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CURTIS S.D. MASSEY
From the April 2002 Firehouse Magazine

Part: ONE | TWO | THREE

DAY 1. Sept. 11, 2001 – a day etched in our minds and in our history. A day that undoubtedly has changed the way we view our lives and the freedom which we have taken for granted over so many years. A day which shattered our self-confidence and shook our sense of security to its very foundation. We’d never experienced a major attack on the U.S. mainland. Maybe because we are the mightiest country on earth, we felt we never would. We always felt that our daily routine would never be compromised. We had control over our lives and felt secure in that thought. It was normalcy. Until Sept. 11. Then, whether we have accepted it or not yet, our country, our lives and our sense of normalcy were changed forever.

I start my day preparing to fly to New York on a business trip. I always fly USAir because it has non-stop service to LaGuardia. I usually arrive at LaGuardia around 7:30 A.M. and make it into the city by 8:30. Any other trip, I would have arrived at my hotel 15 minutes before the first plane attacked and no doubt would have been downtown within 30 minutes, just after the second strike. This trip, however, is different.

Even after buying a ticket on USAir, I change my plans on Sunday. Instead, I book a flight on United through Washington Dulles Airport and come in a day earlier than originally planned, on Tuesday, Sept. 11. Having to now connect, my new itinerary puts me into New York three hours later than usual, so I schedule no meetings until the afternoon and decide to just reuse the USAir ticket on a future trip. Just a feeling, something that can’t be explained.

After watching Monday Night Football, I switch over to the Weather Channel and notice a major storm front coming through that night, all the way up the Eastern Seaboard. It’s supposed to push off the coast by early morning and I feel comfortable about flying the following day. I realize later on, that if the storm had stalled, the attack would not have happened that day, with poor visibility being a big issue.

I drive to the airport and take off on time, arriving in Dulles right on schedule. Yet another uneventful flight, just the way I like them. I walk into the terminal to check the monitor for my connecting gate. It is around 9 o’clock. The screen reads “Cancelled” for my flight to New York, and for the flight after that to New York. Every other destination shows “On Time,” so I think nothing of it, it’s just another quirky travel day.

At the counter I ask what the story is before booking a new flight. The gate agent says, “Two planes hit the towers.” She has a very distraught look on her face. My first thought is that an aviation accident has occurred at LaGuardia. Two planes must have collided over the airport and fell on the control tower. That’s why all the other flights weren’t affected. But I could have sworn she said “towers” – plural. I hesitate, then ask her to clarify, and she tells me that two airplanes flew into the World Trade Center.

I stand there in shock for about five seconds while the magnitude of her statement sinks in. Terrorism. I then ask where my bags will go. I know two things at that moment: there won’t be any more outbound flights, regardless of what the monitor says, and I need to get to New York right now. I dash to baggage claim and find my carousel, while talking to the office on my cell phone. I instruct them to buy me a train ticket from Washington, D.C. to New York. Oddly enough, they succeed.

After I hang up, it suddenly occurs to me that all train stations, as well as airports, are going to be shut down very soon because it is obvious we are under attack by terrorists. I then decide that I am going to have to drive up there, if I can even approach the city by car. Given that Manhattan is an island, it is also a given that all bridges and tunnels into the city are going to be shut down, as they are prime targets.

The airport public-address system announces that the airport is now officially closed and passengers are to leave all terminals immediately. That’s not a surprise, but I still need my bags. I dash outside to be confronted with a line of about 200 people waiting for cabs. I “convince” the curb attendant to immediately set aside a cab that can take me all the way to New York. He, of course, thinks I’m nuts – I want to go to a city under terrorist attack.

I go back inside and note that the carousel is moving, with my flight number displayed overhead. I wait about three minutes for my bags, then say to heck with it and head back outside. As I leave the terminal, a TV monitor catches my eye. I stop in mid-stride and stare at it, not believing what I am seeing. The twin towers are burning. They look like two birthday candles right after the flames are blown out. Heavy, black smoke is pouring from the tops of both buildings. For a few moments, I can’t take my eyes off the screen, I’m transfixed. It’s as if my mind is failing to accept or absorb what I’ve already been told. An unimaginable tragedy is unfolding right there on live, national TV. It then hits me that those planes were not small propeller planes, as I had thought. Looking at the damage and number of fire floors, I know that they had to be jetliners – with a lot of fuel on board. Hijacked, no doubt.

I thought hijacking was a thing of the past in this country. Everyone on the planes and at points of impact within the towers are surely dead. The death toll must be catastrophic and I am stunned by it. This has to be a bad dream. I snap out of my momentary trance, rush out to the curb and hop in the cab, knowing that it is going to be a very long and challenging ride, with heavy traffic. I urge the driver to go as fast as possible, that I’ll take care of talking to the police if we get pulled over. It will take about five hours to get there.

Clearing the airport, I call the office and am told that the Pentagon has also just been hit. I turn to look back over my shoulder and see a huge column of smoke barely 10 or 15 miles away. God, I’m in a city under attack, trying to get to another city under attack.

I wonder if what I am doing makes sense. Should I head to New York or turn around and head toward the Pentagon? What will I do when, or even if, I reach either site? Can anything I do make a difference? Even though New York is much farther away, I feel there is where the greatest tragedy lies, where the most help is needed, and where our pre-plans and knowledge can do the most good. Although we have no data on the World Trade Center, we do have plans for buildings that surround the complex and are likely to be affected as well, by falling debris.

We continue on in haste to New York. I feel confident that if I can just get there, I should be able to offer enough assistance to the FDNY to at least make my presence justifiable. I decide to call Bob Drennen, a close friend and retired battalion chief from Philadelphia. We talk briefly about the two disasters and then he tells me the towers have fallen. I almost drop the cell phone. It hits me like a sledge hammer. Two 110-story buildings are no longer standing. We discuss the possible death toll and agree it is high. We realize there has to be a huge loss of firefighters, but talk of it only for a few seconds. It is a topic that neither of us wants to contemplate.

I wonder to myself how many of them I knew, then he tells me that another Philadelphia chief, Tom Garrity, is in New York, working on an assignment for us. The knot in my stomach tightens. The office didn’t even mention it to me. Knowing Tom, he’s somewhere in the thick of things, if he’s even alive. I’ve seen both guys on the job, riding with them years ago when I visited their city on business. They are extremely talented, aggressive and tough as nails under pressure. Bob suggests that the office try to reach Tom, to verify he’s OK, then notify his fiance of his status.

Before we hang-up, though, I throw out the idea of biological/chemical weapons being on the planes in checked baggage. Bob agrees it is a possibility – if these terrorists are crazy enough to fly airliners into the World Trade Center, it shouldn’t be unthinkable that NBC warfare may be involved. Their goal is to kill a very large number of people.

I decide to place a call directly into the New York City emergency dispatch center and suggest they relay a message to the command post of the additional threat. They agree it has merit and promise to do so. Then, I have the office check on Tom’s status and if he’s still alive, to contact me when I get to the city. He would be more valuable to the command post than I would be, given his experience in commanding high-rise fires.

Hours pass agonizingly slow as we make our way toward New York City. Approaching from New Jersey, I see a faint, dark haze floating across the horizon toward the south. We are still an hour and maybe 50 miles away. I tell the cabbie that the barely noticeable haze is smoke from a very big fire. He glances at me in the mirror with a worried look on his face. He is of Middle Eastern descent, and says with a great sense of pride that he will do whatever it takes to help me and serve his country in this time of need.

As we get near the city, the slight haze becomes a monstrous plume of brown and black smoke, more smoke than I’ve ever seen. It appears to me as a huge, F5 tornado turned sideways. It stands in vivid contrast against a cloudless, powder-blue sky. I wonder how such a terrible catastrophe can occur on such a perfect day.

I see signs saying “New Jersey Turnpike closed – All roads to New York closed.” I ask the driver to stop at a police car guarding the highway barrier where traffic is being funneled off onto secondary roads. I tell the officer that I must get to the site; the firefighters need all the help they can get. “Go,” he says, and moves his car to let us through. We fly along, the only vehicle on the road. It seems strange, having the New Jersey Turnpike all to ourselves on a weekday.

We pass through several more checkpoints. I must repeatedly explain my intentions, but certainly I understand why. We are under attack. These guys are protecting New York from afar, making sure no one gets through without a very good reason. Somehow, I get all the way to the Port Authority Police Department command post near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. I let my cab driver go, and he ends up with the biggest fare of his life – $600.

I meet the chief engineer from the World Trade Center, run by the Port Authority and leased for $3.5 billion to a private real estate firm only three weeks before the disaster. It is obvious by his disheveled look that he has been at the site. I immediately ask if Alan Reiss, the director of the World Trade Center and a friend whom I have come to know and admire over the past few years, is safe. His office is on the 88th floor of Tower 1. I am told he was in the building, but got out alive. The engineer jots down two phone numbers, including Alan’s home number for me to get in touch with him.

He’s rattled, his hands shake uncontrollably. As he finishes writing the numbers, I look over toward New York City and at the horrendous column of smoke emanating from what quickly becomes known as “Ground Zero.” It obscures all of lower Manhattan. Although I know I’m going to do whatever it takes to get over there, I wonder if that really is a good thing. I know what awaits me and feel a brief moment of uncertainty as to whether I really need to see and experience it all, just to try and pitch in. I’m only one person and I know that doesn’t count for much. I accept the fact that I’ll probably never be the same if I go, but I go anyway.

I ask for help in getting across the river and the Port Authority officials graciously agree to run me through the tunnel, even though it is officially closed. The driver lets me off at a security checkpoint on the other side and I hail a cab to reach my hotel. Although my bags are back at Dulles, I have to get rid of my briefcase and camera. I don’t usually travel with a camera, but brought one on this trip to add a few interior shots of high-rise building features to my PowerPoint presentation on the topic. It ends up being very valuable today.

I drop my things off and dash over to a nearby police precinct to get a ride to the site. I recall thinking that there is probably only one fire department in the world that can handle an incident this big and it is the FDNY. I’m downtown in 15 minutes. If hell exists, then this must be it. I experience sights, smells and sounds that can’t be properly conveyed to people who weren’t there. It’s just impossible to put things into context. Unimaginable. Unexplainable. Unbelievable. I look around and realize that things will never be the same for me or any other American. This is the largest attack in history on the U.S. I assume the loss of life must be staggering.

I know there are a lot of dead and injured firefighters. Admittedly, that thought disturbs me more than anything else. The smoke and dust is so thick I can barely breathe. Coughing becomes the routine for the day. It is snowing, but it is not snow. A blizzard of white ash rains down from every angle. You can’t get away from it, or the smoke. It has an acidic, harsh taste and leaves a burning sensation in my eyes and throat.

It is eerily quiet. None of the typical New York noises – the constant blasting of horns, bumper-to-bumper traffic, people crammed onto sidewalks, nudging into one another, yakking away on cell phones. A city where everyone is almost nose to nose, yet at the same time in their own little world. Everything is so hauntingly still, so silent. Death marches nearby. You can feel it. Oddly, I find it reminiscent of the movie “The Day After,” except this is “the day of.” This is what nuclear winter must be like.

I see the smoke briefly change from dense black and brown to red and orange, boiling up from the site. I know this is not a good place to be. I pause and think of how ludicrous it is to be standing here in dress clothes. I figure everything that is bad must be in this smoke I’m sucking in, but no one, not even the firefighters who pass by, are protecting themselves. Plenty of tanks on backs, yet nobody with a mask on. It’s not feasible to wear one and everyone knows it. It would be too cumbersome and refilling air cylinders would be almost impossible. They’ve just got to deal with it and move on with the many daunting tasks at hand. Streets that I’ve walked down many times are unrecognizable. Several times, I stop, look around and have no idea where I am. The streets all look the same, gray/white and ashen.

I remember how I used to look to the twin towers when I needed to get my bearings downtown. They weren’t just landmarks; they were beacons, day and night. Pillars of strength. Monuments to our economic prosperity and might. Even though I know they’re gone, I still find myself instinctively looking for them, somehow hoping they will appear through the smoke and assure me that everything is OK – “We’re over here in case you’re lost.”

I recall the 1993 bombing. It was a cold, blustery winter day in New York, with light snow flurries falling from a dark, brooding sky. It is eerily similar to today, except the “snow” that is falling is dust and small shreds of paper from the towers themselves, not the warm, blue sky above. I remember having lunch that day with the property manager of the John Hancock Center in Chicago, another 100-plus-story building we had just finished pre-planning. We sat in the restaurant with his boss on Michigan Avenue when Dean Johnson’s phone rang with the news that the World Trade Center had just been bombed. We raced back to his building just in time to face reporters wanting to know what their level of preparedness was. I helped with the media, then left to do four TV and two newspaper interviews before the day was through. There I was in Chicago and I desperately wanted to be in New York, to offer help, instead of talking to a camera.

Then a call came into our home office from the Port Authority, asking if I could come to the city as soon as possible. Since it was a Friday and things didn’t look all that bad, I told them I’d be up there Monday morning after returning home and repacking over the weekend. I was at the complex by 9:30 A.M. Monday and was given the grand tour of the crater, two levels below grade. There was a very low fatality count, but thousands were injured. The devastation was breathtaking. I stood next to a huge hole several floors deep, pipes and wires hanging everywhere. There were still the shells nearby of several gutted automobiles. It was obvious that this was a major explosion.

As I stood there kicking myself for not bringing a camera, I couldn’t help but think what might have happened if the bomb had gone off directly below Tower 1, instead of between the tower and the hotel. The thought of one of the towers toppling was mind-boggling, I will admit, yet it was the first time the possibility had entered my mind. I remember being interviewed by several national publications. They told me that all the architectural, structural and engineering experts they talked to agreed that the towers could not be brought down by a bomb. I clearly recall them all saying that not even a plane flying into one of the towers could bring it down. They had said they built the buildings with that scenario in mind. I remember being the lone voice adamantly disagreeing with that opinion, feeling that regardless as to whether a plane could or could not knock a tower over on impact, the release and ignition of the jet fuel would be enough to compromise the structural integrity of the tower.

To me, common sense dictated that the fuel-fed fire would easily exceed 2,000 degrees. Fireproofing would be scraped off. Sprinklers would be destroyed. With the failure temperature of steel being around 1,100 degrees and with the compressive load being generated on the fire floors from the remaining stories above, the collapse of the tower would be a given. Along with everyone else, I figured that an aviation accident, much less a terrorist attack, of that magnitude was unthinkable. The collapse of even one of the massive towers was a thought that I could not easily entertain. Yet, standing there with a commanding view of the crater that February day over eight years earlier made me wonder whether we take a threat of that nature seriously enough. It is evident that someone has an agenda against us, but were they really attempting to bring one or both of the buildings down? Were they really trying to kill tens of thousands of innocent civilians and strike a blow at the very heart of America and all that we believe in?

I snap back to this warm September day, not 100 feet from where the 1993 bomb detonated. Did they, in fact, succeed in bringing them down this time? It just can’t be true, can it? The reality of it all grips me when the wind shifts again, the smoke momentarily clears and I find myself standing motionless on Liberty Street, staring in disbelief at the spot where the two towers once stood. The towers ARE gone. It’s almost too much for my mind to accept. I find myself wishing this was some kind of terrible dream, yet I know it’s all too real. I glance down to the corner of West and Liberty and see an old 30-story building heavily involved in fire, nearly from top to bottom. I look over my shoulder at 1 Liberty Plaza. A friend of mine, Larry Graham, works in that building. He oversees it and all the other assets in the U.S. for one of the largest real estate companies in North America. His office is on the sixth floor, facing the Trade Center. My stomach twists as I wonder if he made it out alive. His building must be missing a hundred windows, but you can tell it is structurally sound. It was the original headquarters of U.S. Steel and it is an incredibly sturdy 53-story tower. There is no way to tell who’s alive and who’s not at this point. I hope he was in midtown this morning and he’s all right, along with Nancy, his warm and caring assistant.

Suddenly, to my right, something odd catches my attention through the dense smoke. It looks like pieces of steel sticking out the side of the Bankers Trust Building at 130 Liberty St. I walk closer and stare upward. As if a giant cat has slashed the front of the building with its claw, a huge gaping hole about 20 feet across exists from around the 25th floor down to about the 10th floor. The curtain wall, floor slabs, everything – gone. Just open space where offices once were and several large steel columns protruding out of the middle of the gash. I knew the columns didn’t belong to the building. One of the towers must have fallen over and struck it, I thought. It was an imposing sight.

I work my way over to the World Financial Center and see hundreds of windows missing, the beautiful Winter Garden badly damaged, the facades of skyscrapers scoured. One 50-story building apparently also was struck by one of the falling twin towers. Several large steel columns jut out from the corner offices up around the 20th floor. It confirms my belief that the towers did not collapse straight down into one large debris pile.

I turn my attention to where the World Trade Center once stood. The bizarre scene is displayed before me. All that is left is a large mass of burning, smoking debris, yet surprisingly, only a few stories tall. I’m guessing 50 feet high or so. This is where two 110-story buildings were just a few short hours ago? The thought of countless visits to the complex – the mall, meetings, breakfasts and lunches with Alan Reiss. Alan is the exact opposite of what you may perceive a man in his position to be. You may think someone who is in charge of all day-to-day operations of the world’s largest office complex and responsible for the lives of over 100,000 people a day is unapproachable, self-centered, aloof. No, Alan is one of the kindest, respectful, most warmhearted, easygoing people I know. That’s why I’ve always gravitated toward folks like him and Larry. They’re just simply “good people,” which makes me wonder why anyone would want to kill them and so many more innocent people. It just doesn’t make sense.

As I stand there staring intently straight through the smoky air toward where the imposing twin towers once soared, my mind momentarily wanders back to a breakfast Alan and I had one day last year. He surprised me by taking me up to the “Windows on the World” restaurant at the top of Tower 1. He thought I might like the view while we ate. Unfortunately, when we were up there, low-lying clouds moved in below us, obscuring our view of the busy city below. It didn’t matter, though, as we had a great time talking up a storm anyway. I could have sat there for hours listening to Alan tell me of the latest adventures at the complex. This man’s pretty much seen it all, yet I know he wasn’t prepared for what happened today, Sept. 11. No one could be. None of the people who came to work here today envisioned what was going to occur as they poured their first cups of hot coffee and opened their morning e-mails. Looking out over the city for a few moments before beginning the day from their offices high up in two of the tallest buildings in the world. Minutes later, they’re diving out that very same window to certain death below, some hand-in-hand with co-workers. Plenty of time to ponder the horror of their actions on the way down from 1,000 feet up.

As I stare up into the sky to where the restaurant once was, I consider that if I had taken my regular flight and dined with Alan this morning up on the 107th floor, what might I have done if I were in the position as those people? Staring at certain death, with no way out, up or down … elevators and stairwells destroyed “ fire everywhere. I have difficulty contemplating the thought, and what my decision might be. After all, I’m a survivor by nature. My training and experience as a former firefighter would tell me to not give up, to never give in to fire, to find a way out and to lead others to safety.

But what if there is no way out and you feel the building shifting and you know there is no chance of the fire department extinguishing this much fire this high up. The fire is working its way toward you and time is running out. You will not accept the fate of burning to death; no firefighter would. You are confronted with a sense of finality. The decision settling into my mind disturbs me, yet I realize it is the logical and correct one.

The fleeting thought quickly dissolves and I am still standing fixated on the pile of rubble where the towers used to be – and the innocent people who once occupied them. It is hard to fathom what it must have been like, for the civilians and firefighters alike, before and just after the buildings crashed down around them. I do not wish to stare anymore at where thousands died only hours ago. I look around, expecting to see tons of glass and furniture everywhere, but find none. How did 220 floors of furnishings disappear? Was it vaporized by the weight of the collapsing structures? I discover later that I’m not the first person to note this strange phenomena.

I continue circling the site, “sizing up” the scope of the disaster. It is beyond comprehension. Two buildings disappear, many more are badly damaged and it suddenly occurs to me that we are instantly at war. A war with an unseen enemy and possibly with no end. Things are clearly going to get ugly between us and them and this may not be the worst of it. That thought alone disturbs me. This isn’t the way I envisioned the first day of my business trip turning out.

In between sticking my head into lobbies and checking for people as I continue making my way around the area, I wonder if all the surrounding buildings have been searched yet. I know a lot of firefighters are missing and I’m curious if enough personnel exist to accomplish all that has to be done – search and rescue on the debris pile, searching exposures, suppressing fires in nearby buildings and at the collapse zone, in addition to countless car fires. How are stations being backfilled? How is the city responding to other emergencies? How do you deal with something this big? The drain on resources must be tremendous. They probably need all the help they can get.

I am a civilian trying to be a firefighter again, trying to do what feels natural and instinctive from years of performing the same basic functions. This time, however, I am on my own and not really sure what I can do to make a difference. I’ve never felt so insignificant. I come across dazed firefighters coated with dust, ask which buildings have been searched and am told, “I don’t know.” I ask where the command post is and am told there are several. I am also told that the initial command post was wiped out, along with all the chiefs. I look into face after face after face and see the same expression. Some call it shock. I refer to it as the “million-mile stare.” I could relate a bit, as I would do something productive for a minute or two, then stop and completely lose my train of thought. I can’t figure out what I need to do next and what might have already been done, or if I even belong here. I feel naked without any gear. I honestly admit there are a few moments when I feel completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the event. Sometimes, the human mind shuts down momentarily, due to input overload. This is on a scale like nothing I’ve ever seen. It just seems too much to be real. Everyone is feeling it, except the chiefs. At least they didn’t show it.

I round a corner northeast of the site and find a deputy chief surrounded by about 50 firefighters. I don’t recognize him, figuring he must be from another borough of the city. His gear and face are covered in soot and ash. It continues to rain down on everyone. The men need a leader and they need assignments in this crisis. This is when true leaders lead. He stands there like a rock and just starts ripping off orders to his men. I’ve never seen such effective and decisive leadership under intense pressure, and that includes 20 years in the fire service, paid and volunteer.

I stand there in awe and watch this chief command his troops in a way that re-instills confidence and assurance that the worst is over, but a great deal of work must still be done. And they are going to do it. I approach and speak with him briefly, advising that most of the buildings surrounding the Trade Center have pre-plans in them for fire department use.

I also bring up the issue of the possible presence of biological/chemical weapons in checked bags in the planes. He agrees the threat exists, but he has enough to deal with for the moment. I wish him and his men to be safe, deciding to work my way around the scene some more. We shake hands and I dissolve back into the crowd.

So much activity is going on around me. I try and determine if other nearby buildings have been searched and cleared, looking for walking wounded to herd toward nearby medical facilities. The smoke is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s so thick, so chokingly thick. I know by the smell that some nasty stuff is burning. My eyes are burning like hell and I cough uncontrollably. I look around me in disbelief. Structures are free burning. High-rise buildings with fire blowing out window after window. This isn’t New York, it’s a war zone.

I walk by fire trucks crushed beyond recognition, cars with all the glass missing, paint stripped from the metal bodies, rims with tires burned off. I see one car in the middle of the street with the hood up and the engine missing. Gone. Gone where? Storefronts are blown in. Fire escapes 20 stories high are piled with material from the towers. The streets are submerged in trash, coated with dust, a foot or more thick in some places. When the wind shifts again and the smoke momentarily clears, there they are – cars and trucks as far as I can see, completely demolished. All the glass is blown out, but there is no glass in the street. I look inside a few cars and don’t see any glass there either. Where’s the glass? Other things I see won’t be discussed. It’s a tragedy of epic proportions. I have a hard time absorbing it all. There’s so much destruction everywhere. The scene is surreal.

I work my way around the area, helping out wherever I can, until I come across the forward fire department command post at Broadway, Park Row and Vesey Street. Chief Frank Fellini is commanding the northeast sector of the incident; we haven’t met before. He exhibits courage under fire, even in the face of incredible danger – adjacent buildings on the verge of collapse, fire, smoke and mayhem everywhere – and, I’m sure, the thought that many firefighters are missing in the streets and in the rubble. Co-workers. Friends. Too many to count. It has to be eating at him, I think. He is unwavering. There is an almost insurmountable task facing him. The city and its fire department, indeed, even the nation, have been brought to their knees. Yet, this chief will ensure that his men will meet the challenge, as they always have, as they always will. They will restore order amid all this chaos. Control and reason will be wrested from insanity.

When I first approach him, after a brief introduction, my first words are, “Chief, what are we looking at, about 20,000 (as in fatalities)?” He stares at the site briefly, then looks at me eye to eye and replies with a hollow resonance, “Yeah, about 20,000.” At that moment, we are both shocked by what was just said. Almost too afraid to ask, I inquire, “How many firefighters are missing?” “Around 250 men,” he says. I think to myself, what is the previous high, 14 out in Colorado?

Numbness overcomes me and for a few seconds I can’t think of anything to say. I then introduce myself to Chief Fellini’s operations chief, Tom Haring, and we talk briefly about matters at hand. Knowing 7 World Trade Center is on the verge of collapse, he has already established a collapse zone and has removed all personnel from harm’s away. The chief is poised and seems to be getting a good handle on things. As he talks to me with a quiet confidence, the radio crackles with one transmission after another.

He addresses each one quickly and effectively. We discuss the hazardous materials aspects of the incident as we each realize this is not just a terrorist attack and resultant collapse of two tall buildings. There was a significant amount of toxic substances in the towers and it is a given that a fair amount of them had to be released by the compression of the buildings coming down, as well as the fire and smoke now spewing from the rubble. I offer to put together a list of what I believe may be involved for his review. He agrees, as this is a growing concern in his mind, in addition to everything else he is dealing with. Search and rescue is still the obvious priority. Chief Fellini leaves to go talk with other chiefs at the scene.

I stop for a moment and start running people that I have come to know in the FDNY through my head, hoping they’re not among the missing. I know that the downtown area is under the command of Division Chief Pete Hayden and he would be working this week, as I just talked to him yesterday. We would be meeting on Friday. Not now. I just hope we can reschedule, meaning that he is alive. He is a fine man and an excellent fire chief, as good as they come. I hope he’s OK.

One of the guys at the command post mentions to me that one aircraft still has not been accounted for and they are concerned that we could take another hit. It’s enough to raise the hair on the back of your neck, believe me. At that point, we couldn’t sustain another strike. It turns out that the plane that went down outside Pittsburgh is the one that’s missing and the only one that didn’t succeed in hitting a key target. It had been accounted for hours earlier.

Within minutes, I hear a jet overhead. I don’t worry for a second, though. Even before I look up, I note the unmistakable sound of a fighter plane and relief washes over me as I know that the skies above us are now safe and secure. The boys have our backs. It is odd, though, listening to the roar of fighter jets circling Manhattan, instead of the familiar sound of airliners approaching and departing one of the three major airports nearby. I discover later that the Navy is positioning an aircraft carrier off the coast to protect the city’s airspace.

It’s about 5 o’clock. After a little more conversation, I leave the pre-plan for World Financial Center Tower A with the chief’s aid and disappear to find water, as we are all getting dehydrated. It is in the upper 70s, even warmer standing on the pavement. As I wander around, I hear a loud roar. A large dust cloud is heading in my direction. Ducking into a store entrance, the cloud passes fairly quickly as the wind seems to pick up. I am told it was 7 World Trade Center coming down, a 47-story building, two million square feet. Working my way back to the site, I see that the latest “victim” lying on its side, blocking the street and burning intensely. Two nearby buildings on opposite sides were struck by collapsing walls. I pause for a moment, taking it all in. I find the command post again and approach Chief Haring to let him know I’m still working on some things and ask if there is anything else I can do to help. He states that he’s all right for the time being, just missing one more building. It occurs to me that he’s probably been standing there in the middle of the street, with his aide and status board, for hours. I tell him that I’m going to set up a command post for him. He looks at me quizzically and breaks into a slight grin as I take off to the north. I work my way back to the flow of traffic coming in on West Street and corral two volunteer fire department pickup trucks from New Jersey. Great guys and all too eager to help. We head back to my hotel. The hotel staff kindly offers any resources we require, so we take several tables and about two dozen chairs, along with a stack of pads and pens. This should help the chief and his officers keep track of everything. I dash upstairs to grab my camera, but forget my ID, which is dumb. It makes things much more difficult for me later, moving back and forth through the checkpoints until badges can be made.

All I’m thinking about while in my room is getting that camera and trying to capture some of the devastation at the site. The scene needs to be captured and pictures are worth a thousand words. Leaving, I pull the door shut, wishing I had the time to clean up and get some of this dust off me. As we load up the trucks it strikes me how quiet it is, even up here in midtown. The streets are mostly deserted, almost no cabs anywhere, which is unheard of in this town. Even the few people I notice walking down the street aren’t saying anything. The city has gotten the wind knocked out of it. It seems all of Manhattan, usually a bustling metropolis, is a virtual ghost town. The silence is disturbing and unsettling at once. We race back to the site and set everything up. The volunteers are terrific and very much needed. The chief appreciates the effort, as he finally has a place to sit down and rest while formulating his next round of orders. I also give him a detailed weather report I found at the front desk of the hotel. Things are all clear for now, as we agree it is vital that the weather stays calm and clear for as long as possible.

I excuse myself and make a quick jaunt down a few streets on the northeast side of the site, camera in hand. I’ve got to snap off a few shots and record at least a small fraction of what things are like, before it gets dark. After taking about 30 haphazard shots, it’s time to get back to work. Now I need to find someone from the Port Authority to help me with that hazmat report and maybe some blueprints. Off I go wandering again, not knowing where to go, where to start. I stop more people than I can count, asking if they know where anyone from the Port Authority is located.

As I’m walking at a fast pace down West Street, I take note that it is now dusk and the light on this terrible day has passed. It is a long night. Sometime just before dawn, I decide to go back to my hotel and shower. My skin is crawling. I know that I must take about 20-30 minutes and flush my eyes, as the burning is getting worse. I greatly value my eyesight. My throat is raw, as if I swallowed a handful of dry straw. I walk for a very long way before catching a ride to my hotel. The hotel security director later tells me I looked like Casper, the Friendly Ghost. I am covered head to toe in white dust and soot. Receiving strange stares in the lobby, I head up to my room to “decon.” I turn the facecloths, towels and tub a disgusting shade of dark brown while trying to clean this film off me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so filthy.

Looking down at my chest and arms, I notice several areas where strange-looking red rashes have formed, probably from the irritants in the air, I’m thinking. Only I don’t remember scratching at all, anywhere. Strange. I remember standing there with my head resting against the shower wall, trying to sort out the day’s events and all that I had seen and felt. My mind decides it is better to just push everything to the rear and keep moving forward. It is simply too much to process right now.

I step out onto the tile floor and the realization that I have no clean clothes, not even a toothbrush. The scratching cough I’ve had all day persists. I’m not sure what to do first, gargle with mouthwash or begin flushing my eyes. I take care of my eyes first, then as I’m reaching for the mouthwash the hotel provides, I start coughing up bright-red blood. I think nothing of it, quickly passing it off to throat irritation. When I finish cleaning up at the hotel that first night, I put on the same nasty, contaminated clothes and head back down to the command post. I am gone only about two hours.

Related:

• Ten Days At Ground Zero: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
  

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