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…
