Marine remembers the 1983 Beirut bombings. Do you?

Johnny Harper vividly remembers the moment the ground shook under his feet.

Sitting in a coffee shop in Ridgeland, Harper closes his eyes and is immediately transported back to 32 years ago in Beirut, Lebanon, when he was a young Marine, watching in shock and horror from a mile away as 169 lives were instantly lost in the largest attack on a U.S. military installation since Pearl Harbor. The Oct. 23, 1983, attack, the day two men drove bomb trucks into the Marine barracks and the French embassy, would eventually claim the lives of 241 American servicemen, 58 French servicemen and six civilians.

Harper, 53, has carried the memory of the 1983 Beirut barracks bombings since he was a 21-year-old lance corporal, months out of basic training. Often tormented with survivor’s guilt, Harper fights back tears as he remembers that tragic day.

He remembers the deafening noise. He remembers seeing the smoke, a black billowing, mushroom cloud reaching toward the heavens, set against a clear, cloudless sky. But he has mostly blocked out the memories of the moments of and days after the attack.

“I blocked a lot. I don’t remember. There are things I don’t remember,” the Madison resident said Wednesday, two days before the 32nd anniversary of the bombing. “I can’t tell you. I can’t remember what happened in the days after. I think a lot of it I blocked out, things that you see, yeah, that you heard, the sounds, the scents, human flesh burning. I don’t remember. I just know we were doing our job.”

So caught up in "doing his job" of filling sandbags, moving concrete and digging bodies from the rubble — and with the communication system down from the blast — Harper wasn't able to speak to his parents for 12 days. They feared the worst.

"They had the conversations about what if," he said. "Years ago, that was really hard on me knowing my parents had that conversation."

Standing over 6 feet tall, Harper wears an American flag pin on his lapel. Marine Corps cufflinks don the starched white shirt near his wrists. After his time in Beirut, Harper served a six-year commitment with the Marines. However, in the years immediately after the bombing, he held the memory close, tucking it deep within and sharing it with precious few.

“I killed people, and that’s not something I was proud of,” he said. “That was my job and they were shooting at me, but still, when you kill somebody it changes things.”

“The first 10 years were tough for me. The 30th year was the most difficult. Three decades hit me I guess; I don’t know — the reality that’s it’s been that long. No one on TV was talking about it, no one on radio, but even before the day of, I really struggled because the memories, visuals. Sometimes it looks like, it feels like it’s 32 years ago, but sometimes it feels like it was yesterday. I can see things and hear things, smell things that make it look like it’s happening, that I’m right in front of it.”

If fate had a different say, Harper, standing guard on the airport runway a mile away from the barracks, could have been killed. As a survivor, Harper has vowed to keep the memory of his friends, “his buddies,” alive.

“Every year, every October, I think about it,” he said. “It’s not about me, it’s about the guys that didn’t come home. I was the lucky one that came home.”

The young Marine had been on duty, away from the barracks, for two weeks. He returned on a Saturday and volunteered to work the graveyard shift at the airport. The majority of his friends stayed back at the barracks, taking advantage of being able to sleep in Sunday morning. Harper often wonders what would have happened if he had chosen to stay.

“They didn’t want the graveyard shift so they stayed. And some of them died. Decisions, you know. I could have stayed. They could have talked me into staying. I struggled with surviving. Yeah, it bothered me.”

With tears clouding his eyes, the former Marine, said, “My son, sometimes, when he prays, he prays and thanks God for me not dying. And he’s 6 years old.”

Harper’s faith played a large role in his coping with the bombing and the days since.

“There’s a saying there are no atheists in foxholes,” he said. “Without a doubt, even in the tragedy there, my faith was very strong. People were dying; we were sacred for our lives. I think people are drawn more to God when there is adversity, when there are bad times. People, when their lives are going good, they just chug along…it’s when things are tough that you rely on God. My faith continued to strengthen over the years, and I believe there’s a reason why I’m here. I’m not sure what it is, but there is. There are plenty of times I should have been dead in Beirut.”

Thinking of his buddies, Harper said, “Even though it happened 30 years ago, when I think about it bothers me. I care. They were my buddies, my friends. Knowing that they were killed, it still bothers me. Every year I wonder what they would be doing now if they had kids or grandkids. I do that in my head. I wonder about their parents, if they had a wife, what’s happening now. Yeah, it still gets me emotional at times. I’m pretty good with it, but there are times it does. It was 32 years ago, but I can look at it and in my mind it’s like it was yesterday.”

Friday, as people go about their day, busy with their lives, Harper hopes some will stop, just for a moment, and remember those who died 32 years ago.

“These 241 men died for us,” he said. “They were representing our democracy, our freedom. Even though they died on a foreign land, don’t forget them don’t forget their families. Don’t forget the sacrifice they made so we can continue to enjoy our freedom and the things we take for granted every day, every day. We all do. I just want to remember and honor them. That’s all.”

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