October 23, 1983
“Hey, Pretty Boy,” a man said as he walked up to Brett. They were on the second floor of the Beirut International Airport, waiting for their shift to begin. The night before the troop had watched a movie, then spent the night unexpectedly. It was a rare moment of fun and peace amid a war-ridden nation.
“Hey, Johnny,” Brett said, smiling. They shook hands, listening to the sound of crisp boots walking and fabric swishing in time with fighting across the country.
Johnny pulled out a cigarette box, lighting one for himself. He offered one to Brett, handing it to him without looking up.
“No thanks,” Brett said, still smiling his iconic smile.
“’No thanks?’” Johnny asked, critical, words warped around the cigarette in his mouth. “What do ya mean? We’re in the middle of a war, for goodness' sake.” He shook the cigarette still in hand, offering it to Brett.
“No thanks, Johnny,” Brett said firmly. “I don’t smoke, and no number of bombs will ever make me.”
Johnny shook his head, puffing out smoke, clogging the already thick air.
“Croft!”
Brett looked up sharply, where a soldier of higher rank was motioning for him. Brett ran over, hustling. “Your shift is up,” the man said. “Get your crew-” He was interrupted.
Screaming. High-pitched, terror-filled, louder-still.
Crash. Glass breaking into a million shards. Bricks crumbling into swirls of dust.
Running. People above, people below. Some running up the stairs, so running down the stairs.
Pit. In Brett’s stomach. The too-familiar feeling that everything has gone horribly wrong.
Training. Kicking in. Pumping his veins with adrenaline. Tensing his muscles. Sharpening his mind.
“Kheda fedaa men ra bereket dhed,” a voice yelled from below, hoarse, sounding strangled. “Kheyeley tewelaney, keaferha!” It went on, louder, carrying above the panic. “Meregu ber amereyekea!” It was the voice of someone already dead, past the point of return, with no hope in sight. Even though the soldiers may not have understood his words, they understood the meaning behind them.
“Everybody get down!” Brett yelled.
Then the ground jumped.
Lose items and people went flying in every direction, smashing into windows and walls as gravity was defied. Some tried to grab onto something, others missing by inches. Brett floated in mid-air, everything slowing down, speechless.
Then the roof cracked down the middle and started to topple down on them all.
“Lord...”
Recollections from Rae & Lynne: Father and Stepmother
Brett stood straight-backed before his father, outfit immaculate, hair exactly right, as he told him he was going to join the military. His eyebrows were creased, and his jaw was set.
Rae sipped his still-hot coffee and regarded the young man before him, leaning back on the counter, wondering what made him want to join.
Brett told him that it was a family tradition, balancing on the edge between conversation and speech. He explained how his family had been in the military since the Civil War. And he did not plan to break that tradition. His voice was strong, tone resolute.
Rae nodded in approval.
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They drove out to the airport, Rae and Brett, where the recruiting officer would pick up Brett. He was breathing hard, finally having come to the place where there was no turning back. Looking at his dad, he managed a shaky smile. Rae returned one.
The recruiting officer pulled up in a military vehicle, dressed in a Marine uniform. He asked Brett if he was ready as father and son climbed out of the truck. Rae hugged Brett quickly before he could think about it. Brett returned one.
The boy nodded before jumping into the car. The officer shook Rae’s hand, then the two left, dust blowing up behind them.
His blue eyes shining, Rae climbed back in his truck, thinking of all the ways Brett would make him proud.
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The man strolled up Lynne’s porch in uniform. He was tall and muscular, with a long stride and straight back. He smiled at her, white teeth sparkling. There was something familiar about that smile...
Lynne dropped her paper and her jaw as she realized it was Brett. He opened his arms for a hug, Lynne meeting him halfway.
She hugged him tightly, then pulled back to look scrutinizingly at him. She barely recognized him.
Brett laughed, explaining how he had been through the Marine’s boot camp. He would be upset if he did not look a little differently. She half-laughed, soaking in his face, thinking that the Marines made him into a man.
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Brett brought some flowers for the kitchen, but Rae did not notice at first.
Rae could only shout Brett’s name before he very nearly bulldozed his son over.
Brett said hello, hands tied to his sides, face squished. When Rae let him go, that same ear-to-ear smile was plastered on his face.
Rae looked up at Brett, marveling at how much taller and muscular he looked.
Then Brett pulled a bouquet from his hand and put it in the vase on the table, arranging the blue, white, and orange flowers in his perfect way.
Rae chuckled, half because of the look on Brett’s face, half because Brett just got home from the Marines and his first thought was ‘Flowers,’ and asked where he got them.
He explained he was walking home and saw these beautiful flowers in front of a house. So, he stopped to look at them for a bit. Then he went up on the porch and knocked on the door. A lady answered, someone he had only met once. He told her he was admiring her flowers and asked if he could take some cuttings home. She agreed, there they were.
Rae laughed again, then slapped Brett on the back, thinking it was nice to have him back.
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“... This just in. A suicide bomber in Beirut has driven himself into the barracks of the American station at the Beirut International Airport. It is reported that he drove through two fences and a wall before detonating his homemade bomb. The force of the explosion lifted the building into the air, after which it imploded in on itself. Currently, we do not know the total death count...” Rae stared at the TV in his living room, Lynne scurrying around to get to the newspaper she worked at. She knew there would be a special story. He watched as they played a videotape of the airport lifting into the air.
He wondered how this could be possible, eyes glued on the screen.
Lynne stopped in front of the door; lips pursed. She looked down, her mind in a thousand places at once to avoid that one thought. Their son could be dead. He could be fine. And it could be days before they found out.
Rae stood there still, numb, and whispered his son’s name.
Lynne looked into his eyes, assuring him she knew without ever speaking a word.
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The next 24 hours were agony, not hearing whether Brett was alive. Rae and Lynne went to work, as usual, trying to continue with normal life as their hearts and minds searched the rubble in Beirut. Lynne’s sister called her at work, and Lynne listened as she spoke too fast, explaining that two Marines had just left their house. Sarah directed them to Rae’s car lot since no one was at home.
Lynne sucked in a breath sharply. She groaned involuntarily, before telling her sister she was going to the car lot.
They both sat there for a minute, silent. Then Sarah told her everything would be ok, breaking the spell.
Lynne forced herself to agree.
She hung up, and ran down the stairs, deeming the crowded elevators too slow. Her car smoked as she sped to the car lot, bursting through the doors to find Rae sitting at his desk alone, staring out the window.
She asked Rae if she had missed them, noticing his distant gaze and blank face.
Rae did not know whom she was talking about. Lynne managed two syllables before two Marines in full uniform strode into the building.
They nodded to the couple, greeting them.
He cleared his throat.
Then told them Brett was missing in action.
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Rae sat at his desk, the same spot he was at when the Marines told him his Brett was MIA days ago. His work was undone; he was lagging. He found himself staring out the window again, watching cars zoom past on the highway. Where could they be getting to so fast?
A car pulled up, and two white hats, black coats, and shining boots stepped out. His breath caught in his throat, and he knew why they were there. What they were going to say. What they were going to do to him.
No.
He could not quite hear what they said, could not quite grasp the meaning of their words.
Brett was... dead?
He knew it was true, but he would never accept it. He stared and let tears flow freely down his sunburned cheeks, never looking away from the forest green eyes of the Marine. They gave their condolences and left him there with nothing but his grief as a companion.
He stood up, dragging his feet. All at once, a thousand-pound weight was placed squarely on his back, and he could barely move. He clutched the desk, knuckles turning white. Lurching from the desk, the chair, the doorpost, the sign outside, he made his way to his car. He sat there, wondering why the car would not turn on before he realized he needed to turn the key. How unfair, how cruel, that this car should be given life, but Brett’s was taken.
He forgot to check the street multiple times in front of that crazy turn, forgot to turn on his blinker, even forgot to turn on his windshield wipers when it started raining.
Because when you lose your son, even if you are expecting it, you are never prepared. There are just some things you cannot prepare yourself for.
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Lynne stood with Rae under the umbrella for hours, rain pouring in sheets all around them, blurring every line and shape. She was stock-still as her beautiful dress got soaked. A Marine stood to the side of them, holding the umbrella as his own uniform was pelted with droplets. Lynne looked up at him, her brain churning hard through the fog to spit out her strange thoughts. Everything was strange when that single heart stopped beating. She noted that he was a bit older than Brett, with darker skin and black hair. She wondered if he would die next, or if it would be someone else.
Each Gold Star family walked up in a single file, all of them picturing the child, brother, sister, they had lost. President Ronald Reagan was there, at the memorial. They would get to shake his hand. A tragedy like this had not been seen since WWII, at the Battle of Iowa Jima, Lynne reminded herself, forcing her legs to walk through the mud. She shook President Reagan’s hand, a firm shake. His cheeks were rounder than Brett’s, redder, and his eyebrows were darker. Next was the First Lady, Nancy Reagan. She was shorter than Brett and much narrower than him. Her shake was dainty.
The rest of the memorial was a blur of condolences and tears. The thought was nice, the memorial lovely. But could anything truly honor Brett properly? She doubted that.
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There were so many memorials, so many “I’m sorrys,” so many casseroles, so many things to remember Brett by. Nothing would get Rae his son back. Each day was a struggle to get through. Sleep was bliss when he could escape to the darkness and hope to never come out again.
He opened the doors to the church for the first time. It was beautiful, tapestries draping the walls and stained glass between the pews. The Pastor was there talking to someone, laughing, happy. It was not right.
The man he was talking to turned around, and Rae froze in place.
Could that really be Brett?
Brett smiled and walked over to him. Rae stared at him, perfectly whole, pain-free, alive.
Rae’s mouth gaped, words a loss. Brett’s smile widened.
Brett told him not to worry as he put his hand on Rae’s shoulder. Rae clung to it. Brett assured him he was with God.
Rae woke up in bed, blankets rippling, breathing hard. His alarm was ringing, and he reached thick fingers to turn it off. He could still feel Brett’s hand on his shoulder, could still hear his voice. He longed for that dream to be real. Then he realized what the day held.
Brett’s funeral.
Rae and Lynne got dressed, ate breakfast, and left for Brett’s church in silence. When they opened the doors, Rae froze in place a second time, this time wide awake. The church looked exactly the same as the dream, the tapestries creased in the same spots, the stained glass casting colorful light in the same places. The Pastor stood in the same spot, wearing the same suit.
The only thing missing was Brett.
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The jeweler handed Lynne a bag of necklaces. She pulled one out to examine it as the man droned on about the intricate design she had given him. It was a hand and sitting in its palm was a turquoise circle. On its center was a cross. Lynne knew exactly what it meant: He has got the whole world in His hands.
The jeweler asked her if she could tell him something. Lynne nodded, getting out her checkbook.
He asked why she wanted that design.
Lynne sniffed. She told him it was her stepson’s before he died in the Beirut Bombing.
The jeweler turned pale, prepared to treat her like the old widows at church.
Lynne told him he was only 20. He died just days before his birthday. He was not even supposed to be there! She was crying, her face red, her eyes watering, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was the perfect face of despair.
The man started to speak, but Lynne abruptly handed him her check and walked out, the door jingling behind her. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, breathing hard, wiping her eyes.
Then she pulled out one of the necklaces, clipped it onto her neck, and continued on.
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Rae stood in line with Lynne, smiling. It had been two years since Brett had died, and life had somehow found a new rhythm to follow. They were in a cinema, the smells of popcorns and soda filling the room and staining the red carpet. Rae paid for their tickets, Lynne got their snacks, and they found their seats.
It was a new movie, a sci-fi, directed by Ron Howard, called Cocoon. A group of retired seniors trespassed into a swimming pool filled with alien cocoons, which made them younger. They had renewed vigor, a spring in their step, a twinkle in their eye. One of them wanted to go back, become young again, but another disagreed.
The first did not understand. They could live forever! It seemed like a rather good deal.
The second just shook his head and gave a simple answer: It ain’t good to outlive your children.
Rae started crying, at once. He did not care who heard him, or who saw him. He did not care about the people staring, or the whispers. Because he knew it ain’t good to outlive your children.
Recollections from Lisa: Best Friend and Sister
Brett pulled his big sister by her hand, calling her by her nickname, Beeber.
Lisa struggled to close her purse; car keys tucked snuggly inside. She let him lead her into the building, American flags and camouflage decorating its walls. Brett pulled her up to a TV screen, bouncing on his heels. The screen was playing a documentary about airborne jumpers, hundreds of people jumping out of moving planes, parachutes unfurling like mini hot air balloons. Brett stared raptly at it, eyes wide open and sparkling.
He told her he was gonna do that one day. She turned to him, smiling. He was, he assured her. He already had the boots.
Lisa chuckled and put her arm around his shoulders. She told him maybe one day they would jump together.
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Brett grumbled to Lisa, sitting down at the round kitchen table. His stepmother laid his plate in front of him, a yellow apron on over her red dress. He told Lisa that he was not accepted into the Army.
Lisa looked at him, astonished, asking why as she sat down to her own plate. He sighed looking away from her and grumbled even lower. Brett told her it was because had gotten into some trouble before. They told him they had enough recruits to be choosy. He stabbed his chicken with his fork.
Lisa asked if they had said anything else as she dug into her own plate.
Brett told her the Marines might take him, but he would have to write a lot of letters and such.
Suddenly, Lisa was there, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. She told Brett, he would go into the Marines and be the best he can be, and he would prove to those recruiting officers that he deserved to be in the Army.
Brett was silent for a second, jaw moving but no sound escaping. He agreed, stuttering, then became more resolute, determined.
Lisa had already sat back down and was cutting her chicken, placid. Told him to eat up.
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October 1st, 1983, Lisa read on her bunk. The rest of her troop were reading letters of their own.
Brett wrote about how he was in Beirut-- that’s in Lebanon. They were trying to keep the peace there. There’s lots of fighting, but he was trying to stop that. The Americans, the French, and the Italians were all there. Their job was to peacefully withdraw the Palestine Liberation Organization. There were so many different people fighting there: the PLO, Druze militia, Muslim militia, Christian militia, Syria, Israel... Everyone was fighting everyone. Brett’s job was making sure no enemy aircraft come into their area, but some of that was classified. Since they were being peaceful, they had lots of rules to follow. Like, ‘No rounds in the chamber,’ and ‘Weapons will be on safe the whole time.’
Lisa kept reading, never stopping. Lisa smiled when he made a point to talk about his Bible study, how we prayed, and how that was the only thing that kept him going. Sometimes he felt bad for the guys who don’t have God to keep them going.
She was comforted knowing he did not succumb to the pressure of shells.
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Lisa was goofing off with her friends before PT when her Sargeant came over, calling her name, King. Her friends had gone silent, and they all stood a bit taller.
He told her she should call her dad. The next six things he told her shook her very foundation.
There’s been a bombing in Beirut.
All sounds in noisy PT went silent except a faint ringing. Lisa took off for the nearest phone, her feet pounding a rhythm in her skull. She found a black phone hanging on the wall and grabbed it, fingers fumbling. She punched the numbers in so hard the buttons almost broke.
She heard a click on the other side and yelled her dad’s name.
Rae sighed out her name in unnamable emotions.
Lisa asked what had happened, leaning on the phone box for dear life.
He answered her, words careful, telling her Beirut had been bombed.
Lisa asked if he was ok. She did not need to say his name.
Rae told her he did not know yet. Lisa choked. Records were destroyed, news streaming in, everyone was in a state of confusion.
She bowed her head, moaning.
Her dad reassured her from the other side of the globe: No news is good news.
Lisa asked Rae if he would promise her something. He told her he would promise her anything.
She asked him to tell her if he was gone. She could not have a stranger tell her that her brother’s dead.
Rae was silent.
She asked him again to promise. When he did, she hung up, and went to work.
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Lisa’s Sargeant stood in front of her as she jogged in place, telling her she needed to take a break. She did not need to take a break—she needed to be distracted.
The Sargeant barked that the issue was not up for debate. He pointed to a rec room down the hall, telling her there was a couch in there. She should try to rest.
Lisa turned reluctantly to the door and trudged over. She laid down on the uncomfortable couch and fell asleep, letting her exhaustion take over. It was better than sitting and worrying about Brett...
Her boots were flying around her head.
They were dark, with tall laces. She wore them all the time. But now, they had little wings on them. They span around the room like they were being blown with the breeze. Then they stopped, right in front of her face above the couch.
They told her she should wake up, sounding slightly warbled and warped, and informed her that her dad was calling.
Lisa woke up, her boots still tied firmly to her feet. She rubbed her head, a faint headache beating on the side. She got up and walked to the phone room, where a boy was sitting. He smiled that sympathetic smile that made her blood turn hot.
Then the phone rang.
Lisa walked over in a trance-like state and picked it up. Before the caller announced himself, she knew who it was.
It was her dad.
And he reminded her of a promise he made.
She could not take it in. She could not handle it.
So, she collapsed on the floor in a sob-ridden heap.
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They would not let her open the casket. Lisa needed to know. Why couldn’t she open the casket? What could be the reason? Was... Was his body even in there? She was angry again. At first, she was sad. Devastated. Her brother, her best friend, was dead. Then, she was angry. She knew that the sentries could have stopped the bombing if they had been allowed to keep their guns loaded. Then the building would not have exploded. Then no one would suffer. Then no one would be dead. Then her brother would be here. Then she could see his body.
Brett had a friend, a Marine, who was a medical practitioner. She needed closure, and she was determined to find it, and if he were the only person who could give it to her, then so be it.
Lisa asked around among the survivors, friends and strangers alike until she finally found his number. She dialed determinedly; mind set. She told him he was going to tell her something, whether he liked it or not.
Somehow the Marine knew who she was. Lisa was surprised but refused to show it.
The Marine sniffled from the other side of the phone.
Lisa told him what she wanted to know, her voice cracking, her face red and tear-stained. She wanted to know why she could not open the casket. She wanted to know if Brett was whole. Or if he was left dismembered somewhere in Lebanon. She wanted to know if he suffered.
The man was silent for a moment. Then he assured her that her little brother was in that casket. His voice was soft, but he talked with such confidence.
Lisa let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes. It would not take away the pain, it would never take away the pain, but at least she knew.
She thanked him.
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Lisa stared at those boot laces for a long time. They were Brett’s boot laces. She remembered the first time he showed her his boots, jump boots. He had wanted to be a jumper so bad. They had planned to go to airborne school and jump together one day.
But God had other plans. Lisa knew there was a reason behind... what happened.
She undid the laces on her own boots, the boots that had once flown around her head, and told her Rae was calling with the news. Out went the old laces that had traveled all over with her, through training and service alike. On went Brett’s laces, ones that had not been worn since 1983.
She stood up, walking around the room. They fit perfectly.
Today she was starting airborne school. She was going to accomplish Brett’s dream, finish what he started. She pictured herself jumping from an airplane one day, her parachute unfurling like a mini hot air balloon. Her eyes watered at the thought of a stranger next to her instead of Brett.
At least she would take a piece of Brett with her. At least a piece of Brett would jump.
Word Count: 4,197
On October 23, 1983, my Uncle Brett was killed in the Beirut Bombing, days before his 21st birthday. Every year on Memorial Day, my Papa and my family go to his tombstone, change his flower or put a new decoration on it. This year I interviewed my Granny, my Aunt, and my Papa about Brett and researched some to try and create something in memory of Brett. This is a re-telling of my research, and like all historical fiction, has some improvision on my behalf and is not 100% accurate.
While I was interviewing them, I cried a lot. It's impossible to not cry while my family is crying. I never thought much about him until this year, but I realized how sad it is that I'll never get to meet him, that he'll never grow old with his sister. So I cried with them.
But, I was also really angry. I was angry at the man who did this. How could someone do that? Kill hundreds of random strangers, and for what? What did it accomplish apart from grief? I was angry at the people who didn't let the sentries keep bullets in their guns; Because of them, only one person was able to shoot off a round in an attempt to stop the bomber. And I was angry at you. Maybe not you specifically, but I was angry at American civilians. I was angry at everyone who's ever talked bad about America, or the Military. I know there are still things in America that need to be fixed, but can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me that America is a terrible country when you know I will never see my uncle on this Earth because he died protecting Americans and their country? When someone says stuff like that, it's like Brett died in vain. That his life didn't matter. That everyone who has sacrificed themselves for America was a waste. So before you go picking this country to pieces and making blanket statements about it, pull up this picture of a forever-20-year-old, and remember what he did for Americans. And this Memorial Day, don't simply go to barbeques and drink soda and hang out with your friends. Those things are good, but remember what this day is really about. Remember those who have fallen in their fight for freedom.
“1983 Beirut Barracks Bombings.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 25 May 2021, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1983_Beirut_barracks_bombings.
DaSilva, Staci. “Sister to Honor Lakeland Man Killed in '83 Beirut Bombing at Annual Warrior Walk.” WFLA, WFLA, 24 Oct. 2020, www.wfla.com/news/polk-county/sister-to-honor-lakeland-man-killed-in-83-beirut-bombing-at-annual-warrior-walk/.
The Editors of Encyclopedia Britannica. “1983 Beirut Barracks Bombings.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., www.britannica.com/event/1983-Beirut-barracks-bombings.
Weide, Lisa. “Known Memorials.” Beirut Veterans of America, www.beirutveterans.org/memorials.
History.com Editors. “Beirut Barracks Blown Up.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 9 Feb. 2010, www.history.com/this-day-in-history/beirut-barracks-blown-up.
Family, Croft. “Cpl Brett Allen Croft.” Beirut Memorial, 1983, www.beirut-memorial.org/memory/23OCT1983/Cpl%20Brett%20Allen%20Croft%20USMC.jpg.
Family, Croft. “Uncle Brett Working.” WFLA, 1983, www.wfla.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/71/2020/10/Brett-Croft-1.jpg?w=900.
Memorial, Beirut. “Beirut Memorial On Line - Beirut KIA.” Beirut Memorial On Line, 2020, beirut-memorial.org/memory/brtnames.html.
“U.S.M.C. Veteran Online Memorial | TWS Roll of Honor.” U.S.M.C. Veteran Online Memorial, 2021, marines.togetherweserved.com/usmc/servlet/tws.webapp.WebApp?cmd=ShadowBoxProfile&type=Person&ID=39488.
Croft, Savanna. “Interview with Aunt Lisa, Granny Lynne, and Papa Rae.” May 2021.
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