thedrifter
10-23-08, 06:21 AM
October 23, 2008
A quarter century after Beirut, wounds remain
Friends, family gather to remember Marine killed in Beirut bombing
By John Crawford
DEMOCRAT STAFF WRITER
In his letters, Lance Corporal Clemon Alexander sounds sure of himself. His long, fine strokes bear witness to that calm as the Monticello native asks after his family. He sounds cheery. Those letters now sit encased in an album, next to photos of Alexander as a young man, tall and muscular, a Marine Corps tattoo on one arm.
At 6 tonight at the Silver Slipper, friends and family of Clemon Alexander will gather for a remembrance of his life a quarter century after it was taken.
"He was a man's man and a lady's man," said older sister Murial Kweyama with a smile. It's been 25 years since his last letter. Twenty- five years since a warm Sunday morning when a yellow Mercedes Benz truck loaded with explosives tore through a thin strand of wire outside the Marine Corps compound in Beirut and slammed into the barracks. The blast, equivalent to 12,000 pounds of TNT, lifted the four-story building a foot off the ground and killed 241 American service members including Alexander.
It could have been yesterday to hear Rochelle Alexander, Clemon's mother tell it.
Clemon was born into a military family like most have never seen. His grandfather fought in World War I. His father and five uncles were in World War II, some volunteers, others drafted. His oldest brother, Clarence Alexander Jr., was a captain in the Marine Corps. His other brother, Winfred, was the first black cadet commander for the University of Florida's ROTC program and went on to retire as a major in the Army.
Clemon himself attended both the University of Florida and Albany State before enlisting in the Marines.
"I think he was bored," said Cynthia Alexander Schwartz, Clemon's sister. "It wasn't exciting enough for him, but once he joined the Marines it was clear he'd found his calling."
That calling led the 26-year old Alexander to Beirut, Lebanon in 1983 along with about 1,600 Marines for a peacekeeping mission. The Marines were instructed to keep their rifles unloaded, with the ammunition tucked away in magazine pouches on their belt.
According to Cynthia, while the media and pundits were talking about peace, Clemon was describing a scene much different than the one being beamed to American television sets. "He wrote about snipers and artillery fire and they weren't even carrying loaded weapons," said Cynthia. "They were sitting ducks."
It had been a hard couple of years for Clemon's mother. His father, Clarence Sr., who shared the same mustache, the same look in his eye as Clemon, had died in an accident in 1981. Two years later, Clemon too would be gone.
"We saw (the explosion) on the news, and they came to the door to let us know that Clemon was missing in action. Of course that was just a way of saying he was gone, but still, we kept hoping," said Muriel. Two weeks later their worst fears were confirmed, and Clemon's status was changed to killed in action.
Clarence and Winfred, always the military men, met their brother's body as it arrived and, against instruction, looked at the body. "We wanted to make sure it was really him and there had been no mix up," said Clarence.
Clemon was buried nearly a month after the bombing on Nov. 12, 1983, in Monticello, 6,500 miles from where he took his last breath. "He was supposed to be coming home," said Cynthia. "He even sent his clothes back ahead of him but then he never came."
The family sits, hunched over, pointing to photos and laughing about the time a turkey chased a young Clemon in Monticello and then smiling about the girls that had chased him later. They remind each other of things he said, places he had been. And there, amid the letters, clippings and photos, one line says it all.
In a letter dated May 1983, Clemon wrote to his sister, "I had a choice of staying behind in the U.S. or making this trip. I chose to come. I think it a good cause."
The public is invited to Alexander's remembrance ceremony.
Ellie
A quarter century after Beirut, wounds remain
Friends, family gather to remember Marine killed in Beirut bombing
By John Crawford
DEMOCRAT STAFF WRITER
In his letters, Lance Corporal Clemon Alexander sounds sure of himself. His long, fine strokes bear witness to that calm as the Monticello native asks after his family. He sounds cheery. Those letters now sit encased in an album, next to photos of Alexander as a young man, tall and muscular, a Marine Corps tattoo on one arm.
At 6 tonight at the Silver Slipper, friends and family of Clemon Alexander will gather for a remembrance of his life a quarter century after it was taken.
"He was a man's man and a lady's man," said older sister Murial Kweyama with a smile. It's been 25 years since his last letter. Twenty- five years since a warm Sunday morning when a yellow Mercedes Benz truck loaded with explosives tore through a thin strand of wire outside the Marine Corps compound in Beirut and slammed into the barracks. The blast, equivalent to 12,000 pounds of TNT, lifted the four-story building a foot off the ground and killed 241 American service members including Alexander.
It could have been yesterday to hear Rochelle Alexander, Clemon's mother tell it.
Clemon was born into a military family like most have never seen. His grandfather fought in World War I. His father and five uncles were in World War II, some volunteers, others drafted. His oldest brother, Clarence Alexander Jr., was a captain in the Marine Corps. His other brother, Winfred, was the first black cadet commander for the University of Florida's ROTC program and went on to retire as a major in the Army.
Clemon himself attended both the University of Florida and Albany State before enlisting in the Marines.
"I think he was bored," said Cynthia Alexander Schwartz, Clemon's sister. "It wasn't exciting enough for him, but once he joined the Marines it was clear he'd found his calling."
That calling led the 26-year old Alexander to Beirut, Lebanon in 1983 along with about 1,600 Marines for a peacekeeping mission. The Marines were instructed to keep their rifles unloaded, with the ammunition tucked away in magazine pouches on their belt.
According to Cynthia, while the media and pundits were talking about peace, Clemon was describing a scene much different than the one being beamed to American television sets. "He wrote about snipers and artillery fire and they weren't even carrying loaded weapons," said Cynthia. "They were sitting ducks."
It had been a hard couple of years for Clemon's mother. His father, Clarence Sr., who shared the same mustache, the same look in his eye as Clemon, had died in an accident in 1981. Two years later, Clemon too would be gone.
"We saw (the explosion) on the news, and they came to the door to let us know that Clemon was missing in action. Of course that was just a way of saying he was gone, but still, we kept hoping," said Muriel. Two weeks later their worst fears were confirmed, and Clemon's status was changed to killed in action.
Clarence and Winfred, always the military men, met their brother's body as it arrived and, against instruction, looked at the body. "We wanted to make sure it was really him and there had been no mix up," said Clarence.
Clemon was buried nearly a month after the bombing on Nov. 12, 1983, in Monticello, 6,500 miles from where he took his last breath. "He was supposed to be coming home," said Cynthia. "He even sent his clothes back ahead of him but then he never came."
The family sits, hunched over, pointing to photos and laughing about the time a turkey chased a young Clemon in Monticello and then smiling about the girls that had chased him later. They remind each other of things he said, places he had been. And there, amid the letters, clippings and photos, one line says it all.
In a letter dated May 1983, Clemon wrote to his sister, "I had a choice of staying behind in the U.S. or making this trip. I chose to come. I think it a good cause."
The public is invited to Alexander's remembrance ceremony.
Ellie