Sean Dietrich
STONYCREEK TOWNSHIP, Pa.—The Flight 93 National Memorial sits on a broad, green pasture. The field is remote, interrupted only by minimalist monuments standing in the distance, surrounded by vivid wildflowers.
One monument is a 93-foot high musical instrument, with 41 colossal wind chimes making clunking sounds that sing across the meadow like an enormous glockenspiel.
There is no other structure like this in the world.
The monument honors the 41 passengers and crew members from United Airlines Flight 93. The hijacked plane that crashed in this field 22 years ago.
The National Park Service runs this place today. But not so long ago, this was open farmland.
It happened on a Tuesday morning. Perfect weather. Clear sky. Locals saw a Boeing 757 jerking through the air at an awkward angle.
Farmers watched in slack-jawed amazement. Commuters pulled over to see a commercial airliner bounce from the sky and slam into the Earth.
When the plane hit soil, it sounded like the world had come apart at the bolts. A mile-high column of black smoke wafted into the air. The clear sky was ruined.
Earlier that morning, the flight had been due for takeoff from Newark International Airport at 8:01 a.m. But, because this is America (Land of the Free and Home of the Flight Delayed), the flight was running late by 41 minutes.
In the cockpit, pilot Jason Dahl was going through his preflight steps. He was 43, cobby build, with a smile that looked like he could have been your favorite uncle Lou.
Jason always carried a little box of rocks with him — a gift from his son. When a man carries a box of rocks simply because his kid collected them, you know that’s a decent man.
After the flight, Jason was going to take his wife to London for their fifth anniversary.
In the passenger area, you had folks like John Talignani (age 74), retired bartender, stocky, cotton-white hair, a World War II vet. He was one of the millions of long-suffering, anguished souls who call themselves New York Mets fans.
And Jean Peterson (55). She was traveling with her husband, Don (66). They were going to Yosemite for vacation.
One of the flight attendants was Lorraine Bay (58). She’d been an attendant for 37 years. Meaning, she was either a glutton for punishment or she loved her job.
CeeCee (33), a Florida girl. She was new to the flight-attendant game. Only nine months ago, she’d been a police officer in her hometown of Fort Pierce. She was a law enforcement officer to the core, unafraid of confrontation. Her last words on a phone conversation to her husband were: “We’re getting ready to do it now. It’s happening.”
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
After the plane took off, it was obvious that there were bad men on this flight. At 9:30 a.m., three aggressive men in red bandannas rushed toward the cockpit with wicked intentions.
The first thing you should know is that these men chose the wrong plane to mess with. Flight 93 was not filled with 41 passive church mice.
Onboard was Jeremy Glick (31), a
six-foot-one, national collegiate judo champion and black belt. Mark Bingham (31), a rugby player. CeeCee, the no-nonsense former cop. And Tom Burnett (38), once a college quarterback, sturdy as a hickory stump.
Tom Burnett made his last phone call to his wife and said, “If they’re gonna run this plane into the ground, we’re gonna do something.”
And they did. Forty-one ordinary people made their countermove at 9:57 a.m. All that is known about their actions comes from the flight audio recorder. The recording merely plays sound. Difficult sounds.
Your mind’s eye can see the rest.
There is the sound of passengers storming a flimsy cockpit door. Noises from a crashing beverage-service cart. Flinging dishes. Shattering glass. Ice cold screams. Shouts. Punches. Slaps. Groans. Gags. Pleas for help.
One passenger's voice shouts, “Let’s get 'em!”
Another passenger, maybe struggling for the flight controls, hollers, “Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to me!”
More shouting. More fighting. Then click.
The recording stops. The plane goes down. The earth in Somerset County rumbles like an act of God.
Todd Beamer (32), raised in Chicago, tried to call his wife only minutes before his death. But he couldn’t reach her. So he dialed zero on the in-flight phone.
He got a customer service rep named Lisa. He was all over the map, emotionally, according to Lisa. Todd kept saying, “Please call my family and let them know how much I love them.”
And in the quiet moments before Todd and the others would assault violent men, Todd asked Lisa to say the Lord’s Prayer with him. She did. Then he asked her to say the 23rd Psalm along with him. She did.
Lisa could hear dozens of voices reciting the verses with Todd. The timeworn words filled the cabin like perfume, or the smell of rain, or fresh-baked bread.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table for me in the midst of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”
Which is where they are right now.
All 41 of them.
Sean Dietrich is a columnist and novelist known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored nine books and is the creator of the “Sean of the South” blog and podcast.
