story20606.xml

story20606.xml

born-digital

story

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2006-09-11

My girlfriend and I were visiting her parents in New Hampshire that weekend, and as I was getting ready to head for home on the morning of September 11, her father turned on the news. The first plane had struck the tower just a few moments earlier; at first we thought it was one of those "what if?" disaster shows. Then we thought it was a hoax. Then we realized it was neither.

I had left the Marine Corps in 1999 but I was still in the inactive reserves, and I knew I needed to get back to New York. I woke my girlfriend and we left within fifteen minutes, driving south as fast as possible. We listened to the radio the whole way down, weaving in and out of traffic and driving on the shoulder to make better time. The confusion was incredible: more planes were missing, there were reports of bombs being detonated elsewhere, and nobody knew who had done it or what was next. The drive seemed to take forever.

The rest of the afternoon I stayed at home and waited for the Marines to call me up. I didn't hear anything, so I got a few hours' sleep, put on my utility uniform, and left Orange County for Manhattan. The Palisades Parkway was closed down at exit 2 or 3, but I showed them my ID and they waved me through the roadblocks. I continued south, the only other car near me a white van being driven by a sailor in uniform. The toll booths were deserted at the George Washington Bridge. We were the only two cars in sight. We crossed the bridge alone, and as fast as we could, still not knowing whether that would be the next target.

On the far side of the bridge, I passed through a few more roadblocks and was directed to an Army Reserve armory in Harlem. They didn't know what to do with this lone Marine, but they soon brought out their commanding officer. I wish I could remember his name, but when you're a corporal, a colonel is just "sir". We went back to my car and he rode with me to the Bloomberg Building, where a makeshift command post had been set up. I parked in an alley a few blocks north of Canal Street.

At the command post, a confusing (and confused) mix of National Guardsmen, reservists, cadets, and veterans were trying to figure out an organized way to approach the Trade Center. For a short time, they had us doing nothing but directing traffic on the West Side Highway, sorting out spectators from emergency vehicles. Mostly, the officers stood around and argued about the right way to proceed. A few hours later, I approached a fellow veteran (this one an Army specialist who had been in Haiti) and told him I was heading down. We both had some training in search and rescue, neither of us was officially on the books, and neither of us was accountable to the officers. We had had enough bureaucracy and decided just to go it alone.

We walked south together, through the barricades and into the cloud. It's impossible to fully describe the scene, and photos just can't do it justice. Cars overturned, fire trucks smashed by debris, the air filled with concrete dust and smoke. The smell is the strongest memory for me, like wet cement and raw meat. It's just something that can't be properly passed on to future generations.

After an eternity, we found our way to the American Express building and met up with other loose teams of rescue workers. They handed us hard hats and gloves and we went to work on the bucket brigades on the north side of the Winter Garden, still under the illusion that there might be survivors somewhere below us. Although most of the debris was just sludge and bits of building material, I was struck by the amount of little plastic caster wheels from the bottoms of desk chairs. No chairs, just the wheels. Thousands upon thousands of them. All I kept thinking was that every few wheels represented a person who had been at a desk in those towers. The closest we came to finding survivors during my short time there was when we recovered two mostly-intact bodies. Most of what we found was no more than blood-soaked scraps of clothing.

Sometimes they would have us run for cover when it looked like a collapse was imminent. At one point I heard the distinct sound of a nozzle being knocked off of a container with contents under pressure; I looked up to see ten or fifteen of the biggest construction workers you've ever seen running towards me with terror on their faces, and I turned and ran right along with them. A moment later it turned out that the tank was carbon dioxide, not acetylene or some other explosive, and we all had a nervous but much-needed laugh at our little stampede.

At some point (I believe it was night) we uncovered an American flag. It wasn't the famous one you see in all the paintings and photos. This one was real. This one wasn't just tattered; it was torn to pieces. Most of it was gone, but there was still one star left on the field of blue, and one of the workers who dug it up said it was New York's star, a sign that we would make it through. We all cheered, and taped it to a wall to watch over us. It was a really stirring moment, one that was just for those of us who were there. A month or two later when I found myself there again, the tape remained but the flag itself was gone. I hope someone has it in a frame somewhere, and I hope it's the guy who inspired us all that night. Probably not.

There was an incredible outpouring of support from the community, both at the Trade Center and beyond the barricades. People donated food, drinks, and blankets. They handed out pins and flowers. It was a long walk out when my time there was over, and it was strange because people were taking my picture and thanking me and shaking my hand, and I didn't feel like I had done anything. There was still so much left to do, so many missing and so many dead, and it seemed like whatever I did there was useless. I know people who were at home felt useless, and I know people who were thousands of miles away wanted to be with us, but I can tell you that even right there in the middle of it, that feeling of helplessness didn't let up. Nobody down there felt any pride. Nobody felt like they were making a difference.

I went back to "Ground Zero" a few years later, and I was amazed at the progress they had made there. The spot where I had worked is now a perfectly manicured lawn in front of a beautiful visitors' center. What had been a devastated parking lot is now surrounded by a baseball field and a bike path. It made me feel great to see that kind of healing. Not everything I saw made me smile, though. The rows of vendors selling T-shirts and Twin-Towers shaped cookies along the fence made me want to scream. Same with the people walking past who had the audacity to talk about something else, or laugh at some private joke, or grin for a photo in front of the footprints. It has the beginnings of a tourist trap, and that kills me inside. It shouldn't, I guess, but it does.

I want to thank all those who got off their asses and did something - anything - that day, and in the days that followed. Every little bit was appreciated, and helped someone carry on just a little longer. I wish I could have done more. I think we all do.