A view from Hoboken
You are a young man in your late 20s who grew up in Hoboken, in the "garden state" of New Jersey just across the Hudson River from Manhattan. Your family was blue-collar Italian and staunch Republican, and in the fall of 2001 you had graduated from high school and were planning to go to college after a year earning some money. On that Tuesday morning you were already at work at Jimmy John’s sandwich bar on the corner of First and Hudson when, just before nine, everyone turned to look at the TV as a shot of the World Trade Center’s north tower came on screen, burning fiercely as an agitated newscaster tried to explain what had happened. Half the staff rushed out across to First Street but the view was blocked by buildings. The manager saw there was no point in carrying on with trade and locked up as everyone rushed along First to the waterfront, crossing Sinatra Avenue to the small park on the Hudson River.
You were one of the first there, just in time to see the second plane hit the south tower and you all knew at once that this was no accident - America was under attack. To add to the horror you then watched with crowds of stunned and silent people as first the south tower and then the north tower collapsed. Making matters far worse, you learned later that day that one of your uncles, a New York firefighter, was among those missing. It was at that moment that you decided to ditch plans for college and join up.
With your sporting skills and high-school education, enlisting in the Marines was no problem and your training took you all through the early months of the war in Afghanistan. Like all the others in your group you were hugely determined to confront the terrorists, and the early collapse of the Taliban and President Bush’s brilliant state-of-the-union address in January 2002 gave a boost to your entire class.
