I was a Seattle-based B-737 captain for United Airlines at the time. My neighbor four homes down the street was also a United B-737 captain. His wife telephoned my home that morning; I had just woken up as I was scheduled to fly that afternoon. She asked me, “Are you watching television right now?” I said, “No,” and she responded, “Turn on your television.” For the next two hours, I sat there stunned—in near disbelief and shock as I watched the recounting of what had happened. I watched the first World Trade Center tower collapse and then a while later the second tower went down. I was sickened by what I was witnessing. As the hours progressed and more of the picture came into focus, it was clear that a group of terrorists had hijacked four airliners, attacked the United States, and committed mass murder. Two of the airliners were from my company, and 16 of my colleagues had been brutally assassinated along with their passengers and thousands of innocent people on the ground.

Now I was beginning to fill with a rage that was difficult to suppress. I went to my friend’s house, the other United B-737 captain, and we watched the continuing news reports on TV together. Our shock, outrage, and helpless anger were overwhelming. I had never felt this way before. Every fiber of my being was screaming out for vengeance. All I could think was “find the cowardly bastards who had orchestrated this horrible act of terrorism and kill them immediately.” I had no resolution for this; I just had to accept it. Back at home later that afternoon, my two children were beginning to understand the immensity of the events of the day. An overwhelming fear had finally shaken my oldest daughter and she held on to me and sobbed. I knew in that moment that those cowards had hurt my family, shaken their security, and put fear in their minds for the sake of their father, an airline pilot who, save for his schedule, may have been in one of those airplanes. Now I was welling up with anger and vengeance once more, and my heart was pounding as I held on to my daughter trying to calm and reassure her that everything would be all right. My country, my colleagues, and my family had been attacked by these ruthless lunatics, and in that moment I could do nothing about it. My frustration was immeasurable.

Like everyone else in our country, the next few days were heart-wrenching and I felt as though I were operating in a fog of emotions. All commercial flying had been grounded throughout the United States and I was desperate to do something. Finally, after about a week, our United crewmembers who had been out flying trips that terrible day, and had been stuck wherever they had landed, were beginning to return home. A small group of pilots organized ourselves to go to the airport and welcome them home after their flights parked at the gate. The terminals were eerily empty and quiet; no one was allowed past security unless they had a ticket to fly, so not one of the returning crewmembers’ families could meet them upon arrival. It was just a few of us United pilots in uniform and badged who were allowed out to the gates. Those days of going out to greet the returning crews were a bit of a balm for my emotional wounds. I felt now that at least I was doing something positive. Talking with the other greeting pilots and the incoming crewmembers allowed us a time of conversational healing. We could vent and express our fear, rage, and resolve. We helped one another for a small moment in time and we built camaraderie to help carry us through to a future that we knew would change dramatically; we could not possibly know how much.

Captain Lawrence J. McDonough, United