"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!”
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