Buried alive underneath concrete rubble and debris
for more than five hours, Chaplain Danny Wheeler heard the men around cry out for help. He
sent out his own begging someone to rescue him, too, the building that had crumbled on top
of him.
God help me," he remembers screaming. Soon, a Marine and a
priest were walking the rubble, searching for survivors, the Marine spotted a purple cloth
flying above a pile of concrete where Wheeler buried.
The purple cloth was Wheeler's Advent stole.
They had finally found him.
Wheeler survived the Beirut bombing, though many of the men he
had counseledand grown to love were killed in the tragedy.
Today, on the 15th anniversary, Wheeler will lead a candlelight
vigil at the Beirut Memorial honoring his comrades who died on the peacekeeping mission.
Though he's willing to talk about his experience, he can't help
the emotions that follow—the fear of dying, the pain of losing friends, the sorrow he
still feels today.
Wheeler had served as a church pastor in Wisconsin for five years
when he felt his calling into the military.
He remembers watching the news on TV, seeing the problems in
Beirut, and being struck by what was happening.
"I was watching a news conference and saw the people, and I
said to myself, 'I want to be there.' I said, 'God, if you want me to be there, give me a
sign."'
Two days later, Wheeler received a phone call telling him that
there was a need for an active duty chaplain.
In November of 1982, Wheeler became a Navy chaplain, and in
December, he reported to the 1st Battalion 8th Marines at Camp Lejeune.
In May, he left on float to Beirut, Lebanon."It was my
first tour of duty, my first experience with Marines and I got to know the Marines and
love them," he said. "I was very happy and proud to be a chaplain with the
Marines. It was like being brought into a family I was a part of them and I got very close
to them.
"When they gave us orders to go to Beirut, we were very
excited, yet once we were there, we could feel the tension in the air,"
Once men from his battalion started getting hurt and killed in
sniper fire, Wheeler began to worry more. He had served for some time in Vietnam as a mail
clerk and, knew the situation was getting more as time went on.
Wheeler bonded with his comrades each day Two days before the
bombing, he baptized a friend—1st Sgt. David Lee Battle.
"He felt the time had come to be baptized and asked if there
was any reason he shouldn't, and I said no," Wheeler remembered. "We had a party
afterward."
On Oct 22, the battalion was under condition one—the highest
state of alert for the Marines—and most of them were sent to the basement until the
situation got better. Wheeler, who hated being stuffed on the ground floor, walked around
outside and visited the Marines perched on top of the building watching for any trouble.
When condition one was lifted, Wheeler and his assistant, Cpl.
John Olson, returned to their rooms on the fourth floor.
When Wheeler awoke the next day, he couldn't move his legs. He
was trapped under the rubble of the collapsed building.
"I woke up not knowing what was happening. I just knew that
I was buried alive. I was scared. I was terrified. I was afraid and filled with regret
because I didn't want to die at that point. I was determined to live, as if I had a
choice."
During the five hours when he was alone and trapped, he thought
about his family. He thought about not seeing them again. He tried to not think about how
thirsty he was.
"I didn't have any pain, just a trickle of some liquid
coming down my ear," he said. "I later found out that was blood."
Wheeler couldn't move his feet, but he could move his arms and
upper body for awhile. At one point, he tried to lift the concrete off of him, but he
suffered when it came tumbling back down.
"I talked to God a lot. I was angry, even at God at that
point. I screamed out loud, trying to get attention, but no one was hearing me. I
heard a lot of cries for help. They were my Marines and I loved them. There was nothing I
wouldn't do for them."
But there was nothing he could do at that point. He was trapped
and waiting.
Then a Marine spotted a purple cloth flying above the rubble.
Chaplain George Pucciarelli, a Catholic priest, knew what the cloth was. It was Wheeler's
Advent stole, the one he wore on Sundays and during special services. The one his wife,
Brenda, made for him. |
|
Pucciarelli took the stole, folded it very carefully, and hollered down, "Is there
anyone there?"
"I whispered back, because I was losing my voice, and they
said 'We're coming for you.' I could hear the digging and I was told to keep making a
noise so they could find me."
Then he felt a hand take his hand.
"I'll never forget that human touch," he said.
They kept digging and telling Wheeler to hang on. But the debris
suddenly shifted and concrete came crashing down, pushing his head into a cement block and
weighing down on his body.
"I started thinking to myself, `How much can a human skull
withstand?’ I kept praying and hollering and saying`God help me’ because I
didn’t want to die slowly."
After praying , Wheeler felt at peace, even though he
could barely breathe. He felt he was smothering to death.
"They kept talking to me and telling me to hang on, but I
had told myself it was OK to die," he said. "I was at peace with myself."
Right at that moment, as he was imagining himself being freed
from the pain, the weight lifted from him and his rescuers pulled him out. He was finally
able to sit up. When asked if they could get anything for him, Wheeler pleaded for water.
"They sent up a canteen and it felt so good," he said.
"It actually wasn't any good, but it was so sweet and tasted wonderful."
There was still a fear that more debris would collapse on top of
him, so the rescuers worked to get his feet free. It worked, and he finally got out.
As he stood up—he had no broken bones, just bruises and a
cut on his head—he immediately thought to look for his assistant, Olson. But he soon
collapsed and was carried to a gurney and then an ambulance.
It was then he felt the pain, whenever and wherever the doctor
pressed down on him.
Wheeler was flown to Italy for recovery, and there, he was told
about the bombing and his comrades, including Battle and Olson, who died.
"That was when I hurt the most," he said. "I still
grieve for the lives lost. There were so many good men. It doesn't make much sense."A
chaplain without his battalion
Wheeler was able to come home to Jacksonville after spending a week in Italy. He came
home to Brenda, and home to his sons, 7-year-old Andrew, 5-year-old Jonathon and
2-year-old Ben.
But despite being home, Wheeler could not find peace.
"There was nothing left of me. I was a void inside," he
said. "I was happy to be alive but one part of me died in Beirut A part of me never
came home."
For a month, Wheeler tried to regroup and piece his life back
together. Though his wife was supportive, even she couldn't fill the void he felt.
"I was a chaplain without my battalion, I was without my
people nearby," he said. "I did my best to cope with it, but I didn't have any
counseling. I didn't ask for help, but I know I needed it."
He tried to do some supply preaching, filling in for pastors who
were on vacation, but he couldn't do it.
"It was like I had the wind blown out of me," he said.
"I couldn't breathe. I was in a state of shock and couldn't do it. I talked a lot but
I don't think I said too much."
Wheeler was transferred to Corpus Christi, Texas, where he stayed
as a military chaplain for two years.
After, he left active duty because he found it hard to put on a
uniform, and he took a job as pastor of Midtown Lutheran Church in Wisconsin.
"I didn't want to put my family through what happened in
Beirut," he said.
Though time has healed some wounds, Wheeler still struggles every day
"It's been 15 years, but when I think about it, I can put
myself back to feeling the same grief," he said. "There were so many unfinished
lives, so many conversations that never had a chance to be finished."
Just recently, after 15 years of living with the nightmares of
Beirut, Wheeler started getting help. Through a friend who noticed he still had problems,
he found a Veterans Affairs chaplain who understood what he was going through and helped
talk him through it.
"He was someone I could talk to," Wheeler said. "I
felt like a failure for leaving my battalion. You know someone and they die and you wonder
if you could have done anything differently to help them. To this day I wish it never
happened."
|
Friday October 23,1998