I left work noonish that Monday, with a few details to attend to before my flight to London later that evening. The duties of the Director of Interoperability, Joint Theater Air and Missile Defense Organization (JTAMDO/J8 Joint Staff), weren’t exactly set in stone, but six months into the work I’d settled into a routine of relentlessly harassing the nation’s armed services to implement various standards and requirements that they either SAID they were already doing (but weren’t) or said they wouldn’t do (cost, complexity, don’t give a damn), but should. As a Navy Commander, I was modestly ranked, but because I had bosses who could make things very painful for those services, I was often able to persuade the recalcitrant at my level. “You’re going to lose this argument eventually. I guarantee it. Why not lose it here with me, now?” was one of the lines I pulled out now and again to help prod things along.
Although I was on the Joint Staff, our office was in Crystal City (Arlington), which was then a somewhat soul-less smattering of office buildings and out of date apartment complexes, already showing a bit of the impact of recent base closing/re-alignments that distributed the largesse of DoD more geographically. It is somewhat less soul-less now, and with Amazon moving in close-by, a very popular locale.
Apparently there wasn’t room for JTAMDO in the Pentagon (that was the story), but I think we all preferred working two Metro stops away from the performative B.S. that we saw from our friends working there. You know. The “I need to stay until my boss leaves, I need to look busy. I need to berate my subordinates because this 5 x 8 needs to be done for the Admiral’s meeting next Thursday--that sort of stuff). We were doing incredibly important stuff, we worked hard and efficient, and we worked a solid 0730-1700 day.
One of the grandees at JTAMDO (there was a General, A Colonel, and several Colonels and Captains above me in the Chain of Command there) had received an invitation to speak at a conference in London to be held 12 September 2001 and for whatever reason, decided that while he didn’t want to do it, JTAMDO should be represented there--and so he tasked me to go. The topic I was to speak on was “Composite Tracking”, the details of which I will not bore you with just now, but if you ever have a chance to talk with me, ask me about it and I can go on for hours.
And so there I was on the afternoon of Monday, September 10th 2001, traveling to the main terminal at Dulles from one of the satellite parking lots (careful not to waste the taxpayer’s money on good parking, natch) in a small shuttle with a few others heading off to points unknown. There was among us, one who continues to stick out in my memory--a young man, late 20’s probably, who was talking loudly and importantly on his Neolithic mobile phone to someone who was clearly ensorcelled by his tale of having been recently hired as an airline pilot. He was (as I was able to follow along quite easily) on his way somewhere for his accession training before starting his career. Given what was ahead of all of us, I’ve always wondered about this guy. In the pilot furloughs and lay-offs to come, did he make it? Was his dream realized? But, I digress.
The flight to Heathrow was not memorable, or at least I do not remember it. I arrived there early the next morning and made my way to my London lodgings. I cannot recall two decades later how I got there. Did I take a car from Heathrow? Did I take a shuttle bus? A train? Was there a train then? I have no clue. Some things about this time are crystal clear (the man on the phone). Others are dim. Some are gone.
I eventually made my way to The East India Club at St. James’s Square, where I would spend the next few nights. The plan was this: I had arranged for an early check-in (reciprocal club with the great Army and Navy Club of Washington) so that I could grab a few hours of shut-eye before meeting a Navy buddy for some Indian food for dinner that night. I wrote said buddy (the great Kevin Mooney) an email at work (he was stationed outside London) telling him that I’d arrived, where I was, and that I’d be asleep for a few hours. Looking forward to dinner, etc. It was about 1100 local. I closed the drapes and entombed myself for a much needed nap.
I awoke to a horrible, unfamiliar noise in a pitch black room. I had no idea where I was, what time it was, or what that noise was. After a few seconds, I realized that the noise was coming from the phone next to the bed, that I was in London, and that I was sleeping off some jet lag. I answered the phone. It was my friend and soon to be dinner companion, Kevin.
“Dude, doesn’t look like we’re going to dinner tonight?”
I was genuinely disappointed. “Why? Do you have to work?”
“Man, turn on your television, haven’t you seen? The United States is under attack. Both of the Twin towers were hit and have collapsed. The Pentagon was hit.”
This was a lot to handle, especially in the befogged state I was in. We hung up and I turned the television on. I think it was 4PM London time. Except to eat dinner and then shower/dress the next morning, I was in front of that television for the next 15 hours.
You remember. We don’t have to go over all that. You remember what you saw, how you felt. The anger. The powerlessness. The deep sadness. I don’t have to remind you.
After a couple of hours of unblinking attention, I decided to eat dinner, maybe try and take my mind off of things. Figured I’d go down to the main dining room (coat/tie) and get a table by myself to be with myself. When I checked in with the host, he asked if I were “unescorted”. Answering that I was, he asked if I’d like to eat at the “Club Table”. Not knowing what this was, I asked what he meant. “It is a group table where unescorted gentlemen tend to sit and converse” or something like that was his answer. He pointed at the table, with seats for maybe 12 and maybe eight of them filled.
”Ok” I said.
So I was seated at the Club Table, and before I sat, I looked around and said “permission to join the mess” which is what we were trained to say when joining a meal late in the Navy. Apparently my accent gave me away, and I was asked immediately if I were “…a Yank…”. I admitted that I was. So began the most memorable dinner of my life.
I was surrounded by gentlemen (the East India Club being a gentleman’s club) from all around the world. The UK, Canada, South Africa, India, Singapore were some of the places I remember. This group of men, this group of absolute strangers, spent the next two hours lifting my spirits and repairing my soul. On that day, whatever suspicions I’d held of subtle anti-Americanism in the international elite, were put aside. Every one of these men spoke admiringly of my country, of its people, of its impact, and of its determination. They could see how sad and troubled I was, and I believe that if I had asked them to join me on a raid on Bin Laden that very evening, to a man they would have joined me. How I came to be in such a wonderful place on such a terrible evening was beyond me.
After dinner, I returned to my room and watched TV all night. I got breakfast (again at the Club Table, but more sparsely and quietly attended) the next morning and then headed off to do my composite tracking presentation. I had seen reports of the great outpouring of emotion from the British people centered at the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square (since moved to a new location), and since it wasn’t far out of my way, I stopped by.
I am a crier by nature, it is the Irish in me. I am capable of great floods of tears for a variety of reasons. I came to the scene, one of countless subjects of the Queen paying respects to my country, openly weeping in many cases. I could not help it. I stood there and just cried for a good fifteen minutes. Tears of deep sadness, of rage, of confusion, of pride. And gratitude. I was grateful for the British people and the obvious love and regard they had for my country.
That night at dinner (Club Table), there was a stir in the room, and one of the gents seated next to me said that Margaret Thatcher and her husband Denis had come to dine. Being a HUGE Maggie fanboi, I said that this was a highlight, eating dinner at the club of one of my heroes. “Denis is your hero?” he asked. No, Margaret. “Oh heavens, Margaret isn’t a member, Denis is. There are no female members of the club.”
I chuckled. And then began to try and figure out how I would get home.