Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Remembering the horrific week of 9-11


 In the photo; the late Dep. Derek Ward, Dep. Terry Palmer, Sheriff Randy Belmont, 

 Dep. Ryan McKnight, Dep. Dan Hanchett and myself. 




Nineteen years ago.... how is that possible? The memories are still very vivid,

sometimes almost consuming. We as a nation must not forget that week... the 

loss of so many people and the toll it took on everyone it seems.

The following is this writers description of what it was like to be on scene....

The Allegany County Sheriffs office of Belmont, N.Y. was well represented

that week, we were one of hundreds of agencies coast to coast that were 

called...and we were all privileged to serve.  


  

The Tragedy of 9-11

Sept 11, 2001.  The funeral home was quiet that week, and on this day that would become one of the darkest in the nation’s history, I was on duty with the county sheriff’s office.  Today would be one of those twice yearly deals where all officers would have to report to the firing range, to test their skills with weapons.  In order to carry a weapon, you would have to qualify with your duty piece in handling, safety and accuracy of fire.  How odd, I thought.  Twice yearly, you had to show up, blow off maybe  one hundred rounds and prove that, if you had to, you were capable of taking another’s life in a desperate situation. No one in our department had ever had to do that, and I thought, “Here I am a mild mannered undertaker playing with a Glock 19, capable of delivering 11 rounds of deadly force to some perpetrator. Kind of a conflict of interest.” Maybe I would get to shoot somebody, then who knows?  I might be the guy who gets called to bury him three or four days later.  I shrugged it off in passing, although the thought had been in the heads of some of my co-workers. They were always making funeral jokes when I was around.  It was natural.  Most people have a natural curiosity about and often sense of the great beyond and death in general.  And the questions never seemed to stop.  Do people actually sit up after they die?  Do hair and fingernails really grow after they're buried?  But, these questions can be tackled later.  Today’s the object was to put as many rounds into the mannequin target at  50 yards as possible before the guy in charge blew his whistle. 

     We were on the line and almost ready to commence fire, when one of our sergeants came barreling in with a sheriff’s car, throwing loose cinders just yards from where we stood.  He leapt out and ran to our location, white as a ghost.  I thought, “This can’t be good.  This guy is usually pretty cool and collected, so something monstrous must be afoot.  I couldn’t have been more right, but I wish I had been wrong.

      "A plane just ran into one of the trade towers in New York!”  our sergeant exclaimed.  He then turned, giving no further details, and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.  We all jumped to our vehicles, turned the ignitions and started scanning the channels for news and information.  And there it was, the announcer was almost panicked in his nervous speech, giving details of how a passenger airliner had moments before slammed into the World Trade Center, producing a large fire ball of flying glass, concrete and smoke. At that moment, my gut told me this was going to be far from the average qualifying day at the range. 

     Within minutes, we were sickened to hear that a second plane had found its mark in the twin towers of New York.  We finished our range quickly, knowing that the incidents that had just occurred were going to affect each and every one of us in some way. We returned to the department.  The main office was in a mad rush.  The Sheriff, his Undersheriff, and a couple of lieutenants were huddled near a television near his office gathering as much information as was possible.   Between rounds, the officers on the jail floor were trying to absorb as much as was possible about what was transpiring in that big city, six hours to our east.  We all knew one fact.  This was no accident; the country was definitely under attack, but we didn’t know who was responsible or if there would  be more to come.

     The next several days were kind of a maze as we all went about our work, still monitoring as much as possible of the events unfolding in the big apple.  Hundreds, if not thousands, of people were missing: people who worked in the tower, firefighters, police officers and volunteers who ran into the buildings to save others from the nightmare of that beautiful September morning. It wasn’t until ten days past the event that our Sheriff received the call.  Departments and agencies of law enforcement around the country were being summoned to New York City to provide security, logistics and other support to the overwhelmed city in distress.  The sheriff put the word out that our agency would be sending five officers, including him, to assist and that the team would be leaving within a few short days.  Knowing that my abilities as a funeral director would be welcomed to some degree, I asked the undersheriff, a big strapping man with white hair and a handlebar mustache, if I could be included in the detail.  He agreed, knowing that the city would be looking for people like me with skills in dealing with death.  And there was a lot of death.  The latest counts were staggering: only a few people rescued and thousands missing. The security and recovery operation would take weeks, months perhaps.  Our deployment plans were underway.

      For the next seventy two hours, our department scurried in making plans and gathering supplies for the trip southeast to New York City.  The time scheduled for the five officers going had to be filled, and there was determination of what uniforms, equipment, etc. would be taken.  The Sheriff decided we would wear our black BDUs,  battle dress uniforms, with hat, shirt, cargo pants and standard work boots. He was told that most of the clothes needed, boots, gloves, etc., would be issued on site once we arrived.  Our duty was not specified yet.  Would we be sitting security posts? Handling traffic control? None of us were sure of what we were about to embark on, but we were all anxious to pile into our cars and head southeast.

   The morning of our departure was non-eventful.  We were all dressed in our BDUs, and the two vehicles we were taking were marked four wheel drive Sheriff car-vans stuffed to the brim with our supplies, personal bags and equipment. A female officer came out to the parking lot, gathered us in a group and snapped a couple of pictures. She said we were part of history now, and the event had to be recorded as such.  We joked about that, but in the back of our minds, we knew she stood correct in her assumption. 

     After the shutter clicked a couple of times, we were on the road, heading east on Route 86, beginning the six hour plus trip to the adventure of a lifetime.  We were all anxious, nervous, each in our own mind trying to put it all in perspective.  As a funeral director, I was thinking more forensically about what we would find. The television

network pictures were indeed horrific.  So many people were trapped, missing and presumed dead.  It would be a huge shock to the system, going from rural Western New York into the pit of the beast, and literally maybe into the pit that once was the World Trade Center.

     We hadn’t been on the road twenty minutes when one of our deputies saw a house trailer being towed by a truck just ahead of us.  As we went into the passing lane to the left, the trailer started weaving from side to side, making the pass impossible, and, of course, our deputy being a solid professional, and not wanting to miss writing some paper, hit the lights and siren and pulled the guy over. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the car the sheriff was in pull up behind us and stop position, his hands up in the air in that ‘’what is this all about” gesture.

     I pushed the front passenger door open, and my first stride made its way towards the sheriff’s car, while our deputy headed in the opposite direction toward the truck driver, adjusting his black hat to its appropriate spot. His face told me the guy was going to get at least a good talking to, even if no paper was to be produced. The sheriff was a little bit put out.  He wanted to make good time heading to the city and not play cop on the way.

     “What to hell is he doing?” demanded the sheriff.

     “We almost got swiped in a pass.  Dan thought he should at least see what’s up with the guy…” I replied.

     “Well, tell him to make it snappy” was the response.  “We need to be in Manhattan late day.”

    As I made my way back to the traffic stop, I could tell Dan was giving the guy a ‘good talking’ to about the weave as he walked around the trailer giving it a visual inspection for tires, stickers, etc.

    After our brief respite from the drive, we were again heading east on 86, chuckling about the stop and how Danny had done his duty to keep the public safe, and us from getting sideswiped.  The next few hours were passed in pretty much boredom as we motored to our destination.  An hour or so out of the city, we stopped at a rest area to get gas and grab a quick bite to eat.  As we piled out of our two vehicles and strode into the eating establishment, I’m sure we looked quite threatening, all dressed in black from head to toe and making loud and heavy sounds as our boots hit the pavement.  We were on a mission.  We just weren’t sure what the mission was yet, but it wouldn’t be long now.  Our anticipation heightened as we ate our last fries and again adjusted the cars on their eastward trek. 

 

   Ninety minutes later, we were there.  The New York skyline was illuminated in the distance, a wondrous sight, no matter the reason for the visit.  As we drove into the city, we saw a huge police presence, everywhere: NYPD cars, Sheriffs cars, NYS police cars, military vehicles.  It looked like a law enforcement convention was underway and everyone had been invited.  We parked our vehicles at Battery Park, blocks from the trade center.  A light rain fell as we exited the vehicles.  As we checked our badges and identifications, a national guard carrying an M-16 approached.  Our first test was moments away. 

     The guard member was young, maybe mid-twenties, his helmet chin strap pulled tightly around a slightly rounded face.

     “State your business” he grunted, his weapon extended across his chest.  To his rear, another guard member stepped in as backup.

     “We have orders to report for duty” said our sheriff, speaking in a command voice that we all knew and respected. 

     The guard stepped up, asked for our Identifications and we all fumbled with our wallets, flashing our sheriffs’ i.d. badges as we stepped up to the guard’s glaring flashlight.

      “The command post is 100 yards from the center, dead on.  Walk straight to center.  Do not deviate from your course.”

     Our sheriff nodded, and we took off in giant strides.  Straight ahead and lit in brilliant white light was what was left of the World Trade Center.  It appeared to be fifteen to eighteen stories of rubble, smoke billowing from what seemed like dozens of exit points. We walked on.  We were maybe three city blocks from the rubble pile.  My heart was in my throat.  I was entering an unkempt cemetery, which now held over two thousand people who hadn’t been found, let alone buried.  I glanced at the other officers.  All eyes were fixed on the approaching pile, all faces stone cold and serious.

    In the last block, we stopped.  The sight in front of us could not have been created in Hollywood.  This was mass destruction at its zenith.  As I looked up at nearby buildings, it was though a giant knife had sliced off the faces of the structures.  You could look into offices exposed.  There were chairs, desks, computers, many pieces hanging by wires and dangling in mid-air.  Pipes were ruptured and dripping water.  Papers were everywhere, reams and reams of paper adrift and in the air and on the ground.  Only occasionally did you see anything else identifiable: an office chair, part of a filing cabinet, a computer keyboard. How was a falling building able to concentrate such crushing blows to everything within?  My first thought was, “How will this ever be cleaned up?” My first conclusion was that it would take years, not months, to clean up the area.

     As our group stood in amazement at the scene of the rubble pile, firemen and rescue workers continued working, looking for survivors.  There were none to be found.  This was twelve days after the fact, and the chances of anyone being found alive at this point were next to impossible.  Suddenly, a rescue worker started waving a flag about fifty yards directly above us.  This was followed by a short siren blast, and the remainder of those working in the “pile” stopped in their tracks.  We ased an on duty officer what was going on, and he replied, “They’ve found another victim.”  Within minutes, a dozen rescue workers had made their way to the location, a firemen’s rescue basket/gurney had been hoisted in position, and a victim’s remains were placed in the basket and covered with an American flag.  There was a lump in my throat the size of an apple as dozens of workers passed the basket carrying the remains downward, hand to hand, worker to worker, all handling the remains with extreme caution and due respect.  Here was another firefighter or police officer recovered from this smoldering maze of concrete and steel.  The basket was placed in the back of a waiting ambulance, which pulled away silently, as fellow officers wiped away tears and comforted each other.  How many more would there be?  How long would it take? How exhausted these men looked as they went back to their dreadful duty.

     Suddenly, our sheriff did an about face and ordered us to retreat.  We were off to Staten Island, where we were to stay and be briefed in the morning on our next several days of duties and assignments.  The scenes of what we had just witnessed raced through my mind, and I knew it would be a difficult night trying to capture some sleep, but it had been a very long day getting to this point, and I hoped that sleep would be mine, at least for a few hours.

    Our early morning briefing came at 7:00 am. The commander who was running the recovery operation on Staten Island explained what we would be doing and the process involved.  Everything from Manhattan was being loaded on dump trucks, then on barges, being carried across the river and to the landfill at Staten Island.  We would be handling some security, and many of us would be actually looking through the rubble

for personal items and remains of victims. 

     On the Staten Island ferry, our group was fully assembled and ready for the day’s routine.  We all had in our minds what we might be accomplishing that day.  Little did we know what was in store for us at the landfill where all the debris from Manhattan was being taken for the sorting and inspection. As we walked gingerly across the deck of the ferry, coming towards us was a young mother with two young boys, probably around five and seven. They clung tightly to their mother, looking a bit intimidated by our five men in black. The mother wearing a flaring skirt and blouse and had an American flag draped around her shoulder and tucked neatly into her belt line. She and her sons walked straight up to me, suddenly stopped and she said, “My sons wanted to say thank you to you heroes who have come to help us." I was taken aback, quite frankly. Both her boys looked up at us, each smiling faintly, still clutching their mother’s hands for reassurance.       

     I knelt down on one knee, looked at both boys, and said to them, "We are not the heroes here.  You are. You are the heroes because you stayed. This is your home. You didn't run away.  We came to see if we could help you and others like you here in these very difficult days."  I stood up and looked at their mom, who was now beaming with delight that I had taken a moment to speak with her sons. "Good luck and Godspeed" she said to me as she walked away as briskly as she had appeared, her sons each giving a small wave as they departed.

 

    Wow.  How did this sixth generation farm boy, now funeral director and member of a sheriff’s office, end up here? It was destined to be, and now I focused my mind as to what was to unfold in the days ahead, taking several deep breaths and pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t rambling through a very bad dream.  It was real, of course, and we packed into our suburban and headed for the landfill, the new home of all that was to come from Manhattan. 

    The next morning, our crew reported to our briefing. We were issued Ty-Vec, a full zippered white body suit with a front zipper, heavy gloves, tall rubber boots and a re-breather mask, all of which was intended to keep us safe and healthy as we went about our tasks, which were about to be assigned.  We stood at the side of the open field as the front load tractors brought forward the piles of debris and neatly delivered them, completely covering the once barren field.  As far as the eye could see, there was trash, broken glass, papers, steel, bricks, blocks, sinks, and, among it all, we knew there could be parts of some of those thousands who died just two weeks before in Manhattan.  As about fifty of us stood at the side of the field surveying our work, the whistle blew, and everyone started the slow, methodical task of walking across the debris field, a shovel or rake in hand, to help separate the precious articles on the ground. 

     I was going forward on my hands and knees, and as I glanced up, saw no other person in a similar position.  A majority of those searching were police and firemen.  To my knowledge, that day I was probably the only one searching with any knowledge of the human anatomy, what it looked like, in whole and in part.  If any recovery were to be made today, I knew in my heart it would be me doing the discovery.  It was soon after that I made my first gruesome discovery: a human organ badly decomposed and unrecognizable in its disguise of dirt and grime.  I motioned to the supervisor to bring me an evidence bag, and I encased the organ, labeled and initialed the date and time found. He shook his head in amazement that I could have found such within  the debris field.  While others walked from one side to the other, here I was on hands

and knees, searching slowly, trying to find something that I prayed could be returned to a family member for closure.   Again I asked myself, “What was I doing here?”  God again had sent me on this mission, one of the most difficult in my almost three decades of dealing with death. My eyes welled up, my hands were shaking, but I knew I was here for a purpose, so I put on a fresh pair of latex gloves over my leathers and continued. 

    By day’s end, we were all exhausted, mentally and physically.  The suits were hot, you couldn’t breathe, and the dirt and grime felt like it was two inches below your skin.  Could we do this for another week? I was starting to question my own resolve, after only this very first day of recovery.  I had been around, seen, smelled, recovered, embalmed, buried, exhumed and reburied death for so many years.  Why was this so much different?  These were innocent people, that’s why.  They didn’t have a choice in their death that day in September. We would continue tomorrow, but right now, we needed to stop, for our own good.

     The following days brought much of the same we had experienced in day one.  We worked, conversed, slept and ate with volunteers from all over the United States: men and women from fire departments, volunteer ambulance corps, law enforcement, emergency responders.  They were all here, from the biggest cities to the smallest towns, all pitching in to do their part in this huge recovery process.  The last two days, for me, would be the most humbling.  I was chosen with several others to work on the “conveyor belts.”  These were long thin conveyors running about sixty feet in length, starting at huge debris piles, running the sixty or so feet and up a steep incline, then re-dumping into a new debris pile at the very end.  Our objective as “inspectors and grabbers” on the conveyor belt was to watch for specific items, grab what we could identify, and throw them to our right or left for further inspection. But what would we be looking for?  Our answers came quickly.

     Our morning meeting included members of the FAA and the NTSB, National transportation safety board.  We were given a very detailed lesson on how to identify a piece or pieces that might have been part of the two airlines that entered the World Trade Center towers.  We were instructed as to what to look for in type of aluminum used in the aircraft, paint colors, rivet patterns, wiring bundles, etc. It was important to retrieve as much of these aircrafts as possible; it was all evidence in what was the biggest crime scene ever on American soil. 

     After a couple hours of instruction, we were assigned our respective stations, and

the signal was given to begin.  The conveyors were moving quickly.  The belts were each laden with all kinds of debris: concrete, glass, steel, wiring. The eyes had to scan the belt quickly as it came past you, and if you saw something that looked important, you had only seconds to pull it off and throw to the ground nearby.  It would be inspected later.

I saw many pieces of aluminum.  Yes, the aircraft colors were correct.  The rivet patterns matched.  The pull and throw process had begun.  Two of my biggest recoveries were an aircraft window and part of the hydraulics of one of the plane’s landing gear. The latter part almost took me with it as I grabbed it when it went by my station.  It was all I could do to muster the strength to pull it from the conveyor and send it crashing to the earth below.  And the aircraft window.  What a strange feeling I had looking through it, knowing that just two weeks before, someone might have been sitting on the other side looking out, seeing the Twin Towers approaching them at over 400 miles per hour.  I had recovered about thirty pieces of aircraft that day, some only a few inches in length or width.  The largest was the part of the aircraft hydraulic system.  I was exhausted, as much mentally as physically.  The deed of taking down the Twin Towers was so huge, and the aftermath for thousands upon thousands of people, not only in this city, but literally around the world, was astounding.  The whole event made one feel so small, so trivial, so irrelevant.  Being there, digging through the rubble, helping the recovery effort, allowed one to at least try to find a place in one of the worst events in the history of mankind. 

     After six days, we packed out bags, got into our two unmarked sheriffs’ cars and started the five hour road trip homeward.  We were all quiet on the way home that day.  All of us had in our own minds what we had experienced that week, what we had

seen, smelled, touched, experienced.  It was the most humbling experience I had ever encountered, being part of such a huge mass recovery.  As the weeks and months went by, I thought frequently about my involvement there and about if what I had contributed really mattered at all.  But, do any of us have an answer to that question at the end of a normal day or week, never mind a life-changing five days?

     The two images engraved forever in my mind are standing at the base of an eighteen story rubble pile in Manhattan and being greeted by a sweet young lady wearing a flag accompanied by her two brave sons.  I hope my efforts made a difference; I know they changed my life forever during a time that changed the world forever…


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