The local communities near Stewart Air Force Base came out in force on Sunday, January 25, 1981, to greet the Iranian hostages returning to the U.S.
“For 400 days, the evening news was dominated by angry mobs screaming ‘Death to America,’ burning our flag and parading our blindfolded hostages across our TV screens. America’s vitality was in shambles and a failed rescue mission made it worse. But it was ending.”
By Mike Echter
On Sunday, January 25, 1981, the day that the 52 former Iranian hostages returned to American soil, I was a 22 year-old college graduate struggling to jump start my career as a writer.
The hostages had been released by the Iranian government five days earlier as Ronald Reagan took the oath of office as the 40th U.S. president. After 444 days in captivity, they were coming back to America, arriving at Stewart Air Force Base in Newburgh, New York, and the local community was coming out in force to greet them.
What made the moment so poignant was more than a year of hell had just passed. For 400 days, the evening news was dominated by angry mobs screaming “Death to America,” burning our flag and parading our blindfolded hostages across our TV screens. America’s vitality was in shambles and a failed rescue mission made it worse. But it was ending.
I was intrigued enough to see the homecoming unfold in person. So that Sunday afternoon I drove about an hour upstate from my Bronx apartment to Newburgh as a freelance journalist, with hopes of selling my first-hand account to the media. With a meager salary of $8,000 from my entry-level day job at an advertising agency, I needed the extra money.
I kept notes and wrote my story that evening on a lined yellow pad. I never sold it and eventually packed it away; it was lost for decades in a mess of papers . It made its way in a rarely-opened box from the Bronx to my next apartment in Kew Gardens, Queens. From there it went to Hoboken, NJ where I lived after being married in 1985. It landed in the house on Maplewood Terrace in Plainfield, NJ and then in the basement of the house in Randolph, NJ. All this time, as the box collected a layer of gritty dust, the pile of papers inside hardly shuffled. I had long forgotten about my futile trip to Newburgh, until while cleaning the basement this past December, I spied the box, glanced at the grime and tossed it in the recycling pile. The insides spilled out. There I found the yellow papers with my handwritten account folded and crinkled on top of a mound of other debris from my unremarkable writing career. The first page was missing.
I can’t help but think how relevant this story is today. January 25, 1981 was a historical moment in time when Americans stood united in support of 52 of our own. After weathering a long run of difficult days, the entire country let out a collective sigh, part relief, part joy and part pride in our national resilience. I was drawn to Newburgh to see it unleash.
With the 40th anniversary of the event upon us, the opportunity to recall the powerful sentiments of the day is too great to ignore. The event is inspiring and sharing my account now feels right.
The hostages were from 52 places — from Norfolk, VA to Phoenix, AZ, West Sacramento, CA, Krakow, MO, Detroit, MI, Waltham, MA and Mt. Pleasant, PA. — but upon their return, it seemed that thousands of places from Connecticut to California stood up to welcome them with balloons and bands and processions and performances. Communities tied yellow ribbons on trees lining the highways. Some restrung their Christmas lights. Fireworks lit up the mid-winter skies. It was neither a northern thing, nor a southern thing, not a Democratic thing and not a Republican thing. It was an American thing, and a big thing at that.
A weeks-long celebration began on that sunny afternoon in Newburgh at the air base gate that served as the stage for hundreds of well-wishers and the Newburgh Fire Academy band. I was there taking notes as the locals gathered.
At almost 1:30, word came across the transistor radios in the hands and pockets of those in the crowd that the three planes carrying the hostages families had arrived from Washington, DC; the crowd began several minutes of chanting: “USA, USA, USA, USA.” Everyone who owned a flag brought it to the air field, it seemed. I was standing at the back of a sea of faces, flags and yellow ribbons, swaying and waving and cheering.
A local choral group delivered a spirited rendition of “America the Beautiful” that was quickly drowned out by the clanging of the bell from an antique fire engine. The fire truck whizzed by on Route 207, with a welcome-home banner waving in the wind. Members of the Monroe, NY Fire Department held a large American flag, flapping on a pole decorated with yellow balloons.
As two o’clock approached, the crowd began to swell. Children scampered about, waving their flags and running their toy trucks in the dust along the side of the road. More than one school kid impatiently inquired “when are they coming?” Couples banged support stakes into the ground for homemade banners. Others just fought off the cold with gloves and hats and large warm coats. No one seemed to mind the light breeze.
“I’ve been here since 9:30 in the morning and I will stay until I see the hostages,” Kathy of nearby East Fishkill, NY told me. “They need to know that America never forgot.”
At 2:15, friends of the Highland Middle School displayed a giant 42-foot by 27-foot American flag made by the school’s sixth, seventh and eighth grade students. The group groaned loudly when an NBC camera truck passed them while panning the other side of the road. A small, black cocker spaniel sporting a yellow bow showed its displeasure by barking at the truck. The disappointment was only temporary. The crowd continued waving its flags and yellow ribbons to celebrate the main event of the afternoon — the hostages were coming home to Newburgh and Newburgh could not contain its pride.
About a half mile away, a group of several hundred gathered on a hill overlooking the runway where the hostages’ plane, Freedom I, was to land. This group, though a bit more subdued than the one at the gate, was excited nonetheless. Sometime between a quarter of three and three o’clock, the crowd spotted a plane high in the cobalt sky circling around the airport, dropping closer to the ground with each rotation.
“That’s it. It’s definitely the jet,” shouted a stocky woman with binoculars. “I can see the white and blue.”
A younger woman and her husband brushed passed two young kids on bikes with yellow ribbons fluttering from their handlebars. “It’s coming in, above the control tower,” the young woman pointed and shouted with excitement. The crowd rushed forward a bit, straining to see the aircraft growing larger in the sky. Cameras began to flash — click, click, click. A transistor radio blasted the call of a news announcer in his best sportscaster voice: “It’s a tremendous scene here in Newburgh! I wish the whole world could see!”
Approaching from the west, the aircraft was now enormous in the sky, and in an instant, its wheels kissed the ground — American ground. To the delight of the crowd, the plane shot across the runway, it’s shining fuselage sparkling in the mid-afternoon light and our American flag glistening proudly on its tail. ‘United States of America’ was right there on the side of the aircraft. At the beautiful sight, the crowd surged forward, cheering and shouting.
As the jet slowly taxied to the back of the hanger and out of sight, police cars paced back and forth on the road behind the stirring crowd, trying to clear them back and out of the way for the motorcade expected within the hour. By 2021 standards, the scene was relaxed. The usually stoic police officers were celebrating themselves, cheering with the crowds. One policeman displayed a bright yellow ribbon in his hat. A band played and a choral group sang and the crowd waited patiently, soaking up every moment. Meanwhile, out of public view, on the tarmac behind the terminal just a few hundred feet away, 52 personal reunions were taking place in private as each of the hostages reunited with their families. They were seeing their loved ones for the first time in more than a year or longer, during which both hostages and families most certainly feared the worst.
As the minutes ticked away, the crowd on the hill continued to wave their flags attached with yellow streamers.
At almost four o’clock, the motorcade emerged. Led by three fire engines, the parade included several State Department vehicles, then two police cars. Next was the first of six green buses that carried the ex-hostages and their families. The crowd responded by whistling and yelling and clapping. Strangers hugged strangers. Through the tinted glass, the ex-hostages waved back at the crowd. As they peered out the windows, I understood this was the first time they were observing the tremendous love and support for them in the faces of ordinary Americans. I wondered if they knew what we all felt throughout the ordeal.
It was pure pandemonium. Esther of Newburgh explained the joy. “It’s a new beginning. We’ve been through a very tough time.” That day — January 25, 1981 — the people of Newburgh celebrated with a full heart, expressing the emotions of many around the country. We had passed through a terrible moment in our history and emerged stronger because of it.
