They Will Be Remembered: For All Those Who Served (Tony Dolan)

This is our American Stories remembering September 11th, 2001. And this segment is a tribute to soldiers who’ve fallen. And this is a tribute from Tony Dolan. And if you don’t know Tony Dolan, he was one of the youngest Pulitzer Prize winners in American history for his investigation of official corruption and organized crime in Connecticut, in Hartford. He’s a legend there to this day. Death threats against him put a whole lot of guys in prison. He was the chief speechwriter for Ronald Reagan for eight years, responsible for some of the greatest rhetoric of the 20th century: “the Evil Empire Speech” and “the Ash Heap of History Speech.” Tony’s tribute originally appeared in The Wall Street Journal, and he titled it “They Will Be Remembered for All Those Who Served,” and he graciously recorded it for us. Let’s take a listen.

I heard the thump as I was saying over the phone to John Gibson at the National Security Council that it couldn’t be an accident since now a second plane had hit the World Trade Center. Putting down the phone, I walked over to the window and looked out on 110, which runs in front of the Pentagon. Construction workers, their faces reflecting fear, even terror, were running across this major highway like it was a country road. They had seen the smoke pouring out from around the corner where Flight 77 had hit the building. “John, I’ll have to call you back,” I said when I got back to the phone. “I think we just got hit.” “Move it to the right!” said the soldier when another soldier bent over to adjust the pedal of his wheelchair. When he saw who was helping him—a three-star general—he gasped, “Oh, sorry, sir, for not saying ‘sir’. I’m the one who should be calling you ‘sir’!” replied the general as he wheeled the young veteran to the assembly point for the other wounded. The soldiers were there for the first of many tours of the Pentagon organized for the wounded and their families. For many, this was their first time outside the rooms and hallways of Walter Reed Hospital since their injuries, so they had trouble handling what came next. As they came around a corner, the hallway erupted with thousands of cheering, flag-waving Department of Defense employees. Many of those in the parade of crutches and wheelchairs, including family members, were overcome as they moved along. Later, one wife, sounding almost angry through her uncontrolled tears, told the Pentagon organizer, “You should have warned us! You should have warned us!” “Sir, could I ask you a question?” I knew what was coming. As the wounded toured the press briefing room. It was always the same question for the older guy in the suit, whom they thought might have some authority, no matter how many limbs were missing or how serious the head wound. They asked me, “Sir, is there any way you could help me get back to my unit?” Guests of honor at a Washington think tank dinner, the two enlisted men in wheelchairs and the sergeant with a cane looked uneasy as they waited entirely unnoticed at the edge of the huge, crowded ballroom. The event planners were clipboards and bugs in their ears, just rushed by. When I saw them from a distance, I maneuvered through the crowd and went up to them. They looked up at me as I summoned words that have inspired our fighting forces down the years. “Gentlemen, would you like to follow me to the bar?” “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” was the enthusiastic response. The crowd parted magically on our way to two beers in a gin. Later, the same crowd ooh-ed and ah-ed when they heard of the soldiers’ battlefield exploits. After the dinner, when the van arrived for the trip back to Walter Reed, I would see how good they were at helping fold up their wheelchairs, put them in the back, and then hop along towards their seats with a hand against the side of the van, all the while thanking me for the drinks. Hard to hear and hard to watch. The hero is grateful hopper like the wife at the Pentagon Parade. My reaction was emotional, and I thought somebody should have warned me. Yes, as his name tag showed, the newly appointed aide to Joint Chiefs Chairman Peter Pace was the son of another well-known general. In answer to my questions, he added it was also a West Point graduate, and he listed the several stateside locations where he had been stationed. With General Pace and Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld just ahead of us as we headed towards the press briefing room. I thought that this young officer was going to have trouble gaining the respect of fellow officers who had seen combat. We turned the corner, though, and then he said, “I was in Iraq too, sir,” and as I saw his empty uniform sleeve, he added, “but I got hurt there.” People fled the funeral service for Navy SEAL Jonas P. Kelsol as the building shook. Reassurance during an earthquake, though, is a church full of Navy SEALs. The squadron commander kept right on giving his eulogy, and Kelsol’s comrades didn’t budge. Victoria Jennings Kelsol, herself a former Marine with a tour in Iraq, added to the intrepidity by speaking nearly unfalteringly of her hero husband and his belief in America’s mission outside. Retired Colonel Oliver North, a Vietnam veteran, said the former Marine Commandant P.X. Kelly, a Vietnam veteran. Both of them friends of Victoria’s father, Jerry Jennings, an administration official and a Vietnam veteran. “‘Aren’t these kids amazing?’ General Kelly readily agreed.” It’s the reason why, he explained, when he was recovering from an operation at Bethesda Naval Hospital, he felt compelled to get himself moved off the deck with the admirals and onto the casualties floor. The casualties, I think of them sometimes: those I knew, the wounded, the ones who only wanted to get back to their unit or left limbs on foreign soil. The ones whom generals wanted to call “sir” or “commandant”, wanted the honor of being on their hospital floor. I think, too, sometimes, the families of the fallen, the ones whose composure made wounds not inadequate but impossible. And so, I sometimes wonder where they are and how life played out for them. If I were to see them again, I know that even if they asked, I would be reluctant to offer any thoughts on their sacrifice and its meaning or that of those they loved. But if they asked again, if they pressed the question, I know I would answer, and I know what I would tell them: that I have lived a while and seen the verdicts of history and know they are not always quickly rendered. But that about them, the jury’s finding is already in: that what they did was right and true—making others safe, protecting the weak, the innocent, giving others what they would never have had, the gift of the future, the gift of tomorrow. And I would say, in doing all this, they had made themselves apart, in fact, the best part of history’s great story—the American story. And so I would tell them, “They will be remembered.”

And that was telling. And for all of you’ve served; have lost loved ones. We don’t just do these things. I, Memorial Day, here on our American Stories. 9/11 remembered. More after these messages.