The sun pressed heavily on the backs of the sweat-soaked soldiers as they trudged through a myriad of red pines, crushing hibiscus and other foliage underfoot. Magpies whistled; a symphonic white noise. It was July, one of the hottest months of the year, and it made its presence felt.
The water in second lieutenant James Wesley Jr. ‘s canteen was nearly depleted, a realization that behooved him to wait to take that last drink; wait until he could stop and savor the ambrosia. Small milestones like that helped pass the time.
James came from a distinguished military lineage. His father, General James Wesley Sr., and his grandfather before him had served with honor in the U.S. Army. This life was his calling. Even his stubborn mother, a feisty woman from down south, couldn’t deter his war-hero patriarchs from leading her sweet, freckle-faced little boy down a path to their idea of greatness.
The terrain grew rocky as mountains rose endlessly ahead. After hours of hiking, his beleaguered legs begged for respite. Beside him, Private Todd Miller sidled closer. “Say, Jim. Lemme get another smoke.” Without looking, Jim reached into a pocket on his left sleeve and handed Todd one of the dozen or so cigarettes he had rolled up that morning. As his eyes scanned their perimeter, he heard a match strike and fire sizzle as Todd lit the cigarette. He heard the paper burn as he took a deep, long drag. He heard breath as it was being inhaled into Todd’s lungs.
Sounds. Jim’s father’s voice echoed in his mind. “Knowing when you are hearing a sound that is out of place can mean the difference between life and death during times of war,” he had cautioned. They were seated in his father’s study, settled into ornate Victorian chairs, the elder Wesley nursing a shot of scotch. Jim had declined one, but later acquiesced. The conversation was somber, a father instructing his son on how to survive the bloodletting, the heartless animal that is war.
As the scotch and cigar smoke dissipated the gravity of their tones, hope coupled with joy crept into the conversation. “How’s married life treating you?“ His father queried. And without hesitation Jim replied, “Honestly it’s been as rewarding as I hoped.“ And it was.
He told his father how proud he was to have found such a beautiful, intelligent and caring human being like Kay for a wife. He talked about a life outside of the military–he had gotten interested in the stock market. They talked about his two-year-old son, John, and how big he was getting. They talked about his father’s model airplane collection. The two talked well into the night. Jim shipped out the next day.
Mosquitoes. Mosquitoes so big you’d swear they were dragonflies. They were everywhere. All day and night. Jim swatted them from his face as he moved forward. That was when they saw them.
“Over there!” a soldier cried.
Through his binoculars, Jim saw a crowd of civilians. They were mostly women, children, and elderly men. A sickness settled in his stomach, heart, and soul. He knew their orders. It did not matter who stood before them.
“No one passes. Kill them all.”
What followed unfolded over three days, though memory would later distort time, stretching moments into eternities and collapsing others into seconds. Airstrikes came first, killing those gathered beneath a bridge. When that failed to finish the task, machine-gun fire tore into the bodies piled below.
A little girl broke free from beneath the corpses and ran toward the forest. Running for her life, she was cut down by machine-gun fire, her blood staining the rocky earth. Minh’s father, Anh, never forgot those days. He was also a child hiding beneath the dead when he saw the girl run out into the open field. He heard the shots that followed, he didn’t dare look. It was at least a day after Anh heard the last man-made sound fade that he crawled free.
Shell-shocked, starved and dehydrated, he made the trek back home. But, It wasn’t home anymore. His mother, father and brother had been killed. He was taken in by a neighbor, a woman who had lost her husband and son. Together they endured the aftermath. Years later, they immigrated to the United States with the woman’s daughter, a photographer who found work there.
Anh became a police officer after high school, a profession he took pride in and excelled at. His devotion to public service shaped his family. His son, Minh, followed in his steps and joined the NYPD.
The weight of the massacre, the loss, and resilience his father’s family endured during war sometimes overwhelmed Minh. On rare occasions, his father spoke of that day, of the girl. Because he felt so helpless then, it pushed his desire to be strong when others needed help.
On a fateful fall morning, Minh’s day began mundanely. At 5 a.m., he kissed his wife goodbye, careful not to wake their baby. A short time later, he was pulling into a McDonald’s drive-thru. A little after 8 a.m., he and Officer Laura Evans responded to a disturbance call at a gas station. A panhandler had been bothering customers but was gone when they arrived. Laura carefully recorded his description and advised the owner to keep reporting these incidents.
The pair hadn’t gone three blocks when the radio call came.
A plane had crashed into the North Tower.
In aghast, they drove toward the World Trade Center. Smoke was visible from miles away. When they arrived, there were screaming crowds, people fleeing, ash falling. Minh told his partner he was going inside to help evacuate while she secured the perimeter. She refused and ran in with him.
Then a second plane struck the South Tower. In an instant, he understood this was no accident. Horror settled in his chest, but they kept moving.
Inside the North Tower, conditions deteriorated rapidly. Smoke thickened, stairwells flooded with terrified people. The pair worked instinctively, ushering people down and out. In one stairwell, he noticed a man with a severely injured leg. He quickly wrapped an arm around him and guided him outside to safety; he immediately turned back inside.
When the structure began to groan it was a warning of collapse. His partner made the call to evacuate. The two officers survived. Many others did not.
Years later, at a funeral for fallen officers, Minh was approached by a man with a cane. His name was John Wesley, a stockbroker who had worked in the North Tower. During the evacuation, he’d been knocked down, his leg crushed and his glasses lost. All he could see was a blur. A stranger helped him to his feet and guided him out of the building.
John spent months searching for that person, scanning photos and video footage. When he finally found Minh, he thanked him through tears for saving his life. The two embraced, bound by grief and gratitude.
John and Minh felt a palpable connection. While they never learned of their families’ connection to another war, they both understood the depths of trauma the incident caused on both sides.
