My 9/11 experience

By Chuck N. Baker

I am certain that every American who was an adult on 9/11 remembers what they were doing during the terrorist attacks. This past Sept. 11, as in recent years, the news media have been full of personal remembrances, many of which continue to be poignant and tear-jerking. I am not competing with those accounts, but I thought I would revisit my own experience on that fateful day, which was eventful but not particularly sad.

In September of that year, a Washington, D.C., journalism organization awarded fellowships to about 20 reporters from around the nation, with all expenses paid. We were flown to the capital, put up in a top hotel, and scheduled to attend several days of seminars and talks from midlevel government officials.

At the time, I was the editor and publisher of the monthly Veterans Reporter newspaper and hosted several radio interview shows, all in southern Nevada. I notified the Washington office of Rep. Shelley Berkley when I would be in town, and I was connected to her veterans liaison. I had a professional relationship with Berkley, whom I had interviewed many times, and I wanted to discuss veterans issues with her associate. (Today, of course, she is the mayor of Las Vegas.)

The veterans liaison, whose name I have long since forgotten, suggested we meet for dinner the night of Sept. 10. He thought I would enjoy an eatery called Thai Roma, a blend of Thai and Italian cuisine, as the name implies.

That night, we did indeed meet and had a lively discussion about veterans issues, military topics and a few other scattered thoughts. We agreed to meet again when he visited Las Vegas.

The next morning, the initial speaker began her introduction when someone burst into the room and told us to turn on the projection television aimed at a large screen in the front of the room. The first airplane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers, and we all sat quietly transfixed, listening to a news reporter provide whatever details were available. Like the rest of the nation, we all felt the crash was a freak accident involving a pilot who had lost his way. Then came the second plane. All at once, the reporters who worked for daily newspapers—who made up most of the group—jumped from their seats and made a mad dash for the door so they could call their editors and ask for assignments. The seminar was concluded for the day, and before long, a third plane hurtled into the Pentagon, and another crashed into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

I left the venue and began walking around the neighborhood. Virtually all the retail shops were closed. A few coffee shops remained open, filled with groups of residents discussing the situation. As darkness set in, I joined colleagues in the hotel restaurant and could not help noticing a few guests walking in with copies of The Washington Post, hot off the presses. I inquired where they had purchased them and was told the Post building was just a few blocks away. I hurried over and found an employee in front of the building selling newspapers as fast as he could. If it were a Frank Capra movie, the vendor would have been shouting, “Extra, extra, read all about it!” I purchased two copies and rushed back to the hotel to read what news had been reported on such short notice. In the paper, I read one crucial piece of information: Amtrak had agreed to accept valid airline tickets in lieu of train fare.

The following morning, a few of the seminar participants gathered in the meeting room, where we were informed that it would be our last complimentary night at the hotel. The remaining sessions were canceled, and we were on our own. We had our paid round-trip airline tickets, but we soon learned that all civilian flights had been ordered grounded.

Dragging my two packed suitcases behind me, the next morning I took a cab to Union Station to see about catching a train back west. The terminal was overflowing with ticketed passengers, alongside many travelers who were ticketless except for an airline stub. I approached the counter and asked whether any seats were available to Las Vegas, and, if so, whether I could apply my airline ticket toward the fare. The news was promising. Yes, the ticket was valid, but every seat on the train was sold out. The ticket agent gave me advice that proved invaluable: He told me to call the reservation line between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m., when travelers who had changed their plans typically called to cancel, giving me the best chance of securing a seat. All I needed was a place to stay that night and access to a working telephone in the middle of the night.

Fortunately, I had a plan. An old friend of mine, Herb Brubaker, a former network television anchor who had established a broadcasting school where I had previously taken courses, lived in nearby Rockville, Maryland. A quick phone call was all it took for him to invite me to take the commuter train and stay with him and his wife. Once I arrived, I explained the need to make late-night calls to Amtrak, and he welcomed the plan. He set me up on the living room sofa with a blanket, a pillow, an alarm clock, and a rotary phone right beside me. I do not recall what time I began dialing, but the hour was late and the phone line was repeatedly busy. I must have dialed through 100 busy signals before an agent finally answered and booked my reservation.

Herb was thrilled by the news and drove me to Union Station the next morning in time to board the train.

Readers may wonder how I planned to take a train to Las Vegas when the city does not have an active passenger rail depot. The route required transferring trains in Chicago, then traveling to Needles, California, where Amtrak provided a connecting bus service that transported passengers into Las Vegas. I phoned ahead, and my then-father-in-law was waiting at the curb to drive me home.

I later learned that five of the hijackers had previously visited Las Vegas for reasons unknown. My experience was not tragic, and my heart remains with those who lost loved ones on that day. Regardless of where we were or what we were doing, we must never forget. I certainly will not, and the memory serves as an enduring reminder to remain vigilant.

Chuck N. Baker is an author, filmmaker and journalist who often reports on issues involving U.S. veterans.