- November 23, 2024
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Editor's Note: For local ceremonies, click here.
by: Robert Gordon
In 2001, I had been working in New York City for about 20 years. My office was located in lower Manhattan and on 9/11, I was situated on the 15th floor of a 20-story building on Broadway about three blocks south of the World Trade Center. My office had a large window overlooking Broadway, and looking north from that window was a majestic view of the towers of the World Trade Center.
I commuted daily to Manhattan from New Jersey and took a train to Newark, where I switched to another train that went under the Hudson River into the World Trade Center. After departing the train, I would take a long ride up one of the three escalators from the basement of the World Trade Center to its mezzanine level. On 9/11, as I did each morning, I stepped onto the escalator at about 8:45 a.m.
Midway up the escalator, it began rattling.
Suddenly a number of NYC Transit Police began scrambling up the escalators, pushing aside the riders. New Yorkers are used to this kind of activity and usually are fairly unfazed by it all, and I was no exception. But when I hit the mezzanine floor at the top of the escalator, I realized quickly that there was something happening that was not at all routine.
A band of New York City cops and Transit Police were loudly telling the crowd to get out of the building, and they were not suggesting that we be calm and orderly about it. The scene was chaotic, with a panicked herd of people running for an exit.
I veered away from the panic and went out a door onto the plaza on the Broadway side. I discovered quickly that I had made a mistake. Large chunks of fiery debris, some the size of Volkswagens, were falling all around me. The sky was a blizzard of white paper; police and fire engine sirens had begun blasting; and I was confused as to which way to run.
Having spent so much time in the World Trade Center, I knew a variety of exits and entrances. So, to avoid being trampled by the rushing crowds, I opted for an alternate route out of the building. I veered away from the panic and went out a door onto the plaza on the Broadway side. I discovered quickly that I had made a mistake. Large chunks of fiery debris, some the size of Volkswagens, were falling all around me. The sky was a blizzard of white paper; police and fire engine sirens had begun blasting; and I was confused as to which way to run.
To avoid the objects raining down from above, I decided to zig-zag and serpentine across the plaza, which, in retrospect was, of course, ridiculous — as if the falling debris somehow knew where I was going.
Stunned and breathless, I made it across Broadway out of the reach of large falling debris, but still surrounded by clouds of floating paper. I stood there with an assembled crowd all staring in shock at a massive fiery gash high up in the North Tower. I still had no clue what had happened; possibly a gas explosion I thought.
I headed to my office and took a break to catch my breath at the rear entrance of my building and then heard another loud explosion. I couldn't see the Trade Center from where I was then, so I guessed that it was a secondary gas explosion. When I got up to the office, my staff was huddled around a conference room TV waiting for details. Others were looking incredulously out the picture windows on our floor that provided a bird's-eye view of the fire and smoke streaming from the buildings.
We learned that two planes had crashed into the Trade Center, the first one into the North Tower and then the South.
I then realized that the escalator rattle I'd felt was actually the plane exploding into the North Tower, and I was amazed that the impact shook the building all the way to the basement, about 90 stories down.
At first, everybody including the news media presumed that it had been a pilot error or some bizarre air traffic controller glitch. Even when the second plane hit, the thought of a deliberate attack hadn't sunk in.
The story rolled out over the next few hours — multiple planes, multiple destinations, terrorists — and it became clear that we were under attack.
But the information remained vague. Nothing much more than what we could see ourselves and what CNN provided was learned.
Suddenly I heard a scream from a secretary down the hall, followed by a frantic cry that the building was coming down. In disbelief, I began to rise from my desk to go look down the hall where the best vantage point was, but ended up huddled under my desk when our building began to shake violently. My picture window overlooking Broadway turned pitch black and began to vibrate. The noise and vibration were so great that I feared the terrorists had followed up with a nuclear device, and I figured that was the end of Manhattan.
When it finally began to clear a bit, out my window I could see through the haze a bleak winter-looking scene with white parked cars, white deserted streets, and sidewalks with a few dazed slow-moving and sometimes staggering people all also blanketed in a layer of white dust. The air was too dense with smoke, dust and debris to see the rubble of what was left of the collapsed tower.
I began thinking about an escape from the city when reports surfaced that the Brooklyn Bridge, only about a quarter-mile north of my office, was being used as an evacuation route. Then suddenly, the same loud rumble began again and there were yells from the floor that the other Tower was coming down. It was deja vu: the same intense rattle of our building and its windows and again the total darkness. Any thoughts of evacuating then were on hold. After almost the same amount of time it took for smoke, dust and debris to clear somewhat from the first Tower collapse, three of us who lived in New Jersey decided it was time to go.
The plan was to hike out, head for the Brooklyn Bridge, walk across the bridge and hopefully hook up with a friend of mine in Brooklyn with a car to drive us home to Jersey.
The hike out of Manhattan was surreal, with the dense haze in the air, white dust on everything, in some places more than an inch deep. I had removed my T-shirt, which I had soaked with water, and had it wrapped around my face. My briefcase was full of whatever survival items I could put together: a couple of bottles of water, an old granola bar, and even a pint of brandy leftover from last year's holiday party.
Along the way, I remember coming upon an abandoned fruit stand with an assortment of dust-covered fresh fruit. Not knowing what the future would hold, I filled up any available space in my briefcase with apples and bananas hoping that it wasn't technically considered looting. We were told by a passing dust-covered lady that they had closed the Brooklyn Bridge to all but emergency personnel and that we had to instead head for the Manhattan Bridge about a half-mile north to get out of the city into Brooklyn.
The view of the lower Manhattan skyline as we walked across the bridge was unnerving. Giant plumes of smoke had replaced the gleaming twin towers that used to be the centerpiece of NYC. We were part of a stream of New Yorkers hiking in silence, all in shock, but relieved to be out of the city.
On the Brooklyn side of the bridge, we jumped on a bus and eventually hooked up with my friend with the car. Dazed and tired, we finally headed home to New Jersey. It was a very long harrowing day, but it wasn’t until I finally went to bed that night that the immense magnitude of what all had happened and the carnage really set in.
Returning to work in lower Manhattan was to some extent grimmer than 9/11 Itself. By then we had a very sobering death count. Thankfully, I didn't know anyone who perished in the disaster, but I knew lots who knew someone who did.
Rudy Giuliani, the NYC mayor, following the lead of President George Bush, wanted to get everybody quickly back to work in the city to show the terrorists how resilient we were. Most major businesses were back functioning the week after 9/11. Most smaller businesses, however, were not operating and wouldn't open for months.
Lower Manhattan had the feel of a war zone, with heavily armed police and military patrolling on every street corner. Cleanup workers with their heavy equipment had converged on the site, and the gruesome task of unearthing and identifying remains had begun.
One day several weeks later, I was walking past the fruit vendor who was back in business. I stopped and handed him a $5 bill, explaining that I had taken fruit from his abandoned stand on 9/11. He gave me a sad smile, shook his head and waved me on.
All around the area, there were posters taped to street signs, and on walls were pictures of people still considered missing. Relatives and friends of those unaccounted for roamed the streets passing out flyers with pictures of the missing, hoping someone would recognize them and declare them to be alive. Numerous little memorials to honor the dead, in the form of candles, ribbons and pictures were seen along the streets near the disaster site.
The air quality in lower Manhattan was stifling. The remains of the World Trade Center were still smoldering in a giant ugly heap when I returned to work, and the smell was pervasive for months. People were wearing dust masks, and giant air cleaners were placed on every floor of major office buildings even though the city and the federal government declared the air quality to be safe — a claim that was later refuted. Most felt that returning to the area so soon was a mistake.
One day several weeks later, I was walking past the fruit vendor who was back in business. I stopped and handed him a $5 bill, explaining that I had taken fruit from his abandoned stand on 9/11. He gave me a sad smile, shook his head and waved me on.
New York’s reputation as a cold uncaring city had always been wrong, and 9/11 drove the real truth home with the many stories of the heroism of World Trade Center survivors and the fire and police responders' courage and sacrifice. The disaster definitely made New Yorkers starkly aware of how fragile and vulnerable the huge metropolis and its people really were and will sadly continue to be since their city and the world had moved on to a very different place.
Robert Gordon is a resident of Palm Coast.
