University of New England

Nexus

Terror in the Sky
Reflecting back from 9/11

by James Barry '69

30 years ago. September 10, 1976. TWA Flight 355. 86 passengers. A routine fl ight from New York to Chicago. My wife and I had plans to take a hiking trip out west. When we heard, “This is the captain. I am no longer in charge of this plane – I’m taking my orders from…,” the rest of his sentence didn’t matter – before he finished, we knew our plans and our lives had changed dramatically.



After that initial shock, three of the five hijackers distributed literature demanding freedom for Croatia – a place I’d only read about in WWI history. The document mentioned the Palestine Liberation Army (PLA), responsible for many Mideast hijackings.

The hijackers brandished “bombs” (metal pots with wires attached to detonators and batteries). What we didn’t know was that they had planted bombs in lockers in Grand Central Station. The devices, brought to the police firing range at Rodman’s Neck, had exploded and killed one police officer and injured others – in itself a terrible tragedy. From that moment on, the authorities treated the hijackers differently.

Our first stop was Montreal, where presumably intentions and demands were exchanged, then on to Gander, Newfoundland, where 35 passengers were set free. When my wife asked a woman hijacker if she could leave, she looked her in the eye and said “No!”

Our plane lacked the navigational equipment required for overseas flight, so we waited for TWA to send a plane capable of guiding ours. We then followed the larger TWA jet to Reykjavik, Iceland, 1400 miles away. We later found out that our 727 had only enough fuel to cruise 1600 miles over land – a detail we were glad not to have known. At dawn, after taking on food and drink, the planes departed again. We watched the military tanks and personnel lining the runway.

The smaller passenger roster eased our confinement. We talked in small groups about the hijackers’ literature and devices we observed. We even spoke with a few hijackers about their plans to free Croatia from Tito’s Communist rule. Unlike the passengers of the 9-ll flights, we never discussed trying to overpower our captors. We had no notion of pending doom. This was the first hijacking since the FAA installed screening devices in the wake of multiple hijackings to Cuba in the early ’70s. We still felt relatively safe.

In retrospect, we were the picture of innocence.

After leaving Iceland, we wondered what would happen since most hijackings to Cuba were over in hours, not days. However, this was also following the raid at Entebbe several months prior, so we weren’t sure what would occur next. We guessed London would be our next stop but we just flew over the city and dropped leaflets – and then went over the channel to Paris. Glancing out the window, I was startled to see a French Mirage jet fighter so close to our wing I could see the pilot’s face. Its rockets drove home the severity of our situation. When word of the fighter jets spread, the hijackers panicked and ran up and down the aisle, screaming at us to close the window shades. Apparently, we were going to land in Paris. Once there, tensions rose: the hijackers, gathering all of us to the middle of the plane, surrounded us. One berated us, our government, the banks and other powerful organizations for ignoring injustices suffered by Croatians.

“You people, you’re nothing!” he yelled. “If you were important, your government would have freed you. But no, you’re nothing – now you know how it feels to be like one of us!”

During the next 12 hours, the hijackers threatened to kill us three separate times. Once, Roman Catholic Bishop O’Rourke – also a passenger – addressed us, saying the hijackers would allow him to offer general absolution before any horrific event. We thought that would be a great comfort to some, but later, when he did offer absolution, we Catholics knew what that meant. “Oh my God,” my wife said, “are we about to die?”

I had one of those flimsy airline pillows in my hand. I wondered where I should hold it, over my face, my heart. Then I realized the blast would probably be so powerful, it would not matter where I placed it – we would be blown to pieces.

After the third go-round, I noticed my watch said 8:30 p.m. Saturday night. If I were home, I’d be watching “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” That put things in a strange perspective: I’m about to die and I’m thinking about watching TV.

The hijackers realized we, the captives, were panicking and sought to reassure us. Several left the plane to negotiate face-to-face with authorities. After many hours, nothing happened. Conditions in the plane deteriorated– it was hot, the stench of the backed-up lavatories filled the cabin. Two days after our ordeal began, the remaining hijackers finally capitulated. When French troops escorted us off the plane, we walked into a bright new Sunday morning. We savored the daylight, the fresh air, the freedom. We saw the plane was miles from the terminal and its tires had been shot out. We walked several hundred yards to board buses. When French authorities entering the bus asked for passports, we broke-out laughing – as if any of us had planned to go to Paris! Our first moment of comic relief: we laughed and laughed. Once identified as passengers, we were then processed for the trip to New York or Chicago. TWA flew us home to New York, where the authorities debriefed us and The New York Times interviewed us.

That following Monday, my wife and I traveled to Las Vegas per our original plans. Days later, while hiking in a river gorge in Zion National Park, alone in a big, beautiful, awe-inspiring place, we finally had a chance to consider what we’d gone through. We broke down and cried uncontrollably – a classic post-traumatic stress response. We felt confused, blessed and glad to be alive.

Thirty years ago a hijacking usually meant a brief, hair-raising experience. Today, we’ve replaced that word with what it is today – terrorism. The 9- 11 terrorists viewed their passengers inhumanely as a means to an end, but the people who hijacked us weren’t such monsters – they spoke with us about their grievances.

I know that the passengers on the 9-11 flights were terrified. I know many were courageous. I think of the young man who called his parents on behalf of his infant child and wife, and reassured them, “Don’t worry. It will be quick.” Looking back on my hijacking, I grieve for those 9-11 passengers who were never able to breathe in the fresh morning air as I did that day in Paris. A photo comes to mind – printed in a tabloid at the time of our hijacking – of me reading on that fateful flight, my wife resting her head in my lap. It is the picture of a time lost to a barbaric new mindset whose zealous ends justify any means.

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