that night unaware his friend was already dead.

“I was getting into bed shortly after midnight and my sister mentioned something about a bombing in Beirut,” Dr. Anders recalled. “I was just hoping that it wasn’t going to be too much work for John – that he didn’t have to do too much triage. Later we learned it was much worse, that the whole compound had been attacked.”

Recovering the bodies took several days. Dr. Hudson was found on day two, inside his sleeping bag.

Ms. Hudson feared her husband was dead the moment she saw news footage of the destruction. Those fears were confirmed by a visit from two Naval officers.

“They came up to the door, just like they do in the movies,” she recalled.

Her husband’s body was returned to the United States two weeks later and buried at her family’s dairy farm south of Milledgeville, an area where he hoped to one day build a home and practice medicine.

The U.S. government ruled in 2003 that the attack was carried out by the militant Islamic group Hezbollah with backing from the Iranian government.

Military analysts say the attack was America’s first brush with “fourth-generation warfare,” in which ideologically motivated insurgents use guerrilla tactics and civilian populations to create tactical dilemmas for an enemy. The insurgents’ strategy is to achieve victory not through superior military strength, but by convincing the enemy’s political leaders that victory is either unachievable or not worth the human toll.

President Reagan withdrew the troops less than five months after the attack.

“We pulled out, so in a way, it showed them their tactics worked,” said Mr. Gaddo, currently the national president of the Beirut Veterans Association. “It was really a modern-day watershed event. We’ve seen identical elements in the wars after 9-11.”

Will met Mr. Nunn for the first time at a charity event in Atlanta last year. To his surprise, the former senator remembered the letter his father wrote 25 years ago.

“He said, ‘That letter will haunt me for the rest of my life,’” Will recalled. “He said, ‘Your dad was exactly right. He knew exactly what was going on.’ ”

AFTERMATH

A scholarship fund was started in Dr. Hudson’s name shortly after his death, and in 1987, the clinic at the U.S. Naval Supply School in Athens was renamed in his honor.

The building’s plaque rekindled memories in Dr. Sam Richwine, a 1977 MCG graduate who completed his surgical internship and residency at MCG.

“It finally rang a bell that John Hudson had been an intern of mine when I was a general surgery chief there,” said Dr. Richwine, a plastic surgeon in Gainesville, Ga.

The Athens native hopes the memorial remains after the 58-acre Naval School property is transferred to the University System of Georgia in 2011 for use as an MCG-UGA medical campus. (Damon: Is there any question? If so, STET.)

“I think it would be great if we were somehow able to keep that name somewhere on campus,” he said, “not only to honor John as an MCG grad, but also the gift of his life to the country.”

Ms. Hudson never remarried.

“I’ve never had another best friend like him,” she said. “I miss my friend more than I miss my husband.”

She and Will moved from Milledgeville to Augusta, where she worked as a nurse until completing MCG’s psychiatric nursing program in 1995. The training allowed her to open a counseling practice for women with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. Setting her own schedule gave her the flexibility to attend Will’s sporting events and other school functions.

“He's the reason I'm alive, that's the truth,” she said. “Every day that I got up after that was because I had him to take care of. He was my motivation to move on.”

Will, who married in June, recently started a professional recruitment firm, Complete Recruiting Solutions LLC in Atlanta. He also has political aspirations, which stem directly from the loss of his father.

“I think some of our leaders make decisions without really thinking about the impact they may have,” he said. “When you know what it feels like when those decisions go bad, it makes you think a little more carefully and thoughtfully.”

Several of Dr. Hudson’s friends stay in touch with his widow and son, including classmate Dr. Allan Panter, a Gainesville, Ga., resident who practices emergency medicine.

He said Dr. Hudson would be proud of his son.

“I can’t say enough about Lisa’s parenting,” said Dr. Panter, who dropped in to visit Will at Furman University whenever he was passing through. “Will is well-rounded; he seems to be a complete package.”

For Dr. Panter, spending time with Will is almost like spending time with the young man’s father. Almost.

“I don’t think you’re ever going to meet anybody like John Hudson,” he said. “If you ever meet someone like him in your lifetime, you’re fortunate.”

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night

CHRISTMAS IN BEIRUT

Journal Entries from the Battlefield

BY Brian G. Lukas

Editor’s note: The name Beirut became a one-word symbol for the war torn Middle East of the late 1970s. Civil war had erupted in Lebanon in 1975, the result of clashes between Christian and Muslim groups, including members of the Druse religious sect and the Palestine Liberation Organization, and had escalated over several years. In 1982, Israeli troops invaded Lebanon; the two countries had already fought south of Beirut. As well, Syria had occupied the country since 1976. In 1983, the United Nations dispatched a multinational peace-keeping force, including U.S. Marines, to Beirut. The Marines left Beirut within a year because of terrorist attacks; on Oct. 23,1983, a truck loaded with explosives crashed into the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit Headquarters compound, killing 241 Marines.

“The Marines in Beirut seem to have gotten lost in the history books . . . they had a difficult mission,” says TV photographer Brian Lukas. He, along with news anchorwoman Angela Hill and editorialist Phil Johnson, all of WWL-TV/Channel 4, traveled to Beirut in late 1983 to cover Louisiana Marines stationed there at Christmastime. Lukas kept journal entries of his tense times there, excerpted here.

Christmas 1983 was just a few weeks away. I would travel to Beirut with Angela Hill and Phil Johnson to film and edit stories on local Marines from the New Orleans area. It was a time before portable satellite uplinks and the Internet, so we carried videotaped messages from the Marines’ families back in the United States. Our ambitious itinerary also included production of a documentary about this war-torn area. But as fighting between the various factions escalated, that idea was abandoned. Armed militias set up roadblocks in various sections of Beirut. The Islamic Jihad decided to add another element to its arsenal of terror and brutality: kidnapping Westerners.

•If there is hell on earth, it is here in Beirut. At the same time that I arrived in Beirut, the French Embassy was hit by a car bomb, with 20 people killed. Later that night, a French military base was blasted by a bomb-laden truck. Ten French soldiers were killed, and 23 were hurt. The explosion lit up the whole area. Terror – it is sheer terror. I can see it on the faces of the residents who walk cautiously on the streets. Here in Beirut, teenagers carry assault rifles, mainly M-16s. On the streets, women cradle their children tightly in their arms, begging any Westerners for help. The city smells like death. There is a stench of rotting corpses and smoldering trash strewn about from buildings destroyed by the fighting in the streets. To realize the inhumanity of war, you have to look deep in the faces of the civilian population. Then, if you dare, look deep into their eyes. There you will find the horror of war absorbed deep within the soul. I look into many eyes here in Beirut.

•In the eyes of the young Marines, I can see the uneasy and uncomfortable situation they are in. The U.S. Marines’ position at the Beirut International Airport keeps them under daily sniper and artillery attack. I remember when I was in Washington, D.C., for a White House press function when many of these same Marines from the 22nd Marine Amphibious Unit invaded Grenada, a tiny island in the Caribbean. Now I am here in hell with them. The Marines, politically, are not invaders but are so-called “welcome guests,” strategically placed in Lebanon on a peace-keeping mission with the French and Italians as part of a multinational force. Our Marine contact is Capt. Dennis Brooks, the Marine public-information officer on the base, always “spring-loaded to say yes.” He remarked that the various militias near the Marine positions use their tanks like small arms fire: They quickly maneuver the tanks in firing position, release a shell and maneuver back quickly, then repeat the operation. Maximum destruction, I thought to myself. Total destruction was evident when we passed the Sabra and Chatila refugee camps – hundreds, perhaps thousands of Palestinians were killed here: men, women, and children. Our driver remarked, solemnly, that they were executed. The refugee camps are leveled, nothing remains, and where the victims of this civil war sought relief from the terror of war, only the bare reddish-brown earth remains visible from the nearby dusty road. Their graves are not even marked. It is as if they were never born.

•At night there is no time to dream; the evenings are fitful with the sounds of rifle fire. My bed is level with the window. Crazy, I thought, there are snipers on the roofs – one shot through the window and that’s it. I tried to sleep on the floor, but there is no sleep at night. The sounds of sniper fire and the thud of muffled mortar and artillery rounds are trying to find any “peace-keeper’s” position near the Avenue de Paris, the long, winding road facing the Mediterranean Sea.

•At one time Beirut played the Paris of the Middle East; now it plays a sorrowful tune of despair. My hotel in Beirut is owned by the Nassai family, Palestinian owners of the Commodore Hotel. The Commodore Hotel is on the Muslim side of Beirut. On the Christian side, the owner of the Alexandre failed to pay protection money to the thugs and every conceivable terrorist seeking consideration for the hotel’s existence. As a result, somebody exploded a huge car bomb in its parking lot, destroying the hotel. I couldn’t help but notice the line of cars ringing the Commodore Hotel here in Muslim West Beirut. Sometimes the cars were two or three deep. I quickly learned that these vehicles were buffers to prevent any car-bomb attacks on the Commodore. The ring of vehicles and payoffs couldn’t stop the instruments of distant destruction. My hotel room in the Commodore is on the fourth floor, room 405. I could not enter the room without noticing the shift in the door and several large cracks running down the length of the wall. A little later that day, I learned that room 405, my room, had been hit by a rocket-propelled grenade just two weeks earlier.

•There is no sanctuary in this city. It’s a sad place and a sad time. Beirut is a city defined by fear, a city bisected by the green line – Christians in the East, Muslims in the West. This is a noisy, depressing, dangerous and disconcerting place to work. I tried not to sleep last night. It’s been several nights since I’ve had any sleep. The last thing I wanted was to be asleep when a car bomb went off and then to be buried under the rubble of concrete and steel from the top five floors. I often fall asleep at the dinner table. Veteran journalists from Europe and the U.S. networks in the hotel remark that this is one of the scariest wars they’ve covered. There is no “commuting” to this war; death and destruction are all around us.

Blackened pockmarks of war are carved into the façade of every building. The city is gravely wounded. And now a new threat is employed by the terrorists: They are kidnapping journalists and teachers at the American University in Beirut. A note was posted on the front bulletin board as we left the hotel. It was a warning from the Islamic Jihad. In very simple words, the note said that all Westerners must leave Beirut or “we will make the ground under your feet move.” It was a direct threat to destroy the hotel where the Western press reported the war. This is the same group that claimed responsibility for bombing the U.S. Marine base here in Beirut, and the U.S. embassies in Beirut and Kuwait.

•The war is escalating now. (A few months later, the Commodore Hotel would be completely destroyed by shelling and car bombs.) The American Embassy was heavily damaged by another car-bomb attack. Forty people were injured, and eight were killed in the suicide attack. The front of the embassy building, facing the seashore, is covered in what appears to be a seven-story green shroud. It hides the embassy’s exposed interior from probing eyes or people that pass through the zigzagged row of 55-gallon metal drums filled with dirt. The metal drums are defenses against another suicide attack. Marines are positioned throughout the building. Another contingent of Marines is stationed just across the street from the embassy. An American flag blew quietly in the wind next to a Marine guard watching the pedestrian movement in front of the embassy. The image of the American flag and the Marine standing with the sun setting on the Mediterranean Sea gave the drab gray seashore kind of a splendid appearance. In a melancholy way I felt a strong connection with home. The obvious presence of the American flag waving in the warm breeze made me feel very thankful that I live in and would return to the United States shortly. And if there is ever an image of the Marines in Beirut that will be forever stamped on my mind, it is that one single Marine and the American flag rippling in the wind next to him.

•On the corniche, in front of the American Embassy, the Marines are routinely targeted by snipers. It becomes very nerve-racking that at any time death may come by a sniper. As I filmed the area I noticed a small bunker with several Marines standing guard. One of them was Cpl. Brad Pellegrin from Slidell. It is the Christmas season, and he is making the best of a very bad situation by lining his bunker with makeshift ornaments. I forgot that we were nearing Christmas.

We were carrying messages from Cpl. Pellegrin’s family to give to him. It was a videotaped message to him from his wife, mother and child. As we showed the message to him I noticed an interesting effect on the other Marines . . . they gathered closer together to hear the family’s greeting to Brad. Closer the Marines came when Brad’s son said, “Daddy, I love you and miss you.” We played the videotape again and again. That’s when I realized that Brad’s family was now family to all the Marines that gathered to watch his videotape in front of the destroyed American Embassy. His family was their family; his son was their son or daughter. The Marines had a Christmas family now . . . and it was amazing to witness a little bit of loneliness disappear as they looked on. Christmas is family . . . even in Beirut.

•The makeshift Christmas ornaments lining the bunkers in front of the destroyed U.S. embassy were a welcome relief. It was a simple reminder of the hope that peace existed. Off in the distance, on the Mediterranean Sea, the sunset cast a shadow on the battleship New Jersey. The broad, flickering light from her was the firepower from her massive guns unleashed on the Druse militias, who rocketed the Marine base at the International Airport on Beirut’s southern edge. We would find out that a Marine was severely wounded; later he died.

•Overnight, hooded Shiite Muslims and their Druse allies drove Lebanese army units from most of their checkpoints on the Muslim West Beirut commercial thoroughfares and residential neighborhoods. I woke up to a very loud mechanical clanking just outside my hotel. The sounds of Lebanese military tanks rolling pass the hotel window quickly eliminated the little rest I hoped to get.

•Reports indicate at least 90 people killed last night and more than 300 wounded in the fighting; in just two days more than 160 people were killed, mostly civilians caught in the cross-fire. It’s a sickness – hatred is a cancer destroying everything here.

•At the Marine base this morning I could see the visible impact of the shelling by the U.S. 6th Fleet on the mountain range surrounding the base. Huge billows of smoke rose as the shells hit their targets. Cpls. Herbert McKnight and Greg Nelson, both from the New Orleans area, said the Marine base was shelled by rockets overnight. Herbert was stationed in a sandbag bunker on the rooftop of the base. This bunker, accessible only by a ladder, is the highest point on the Marine base. It also appears to be a very vulnerable position, an obvious target for a sniper. Cpl. Nelson, from Slidell, manned a .50-caliber machine gun overlooking the Kalda mountain range near the rear of the base. Cpl. Brian Campbell, only 19 years old and from Lafayette, was quickly unloading supplies from a helicopter. The copters didn’t stay long . . . they couldn’t – mortars usually found their targets. Brian, Greg and Herbert, these young Marines, were reminders that wars are fought by the very young, often placed in horrific circumstances and forced to grow up quickly. Several times I asked them to move their helmet up so I could see their eyes while filming. “Son, can you move your helmet up just a little?” I said. I would later say, “Marine, would you push your helmet back just a little?” Eighteen, 19 years old . . . here in hell, when others of their age are probably wrapping Christmas presents and acting goofy back home.

But on the Marine base at the Beirut International Airport, the one focal point no one can pass without some reflection of what happened months earlier is the huge crater. That crater once housed the Marines in a four story building. Every time I moved past it, I thought of the young men like Greg, Brian and Herbert, and then I said a small prayer for the families of the 241 Marines that died here.

•The Marine base alarm is sounding. The Druse militias are firing mortars now. In a few seconds, we must make the decision to stay on the Marine base during the shelling and miss our satellite deadline or leave and walk into the chaos and madness of the streets. We decide to leave. A condition-1 alert has been initiated . . . there are incoming mortar rounds in the distance, and the front gate will be locked shortly. The Marine base is the target.

We had to leave quickly. But as I left the Marine base I noticed a small memorial in front of the former Marine barracks. Despite the imminent danger, I couldn’t help but stop, notice and film the small bouquet of light blue flowers ringed around a Marine-issued camouflage hat. Above the flowers was a small, white sign facing east, toward the city of Beirut. The small sign simply described the Marines’ mission in Beirut: To the “24th MAU, they came in peace.”

It’s a dangerous world out there. •

Beirut Vet's daughter receives Gift

PEOPLE PROFILE: Kira Kremer receives Freedom Alliance Scholarship

By Bill Wolcott
E-mail Bill
Lockport Union-Sun & Journal

Kira Kremer, 21, a 2005 graduate of Lockport High School, is getting help with tuition to the SUNY Upstate Medical University with a scholarship from the Freedom Alliance Scholarship.

The scholarships are for children of U.S. service members who have been killed or permanently disabled in an operational mission. Her dad, Daniel Kremer, was wounded in 1983 while serving as a Marine in Beruit, Lebanon.

“I don’t remember much,” Kremer said of the Sept. 6, 1983, shelling. “They sent me out to do reconnaissance at the south end of the runway at the airport. They opened up with everything. It blew me 30 yards. I was blind, deaf and bleeding.”

The artillery round landed about 4 or 5 feet from the Marine sergeant. He was told that shell left an umbrella signature and it was too close to kill him.

“I just got real damn lucky,” he said.

Who did it? “Nobody wanted us there,” Dan Kremer said. “They’ve been fighting there 2,000 years and seemed to focus attentions on us.”

On Oct. 23, 1983, two truck bombs struck barracks in Beirut that housed U.S. and French military forces. The bombs killed hundreds of servicemen, the majority of whom were U.S. Marines.

Kremer, who could not be evacuated after the Sept. 6 incident, was there, at the barracks. He had just gotten off a guard duty shift.

He was awarded the Purple Heart, the Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal, the National Defense Service Medal and the Good Conduct Medal.

Kremer got out of the Marines at 21, but later enlisted in the National Guard during the first Gulf War. He has worked at several manufacturing jobs.

Two years ago, Kremer was classified 100 percent permanently disabled as a result of service-connected injuries in Beruit. He has post traumatic stress disorder.

“At 43, I’m retired,” he said. “It’s sobering.”

Kira receives $6,000 a year through the Freedom Alliance Scholarship. The fund has now awarded $2.5 million to the children of military heroes.

“It really helps me reflect on my dad’s service,” she said. “It makes me really proud. I didn’t understand before. It brings us together. I can be proud of him and he can be proud of me ... The important lessons my father learned while in the Marine Corps have been instilled in me through his parenting, and I believe that I am a much stronger well-rounded person because of it."

Kira is an active member of her school and community while pursuing a degree in physical therapy. She volunteers at the Syracuse VA Hospital, plays for the school Rugby Club and is a member of the honor society.

“We are proud to grant this scholarship to such an impressive student as Kira Kremer,” said Freedom Alliance President Tom Kilgannon. “The purpose of this scholarship is to help alleviate the financial burdens of college tuition and also to honor the service of our military heroes through the achievements of their sons and daughters."

Kira attended the SUNY school of Environmental Science and Forestry and is working toward a doctorate in physical therapy. “I want to help people,” Kira said. “The doctor-client time will be good for me.”

Daniel, who has had a series of mini-strokes, is now retired. He praises the Freedom Alliance. “It’s so personal with them,” he said. “It was wonderful support.”

Last year, the family was taken to the Army-Navy game in D.C., given the VIP treatment and met Oliver L. North, who founded Freedom Alliance in 1990. 

Ashley, an older sister, attends medical school in Erie, Pa. Their brother, Daniel, is a senior at Lockport High School.

USS San Antonio honor our Heroes

San Antonio Sailors, Marines Honor Beirut Bombing Victims 
Story Number: NNS081028-03 
Release Date: 10/28/2008 6:28:00 AM 

By Mass Communication Specialist 3rd Class (SW) Brian Goodwin, Iwo Jima Expeditionary Public Affairs Center
USS SAN ANTONIO, At Sea (NNS) -- Marines and Sailors gathered on the flight deck of the amphibious transport dock ship USS San Antonio (LPD 17) Oct. 23 to honor their comrades killed during the Beirut bombing 25 years ago. 

On Oct. 23, 1983, two truck bombs struck buildings housing U.S. military forces in Beirut, Lebanon, killing 241 Marines, Sailors and Soldiers. 

"The Beirut bombing was an event that has stuck with me since I was 16 years old," said Marine Lt. Col. John Giltz, Combat Logistics Battalion 26 commanding officer. "The weight, tragedy and inspiration have been with me for 25 years now, and to be a part of today's ceremony and remember those who went before us is a moment I'll never forget." 

Giltz addressed his Marines during the ceremony. 

"We are not invulnerable," said Giltz. "You are all just like them -- young, full of life, had goals and aspirations. Their lives were taken in an instant, and so we dedicate ourselves to training and remember what it is to be a Marine." 

San Antonio's commanding officer, Cmdr. Kurt Kastner, stated the importance of the event. 

"Our first duty is to remember," said Kastner. "That is the motto and mission of Beirut's Veteran Association, established in 1992. The second is to perpetuate the memory of those 241 Sailors, Soldiers and Marines that gave their lives for their country." 

Kastner's words touched his Sailors. 

"The speeches made about the Beirut bombing were very motivational in not letting me forget why we are out here and what we are doing," said Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class (SW) Joseph Nayock. 

Several of the junior Marines were responsible for putting the ceremony together. 

"The Marines that lost their lives in that tragedy were all part of an amphibious unit, and I thought it would be good for us to honor their service on an amphibious ship," said Cpl. Christopher Hrbek. "We as Marines and Sailors hold a lot of tradition in what we stand for, and to carry on those traditions is to remember those who have made sacrifices." 

Senior leadership was proud of how the junior Marines set up the ceremony. 

"Many of these types of events are usually handled by staff, COs or officers, but today it was all corporals and sergeants, the backbone of leadership," said Gunnery Sgt. Benjamin McKinney. "It was a very touching ceremony, and I was moved on how the non-commissioned officers did it today." 

San Antonio is deployed to the U.S. 5th Fleet Area of Operations to conduct Maritime Security Operations (MSO). MSO help develop security in the maritime environment. From security arises stability that results in global economic prosperity. MSO complement the counterterrorism and security efforts of regional nations and seek to disrupt violent extremists' use of the maritime environment as a venue for attack or to transport personnel, weapons or other material. 

Dedicated to those who remain forever young

Remembering Beirut, Those Who Never Returned Home   By:  Col. Charles A. Dallachie Enlarge Photo They Came In Peace... the Beirut Memorial at the entrance to Camp Johnson with Abbé Godwin’s bronze standing eternal guard. Many of the victims of this catastrophe were Jacksonville residents; husbands, fathers, neighbors, fellow church members, little league coaches, friends. Their names are carved into the wall out of frame to the left. Extending from this location to the entrance of Camp Lejeune are the memorial Bradford Pear trees, one for each fallen serviceman. Their verdant white bloom every spring symbolizes peace and a spiritual continuum. Photographer: courtesy, Onslow County, NC * SAVE & SHARE ARTICLE  What's This? Digg Google del.icio.us Yahoo! Reddit Facebook Bookmark Print Email Subscribe * The appearance of hyperlinks to other sites does not constitute endorsement by the U.S. Marine Corps of that site or the information, products or services contained therein. Adjust font size:   MCB QUANTICO, Va. (Oct. 23) -- For Marines, great victories, great defeats and great sacrifices are never forgotten but are remembered with battle streamers attached to unit colors. Unfortunately, there are no battle streamers to remember the ultimate sacrifice made by Marines and sailors in Beirut in 1983. In the very early morning of October 23 in Beirut, Lebanon, a building serving as the command post for the First Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, was hit by a suicide bomber driving a stake bed truck loaded with compressed gas-enhanced explosives. The explosion and collapse of the building killed 241 Marines, sailors and soldiers. Bomb experts who examined the blast called the approximately 12,000 pounds of TNT the largest non-nuclear explosion in history. For the Marines it was the biggest loss of life in a single day since the Corps fought the Japanese on Iwo Jima in World War II. In 1982, Lebanon, the country once known as the ‘‘Switzerland of the Middle East” because of its European flavor, its prosperous economy and its ethnic diversity and tolerance, was mired in a bloody ethnic and religious conflict which would permanently destroy its character and leave its people shattered and demoralized to this day. In June 1982, after repeated Palestinian Liberation Organization cross-border attacks from strongholds in southern Lebanon into villages in northern Israel, the Israeli Defense Forces launched Operation Peace for Galilee. Throughout the summer of 1982, CNN brought to the world’s living rooms images of Israeli air and artillery pounding heavily populated Beirut as they sought to destroy the PLO fighters surrounded in the city by the Israeli forces. The terrible suffering, more than 12,000 killed in 70 days, caused Beirut to become the center of worldwide attention. At the request of the Lebanese government, the United States, along with Britain, France, and Italy inserted a multinational peacekeeping force into Beirut hoping its ‘‘presence” would provide a measure of stability to help the Lebanese government get back on its feet. Unfortunately, America was sticking its hand into a thousand-year-old hornet’s nest. By the summer of 1983, as diplomatic efforts failed to achieve a basis for lasting settlement, the Moslem factions came to perceive the Marines as enemies. This led to artillery, mortar and small arms fire being directed at Marine positions – with the Marines responding in kind against identified targets. By mid-October, just before being introduced to a new and deadly weapon – the suicide truck bomber, seven Marines had been killed and 26 injured. Immediately following the tragedy, the residents of Jacksonville, N.C., expressed an outpouring of grief and support for the families and loved ones of the Marines and sailors who had been killed. Part of that support included raising funds for a memorial to honor those who had died in Lebanon during the peacekeeping mission. Today, near the entrance to Camp Johnson, a subsidiary base of the overall Camp Lejeune, N.C., complex, a memorial wall was erected and now permanently stands nestled among some Carolina Pine trees. The Wall was completed on Oct. 23, 1986. It is similar to the Vietnam Wall in Washington, D.C., as it bears a list of those Americans who died in Lebanon. Only four words are inscribed on the Wall: ‘‘They Came in Peace.” In 1988, a statue was added to the Wall, it represents a lone Marine keeping vigil over his fellow Marines. In addition to the Wall, the residents of Jacksonville planted a Bradford Pear tree for each man killed in the explosion on the center median along Lejeune Boulevard, on Highway 24. A Marine officer now retired, tells the story of when in August 1992, while still on active duty and traveling to Camp Lejeune, he couldn’t help but notice the trees that line the middle of the road. Knowing that each tree was dedicated to an individual Marine, sailor, or soldier who had lost his life in Lebanon, he felt saddened as the vehicle sped past tree after tree after tree. Before arriving at the main gate he asked the young Marine who was driving him if he knew the significance of those trees. The Marine quickly looked at a few of the trees as he sped past them, and looked over to the passenger and said very matter-of-factly, ‘‘Hell, I don’t know. I’ve never noticed them before. I guess they’re just trees.” The Bradford Pear seedlings have grown since first planted, and as evidenced by the young Marine’s comment, their growth has been somewhat meaningless to those who were either too young to remember that October 1983 tragedy, or to those who had never been told of their significance. It is somewhat ironic that a young Marine, of all people, could have been so cavalier in his response, because if anyone should be concerned about what happened in Beirut, it is Marines who are and will be stationed with the Fleet Marine Forces. Unfortunately, in October 1983, the vast majority of Americans had little knowledge of, less interest in, and no great concern with what was going on in Beirut – it was so far away. Today, let us honor, but also learn, from the sacrifices of those who have gone before, so we do not give the citizens of Jacksonville a reason to plant more trees along a stretch of highway that leads to the main gate of their military base. Editors note: Col. Dallachie, Commander of Marine Corps Base Quantico, Va., was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, B Company as a 2nd Lieutenant at the time of the attack.

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Bike for the Beirut Vets

Beirut Veterans Tribute 

Reported by: Ben Manning

Friday, Oct 10, 2008 @05:48pm EST

HOLLIDAYSBURG, BLAIR COUNTY


A 

Huntingdon 
County man will bike more than 500 miles trying to get a commemorative stamp for Beirut Veterans.




Mike Bangert served as a Marine in 
Beirut. He got their just after the October 23rd 1983 bombing. 241 servicemen were killed in the barracks bombing. 18 of them were from 
Pennsylvania.




Now that we're coming up on the 25th anniversary he wants to honor the veterans that lost their lives. He took off Friday morning on a 550 mile ride from Hollidasyburg to 
Camp 
Lejeune in 
North Carolina. He’s using the ride to draw attention to House Resolution 887. That bill calls for a US Postal Stamp to honor the Marines' peace keeping mission in 
Beirut. He’s already got 20 congressman signed on to co-sponsor the bill. He needs a total of 50. Congressmen Bill Shuster and John Murtha are on the list.



He’s hoping to convince people along his bike route to call their Congressman and get them to co-sponsor the bill.


Bangert will arrive in 
Camp 
Lejeune for the remembrance ceremony marking the 25th anniversary of the 
Beirut bombing.

In Honor of a Hero

In Honor of a Hero

As part of the Project 2996 - today we remember, and honor the victims of the September 11 attacks.

never enough of it
time marches on
trickles away
each day
dies
and
each day
a new dawn
time marches on
never enough of it

John Chipura knew how precious life was. He learned that lesson at age 21, on October 23, 1983 as a Marine in Beirut.

John was a 21 year old radio operator on his second tour as a member of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment 24th Marine Amphibious Unit. He was stationed in Beirut when terrorists with a truck bomb took out the battalion headquarters barracks and killed 241 of his fellow leathernecks and service men.

John dodged death and came home from that tragedy. He didn't speak much about it, he didn't dwell on the fact that he survived because he was leaving the barracks early to assume his post as a radio operator when the bomb exploded. He didn't dwell on the fact that the man walking just behind him was killed.

John's brother, Gerard Chipura, a fireman with Ladder Company 148, said his brother never forgot his experiences as a Marine. "We didn’t know it, but John kept in touch with all the families from the bombing," his brother Gerard said, "I don't think John ever thought he would live to see anything worse than what he saw that day in Beirut."

He was marked by the experience. "When he came back, he was more of a hugging person. He knew how precious life was because it could all be over in a second." - Nancy Chipura, John's sister

His brother Gerard said John was missing for three whole days in Beirut before he was able to get through to the family and let them know he was fine. He said the 9/11 deja-vu experience was painfully "surreal." "My sister said, 'I'm going to give him three days.' But he hasn't shown up yet. Not this time," said his brother.

John lived his life to the end as a hero.

Gerard and his family find solace in the words that John wrote in November 2000, on the occasion of the Corps 225 birthday: "We Marines are truly blessed. We get to enjoy the sweet taste of this Freedom because we know its price."

“He was a true Marine" . - FDNY Lt. John Atwell

After his honorable discharge from the Marines in 1987, John desired to continue serving the community and joined the city Police Department in 1987. He was assigned to the 72nd Precinct in his old neighborhood, Sunset Park, for seven years. John devoted three years service in Brooklyn South Narcotics and then returned to the 72nd Precinct as a detective.

“As a police officer he was always looking to clean up the neighborhood and help other families. He was very caring, and nothing got in his way or bothered him.” - Gina DeFalco, John's Fiancee.

After 12 years of service to the NYPD, John yearned for the camaraderie of the firehouse; his brother, Gerard, was a fireman, as their father, Anthony, had been. In August, 1998, John achieved his dream.

Following the footsteps of his father, Anthony Chipura, John joined the city Fire Department. "He knew you work as a team, as a unit in the Fire Department -- he liked that,' said his brother. "He always thought people call the Police Department when there's a problem, to get somebody bad, but you call the Fire Department when people needed help."

Graduating from firefighter training in 1998, John Chipura was assigned to Engine Co. 219, Brooklyn, for one year. He then rotated through Ladder Co. 81, South Beach, and Engine Co. 80 in Manhattan. John had recently returned to Engine Co. 219 to once again serve Downtown Brooklyn.

On Sept. 11, he arrived at Engine 219 to work the day tour and was detailed to Ladder Co. 105, which is housed in the same location. After reports of the first attack, he called his sister, Nancy Chipura, who worked on the 69th Floor of Tower 1. He was unable to make contact. Just before responding to the World Trade Center, John called his fiancee, Gina DeFalco, who also worked Downtown, for more information about Nancy. He received no word about his sister when he arrived at the scene at 8:45 a.m. with Ladder 105. “There wasn’t any news,” said Ms. DeFalco, “but later, when I heard that Nancy was safe, I called John to tell him. But his ladder company had already left.” John and the five other firefighters in the truck have not been heard from since.

Witnesses told the family he was last seen assisting in the evacuation of many people from Tower 2. "He was inside when it collapsed," said his brother. "I know he was looking for my sister."

Mr. Chipura and Ms. DeFalco, who met through a friend in the Fire Department, had planned to marry just six weeks after Sept. 11. "Getting married was the sole focus of his being for the last few months," said his brother. "He was 39-years-old and finally found the right girl. He held her so close to his heart."

Gerard Chipura said his brother was always trying to help people and make them "feel good." "He wanted to make everybody happy. He didn't want anybody to be upset," said his brother. "When John was not serving the community, he was serving his family and friends. He was a great conversationalist, problem solver, hard worker and friend," said his brother. "John embraced hobbies such as country dancing and motorcycling because he liked the sense of community he found."

John Chipura was a mentor for many at Boy Scout Troop 21. He was a member of the troop since 1974 and went on to serve as assist scout master until he was lost in the attack. He was a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the American Legion, the Iwo Jima Association and the Beirut Veterans Memorial Association. John was also a member of St. Joseph and St. Thomas Parish, Pleasant Plains.

His mother, Jane Chipura, died in 1994 and his father, Anthony, died in 1996. In addition to his brother, Gerard, and his sister, Nancy Chipura, surviving are his twin sister, Susan Cohen; another sister, Eileen Cella; and several nieces and nephews. John also left behind the love of his life, Gina DeFalco.

Dear John,

In the blink of an eye
Our lives went awry
Not a day has gone by
That we all do not cry

For what we had
For what was planned
For what took place
For what was yet to be

For births, promotions, holidays, birthdays,
graduations, bar mitzvahs
Celebrated without you, but always thinking of you
Another blink of an eye

And a year has gone by
How can it be?
It went so fast and yet so much has passed
So many tears, can it only be a year?

Lives went on, go on, different, not the same
We try, we share, we wonder why
We try to make sense of that blink of an eye
We try to make each blink count

We try to do what you would want us to
We try to make that blink of an eye
Mean something.

Help us, show us, tell us
Be there as you always were
In our hearts, in our thoughts
In every blink of our eyes.

With all our love always,

Your family, friends, fiancé and Mom-to-be

Except for the short poem at the beginning of this post, none of these words are mine. They are culled from various articles on the internet. I have never met John Chipura, but I wish I had the opportunity to do so. In life, John touched so many lives, not only his family and friends, but also, every person he came into contact with. Serving as a Marine, John protected our freedom, and as police officer and a fireman, John helped make so many people safe.

I feel a special kind of love for John Chipura, and I thank G-d for men like him.

This Tribute was originally posted on September 11, 2006, and is reposted today as part of this year's Project 2996. The original post can be found here.

His resting place shall be in the Garden of Eden.
Therefore, the Master of mercy will care for him
under the protection of His wings for all time
And bind his soul in the bond of everlasting life.
God is his inheritance and he will rest in peace
and let us say Amen.

Posted by LindaSoG at September 11, 2008 12:01 AM