Prologue

Recalling America's Tragedy

The attacks on the World Trade Center towers on September 11, 2001 tested the determination of emergency responders well beyond their experience and imagination. As emergency calls poured in,-- New York City firefighters, police and emergency personnel -- whether on or off duty -- rushed to lower Manhattan.

Unaware of the impending collapse of the twin towers, their sole focus was to get in and rescue tens of thousands of people. As those first responders conducted the search and evacuated victims, the intense heat had rapidly weakened and distorted the massive steel structures.

In less than 2 hours it was all over.Just after the twin towers collapsed, casualty estimates were in the tens of thousands. With many of New York’s most seasoned rescue personnel missing in the collapses, surviving firefighters took the initiative of breaking workers into teams to begin search and rescue.

Within minutes, emergency and support personnel across the nation responded to New York City’s – call for help. It would become the greatest rescue and recovery mission in the America’s history.

This is not a tale of heroics -- nor is it an account of the devastation. Those facts are already evident and well documented. This is the story of the people who worked at the worst emergency scene imaginable -- firefighters, law enforcement, and medics -- united as one group, and bound by a common goal.

###

Arrival in Hell

"How is it?" I ask. He says.. "They're all gone...That's how it is!"

From the Battery to Harlem, New York streets are filled with chaos. Friends and strangers crying – clutching -- comforting each other. Groups gather at storefronts watching TV coverage -- and there is the stunned look of disbelief on upward turned faces.

It's mid afternoon - just 6 hours since the disastrous events of the morning. Stunned and angry, the world watches the drama unfold on TV, as thousands of emergency personnel from around the USA converge on lower Manhattan. Building 7 still poses a major hazard, so emergency personnel and volunteers stage along the West River Drive, at Chelsea Piers, waiting to make their way to the scene.

What is so overwhelming here at the Chelsea Piers is the endless rows of ambulances staged for blocks along the complex. By best count is 300 rigs from along the East Coast. Many are from tiny townships in New Jersey, upstate New York and Connecticut. What drew them all to this place?

"They've pulled us out. We've gotta wait until building 7 comes down," a West Chester county fire officer tells me. "The FDNY is staged further downtown,’ shaking his head ‘I can't imagine how they're taking this." There's talk among those us gathered here that the 50 story building 7 is to be imploded. Makes perfect sense to us because the rescue operation can’t being in earnest until that particular danger is mitigated. Not much later, a distant rumble and a cloud of dust signals that building 7 has pancaked onto Vesey Street.

NYPD opens the floodgates and hundreds of us make our way toward the disaster area - a place that Dan Rather has already dubbed as Ground Zero. It’s a long hike, especially with my fire and camera equipment, so I hitch a ride aboard a medic unit from Downtown Hospital.

Riding with us is a trauma expert from Philly named Dr. Gray, who describes the types of injuries that he expects to encounter today. Though we don't know it yet, sadly, there will be no injuries for him – or other physicians -- to treat.

The route downtown is lined with New Yorkers who cheer, wave flags, hold signs of support and offer water, food, even fresh clothing for those entering the Red Zone. Even though I feel a great inner pride for firefighters everywhere, I am personally reluctant to offer a wave back. After all, I’ve done nothing to deserve their respect – but when they see a helmet – any helmet -- they simply cheer.

People are lined up on both sides of the West Side Highway ready to volunteer -- prepared to do whatever is asked of them -- whether it be to hand out bottles of water or put on a hard hat and dig in the rubble. Never let anyone tell you that New Yorker's don't have good and pure hearts. This evening they’ve demonstrated that their hearts are filled with love as big as their city. The collective spirit of these folks has destroyed the hate brought on by the religious fanatics. It is the triumph of good over evil.

We arrive at the second checkpoint, and two National Guardsmen cautiously approach the ambulance with automatic weapons. “I’ll have to ask you folks to step out of the ambulance.’ one says in a pleasant enough voice. ‘Please have you IDs ready!” We step out, hand our ID’s to the two soldiers as their sergeant chats with the doc from Philly. “Hi doc. You and your people are cleared -- but I’m sorry to say that there is no vehicle traffic beyond this point.”

We quickly grab our gear bags and begin to hoof the final half-mile.

As we get closer, the buildings are windowless and dark, and they take on human traits. They seem like looming giants – badly injured yet not defeated. Every surface is covered in a choking dust, which colors the entire landscape gray and lifeless.

Lower Manhattan is cluttered with thousands of shredded sheets of paper; all around us, cars and emergency vehicles look as if they’ve been bombed. The familiar 24 hour fruit and bagel stands are abandoned, the apples and bananas sitting in undisturbed rows, coated with a layer of pulverized concrete half an inch thick.

Still haven't made it to Ground Zero but we can already smell it. It’s a musty odor – much like a damp cellar or attic. We trudge through the Tribecca district down dark, ash-filled streets, which give the sense that we were entering into the bowels of some ghastly underworld. The entire scene is from some other planet and it is only the company of the other firefighters and rescuers that reminds me that I’m still on planet Earth. We wander for a few minutes, very disoriented, in hope of finding someone who is willing to admit that they’re in charge.

Our group assists the members of a Bronx Tower Ladder, whose have been dispatched to assist in rescue operations at Building 7. But what’s left of Building 7 is burning with a vengeance and the team's mission changes from rescue to extinguishment. Now faced with a 10-story pile of flaming debris, there is little that these firefighters can do but douse the smoldering ruins. We hand lay supply lines to a hydrant two blocks away, spin the valve and pray that the 3” hoses harden. They do, and the truckies begin the tedious job of hosing down what remains of the 50-story building.

A Battalion Commander, dressed in blue jeans, white shirt and black tie approaches our group. His thin face shows deep wrinkles – his blue eyes glazed. He dispenses with the introduction and barks out instructions. “Listen up everyone…the air here sucks!” He hands each of us a surgical mask. “Take one of these and wear it.” He scans each of us in the group as if to size up our abilities. “OK, let’s go!”

We step off at a rapid pace; the next assault upon the senses is the thick, oppressive air - a mixture of smoke, asbestos, fiberglass, concrete dust and glass particulate. This is the sort of smell -- an acrid, sharp odor-- that tells you something is seriously wrong. The paper surgical masks quickly prove to be inadequate and it already hurts to breathe.

Following closely behind the Chief, we pass a lone firefighter, who appears dazed and confused, just wandering around the periphery of the Red Zone. He's covered in damp concrete dust, carrying a shovel and seemingly, the weight of the world.

“How is it down there?” I ask.

“How is it?’ he shakes his head “How is it? They’re all gone. That’s how it is!”

###

The View from Ten-House

 FDNY Fire Station 10 -- 11 Years Later

I catch my first glimpse of the debris pile and I'm stunned. The scene is inconceivable. There are fires burning everywhere, a square mile of twisted metal and debris and those buildings which remain standing are unstable.  There is an initial moment of shock but then a sense of duty, inspired by training, kicks in.

My first instinct is to look up. Actually we're taught to look up during incidents like these. The twin towers are gone! The skin of the remaining, surrounding buildings are torn and scarred from the force of the collapse. They form the walls of a canyon that skirts massive piles of rubble. The twisted steel rises and sinks like giant burial mounds for a dozen square blocks.

Suddenly there’s the screech of police whistles. Not the short burst of a traffic cop, but long, alarming blasts. A distant voice warns, “Collapse, collapse!” A dozen rescue workers running toward us halt our forward motion.

“Go, go, go!” a PAPD officer screams in my face.

I begin backing slowly, but apparently I’m not moving fast enough for the steelworker who grabs and lifts me by my bunker coat.

“C’mon, c’mon – didn’t you hear the damned whistle?” He shouts.

Everyone retreats to the relative safety of the north side of Millennium Hilton, waiting for the all clear to be signaled. I overhear a marine say, “That’s the sixth time tonight. This place just ain’t safe!” I'll never forget the sound of the whistles.

Through the haze of smoke and suspended particulate I can make out hundreds of shadows – rescuers conducting the search for the WTC victims. Those in the very center are working "the dig," unearthing anything that resembles evidence or body parts. Others form single file lines, stretching out from "the dig" like fingers to the outer perimeter of the disaster scene. Through those lines pass hundreds of five gallon buckets filled with debris and body parts. Once the pails reach the end of the line, they are emptied onto smaller piles, and then searched again before being taken away in dump trucks to God knows where.

Hundreds of firefighters, police officers and construction workers are working on their hands and knees. Digging like moles, they refill the buckets with handfuls and shovelfuls of wallboard, paper, and shards of metal. The smoke cloud reaches the surface through hundreds of fissures, and lays low as it moves to the east. Firefighters do their best to keep the largest blazes at bay by dousing the ruins with huge 1000 gallon per minute master streams. But there are only a half dozen nozzles – and hundreds of small fires.

Here at the edge of the pile there are some small traces of office furniture and computers, but for the most part everything has been pulverized into a fine dust. Volunteers hang a huge hand painted sign from the nearby AMEX building. It reads, “You rushed in when others were rushing out. God Bless FDNY and NYPD.”

"We’re up!" shouts Mathis, the retired FDNY Chief. Finally, it’s my turn to help on the pile although I am admittedly frightened. It’s not easy walking on the slippery, shifting steel beams, so I focus on my footing rather than gawking at the bizarre sites. The team continues to move through the jungle of twisted aluminum, PVC piping, and glass shards. We cross over some gaps that feel like blast furnaces – venting hot gases and smoke from the fires below.

“Man oh man -- where the hell do you begin? “ I say under my breath. Mathis tunes in and answers. “That's the problem! If we're going to find anyone alive, we've only got hours...at best a couple of days.”

Everyone who is working here is polite and respectful of one another. This may sound trite, but this is truly sacred ground. Many heroes gave their lives early today and everyone working here is respectful of their sacrifice. I never have seen this level of camaraderie at a disaster as I have among the people working in this horrible place.

The physical and mental exhaustion of FDNY members is very apparent. My heart feels their pain and the desperation in their souls. They’ve been digging for hours, hoping to find members of their family. With so much devastation surrounding them, it will be an endless job.

Chief Mathis takes the time to inform us of the obvious. "This job is gonna be dangerous -- the most dangerous you've ever worked. So watch out for one another." Then he passes around a legal pad to which we all add the name, address and telephone number of our next of kin. A volunteer from Long Island asks the chief where we can pick up hand tools. The chief holds out his bare hands and replies. "Tools? Here's what we're working with until someone gets equipment to us."

Hope Launches The Mission

Now that Building 7 has fallen -- some say imploded -- the hope is that somehow, some way, folks inside the towers were able to find shelter in elevator shafts, stairwells and the underground. But we also know that hidden somewhere within these mountainous piles are the mutilated remains of over six thousand human beings.

With many of New York’s most seasoned rescue personnel missing in the collapses, remaining rescue personnel, like Mathis, take the initiative of breaking workers into teams to begin search and rescue. Firefighter Joe Higgins (Ladder-111), whose brother Lieutenant Tim Higgins (Squad 252) is among the missing, has been searching since late morning.

"We didn't know where we were or what we were doing.' Higgins later tells me. "We were just looking for a spot where we maybe could do some good.”

Where Building #4 once stood, steel beams have pancaked one atop the other, compressing what had once been 10-foot tall room spaces into voids barely large for me to pass my flashlight. The lower we go to inspect the damage, the tighter these voids become.

Some tools are managing to make their way to the disaster scene. I notice that at the main entry portal on West Side Highway, volunteers hand out shovels, picks, gloves, water bottles -- even tylenol. Soon the steady whine of chain saws mixes with generators and accented by the moaning of shifting steel. It seems as if the pile actually speaks.

At the edge of the pile, no one seems to be in charge. Hundreds of rescuers crawl around on the hot steel beams in small work teams, which have been organized by members of the FDNY and PAPD. A dozen teams of twenty or thirty rescuers labor with torches, shovels, wire cutters, that were salvaged from shattered firefighting machines – but mostly they use their bare hands.

A French speaking EMS volunteer from Montreal named Victor is handed a shovel, which carries a special message. He reads the engraved inscription aloud for all of the team to hear. "God bless you all. The citizens of New Hope, Pennsylvania."

Victor answers with a thick Quebecois accent. "Well, New Hope -- let's get to work!

14 Acres of Horror

Traveling around the disaster scene is an experience like no other I've ever encountered. It takes over an hour to walk the perimeter of the debris piles. It’s so huge that Ground Zero has been divided into four HUGE sectors, where dozens of emergency response agencies from throughout the nation and around the World work side by side.

At times the entire operation comes to a sudden halt. That’s when rescuers signal that they have heard sounds from a possible survivor. This time the find is along Liberty Street in an area where debris has been falling all evening. Word comes to us that two Marines have heard faint tapping near an elevator shaft. More taps. There’s a sudden rush of activity as ESU teams and members of FDNY burrow by hand through the pulverized concrete, hot steel and loose debris.

Not much later, a PAPD officer is uncovered and removed – alive but extremely beaten up. His partner remains trapped deep below as the surviving members of Rescue-5 launch into a FAST Team operation to free him.

The discovery of the PAPD officers provides all rescuers with a great deal of hope. Cheers and applause spread throughout the sector, spurring the rescuers to work harder, exposing themselves to even more danger. But that's what they've been trained to do.

The devastation seems endless and the pile itself is unpredictable. Here at Church and Liberty the mountain of debris stands some five stories. Then, as the crest moves toward the Hudson, it makes a sudden drop into a valley several stories deep. Progress is slow, but search teams are forming at every street corner, every alley, and every storefront.

There are thousands here, in every type of uniform imaginable. Firefighters, police officers, Coast Guard, MPs, operating engineers, iron workers, sanitation employees – you name an agency, I bet they are here! There’s little talk, and no one complains -- except about the wait. They pace back and forth, waiting for their turn to climb atop the pile and down into in the voids, in hope of discovering trapped victims.

Rescue teams tread lightly atop the wreckage, searching for signs of life and hoping for more rescues. Along Church Street, demolition engineers consult with fire officers to determine the best course of action at the South Tower. On the perimeter, heavy equipment operators finesse their mighty machines, revealing layer upon layer of steel and debris. The whine of diesels and the crunching of mighty pneumatic jaws are the pre dominant sounds in this emergency village.

"It's hard to believe, isn't it?" one firefighter remarks shaking his head from side to side. Using phrases like "hard to believe" is the common greeting here at Ground Zero, much like saying hello.

Even though the FDNY has suffered such an incredible loss, their strength as a cohesive, working team remains rock solid. Although it’s tough to determine who’s running the show, once you’re on the pile you realize quickly that it is the Fire Department of New York.

###

Determination and Pride

"The air at Ground Zero is OK to breathe!"

EPA Director, Christy Todd Whitman 9/13/01

September 13, 2001 – very early morning

Very little accurate information about the rescue effort here is reaching the American people. Mayor Gulliani has ordered a press blackout and the city’s emergency personnel have been issued a gag order. The nearest camera crews are perhaps 15 blocks North on the West Side Highway. Camera crews? There must be 100 newsvans and satellite trucks lining the southbound shoulder, producers grabbing at anyone who walks by for an interview. Perhaps the worst reprecussion of the press blackout is the crap being posted online. The internet is buzzing with rumors and fabricated information about the rescue mission.

My partner and I accept an invitation from CNN and CBS to be interviewed. We figure that it’s OK to provide Americans, and the rest of the World, with an accurate description of the rescue and recovery operation. We go off site during the early morning to appear on several morning news shows.

Making our way up West Side Highway we begin at 4am with a BBC TV interview, a live shot with Nippon TV, countless local stations, then over to CNN’s studio and a live interview with Paula Zahn.

The elevator doors open to CNN's New York newsroom and what is best described as pandemonium. There are 30 or more producers on phones, shouting into walki-talkis and typing on any PC that their fingers can find. We're met by an assignment editor, who quickly makes his pitch.

"Like I said on the phone, there's no news coming from the collapse site. And it's not just us." He points to the bank of monitors on the wall. " None of the networks are reporting..."

"So what!" I say. He's quick to respond. "...so we just keep showing the collapses...over and over." That's when he suggests we report as imbedded journalists."

"Christ Ty, you know the deal." I am emphatic. "We're here to shoot a training film -- not cover the news!" His response, however, is very convincing. "That's exactly what you'll be doing...only you'll be training millions...not just five firemen sitting around a VCR. "

Ty handles us both by the shoulder and walks us over to a monitor. On screen a crying child is holding up a picture with a phone number. Ty boosts the audio level. "Please, if someone sees my Dad, please call us at..." He turns the audio down. On the screen the camera pulls back to reveal dozens of similar family members holding photos. The assignment editor, an old friend gets closer. "Think of it as the most important training film you've ever done."

After a cup of coffee and a trip to makeup, we're in the studio. A floor director sneaks us on to the set during a report from Washington regarding the attack on the Pentagon. For my partner and me, these are the first images that we've seen of the attack near DC. Paula Zahn introduces herself and tries to engage us in conversation, but there's way to much going on in the studio.

"Stand by, Paula -- Coming back in 4, 3, 2..."

The interview starts off as expected. Discussion of what's going on at the rescue site. The control room rolls clips from our footage as we narrate.

ZAHN: "Look at that. It's got to be incredibly dangerous for anyone to crawl through that. Did you go beyond that opening?" ANGELI: "We went down through the opening into the promenade level" We continue to discuss the video clips.

Then Paula throws me the zinger. She says that EPA Director Christy Todd Whitman reported earler in the morning that the air at Ground Zero is OK to breathe. I almost choke, and the one of the studio crew tells me later that the tips of my ears went cherry red.

I repsond to the former Governor of New Jersey not with words -- but video. I ask the control room to roll the footage marked EPA test.

SOUND BITE (EPA tech): "These are the worst levels of asbestos that we've recorded. Four times the highest level I've ever seen!" We both listen, then I turn to Ms Zahn. "Paula, that's the Ms Whitman's front line technican speaking. I'm not sure I need to say more."

Leaving CNN, we're rushed to CBS where we report on conditions at Ground Zero to Bryant Gumbel and Jane Clayson. The producer has agreed to allow us to make our pitch for safety equipment like cartridge respirators, boots, gloves and tiny spades. As quickly as I list the items, they appear full frame on the screen.

"Please, drop your contributions of equipment at 14th Street, along the West Side Highway." I plead with the audience. Then I explain to Mr. Gumbel that a volunteer group working there has managed to start a water shuttle that carries tools and supplies directly to Ground Zero and the workers who need them. I add, "No one will see the equipment if it ends up at the Javitts Center."

After the show, CBS security escorts us across 5th Avenue to The Plaza. We grab showers and a brief nap courtesy of CBS, and for the first time in 50 hours, we’re in fresh clothing and socks. What bliss.

Cheerleaders on the West Side Highway

At about 3pm, the CBS driver picks us up and drives us back to lower Manhattan. Midtown is a ghosttown – empty except for a few street people and police recruits standing on every corner. Our driver drops us at the first checkpoint at 14th Street and West Side Highway. That’s a far as he can go. At the Canal Street checkpoint we hitch a ride aboard a rescue vehicle from Long Island for the 20 block trip to Chambers Street.

Both sides of West Side Highway are lined with well wishers. They applaud, cheer, shout their support and offer us food and drink. My eye catches one, a young woman – perhaps a college student -- holding up a hand written poster. “We love you!” I can’t speak – I simply soak it all in. Not because I deserve their recognition, but rather being part of a moment in American history that will be recalled long after I’m gone.

Shifting Steel, shifting mood

The mood here in New York is changing. There is clearly a shift from shock and complete disbelief -- to a sense of determination and pride. New Yorkers are resilient and they are determined to overcome this tragedy. Flags hang from almost every building and every window. It is an incredible sight!

The emergency crews and vollies working at Ground Zero are determined as well. Out on the pile we speak to rescue people who have been working for 20 hours or longer without a break. Young yellow shirted volunteers literally walk out onto the steel and debris and force feed these emergency crews. I feel guilty that we showered and slept at The Plaza.

The focus of attention has been on the FDNY, but I recognize the important role of volunteers who have responded from as far away as Florida. FEMA, which has just a few workers on site, refers to volunteers who self responded as SCUVs (Spontaneous, Convergent, Unaffiliated, Volunteers). The acronym sounds ugly, but the work SCUVS do with so few resources is amazing.

Their efforts here at the WTC make me proud to be a volunteer – and for the first time in my career I realize that my past 22 years as a firefighter have been productive and meaningful. But many rescuers are reluctant to admit that they are volunteers. Some say that they’re concerned that they’ll be kicked off the disaster scene. Somehow, they feel inferior to their professional brothers and sisters. But believe me, the New York fire officers and firefighters, as well as the PAPD and NYPD, all appreciate their very special contribution.

Still, no talk of terrorism or revenge, that is until I meet Father Hayes from St. Andrews, a face known to many members of law enforcement in New York City.

“The people who did this, well they are evil and if nothing is done they are sure to act again,” he tells me as he searches through his pockets. He adds that action against these terrorists must come quickly. Then the good father snaps the match and puffs away on a day old cigar. “The cigar smoke,’ he says, ‘is much better than the crap in the air.” You said it Padre!

###

The Rescue Effort Builds

September 13, 2001 – early evening

There are thousands of rescuers on scene today, and others are arriving in a steady stream from all over the country. Many have traveled great distances to make it here to Manhattan. They arrive tired and hungry -- yet they go right to work, often searching for hours before stopping to eat or rest. One group I meet from Harrisburg, PA has been pushing themselves so hard, that they have not yet made it back to the perimeter for a break. I ask how they rest? I’m told that they simply lay down in the debris during their breaks. They’re catching their naps just a few yards from heavy machinery that is constantly running --removing tons of debris.

Total strangers form search teams, which are made up of firefighters, medics, law enforcement officers, college students – even celebrities. At first there is little talk, but it doesn’t take long before they become comrades at arms – joined by this inconceivable moment.

The word around the pile is that another rescue was made today -- three New York firefighters. That boosted morale incredibly, but the cheering was short lived. Crews who witnessed the incident say it was rescuers who were rescued – not firefighters from the initial trade center response.

Here in Church Sector, crews have located a few bodies and several body parts, but the victims are located too deep in the rubble to retrieve. The area is simply marked by placing an orange body bag as close as possible. Rescuers will return when they have the time and resources to bring the lost home. Instead, the focus is on finding survivors rather than collecting remains.
Urban Search and Rescue teams, engineers and cartographers, in cooperation with the Office of Emergency Management, are handing out detailed, ever changing maps to chart areas that have already been searched, and define those to be worked next. These maps also identify the constantly shifting hazards at the site.

Ground Zero is divided into four sectors, each one containing a staging area or Command Post. West sector encompasses the footprint of the North tower and is the official checkpoint into the disaster site. This area leading up to the checkpoint is best described as a flea market, with supply areas set up and managed by unaffiliated volunteers.

Church sector, behind St Paul's Chapel, offers entry from Wall Street. Many of the faith-based support organizations, such as the Salvation Army have pitched their tents here.

Liberty Sector is the command post for the Port Authority Police Department, or PAPD. It is a focal point for those who are attempting to recover PAPD officers and civilians.


We’re approaching the critical 72 hour period -- the time that FEMA experts believe that trapped victims will succumb. Then I remember Bucky Helms – the old guy who was trapped for five days in the I-880 collapse in Oakland following the Loma Prieta quake. He made it, only to die a few weeks later from an unrelated cause.

Within 48 hours Ground Zero hads become a city unto itself. Everything rescuers and volunteers need is provided, including food, clothing, and medical care. This Emergency Village is home, isoltaed from the rest of the world. We never saw newspapers, television, or magazines. We lived in a different place, both physically and mentally, focused on the mission at hand.

Indianapolis Rescue 7 meets FDNY

From Indianapolis, a Marion County USAR safety officer surveys adjacent structures to determine what hazards exist at Ground Zero for rescue and recovery teams. Unbelievably, a 12 story section of the South tower has imbedded itself into the Deutsch Bank Building, 20 stories above the ground. The façade, weighing perhaps 100,000 tons, now hangs precariously above the rescue operation on Church Street. Firefighters nickname this obstacle "The Widow Maker." They also ignore it the damn thing.

There is danger all around as another USAR team joins with an FDNY Squad Company to search a VOID that is unearthed by heavy equipment. This tunnel leads down to a parking garage, but the team leader is unwilling to send his crew through such a narrow abyss. He calls for technical support. Using fiber optic cameras and sensitive listening devices, the USAR tech asks for quiet and the 15 member team becomes silent. This unlikely combination of New York and Indy firefighters stand quietly together, sharing a cigarette and a bottle of watter... waiting and hoping for signs of life.

The team leader wants to search deeper, but is still reluctant to assign humans to the task. He calls for a "BattleBot", a remotely controlled robotic device armed with its own camera, mic and light. Within moments, the $20,000 android is making its way deep inside the debris - taking the search to the next level.

Frustration is becoming evident, as is the heartache and helplessness which shows on the faces and echoes in the voices of rescue teams. Though some members of America's USAR teams express feelings of inadequacy and failure -- in truth, it is their most shining moment.

During a break I make my way through the back streets of the financial district to the West Side Highway where Rescuers have taken over bank lobbies, stores and eateries as their own command centers. I come across a huge contingent of law enforcement officers from communities throughout the East Coast. They're working their own pile - and labor relentlessly in an area where many Port Authority police officers are reported to be missing.

With 5-gallon buckets in hand, they form two endless lines, moving debris from atop "the pile" to the perimeter area for removal. Even though there are several thousand working here - the area is QUIET. Dead quiet. Determination and resolve is the focus of their mission, as they work tirelessly to accomplish the unspoken goal. Unrealistic? Maybe. Without merit? Never! Police officers staff this line 24 hours a day - and 16 days later - when I finally leave Ground Zero – I knowthat the image of their task will be etched in my mind forever.

A Sad Discovery

A Battalion's aide calls our team to the front -- we move further into the pit, about 200 yards from the nearest street. We're now working in an area where one of the Search and Rescue dogs has marked a find. With most us kneeling, the routine becomes more familiar. Untwist the aluminum and sheet metal, move it aside, then scoop debris from under the girders, sifting it through our hands.

Across from me is a husky volunteer fireman from Freeport, Long Island. He pauses for a few moments, wipes the sweat from his eyes, and stretches his right knee. Something catches his attention. He looks down, shines his light into the hole - then does a double take. He lunges for the ground and begins burrowing like a crazed groundhog. The team quickly gathers around him. As he removes debris, the others move it further aside. There is hustle in their work.

"What is it bro?" comes a voice belonging to an FDNY truckie. The vollie mumbles, "I'm not really sure...just gotta get a bit deeper." I glance around at the others just in time to see horror on their faces. "My God," someone says. "It's a Scott bottle!"

A Battalion Chief quickly pushes his way to the front of the line, standing over the Freeport firefighter like an umpire huddles the catcher. The hope is that there's more to find than a steel cylinder. There is. It's a turnout coat. The dig becomes less frantic, more delicate, but with the same hustle that had been previosuly displayed.

Digging with his bare hands, the vollie slowly uncovers the FDNY reflective letters. Then a hand painted "E4" on the compressed air bottle is revealed. Finally, as they uncover the tail of the black coat they can make out the name. The team carefully removes the body. The firefighter's SCBA mask is damaged, but it protected his facial features. The white frontice on his helmet indicates that he was the company officer.

"Chief, think his crew was with him?" I ask the BC. "They were with him alright," the Commander replies proudly. "I bet they were right on his ass." Let's keep searching here!

A firefighter arrives from an adjacent dig. He reaches into his turnout coat and places the white collar around his neck, atop the blue FDNY workshirt. It is followed by the ceremonial sash that priests wear when they give a sacrament. The vollie is the first to remove his helmet, and the rest of us follow suit, our heads bowed.

"Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed... " As the prayer continues, the chaplain carefully removes the Lieutenant's face piece to anoint his eyes, nose and throat. The others simply stand there looking on. I can't imagine what's going through their minds.

Lying on the ground is a man that no one here had ever met, yet we all feel a direct connection to his spirit. No one in the group is spared the tears -- not the Battalion, not the vollie, not even the rough and ready truckie.

We won't be moving this hero to the sidelines. That's the job of the FDNY. The emotion shows on every face as a group of 8 retired firefighters climb down to our location. Nearby firefighters join us in this holy place, and say a silent prayer. Everyone here stands in honor as one of the bravest leaves the firescene for the last time.

Then, drawing strength from one another, everyone moves slowly away to continue the search for another soul in another place.

###

Unprecedented Mutual Aid

September 15, 2001

Chicago Fire Department

Within 72 hours of the collapse, about 50 Chicago area firefighters drove here to New York to help in the recovery and cleanup. The mutual aid request is unofficial, but welcomed by New York's bravest nonetheless.

"We've offered to sit in their firehouses, do anything for them." says Roy Hervas, 42, a volunteer firefighter with the Schaumburg (IL) Fire Department. "We came here to bring them water and towels, whatever they need us to do."

On their way to New York, the group from ChiTown was stopped doing 108 mph along the Indiana Turnpike. To the trooper's surprise, ten vehicles pulled to the side of the road, as the lead driver showed ID and explained the nature of their mission.

The Indiana trooper provided the convoy a speedy escort to the Ohio state line, where he handed off the fire-rescue responders to the Ohio State Police. The Windy City contingent didn't know it at the time, but when they'd finally arrived, they too would be called onto the frontlines. Like the others, they pulled 12-hour shifts, sifting through the debris, recovering innocent citizens and brother firefighters alike. They soon understand what it is to “work the pile.”

The unofficial Chicago Fire Department camp is set up on Chambers Street, a few blocks from Ground Zero. This team has dubbed their home away form home "Little America", an out of the way place where they can nap on cots of plastic tarpaulins, and in sleeping bags on the sidewalk. Still the air is crappy and the noise is deafening, as firefighters test power saws and cranes creak in the rubble.

"We came here to help find our brothers." Hervas adds. "And we're missing quite a few."

Los Angeles City Fire Department

Not long after the attacks, a team of twenty six Los Angeles City firefighters made their way to New York in a mission organized by Paul Sebourn, a veteran LA City fire captain who lives in San Juan Capistrano.

"We're here to pay back a debt to the FDNY members", Sebourn tells press, referring to FDNY's cross-country response during the Rodney King riots and Northridge Earthquake. Leading that New York team at that time was Battalion Chief Ray Downey, the head of FDNY's Special Operations Unit. By any fireman’s account, Ray is one of the most noted firefighters in the country. The man many referred to as the Master of Disaster is still missing in this hell.

Uptown at 54 Engine and 4 Truck, I’m surprised to learn that yellow bunker gear has replaced the traditional NY black aboard the FDNY Seagrave pumper. Even more unusual, I’m told, is the magnetic Los Angeles CITY Fire Department logo, which was positioned neatly just below the FDNY crest. Who could ever have imagined that six firefighters from West Hollywood would become the first-in crew for New York's famed Broadway district. I'm told that some 100 Los Angeles firefighters have taken vacation and personal time, paying their own way to make the trip here to Manhattan. Their actions are indicative of a brotherly calling in a profession that is always on the run.

San Francisco Fire Department

The rain that was predicted has started – a steady downpour. And it’s pretty damned cold. No one has been found alive for several days and hope is dwindling. About 1am, the remains of a rescue team of are located in a stairwell. Someone says it’s Ladder 4’s crew.

Despite the downpour, a double line of firefighters, law enforcement officers and volunteers, weaves from the recovery site atop the Pile, down through the unstable wreckage, and onto to the sidelines. I join the honor line as the flag-draped remains are carefully escorted down and into the waiting ambulance.

I pull up my fogged goggles then get a better look at the new guy on the pile. His wool work shirt is crisp and clean. Over his left breast the Maltese cross, the classic firefighter's badge, frames a red number 7. His worn, black leather helmet is familiar, but it's accented in odd red and white hand painted triangles. As he turns to address me, the frontpiece revels that he's from Ladder-7, in SAN FRANCISCO. He anticipates my question.

"We're not here officially," the Bay Area fireman is quick to answer. "We're here to help out in any way that we're needed!" He adds that a dozen other SFFD members are working here at Ground Zero, even more are helping to staff Manhattan fire stations. 3,000 miles from their first alarm district, 25 San Francisco firefighters have joined thousands of other career and volunteer firefighters, who are working this country's largest mutual aid assignment ever.

Even though San Franciscans have underwritten this mission of mercy with cash donations, the volunteers from the SFFD have opted to shoulder their own travel expenses, turning over all contributions to New York's Uniformed Firefighters Association.

"It's peer support," says John Darmanin, who serves as Director of San Francisco's Firefighter's Union, IAFF Local 798. "It is nearly impossible for FDNY members to seek emotional support from their co-workers for fear of placing a further burden on one another." It's not unusual to see a San Francisco firefighter holding an FDNY brother in his arms -- rocking him back and forth like a baby. If during their careers they ever questioned the meaning of "the brotherhood," they certainly understand it now.

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Rescue to Recovery

Father Ed

"I feel much more useful when I'm working out on the pile," comes a new voice to our group of visiting firefighters. The gentleman's black shirt and white collar are oddly highlighted by worn blue jeans, goggles, respirator and an NYPD hard hat. Not normal attire for a Roman Catholic priest.

"Hi, I'm Father Ed Malloy." he says as his gloved palm reaches out to greet each of us. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" Father Ed comments. He tall, slim priest tells us that he's been mixing with the crowds of emergency workers here near the ramp of Fire Station 10, meeting and greeting as many workers as he can.


"What parish you from, padre?" I ask, like I'm familiar with every Diocese in the United States.

“Notre Dame" he answers. I’m thinking of Notre Dame High School in Philly. Maybe the parish out in Astoria. The priest continues "Ahh...I'm president of Notre Dame University." The Indiana Jesuit is here making the rounds, tending to the flock, just like hundreds of other chaplains from dozens of faiths. I notice the small, bookmarked Missal poking from Ed's back pocket.

"It takes fantastic moral strength to work here," he says as he takes a long swig from the Gatorade bottle. Father Ed tells us that the determination of the rescue workers is their most admirable strength.

The banter is interrupted by a squawk from the two-way, and an FDNY Battalion Chief motions for Father Ed to come onto the pile. I tag along with the college president turned rescue worker, staying close to his side like some self-appointed altar boy.

Engine 55's crew has just discovered the remains of a woman, and have asked for a member of the clergy before she's moved away to the morgue. I stand quietly a few yards away, as Father Ed pulls the dusty missal from his pocket to read a short prayer. Then turning to 55's crew he prays, "May the blessing of God Almighty rest and abide upon you and may this sign of the cross be your peace and safety. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit." I join them in the sign of the cross, clasp my hands to the front and bow my head. Normally, we would have already removed our helmets in respect for the deceased, but we're standing under the Widow Maker and it mighty dangerous. So the lids stay on.

I leave Father Ed to his spiritual duties and come off the pile to rejoin my own group. I pause by the command post in front of Ten House, hoping to learn about dramatic rescues in the other sectors. "There are none!" says a retired Fire Captain. "It's all over."

The final days

The scene is directly from "Saving Private Ryan". Battalion commanders calmly give instructions to company level officers, who then move out into the swarm of firefighters to pass along orders to their own crews. Chief’s aides are busy on cell phones and two-way radios coordinating with other sector commanders. Everyone seems to consult the huge map table, with its layers of acetate overlays.

Here in New York City, firefighting is often regarded as a family tradition - a calling that is handed down from one generation to the next. In fact, many firefighting families can trace their roots to the beginning of the "paid" department in the late 1800's.

I ask a lone firefighter if anyone in his company is lost. "We've lucked out', he responds, "but my brother, a cop, is still missing." His eyes water as he answers, and all I can manage to do is touch his shoulder like I understand.

Despite extraordinary effort and teamwork – both above the rubble and below – there have been no more rescues. Surviving New York firefighters and emergency personnel feel that certain that fate alone prevented them from arriving first on the scene. Unable to rest, even after the most grueling of stints, they stand at the edge of the pile, watching – waiting – praying for a miracle.

Many rescuers have developed a profound connection to Ground Zero and their fellow workers. Some speak of this place as ‘sacred ground’. It becomes a ritual that, as out of town volunteers prepare to leave the site for home, operating engineers arrange for a crane and bucket to take them above the field of debris. There they hover above the pile for a few minutes, and say their farewells.

“It was a sense of duty that we had begun a job. We, we had a responsibility and we will see it to the end. As long as there was thought to be remains, as long as it was thought that people were still unidentified, they were will, willing and wanting to continue to look. That was out of a sense of duty, a sense of responsibility.” Father Milton Williams (St. Paul's Chapel)

Rescue and Recovery at Ground Zero has ended. Within a matter of days, Mayor Gulliani reduces the number of rescuers on the piles from thousands -- to just fifteen.

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