A day that changed the U.S. forever

It was a day I will never forget, a day that changed the United States forever, a day so black only one other day even came close — a date set in infamy Dec. 7, 1941. And just like that day 60 years before, no one can forget now where and what they were doing Sept. 11, 2001.

I was living in a little studio apartment in Kirkland, Wash., a small city across Lake Washington east of Seattle where I had lived since 1975. My apartment, built in the 1920s, overlooked the main street and was above a loud bar. My kitchen was better suited to a skinny midget, but it had lots of built-in cabinet space for my books, a bed, tables and chairs all bought at thrift stores. It held a computer and all my art supplies for painting and drawing, plus all the GI gear I needed as a soldier in the 81st Brigade of the Washington Army National Guard. I also worked for a security company as a fill-in guard. The hours sometimes got weird, but the pay was pretty good. I was 40 years old and living my dream as a single, divorced man.

Fresh from the swing shift, I was still sleeping when a frantic phone call from my mother changed my life in ways that still haunt me.

“Daniel! Turn on the TV! Something really bad is going on in New York.”

I turned on the TV in time to see the second plane fly into the World Trade Center tower. As I watched, I learned it wasn’t just in New York City, but also at the Pentagon and an empty field in Pennsylvania. I was glued to the TV as smoke and flames began to billow from the stricken towers and shocked to see the first people jump. A huge cloud of debris, papers, bodies and body parts mixed with pulverized concrete and rebar choked the city. Nearly 3,000 people from every nation and faith on earth died during the next two hours. But it only took a moment for the memory to burn into my mind.

The U.S. was at war and this was the first strike. It wasn’t a rogue nation, but terrorists who hijacked these planes.

I watched in shock as the TV news replayed the tragic footage, like a football game on instant replay. I watched the heroic efforts of the firemen, EMTs, policemen, soldiers and civilians risk — and in many cases give — their lives to help the injured and dying. I was proud to see footage of those running from the Pentagon stop, turn and run toward the danger when they heard the call for help over the loud speakers. Almost all were my brothers and sisters in uniform. It was mayhem, terror and the human spirit at its finest.

Then the orders came. First, air traffic nationwide was grounded. Then the President announced from Air Force One that all military leaves were canceled. All service members must report to their duty stations and unit commands. The governor came on next, echoing those orders. The nation’s military was on alert. America was under attack and we were entering an unofficial state of war.

Alert! That word jarred me from my media-induced shock and years of alert training kicked in. The soldier I was then was in full alert mode. I called my employer to tell them I was not available for work. They balked at first, but I told them I was under orders from the president and the governor. Next I called my unit in Everett: HHC 898 Engineer Battalion where I was a mechanic in the vehicle maintenance section.

“Grota? Good, stay there. We are on standby right now. The place is going nuts up here. Remain on standby for further orders. Do not come up here until then. But have your gear ready for anything once the word comes down,” SSG. B. Beard said on the other end. “Where is your gear, by the way?”

“It’s right next to me boss. Force of habit from the old days.” The “old days” being the Cold War in Germany back in the 1980s.

When we got off the phone, I grabbed my duffle bag containing my field gear, stuffed in some more uniforms and such and ran out of the apartment to move the car closer so I could load the trunk and be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

The moment jelled for me when I looked up at the clear, sunny Seattle sky that day and saw there were no planes flying. Seattle is known as the jet city, but not this day.

Matt, my long-time neighbor and friend, came down and we stared at the empty blue sky together. While we watched, our eyes caught the glint of a pair of F-15s from McChord Air Force base flying over the city. The only other aircraft still allowed to fly were medical rescue helicopters.

We walked back inside in silence. Inside, I sat down on my bed exhausted. I turned off the TV and fell asleep, only to wake a few hours later when the phone rang.

SSG Beard was calling.

“This is a Wild Rodeo alert (code for a real alert, not training). Report to unit for accountability in Everett. First formation at 0700 14 September for drill as per schedule. This will be a MUTA 5 (a three-day drill weekend). Do not come up here until then. I say again: DO NOT come up here until then. Notify the next person on the alert roster and pass this on. Bring all your gear for inventory with your section.”

I wrote it all down and read it back to him word for word.

“No problem boss. I got it all. Hey man,” I said.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Playtime is over.”

I heard him sigh tiredly before answering, “Yeah, you got that right.”

I contacted the next soldier on my list and passed the word before moving my car to an even better parking spot for the night.

I did go to war with my unit HHC 898 ENG.BN and the entire 81st Brigade in early 2004. We would go not to Afghanistan, but to Iraq.

I changed back into my civilian clothes and walked out onto the street and around the corner to the Marina Park on the shore of Lake Washington to watch the sun set on that dark day. I looked up into a clear evening sky and saw the contrails of those two F-15s patrolling high over the city of Seattle. The day was ending, but the war had just begun.

Playtime was over, and none of us would ever be the same.

Wasilla resident Daniel D. Grota retired from the U.S. Army after more than 21 years of service.