Turkey 13 Memoirs:
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From: Bay
Weekly, Volume 15, Issue 18 ~ May 3 - May 9, 2007
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Hostile Fire
In the shadow of Virginia Tech, I remember the University of Texas
a memoir by Sandra Lee Anderson
August 1, 1966–Our Peace Corps training class of 35 was
ending its first Turkish class of the day. It was noon, and we anticipated
the long walk across the 95-degree University of Texas campus to lunch.
We were a standard set of recent liberal arts graduates, a
profile of what the Peace Corps wanted for a Muslim nation. We had a few
sets of married couples, and some of us seemed square. I might have fit that
description, but I had taken the role of smart aleck, out of character if
you know me today. We had a group comedian, Bob Zahn, a tall, blonde,
happy-go-lucky math major who didn’t seem to know where he was going. If
anyone seemed to hear a different drummer, one with an upbeat cadence, it
was Bob. A few of our guys joined to avoid the draft and being shot at in
the Vietnam War. Strange irony.
We were Turkey-13, the 13th group. We studied Turkish
language morning and afternoon. Grateful for lunch break, we gathered up our
books and disregarded the pop, pop in the distance. It had started a little
before class ended.
• • •
By the time we were let out for lunch, a Peace Corps
trainee from the group headed for Iran might have already been shot. He
would later die in the hospital.
• • •
I didn’t glance at the tower of the University of Texas as
I walked down the wide set of cement stairs of the old classroom building. I
edged over to the right to hold the cement banister. Slowly, one at a time
is how I had to take those stairs, always leading with my left leg.
Playing soccer, the national sport in Turkey, earlier that
month, I had torn the cartilage of my left knee. I remember waking up lying
on the grass. I stood, with help, then locked my left leg and walked,
peg-leg fashion, back to the motel, explaining to everyone that I was fine
and knew how to handle this. Halfway back, I gritted at the pain and
wondered why I was so foolish to not accept help. But I knew: Nothing was
going to keep me from going to Turkey with the Peace Corps.
Peg-legging down those stairs, I wondered what was going
on.
The lawn was green, the trees full. Hot is usual for
Austin, but not unpleasant. The tower, a 307-foot looming building,
commanded the university landscape. Below the surmounting clock was the 28th
Floor Observation Deck extending around all sides so visitors could see the
far reaches of the University and the city of Austin. Encasing the platform
was a thick wall with six-inch slits above the drain spouts. Perfect for a
sniper.
I was headed for the tower. Intervening was Garrison Hall,
and my view of the observation deck slowly slipped behind that building.
About a block north over to my right, something was going on.
“A .30 caliber,” noted Gary Medlin, a trainee from
Kentucky, his head cocked. “A magnum projectile carries farther.”
That’s the first I realized we were listening to gunshots
from high-caliber rifles and handguns. I decided to stick with Gary: He knew
what he was doing.
We turned north toward the grassy slope.
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A bullet hole in a store just off campus.
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• • •
Gary was a large guy, dark hair, a square face; he had
grown up hunting and knew guns. On the east slope from the tower, policemen
hunkered on the edges of the terraced lawn.
Then we knew what was happening. We realized that if we
could see the tower, the shooter there could see us.
Police handguns wouldn’t reach the top of the tower, Gary
explained.
• • •
We turned back to make our way around big, blocking
Garrison. We needed to see what was happening. That was at the plaza on the
south side of the tower.
People hustling between the buildings were in clear view
of the tower. Maybe they didn’t understand their peril.
In the center of a flat, cemented plaza beneath the tower
stood a tall flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes. Opposite the tower, the
end of the plaza was framed by a colonnade baluster supported by a retaining
wall. Protected by the wall, Gary and I worked our way to the bottom of the
wide stairs ending the plaza.
A waist-high hedge held us to the wall; it was tough to
negotiate with my stiff leg. I thought about my mother and what she would
think. Later she confided, “I knew you had sought a safe place.” In reality,
I’d sought the action.
The stairs above us led to a grassy lawn, then to a large
reflection pond that sloped down again, the terracing effect leading to a
view of downtown Austin and the state capitol.
The view was violated by a victim shot on the far side of
the reflection pond, 500 yards distant.
“With that magnum, the sniper can accurately shoot past
that far terrace,” Gary explained. It was a half-mile away.
That meant that anyone walking on the street, on the
western side of the plaza, was in easy range of the sniper. Guadelupe Street
had a series of small stores; people stepping out would be unaware of their
utter vulnerability. Some people had already been killed; store windows were
rent with large and small bullet holes in the plate glass.
• • •
Reaching the southeast edge of the plaza, we saw two
bodies, one perhaps 20 feet from the far edge of the stairs. A woman was
crouched at the bottom of the flagpole, its concrete base and thick taper
her sole protection.
Tucked behind the wall and trapped by the hedge, we could
see people across the stairs, a mirror of our cluster free of bushes,
scoping out the plaza and the tower. Bob Zahn was among them. He had to have
crossed the stairs in plain view of the sniper to get there.
A student and visiting professor, we later learned, had
been killed on the plaza; a policeman was shot through the balusters near
where Bob was huddled. One woman lying on the plaza was still alive.
The cluster seemed to be trying to figure out what to do.
They were afraid to go out to get the wounded woman.
Behind them, a man ripped off his shirt. When it seemed
the gunshots were on the far side of the tower, the man bounded the stairs
to the woman. He struggled to lift her up. Bob Zahn the comedian — but not
others — joined him to carry her down to safety. You can never predict who
has courage.
The first rescuer was an ex-Marine. He was later fired
from his work with a construction company because he had gone off the job to
get to the tower.
• • •
The sniper, Charles Whitman, was also ex-military,
ex-Vietnam. He reportedly had a small, undiagnosed brain tumor, but that
didn’t fully explain the random carnage. He killed 14 that day and wounded
31.
Romero Martinez and Houston McCoy from the Austin Police
Department took the elevator up the tower, then climbed the remaining stairs
to the reception area for the observation deck. Whitman was on the northwest
corner of the deck, looking toward Guadelupe Street. The patrolmen stepped
out and around the eastern corner. Martinez shot first. Ninety minutes after
the first pop, there was silence from the tower.
Silence.
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The writer, left, reunited 40 years later with fellow
Peace Corps students, including hero Bob Zahn, second from left. [RPCVs,
from left to right are Sandy Comstock Anderson, Bob & Judy Laurence Zahn,
Dick Denda & Dick Lilly.]
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• • •
But no one was untouched. From then on, no matter where we
were on campus, we would look to the tower. If we could see it, the tower
could see us. We took quick reconnaissances to know where to dive if we
heard gunshots. That was the primitive, turtle part of our brains acting
from a deep survival instinct.
Virginia Tech’s survivors are now in the shadow, reliving
how to survive when it happens again.
Sandy Anderson went
peg-legged to teach English at Girls Middle School in Gaziantep, Turkey. She
returned two years later to teach in the post-riot schools of Washington,
D.C. She earned her Ph.D. from Virginia Tech in 1988 and worked for 30 years
in D.C. Public Schools Dept. of Planning and Program Development. She and
her husband Charlie — parents of two daughters — moved in 2002 from Northern
Virginia to St. Leonard.
Sandra Lee Anderson's story originally appeared in and is
reprinted with permission of Bay Weekly, the independent news weekly
of the Annapolis capital region, in print and on line at
www.bayweekly.com.
* * * * * * * * * *
From Jim McHenry (T-13):
Dear Sandy,
I think the easiest path for me will be to
recall the events of August 1, 1966 in the form of a letter to you.
My recollection is that, for some reason, I
was somewhat delayed in leaving language class that day. I was walking to
the cafeteria with two other trainees, Chris Taylor, and Ann Boynston. We
had just made the turn to head east toward our luncheon destination when a
shot rang out right in our immediate area. Everyone stopped, unsure where
the shot had come from. At that point, a very brave gentleman came
running up on the opposite side to the street shouting for everyone to
take cover because there was a sniper in the tower. I remember him now
with enormous gratitude, for he surely knew he was exposing himself to
great danger as he ran down the street warning people.
Immediately, Chris, Ann and I took shelter
behind a large oak tree, placing ourselves on the west side of the tree
and huddling in the shade against its base. By then, the amount of
gunfire coming out of the tower was staggering. I recall thinking that
there had to be at least three shooters to account for that much gunfire.
We had a brief discussion as to whether or not
we should try to make a run for the shelter of an adjacent building, but a
consensus emerged that we had better stay put. It was obvious by that
time that the sniper was using high-powered weapons doubtlessly aided by
powerful scopes. Staying hidden and perfectly still appeared our most
sensible action. It was, of course, impossible to be sure that we were
actually completely hidden. The angle from the top of the tower to our
hiding place was so extreme that we could not be certain of our safety.
Fortunately, the tree's size and its rather full canopy worked in our
favor.
I remember noting that the rush of adrenalin
made it very difficult to stay perfectly still. I also recall how quickly
my mind was processing information. In retrospect, it reminds me of the
comment attributed to Mark Twain, who is said to have observed: "There is
this to be said for the prospect of being hung; it concentrates the mind
enormously." I had no idea whether or not my wife, Sue, was safe, and I
worried as well about the fate of my fellow PCV trainees and all the other
students and private citizens now forced to spend time at ground zero.
With regret, I recalled that I had not followed my father's advice to have
a will drawn up before I left for PC training.
I also recall feeling angry that I couldn't
shoot back. The difficulty of hitting anything became clear, however, as
police sharp shooters began firing at the tower from positions on the
ground. The tower's raised parapet gave Charles Whitman perfect cover as
he fired at will from the downspouts.
It seemed as though time itself slowed to a
crawl. Eventually, we saw some students signaling us from the doorway of
a nearby building. They were indicating they would be prepared to swing
the door open to admit us if we wanted to chance the run for cover. We
watched and waited, trying to discern the pattern of the firing.
Gradually, we were able to pick up when the firing from the tower had
rotated to the far eastern side. We made a decision to run for it, and it
was the longest 15 yards I ever expect to traverse. Thankfully, we all
made it safely inside the building.
I remember plopping down on the hallway floor,
leaning back against the wall, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. No
sooner had I settled into that position than the back door of the hallway
suddenly flew open and there stood a man dressed all in black, with a
black cowboy hat and a high-powered rifle. I remember thinking to myself:
"My God, it's an invasion!" The man looked at me and demanded: "Where's
the sniper?" I pointed to the front of the building and replied, "He's
firing from the top of the tower." "Thanks," said the cowboy, and he ran
to the door, paused briefly, then bolted outside. I recall reading
afterwards that the local police had a real problem with well-meaning gun
owners who decided to join the battle without bothering to coordinate with
law enforcement. This meant, of course, that an increasing amount of the
fire being directed at the tower was not being orchestrated in any
fashion. We can all be grateful for the bravery of officers Ruben
Martinez and Huston McCoy, who worked their way to the tower's top
floor and finally brought Charles Whitman's murderous rampage to an end.
Walking back to the dorm in mid-afternoon, I
remember crossing the west plaza area and seeing a lot of blood on the
pavement in several locations. For about seven days after August 1, my
vision turned monochromatic; the whole world looked like a black and white
TV picture.
I briefly considered sharing this
startling development with the psychologists assigned to our training
project, but I decided it would be far too risky and would doubtlessly
result in my being "de-selected." Since the cause of my vision problem
seemed obvious, I decided to slog along and see if it didn't clear up on
its own. Fortunately, I gradually began to see colors again, with red
being the very last to come back online.
Another memory I have involves how I
instinctively sought out other volunteers who had also been out in
Whitman's line of fire. I can recall how we would get together in small
groups and visit. Without realizing it, I believe we were helping each
other cope with post traumatic stress, and I think our preventive
adaptation was quite remarkable. The Peace Corps seemed to think we
should simply get up, dust ourselves off, and move ahead as if nothing of
consequence had occurred. I do recall that a group of us got permission
to attend the funeral service for the PCV trainee from the Iran group (I
believe his name was Tom Ashton), who was among Whitman's victims.
Over the years, I've had opportunities to
visit Austin again, but I've always passed them by. Tragedies such as the
events of 9/11 and the recent massacre at Virginia Tech seem to trigger
the old memory tapes, although with the passage of time they've lost some
of their power of intimidation. Several years ago, I came across a book
entitled A Sniper in the Tower: the Charles Whitman Murders, by
Gary Lavergne, which was published in 1997 by the University of North
Texas Press. I checked the book out, but I found I had to return it to
the library largely unread.
In my opinion, an experience such as we
endured redefines the term "personal crisis." Over the years people
working with or for me have commented on how calm I appear to be
when others find themselves shifting into a crisis mode. I tell them that
the circumstances at hand just don't measure up to my personal definition
of what constitutes a true crisis.
The one person in my immediate family I found
I could talk with about the sniper in the tower was my Uncle Robert, a
highly decorated WWII veteran, who miraculously survived five amphibious
landings. A soft-spoken man, he had a vocabulary precisely tailored to
the trauma of being under fire. I could tell that Uncle Robert had a
unique perspective on the events that unfolded on August 1, 1966 in
Austin, Texas. By sharing some details of his combat experience--and how
he lived with those memories--he provided me with valuable insights that
proved very helpful.
To this day, when a car backfires on the
street, I find myself instinctively identifying the closest available
cover. When in crowds, my eyes tend to scan--much like my lifeguard
training--always alert for the thing, or the person, that just doesn't
look right. I'm not fearful; just prepared. More than most other people,
I feel that I understand the truth that time and chance happen to us all.
Sandy, thanks for inviting me to share.
With many selams from your Kansas arkadash,
Jim
From Tarry Davis (T-13):
Thanks Sandy. Well, done. I thought of the Tower incident
the day of the VA Tech tradegy. Many people here in Norfolk were
directly affected. You and Gary and Bob witnessed the carnage in Austin
first hand while most of us fortunately made it to lunch in a nearby
cafeteria and listened to the TV wondering who was alive and who was
dead. I remember being oblivious to what was going on until I saw a nun
charging over a low wall and then running down the Tower slope as fast as
her legs could carry her..... smack into dozens of Texans rushing up the
hill armed to the teeth. What an awful day!
Thanks again,
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