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next plane. We had reason. The Pentagon, Flight 93

Teardrops and disbelief muddled us. We had no words for our children. The post went on full alert, suddenly decorated with barbwire and orange cones! Closing and blocking the once fully open post took little time. Cars and MP's (Military Police) stood in the middle of intersections, no one was allowed on post unless they were military or Dependants.

Fort Bragg slammed into a three day road block. No one could get in without being searched; people who worked on the post as DOD (Department of Defense) Civilians weren't able to make it to work because of the long waits, the hours of traffic. The Base became its own worst enemy those first panicked days. ID's were needed for everything. If you had lost your's or your child's, the hours at the ID office would be almost be as long as if you had failed to update your car's tags or insurance card.

I expected a mess. Scott said he was one of the only NCOs (Noncommissioned Officers) who had been able to make it to work. I didn't expect him to return for days and he didn't. I dropped my minivan's keys and put on my running shoes to go to the commissary and PX.

In caravans of baby carriages and groups of small children, we gathered to walk for needed supplies~ Milk. Baby food. Toilet paper. Bread.~ Those little things that we thought we'd get 'later', before the attack.

Door to door, I walked with my Ardennes ladies as we checked on the families who resided within our Community borders. Each face, frightened. Each face, worried. They asked from us, answers. We had none to give.

Blindly, we assured those we could, and we knew change was coming. We braced ourselves, praying for more time before that time of departure would arrive. Departing from our mates who would inevitably leave for duty's call, departure from the quiet lives we had led before that shocking day, and for some, departure from the military life.

My best friends became my sisters. Doris's husband, Andre', was in Korea during the attack. He was a mechanic, in for 14 years, and a veteran of the first Gulf war. Michelle's husband, Brandon, was infantry. He hadn't been in long, an even shorter time than Scott who was in the middle of his 4th year. Scott was signal.

When the planes fell, Michelle went to call her husband's office in a different room. Doris looked at me grimly, her German accent soft, "He'll go first, yah. He's infantry...Then they'll take our husbands, too." I nodded, confusion and apprehension filled

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