Beirut memories still
haunt despite passage
of time
Fifteen years later, barracks bombing
remains bitter part of many lives

BY DIANA D'ABRUZZO DAILY NEWS STAFF His pauses are filled with emotion. Talking about the Beirut bombing is still very difficult for Master Gunnery Sgt. Orval Hunt Jr.. There are times when the words don't come out--when his eyes swell with tears and he stares off, trying to compose his thoughts. He doesn't remember anything about Oct. 23, 1983. He doesn't know where he was or what happened to him when the headquarters building for 1st Battalion 8th Marines in Beirut exploded. His first memory is from around Thanksgiving in 1983, lying in a hospital room and watching the names of those killed in action scroll down the television screen. He recognized name after name. Hunt was a 32-year-old staff sergeant in the Marine Corps when his battalion was sent to Beirut in 1983. On the morning of Oct. 23, Hunt could have been in one of two places in the four-story building: on the third deck where he lived or on the second deck where he worked. Because the U.S. troops were in condition one the night before -- the highest state of alert for Marines -- Hunt was probably stationed in the command operations center on the second floor where he was a radio chief. "We would stay until the threat no longer existed," Hunt said. "There was a very good possibility I stayed in the COC bunker. If there was one threat, chances were there would be another, so I probably

stayed for the night." The next clear memory Hunt has is Iying in a bed in Bethesda Naval Hospital. It was in late November and the TV set was on. "My wife was there and I was watching the list of KIAs and looking for my name," he said choking up, "because they were my comrades, my Marines." From that time on, Hunt started to get in sync with reality. Through family and friends and the news, the missing gaps of the past month were slowly filled in. "From Beirut, I had been medivaced to Germany, where I made a phone call back to the states and talked to my wife," he said, though he doesn't remember speaking to Cindi. "She could tell I was out of left field and not oriented," he said. "One day I was in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and the next day I was on Onslow Beach." Because Hunt's injuries were serious, he was sent to Bethesda, Md., for recovery. His injuries were massive: a skull fracture; brain contusions; a broken femur, tibia, fibula and ankle; crushed bone in his foot; and an exposed Achilles' tendon. "When I was in the hospital in Bethesda, my wife brought me back," he said. "She was the first thing I really connected with totally I saw Navy doctors and Marine officers and I didn't connect with them." ' He was able to leave the hospital by early December and was home to Camp Lejeune in time for the holidays. SEE BOMBING / 2B

He was home to Cindi, home to his four children -- 10-year-old Mendy, 9-year-old Jack, 6-year-old Marcy and 3-year-old Molly -- and home to what was familiar and comfortable. "It was such a relief to be home," he said. "We were all really over-joyed for quite some time." It took about 18 months to recover from his injuries, Hunt and he worked on limited duty for about a year In 1985, he was given a clean bill of health and was back to full duty. "That was helpful," he said. "The more I could do and the sooner I could do it, the better I was." Despite the tragedy of Beirut, Hunt has remained in the Marine Corps. He stayed at Camp Lejeune until after the Persian Gulf War when he was transferred to the Washington, D.C., area for six years. In December 1997, he returned to Lejeune and is with the 8th Marine Regiment. He has watched his children grow and two marry. One, Molly, who is now 18, still lives at home. Though emotions of the event are still suffocating, Hunt says he feels blessed that he has no direct memory of the Beirut bombing. "I had to get over it and move on," he said. "I had to put it in my past. It is always going to be a memory, but it has to be in my past."

A time of hope

When the U.S. Marines came into Lebanon for their peacekeeping mission, many of the citizens there felt special and safe. "I vividly remember how happy and relieved everybody in our neighborhood was when the Marines came to Lebanon," said Jihane Khawam Rohrbacker, who lived in East Beirut at the time of the U.S. presence in 1983. "We truly believed that they were peacemakers who would make sure we would be safe." Rohrbacker lived with her family in a neighborhood called Ashrafieh in the Christian part of the city as it was divided during the war "I remember seeing the young Marines driving down the street in their Jeeps, and people would be waving at them and throwing rice at them. It was a happy time, a time of hope that perhaps these young men and women would finally bring peace." Rohrbacker had just celebrated her 16th birthday on Oct. 20, three days before the bombing. On Oct. 23, she was at her grandmother's house in Ashrafieh, which is on a hill and overlooks the city. "I can almost still hear the extremely loud noise -- if I remember correctly there were two because the French barracks that were close by were hit right after the Marine headquarters. We thought the bombing had started, so we got ready to go down to the bomb shelter, but then there was silence. We went out on the terrace, and saw this huge mushroom-like black cloud in the direction of the headquarters." For Rohrbacker and her family and neighbors, the bombing brought terrible sadness. "We could not believe that this could happen. Why now? Why these young people? Of course we knew the answer. Those who wanted to prolong the war saw the Marines as a threat to them and knew it would drive the American presence out of Lebanon immediately." Afterward, the Lebanese felt powerless. If the United States, the greatest power in the world couldn't save them, who could? Rohrbacker moved to the United States to attend college and now lives in Arizona with her husband David. She still thinks of the Marines who died trying to restore peace in Lebanon. She wants to let the families know that their sons did not die in vain. "We always will be grateful for the United States and the Marines for caring enough to send their young men and women to a far away place that most of them had probably never heard of, just to make a difference in people's lives."

Michael Toma was sleeping in his corner room on the first floor of the lst Battalion 8th Marines barracks when the building crumbled on top of him. "I do not remember the actual blast," said Toma, who was a 20 year-old lance corporal at the time. "My first recollection was seeing rays of sunlight through the dustfilled air. I was able to see rubble around me and a ceiling overhead, but nothing else." Toma would later learn that a small portion of the second floor did not collapse onto the first and that he was under this corner of the building. Eventually Toma was pulled out of the rubble and began asking questions about what happened. He was told not to worry about it, to concentrate on getting better, and to save his strength. Toma was taken to an infirmary and then flown to an Army hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, where he spent five days recovering. "The night I arrived in Landstuhl, I still had no idea of the magnitude of the disaster," he said. "Even though I had recognized at some level that the building was gone, I apparently had not accepted it. "I was asked if I would like to phone my parents to let them know I was doing OK. My response was no, because I didn't want them to worry that I'd been hurt. They insisted that I should and put the call through. It surprised me that my parents were aware that I had been hurt. The fact was, they had been told several hours earlier that I had been killed, but I wouldn't know that until later." Toma's injuries were somewhat minor: he had lost one eardrum and the other was perforated; he had a partially collapsed lung; a piece of bone had chipped off the top of one of his hip bones; and he had various abrasions and cuts. During his stay in Germany, Toma learned about the cause of the blast and was able to scan casualty lists. "I found that nearly everyone I knew had died," he said. "One of my friends who was listed as a survivor had only survived for a short period of time. I don't think I cried at that point." Toma was transferred to Bethesda, Md., where he stayed for another two to three weeks for treatment, and then he was able to go home for 30 days. In February 1984, he returned to Camp Lejeune. In 1989, he married Danielle and today he has two children, 8 year-old Anthony and 3-year-old Trevor. He was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps in December 1990 and now works in Florida as a production engineer. "Then and now there is hardly a day that goes by that I don't think of the bombing in one way or another--it is very much a part of me," he said. "When I think deeply about the bombing, I am moved. I'm sorry for the loss and especially for the families who lost loved ones. Now that I'm a parent, I think I can better understand what it would be like to lose a son. I regret not keeping in touch more with families who desired correspondence with me, but, until last year, I felt that I had nothing to offer them."

'Lost over 100 brothers'

David Lord's job the day of the Beirut bombing was to find up-beat music to play for WJNC radio station. The Jacksonville airwaves needed music that would not be unsuitable for its grieving listeners. There were to be no "losing the one you love" or "missing the one you love" songs played, he remembers. When the casualty lists came in, Lord read the names over the air "It was really strange," Lord said. "Maybe it was due to my training as a radio operator in the Corps, but not one name registered with me when I read them. After being relieved from the mic, I went and reread the names." That's when he recognized name after name of friends he knew. Lord had been in Beirut with the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit through February 1983 and was discharged from the Marine Corps in August 1983 after receiving a back injury He knew the problems in Beirut. He knew the men. "I sat in the parking lot and cried," Lord said. "I felt like I had lost over 100 brothers and the lists were still coming in." Besides reading the names, the only other time Lord remembers talking on the air was when he dedicated the Anne Murray song "A Little Good News" to the families and men of the 24th MAU.; "I explained that I had been with the MAU on their first trip to Beirut and then I did the dedication," he said. "There is a line in there that says, 'Bryant Gumble was talking about the fighting in Lebanon.' It had been put in the 'don't even think about it stack.' But I pulled it any way and played it. Lord remembers people calling into the radio station offering help to the victims' families, others calling because they didn't know ¦vhat to do, some calling for comforts. A few weeks after the bombing Lord left Jacksonville. He went to school, earning a degree in criminal justice and now works for the Georgia Department of Corrections in Columbus as a probation officer. "I still think of Beirut. I think of the men we lost there -- the friends, brothers, fathers, sons, husbands. I also think of an 8-yearold little girl who told me to call her Frank. That was the only American name she knew. I couldn't pronounce her Arabic name. "I remember the little boy who gave me three rounds of ammunition. He told me to use those rounds to help get the bad guys-out of his country. I remember seeing 'Frank' at the Red Cross area in the Italian compound and finding out that her friend who gave me the rounds had been killed when a grenade he picked up went off. She

had been wounded. "I remember coming home and telling my parents about Beirut. When I think of 'Frank' I still get misty-eyed. I wonder if she is still alive and how many of her little € friends she watched die. And, I still cry on occasion. For all those we lost and all those who lost their innocence."

Like a movie

The explosion Michael Callender heard on the morning of Oct. 23,1983 came from the French Embassy, which was a block and a half away from the American Embassy, where he was on duty. After hearing about that bombing, the American Embassy beefed up security. Roughly an hour and a half later, 18-year old Callender heard about the other explosion -- this one affecting his comrades in the headquarters building, which was about 15 to 20 minutes away "We were informed about it, but we didn't know the severity of it," Callender said. "I was shocked, upset. I knew a lot of people over there and I was concerned about their safety and well-being" Because there were enough Marines helping with the recovery and searching at V8, Callender was sent to a nearby hospital. His mission: To cheer up the wounded being brought in. "When we got to the hospital, we realized the seriousness of it," he said. "It was like something out of a movie. There were all different types of injuries." Callender spent one-on-one time with about 10 Marines, some of whom he knew personally He held conversations with some; others couldn't talk back, but knew :(Callender was there supporting them. - Every day for a week, Callender returned to the hospital. But while Callender was cheering others up, -he was dealing with the pain of losing five close friends and a dozen or so others. "I realize it could have very easily been me in the building," Callender said. "It's something I'll never forget." "While many Marines involved in Beirut got out of the military soon afterward, Callender has stuck it through, and since the bombing he's moved up from a private first class to a staff sergeant. Over the past 15 years, he's been stationed in a number of places, but in 1996 he came back to Camp Lejeune. In September 1998, he returned to 1/8. "I never put it behind me, it's always there," he said.

Inconsolable grief

It was a cold, miserable, rainy day on Nov. 4, 1983 when Camp Lejeune held its memorial service for the Marines killed in Beirut. Steven Weygandt remembers the day He listened to President Reagan give a memorial speech for the 241 killed. He mourned for the one who was his former roommate and friend -- Lyndon Hue, or Max as he was known by pals. Weygandt and Hue were stationed in Keflavick, Iceland, in the winter f 1982. When they both received orders to report to 1st Battalion 8th Marines at Camp Lejeune, Hue reported as scheduled, while Weygandt extended his tour by three months because he was engaged to a woman there.

By the time Weygandt reported for duty at Camp Lejeune in May, his battalion had already left for Beirut on deployment. Reassigned to 3rd Battalion 8th Marines, he was preparing for a February deployment to Beirut when he heard the horrible news. Hue was listed among the dead. "I remember feeling shock and disbelief, amplifled by the knowledge that I had lost a personal friend by this act of violence," Weygandt said. "As the days progressed and more details were revealed the grim reality of the situation sunk in. My emotions turned to anger -- anger at the reasoning that allows people to justify committing such horrendous acts, anger at our leadership for putting us in a situation where such a thing could happen." As the date for his departure for Beirut drew nearer, Weygandt was resolved to go and do his duty. He remembers feeling vindictive, hoping for the chance to retaliate for the evil deed that took the lives of Hue and his fellow Marines. "And I felt fear," he said. "I knew that there were people in Lebanon who would gladly and eagerly kill us if given half a chance. I was young, a newlywed, and I didn't want to die. But I was ready to give my life if necessary, because there is real honor in serving one's country and defending our way of life." Weygandt, who now lives in Oregon, visited Jacksonville when he was in the reserves, just prior to his final discharge in 1988. He visited the Beirut Memorial. He looked at the names on the wall and realized how easily it could have been his name up there, too. "All these years later, I am still haunted by the memory of Beirut, the staggering loss of precious lives, the endless grief of families of the victims, and the unanswered questions that will always remain. Why do such things happen to good people? How can anyone justify that kind of brutality and disregard for life? Why was I spared when others may have been more worthy? I guess I'll never know."

On guard duty

Burton Wilcox is haunted by the memories of Oct. 23, 1983, when he saw the truck bomber circle the area where the 1st Battalion 8th Marines slept, return a few moments later and blow up the four story building.
On that tragic morning, Wilcox, who was a 19-year-old radio operator, was on guard duty with a 50-caliber machine gun at a post about 800 yards from the building. Like many other guards on duty that day, he remembers watching the truck circle the area. He remembers the fear of the unknown. "I had the fire power to take the truck out long before it reached its target," he said. "I still don't know why to this day that I choked. I felt the truck was a threat by the way it was driving. One part of me said take it out and the other said if you fire and you're wrong, you're done for."

Wilcox's second connection with the bombing was his brother, Cpl. David Wilcox, who was in the building on the first floor. "He somehow survived," Wilcox said. "His roommate who I went to boot camp with did not survive." Wilcox remembers the truck disappearing from his view as it neared the building. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground as sand blasted him in the face. "I don't remember the sound or a flash from the blast but after I was able to get up and look toward the BLT Building, you could see nothing due to the heavy smoke and debris. As it cleared, you could no longer see the BLT Building. The fear and shock of the blast had me kind of in a daze and I had a hard time understanding what had just happened." Wilcox looked the area of his brother's room and remembers thinking that there was no way he was alive. He helped with the recovery of bodies and searched in earnest for his brother. "It was hard to tell if I was in the right area because everything was everywhere," he said. Wilcox was told by his commanding officer that his brother probably didn't survive. At one point, he was told he had been killed. Two weeks later, he was told that his brother was alive and in Germany, but he was not given permission to visit him. He didn't see his brother until December 1983. When Wilcox returned from Lebanon he experienced posttraumatic stress disorder, not only from the bombing but from the entire Beirut experience. "My first few years after Lebanon were hell for me." he said. "I began drinking and getting drunk as much as possible. I began to push away from my friends in the unit. I never told anyone what was bothering me. I felt too ashamed too." Wilcox suffers every day Today, he works as a prison guard in Maine, but says it is an every day struggle to keep his job. "I still feel responsible for the blast. I feel the world has forgotten about us all together. I feel ashamed of myself for what happened, and the whole experience has changed my life forever."