He Was 100 Yards From Where The 3rd Plane Struck The Pentagon

Dunedin FL

10 September, 2021

3:16 PM

Description

By Retired Chief Mass Communication Specialist Steve van der Werff, USN My decision to join the Navy was solely based on my sense of adventure. The Navy's ad from my childhood, "It's not just a job, it's an adventure," truly struck home. I envisioned myself a bell-bottomed, Dixie cup-wearing sailor right out of the movie "Mr. Roberts." Ah, the sweet pleasure of sailing the seven seas doing the hula-hula, late-night pub crawls in Hong Kong, collecting an armful of tattoos and chasing after Thai girls and beer while being paid. So, I enlisted. It was 1988. All has come true except for the tattoos. The years flew by. A tour on the USS Carl Vinson – the Navy's Golden Eagle, two tours with Pacific Fleet Combat Camera, surviving survival school, graduating from Syracuse University's Department of Defense film school, a science expedition to the North Pole; and a tour with the Blue Angels, as their backseat aerial photographer pulling a lot of G's. I was operating on maximum overdrive, high on adrenaline. The ad had come true. It wasn't just a job. It was, indeed, an adventure. Little did I know that I had yet to experience the adventure of a lifetime, one that was life altering, made me grow up and come to fully realize what it means to serve my country in the United States Navy. After my tour with the Blue Angels, as the best military aerial demonstration team in the world, I was detailed to the Pentagon. I had heatedly disagreed with my detailer's decision. Taking a Secretary of Defense staff assignment at the Joint Combat Camera Center (JCCC) did not exactly register high on my fun meter. Driving a desk, supporting Com Cam Policy, and supervising the reception of imagery from forward-deployed combat camera teams was not exactly how I had ever envisioned myself. Damn it, I was an operator! The likelihood or remote possibility of me running into something fun and adventurous like arm-wrestling Bolivian blow dart peddlers or fire walking with Tahitian Mai Tai jugglers while stationed in D.C. was slim to none. Didn't he have something for me, like pulling G's in a fast mover? I could fill volumes about how to prevent power puking inside the cockpit. Or what about breaking through the Arctic's polar cap in a nuclear-powered fast-attack submarine and standing guard against polar bear attacks as I had in the past? I'm not exactly sure if a polar bear attack on a U.S. Submariner constitutes an act of war, if so, who owns the polar cap? If he wouldn't send me to any of the above, how about something a bit more cerebral like me hitting a foreign beach armed to the teeth with Kevlar-wearing Marines, or maybe photographing Navy SEALs in revved-up, low-altitude, fast-moving helos moving in and out of hostile territory? I had always been a big fan of that sort of action. He said "no" to all. It was time for me to take a seat at a desk and help others do what I wanted to do. And so, on a hot muggy day I checked in. It was August 2001. The Pentagon buzzed like a beehive. I was impressed by all of military's heavy hitters who walked the halls. There was a lot to learn, especially working with the other service branches. I wouldn't, however, be sharing my thoughts about what I thought about the Air Force's flight demonstration squadron with my Air Force boss. What was there not to like? The world appeared to be at peace. I was stationed in our nation's Capitol. I had a large cubicle, and my own computer with super fast T-line connections. A Starbucks was conveniently located one floor below. Best of all, I would be home every night for the next three years to annoy my wife and kids. My first month flew by moving JCCC into the Pentagon's newly renovated wing. On a sunny Tuesday morning I arrived at work. It was Sept. 11, 2001. It was a little after 9 a.m. when I got to work. My wife was flying back home that day from attending a funeral in the Midwest. I was getting in late because I had to drop my kids off at school. Playing the role of soccer mom was somewhat new to me. My officer in charge was attending a conference in Norfolk, Virginia, and the operations chief was at a meeting down the road in Alexandria, Virginia. When I got to the office, the joint staff was huddled around the TV. The news was reporting a plane had crashed into one of New York's Twin Towers. I stood flabbergasted as the tragedy unfolded. To my disbelief a second jet slammed into the Twin Towers. My memory is a bit fuzzy of what happened next, but as I recall, soon afterward the Pentagon shuddered and shook. My co-workers and I looked at each other, not sure of what had just happened. That sure seemed like one helluva sonic boom, I thought to myself. Having come from the "Blues," my mind still operated in the aviation world of thinking. The phone rang and I answered it. It was one of my Air Force sergeants who was off for the day at home, just across the Anacostia River on Bolling Air Force Base. He asked if we had just been attacked. I said, "Is that what that was?" I said I wasn't sure, since there were no alarms going off. He said he thought so because, looking from his back yard, black smoke was pouring out of the Pentagon. I sent someone out to find out what was going on. They quickly came back. All they said was, "We gotta go." Smoke-filled halls were filled with service members and civilians making their way toward exits. The murmur of voices and shuffling feet was all that could be heard. No one had a clue what had just happened. The idea of a passenger plane hijacked by terrorists and crashing into the Pentagon, linked to the Twin Towers, was as remote a possibility as Arnold Schwarzenegger becoming the governor of California. Not exactly knowing what to think, I made my way outside. Once outside I saw thick black smoke rising from the building. I thought that maybe construction workers working on the Pentagon's extensive renovations might have hit a gas main. All sorts of thoughts ran through my head as hordes of dazed and confused people continued to pour into the daylight. Wanting information, I went to my car and turned on the radio to listen to the news. I sat stunned, not believing what I heard. "Holy crap," I thought. "We've been attacked by terrorists, same as the Twin Towers. My God, there are people in the wreckage." I spent my entire career trying to get into the action, and when I think I am far away in the rear, the action comes looking for me. I heard approaching sirens in the distance. Then it dawned on me. My wife was flying home from attending her grandmother's funeral. My mind raced with morbid fear. Is she safe? Has she got on the plane yet? In a fog I made my way to a pre-determined rally point. Once there, I set my personal emotions aside. I had troops to muster and account for. I was the senior man on station. The rest of the JCCC staff showed up and was accounted for. Soon after, security officers were yelling for everybody to leave the area because another attack was imminent. Mass hysteria hit the crowd. "What the heck was going on?" Like cockroaches scattering when the lights come on, civilians, military personnel, politicians and bungling bureaucrats ran for cover, exiting the parking area. We somehow all ended up on the other side of Highway 395 at the Crystal City Mall. I knew I would not see my car for a long time. More worries filled my mind, thinking of how I would get home, and who would pick up and care for my kids? The second attack turned out to be a false alarm. I set aside my worries, I focused on the positive. My wife would be OK and I would figure out how to get home and take care of my children, but first I had my duty to fulfill. Once again, I took a headcount. Fortunately, several members had grabbed their cell phones. The airways were jammed, but after repeated attempts, I was able to get a hold of my immediate boss. He instructed me to get the crew to the American Forces Information Services (AFIS) in Alexandria where he currently was, and where we would set up shop. There was imagery to get out to our military leaders and the world. The story needed to be told. Because none of us had access to our cars, we made our way to the nearest metro station before it shut down. I tried repeatedly but couldn't reach my wife. I was scared for her safety. Fortunately, I was able to contact a neighbor who said they would pick my kids up from school. Once at AFIS we went into action, setting up a temporary JCCC - still and video imagery started to come in. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld wanted his imagery. Hours later, after repeated attempts, I finally was able to get a hold of my wife. She was safe. Her plane had been delayed because of the tragedy. She had spent her time desperately trying to get a hold of me, fearing for the worst – widowhood. I assured her I was unharmed and that the kids were safe with a neighbor. We cried for our good fortune and the misfortune of others. I thanked God for watching over me and my family. I had been less than 100 yards around the corner from the crash site. Late that night in the safety of my home with my kids snug in bed I realized that a week earlier before moving into the newly renovated wing, JCCC had been located in the area of impact and that a few of my office mates and I would have been in the old office that morning to make sure we had moved everything, but had not because we had been watching the Twin Towers tragedy on TV. I sighed with relief. It had been a close call. Now, 20 years years later, I still think about that bleak morning in September when all of America held its breath and our enemies cheered, and give pause to reflect, understanding that on that day something awoke that had been missing in me, if not many others - service and sacrifice. I had spent my 10 years in the Navy up until then thinking of what I could take or get out of the deal. My training, my many deployments, my wanting fun and adventure had always been about me. Sure, I had always been a good sailor, but I had been driven by hubris and selfish desire. Not giving much thought to what it meant to wear the cloth of our nation. I was happy, as long as I was able to collect a paycheck. It didn't happen overnight, but, over the course of my tour at the Pentagon and supporting the Global War on Terror, I found a new sense of purpose and energy. I worked long hours, determined to support the cause and give meaning to my duty. Gone were my days of thinking that being a sailor meant being a sea-going pirate, swashbuckling across the globe, with sea stories to spin and tell. People had died and would continue to do so without mine and every American's full support to stop our enemies. So when it was time for me to talk to my detailer about new orders, I didn't hesitate to ask for the orders to lead sailors at the "Tip of the Spear" aboard the Pacific Fleet's amphibious assault ship USS Boxer (LHD 4) because that was where I was needed. My days of asking for fun and adventurous jobs, seeking personal reward and glamour were over. And, so, whenever I found myself on long, arduous extended deployments while sailing in harm's way, wondering why I had to be there and for what purpose, I would think of all those who have gone before me and of their sacrifice, dedication to service and protecting our country. I ended up proudly wearing the cloth of our nation for more than 30 years, active duty and as a civilian. And am proud to say, as President Kennedy so eloquently said how he could not imagine a more rewarding a career: "And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: 'I served in the United States Navy.'"