The 'Other' Tragedy
The attack on the Pentagon left heroes, victims, survivors, Here's their story
Many of those affected by the attack had worked in the Pentagon for years and viewed it as a fortress. One ring away from the Candy Man's office, Louise Kurtz hadn't had time to develop that sense of comfort and control. She was starting only her second day in a new job at the Pentagon. Life was sweet. She and her husband, Mike, had saved for two years for their first real vacation ever last spring, an Alaskan cruise. The 49-year-old Army accountant was excited about her new job and was faxing payroll information. She went over to a coworker's desk with a radio so they could listen to reports from New York. Ten seconds later, their world exploded and a fireball swallowed them. The petite woman instinctively put her hands over her face before she somehow managed to climb out a window and escape.
Bomb! One floor up, John Yates worked in 2E471, a warren of cubicles. At 50, he was an Army security manager who handed out keys and employee badges. His morning also began quietly with E-mails and phone calls. "Do me a favor, do the rest of your work today under your desk," his wife, Ellen, said only half jokingly when they spoke by the phone after the World Trade Center news. He had been sitting on a table watching TV. When he stood up, the Pentagon shuddered. A big ball of fire knocked him to the floor. Black smoke flooded the room. Searing heat scorched him. Upended file cabinets blocked him.
Down the hall from Yates, Lt. Col. Brian Birdwell, 40, had been at his desk in Room 2E486 since 6:30 a.m. He had scanned the day's headlines and some documents, while sipping his ritual morning Coke. Cheryle Sincock, 53, worked there too. A two-star general's secretary, she had arrived, as always, at 4:30 a.m. There were always a million things to do before her boss arrived. Her husband, Craig, who worked two corridors away, called at 8 a.m. to say he was leaving the building for a meeting. Two daughters called later with news of the twin towers. "There's no way that's an accident," Birdwell murmured to Cheryle as they watched the World Trade Center crumble. Birdwell walked out to the men's room in corridor 4, a move that saved his life. He had just taken three or four steps out of the bathroom when the building was rocked. "Bomb!" the Gulf War vet immediately thought as he was knocked down. When he stood up, he realized he was on fire. "Jesus, I'm coming to see you," Birdwell prayed. His mind flashed to his family.
At Washington Hospital Center, Dr. Marion Jordan also was watching TV when an announcer broke in with the bulletin about the Pentagon. "This is gonna be a long day," Jordan muttered. Quickly, he ditched his sport coat for green scrubs. "Code Orange. Code Orange," a voice blared over the hospital's PA system. "This is not a drill." Doctors scrambled to the five bays near the helicopter pad. "It was pretty much bedlam," says Jordan, the Burn Center director. A clinical manager with a booming voice yelled above the din: "Everyone keep the volume down!" The quiet lasted until the first patients arrived.
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