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And then we thank God we weren't. But, strange as it may sound to those who watched that day unfold from some safe distance, there are those who wish they had been there, those who, like Shakespeare's "gentlemen in England now a-bed," regret having missed what will long be remembered as the defining moment in the lives of so many of their comrades. Today the firemen of New York might be grouped into two categories: those who were "there," and those who weren't. And though they may not have expressed it to anyone but themselves, those who weren't there, almost to a man, I'm guessing, wish they had been. For if you were a New York City fireman on the morning of September 11, 2001, there was only one place to be. But even as the world seemed to be ending downtown that morning, the more mundane emergencies that routinely dot the landscape of New York continued uninterrupted: Buildings caught fire, cars crashed, elevators got stuck. People found themselves in need of help. And though it may have taken little longer to arrive, through it all they got it. Even as the smoke loomed up from the tip of Manhattan, the firemen who stayed behind throughout the five boroughs continued to do their duty on the smaller stages of everyday dramas. But it was duty that called so many others to the World Trade Center that morning, and for 343 of them it was the last run of their lives. As most of the people in lower Manhattan were running away — as well they should have — a constant stream of firemen fought through the escaping tide to arrive at the very center of hell on earth, and then to wonder, briefly, "What in the name of God am I supposed to do now?" As a cop I am proud to acknowledge the acts heroism displayed by so many NYPD and Port Authority police officers that day. And when heroism is mentioned, who can forget the passengers of Flight 93, about whose heroism we have learned only scant, tantalizing details. And surely there were many, many others, ordinary folks who went to work or got on an airplane that morning never dreaming of what awaited them, people whose heroism is today known only to God. But to me, September 11 will forever be the Day of the Fireman. There is a peculiar sort of camaraderie that exists between cops and firemen, one based on mutual respect and the mutual belief that the others are a bit soft in the head. "How can you go running into a store" a fireman asks a cop, "when you know there's some guy with a gun in there robbing it?" Answers the cop: "It's better than running into one that's on fire." Some of the many examinations of the events that day have been critical of the manner in which both the NYPD and NYFD responded. There was a fatal lack of coordination and communication between the two departments. For example, after the collapse of the south tower, police helicopter pilots hovering over the north tower radioed that it, too, appeared ready to fall. Most of the police officers in the north tower escaped, but apparently the warning never reached the firemen in the building, 121 of whom were killed when the collapse indeed came some 20 minutes later. Tragic, to be sure. A lesson to be learned for next time. But such things happen in war, and let it not be forgotten that a war started that morning. And in fighting a war, just as in fighting crime and fighting fires, there are those who make the plans and those who do the fighting. It's all well and good to have a plan, but victory comes to those who adapt when the plan, as it almost always does, goes in the toilet. There was probably never a more elaborate plan than when the Allies invaded France on June 6, 1944, but when the paratroopers dropped into in the wrong places and the soldiers landed on the wrong beaches, it was the ones who innovated, the ones who said "The hell with the plan, the war starts here" who carried the day. And so it was at the World Trade Center that morning a year ago. It is important to remember that while many died, it is nothing short of miraculous that so many others did not. Most of the people working in the Twin Towers that morning escaped thanks to the bravery of those men who picked up their gear and came running while everyone else was running away. Many, many more might have perished if those firemen had stood around waiting for some chief to tell them what to do. They knew what to do. And they went up the stairs and did it. There has been much debate about what should be built on the World Trade Center site, about how best to honor the dead while serving the living. Whatever grand and glorious structures may someday rise from that hallowed ground, I hope they save some small corner of it for one thing: a fire station. Not some palatial headquarters for the suits and the people who make their precious plans, but a working firehouse for the men who haul hose and eat smoke. Maybe in 25 years or so some rookie fireman will walk into that station on his first day on the job, and as he is being shown around the place he will pass some graying veteran who will of course regard the newcomer as he might some bug on the sidewalk. And the rookie will ask, "What's with him?" And the answer will be, "He was there." — Jack Dunphy is an officer in the Los Angeles Police Department. "Jack Dunphy" is the author's nom de cyber. The opinions expressed are his own and almost certainly do not reflect those of the LAPD management. |
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his
is the time to remember, to recall where we were and what we were doing
when we first heard the news, when we first turned on our televisions
and saw . . . all of it. And of course we remember those who died that
day, whether in the buildings or on the airplanes, and we wonder to ourselves
what it must have been like, in those last, awful moments, to have been
. . . there.
