Nation: You Could Die Here

It started as if it were nothing. Just two red buses; maybe 150 people. They got out and started milling around the big iron gates. They chanted anti-Carter slogans, threw a few rocks over the red brick wall, got back in the buses and drove away. End of demo. I was headed for the cafeteria, and Embassy Political Officer Herb Hagerty called out, "Save me a seat, I'll be right there." He never made it. It was a few minutes later, about 1p.m., that the buses returned, this time six of them. They were crammed with people, both inside and clinging to the roof. And now all hell broke loose.

The Marines slammed shut the gates as some of the mob began setting cars in the parking lot afire. Others bashed at the brick wall, using a heavy pole. There was constant yelling outside. Embassy staffers began locking their files. Dave Fields, the administrative counselor, watched the rioters smashing at the walls. "If the wall goes, we're in for it," he said. Moments later it did. "Everybody upstairs," Fields shouted.

We climbed a curved staircase to the embassy's third-floor vault, a specially designed, windowless steel-walled room, about 20 ft. by 30 ft. It contained communications equipment, coding devices, and an enormous safe. It had its own back-up power generator and battery-powered radios. "They're shooting," someone shouted. "They shot a Marine." "Where was he?" "On the roof." "Is he O.K.?" "I don't know."

Cpl. Steve Crowley, 19, a Long Islander who served in Pakistan about three months, had been assigned to roof duty, and a rioter had shot him in the side of the head. They got him down and brought him to an anteroom of the vault. A nurse hovered over him, fitting an oxygen mask. He lay in a pool of blood. I hadn't been scared at first, but now I was as I stood there looking at this young dying Marine.

"Everybody into the vault," somebody ordered. Marines were throwing tear gas as we retreated. Some 90 of us were herded into the vault, arranging ourselves on chairs, desks, the floor. The tear gas began filtering into the room, causing a lot of crying and retching. "Down on the floor," Fields yelled. "The air's better there." A lot of people were already on the floor, bending over, retching from the gas. We were pretty packed in.

The lights went out, then on again. A phone rang and we were told that police were on their way. Six minutes later, another phone call said General Zia was sending reinforcements.

Just before 2 o'clock, one hour after the siege began, word came from the British embassy, which could observe the outside of our building, that "they" were moving demonstrators off the compound. But "they" were not. We began to smell smoke. There was fire somewhere.

At 2:23, the attackers smashed their way into the embassy itself. The Marines—there were seven of them—moved up to the third floor, covering their retreat with tear gas. Radio contact was established with other areas of the embassy community. We were Dixie 14. Dixie 20 was Ambassador Arthur Hummel, who was at home. "I know you're uncomfortable in there, but just hold on and take it easy," Hummel said. He told us the Pakistani army was just a few minutes away.