by Robert F. Robben (Greenwich Firefighter)
I had no intention of going into NYC on Tuesday. I promised my family I wouldn’t. It was difficult to work knowing what was happening at the World Trade Center. I even stayed away Wednesday although I was becoming increasingly anxious to do something. By Thursday morning I had to go down.
Knowing a car wouldn’t get me close enough to the scene I decided to pack my fire fighting equipment in a bright red gear bag and strap it to the rear seat of my motorcycle. I dressed in my volunteer fire department tee shirt, black military cargo pants, boots, and helmet. I placed my fire department badge on a dog-tag style chain around my neck.
My wife, Sheila, found me packing my gear in our garage. She was not happy about my decision to head into the city. She was even unhappier about me driving a military style Harley Davidson dirt bike on the highways in order to get there. I reflected the entire trip down I-95 to the Cross Bronx Expressway to the West Side Highway. Why am I going? Why am I leaving my safe haven of Greenwich? Would my children ever forgive me if I didn’t make it home? Before I knew it I was at the first checkpoint at 23rd street in midtown Manhattan. I reached inside my shirt and displayed my badge as it hung from the chain around my neck.
Traffic was being diverted at 23rd street. Police officers were instructing emergency workers to the right and all other vehicles to the left for a U-turn. I trailed a woman wearing doctor’s scrubs to the right. She was driving a mini-van loaded with what looked like medical supplies. All non-emergency vehicles, including hers, had to park at the Chelsea Piers at 23rd street. She then had to be shuttled down the remaining 2 miles to the World Trade Center area. I was waved on.
Thursday was a beautiful day in New York City. There were no clouds in the sky and the temperature was in the mid-70s. Every traffic light in the city is timed and nowhere is that more evident than that long straight stretch of three-lane highway from about 18th street south to Wall Street. What was also evident and quite strange was the lack of traffic. There were no other vehicles in front of me and none behind me. Something quite shocking was the amount of uniformed NYC police officers, BATF, FBI, U.S. Marshals, and other local, state, and federal law enforcement officers on the street creating a gauntlet. Some carried their pistols, some had submachine guns, and some had rifles. I wasn’t required to stop for any of the red lights.
The next stop was 14th street. This was a serious checkpoint. New York State Troopers along with military soldiers and other unidentifiable individuals stopped me. My badge was displayed, I was in the “proper attire”, and they waved me on. Two checkpoints down and I was still a mile or so away.
Smoke was easily seen ahead. It was obvious the trouble was in front of me. News vans and cameras were fixed southward. Large construction tractors and dump trucks began to line the southbound highway. Periodically a northbound dump truck full of debris would pass with one police car in front and one trailing, their lights and sirens on. I’m not sure what cross street I was at, but I came to a third checkpoint. It had become congested at that point and the police seemed frustrated with the amount of vehicles. They were dealing with huge construction trucks, the constant flow of ambulances, multiple support cars and vans, and now me on my motorcycle. I was waved on and told, “There will be somewhere to put the bike”.
I was close now and I was getting that feeling. It’s the feeling when there is confirmation of a structure fire or person trapped in a vehicle roll over. It must be the adrenalin releasing in the body. My body starts to shake and shiver as if it were cold. That is a strange feeling on a warm day. Ahead of me was something I’ve never seen before in person or at the movies, but first I had to make it through the fourth and final checkpoint.
I was now two blocks from the World Trade Center. I can only describe the area ahead as an infested anthill or beehive. Everything and everybody was moving. There were tractors and cranes and trucks. There were people in every uniform imaginable passing buckets of debris. There were welders torching the steel and iron. But there was a contrast. To my right, as I showed my badge one final time to a police officer, there were hundreds of fire fighters resting, dusty and physically drained. I was told to pull over, park, and walk the final two blocks. I had made it to “ground zero” or so I had thought.
There I was two blocks away from the worst devastation this country has ever seen on its soil, and I was alone. Everyone else seemed to be walking and working with someone else. There were teams working together from FDNY, NYPD, FEMA, neighboring fire departments, the military, and many others, and they were there together and working. I pulled my motorcycle over near a building, to what I learned later was the morgue. It explains why there were armed guards at the gate and a lot of medical people going in and out. I wanted to act as if I belonged, as if I was supposed to be there.
I removed the straps holding my bag to the motorcycle and placed the bag on the tan colored dust that covered the sidewalk. The dust covered everything. Cars that hadn’t moved since Tuesday morning were all the same dust color. Some cars were intact with a light coat as if it had just started to snow. Other cars were brutally dented with windows broken. Those were the cars with heavy dust inside and out. I opened the bag and sorted through my gear.
I untied and removed my old army boots that I wore on the trip into the city and slipped each foot inside my fire fighter pants right down to the heavy steel-toed fire boots. I lifted my suspenders and pulled up my bib-style fire pants. Bib-style fire pants cover both legs plus the stomach and lower back areas. This allows overlapping of the fire jacket, which would be considered a “short coat” ending just under the belt region. Overlapping is important in a fire because it provides protection from heat and flames when the body is bending or crawling in a fire environment. Overlapping can also be dangerous as it keeps heat in and can lead to heat injuries.
Before I donned my jacket I placed a heavy-duty leather belt around my waist. This is a special belt worn by fire fighters that includes clips, hooks, and other devices to hold equipment and tools in order to keep your hands free to work. This belt can also be used to attach a rope for rescue of both victims and self-rescue. I attached my flashlight to my belt. In the large cargo pockets of my pants I placed three sets of gloves. One set is for structural fire fighting. These are the thickest and provide the most protection. However, the thickness also hampers dexterity and the ability to perform simple tasks. The second set is thinner, but hold-up well in rescue tasks as they are made from Nomex and leather. These are the gloves worn by fighter pilots and crews. The final set of gloves is special rubber latex gloves when dealing with accident victims and the possibility of blood and other bodily fluids. In another pocket I placed my Nomex hood. The hood is protection for the face and head from severe heat of a fire. Finally, I pocketed the badge from around my neck, my keys, my cell phone, wallet, small multi-tool, and rescue knife.
The last piece of equipment was my helmet. Before I placed the helmet on my head I zipped my fire bag and looked for a secure area to store it. I was just feet from the armed guard at the entrance to the morgue. He guarded an opening in the wrought iron fence surrounding a concrete courtyard in front of a building. The guard allowed me past and I tucked my near empty bag in a dusty corner. I placed my helmet on my head and started out of the courtyard. I realized I still had my sunglasses on. I looked around and no other fire fighters were wearing sunglasses. I certainly didn’t want to look out of place even though I felt out of place. I removed my glasses and placed them in my gear bag. It was then I realized what a bright and beautiful day it really was. My outlook was about to change.
Teams of emergency workers were moving in all directions, mostly toward the destruction. They were in tight packs as large as twenty. They wore similar uniforms and equipment. The fire fighters were dressed like me. ESU wore black combat pants and jackets with sophisticated web belts, weapons, and helmets with lights on them. There was a team of twelve or fifteen from Department of Corrections. They wore self -contained air packs for breathing along with other equipment. As I witnessed all these teams moving as one I questioned myself as to what to do and where to go. I knew I had to go in and decided on a route. It wasn’t the same route as the teams were going. I didn’t want to be stopped for traveling alone. I headed west one block and then turned south. What I saw will always remain with me.
As I turned the corner to head south I looked up and saw the remains of 7 World Trade Center. The huge carcass, still smoking, was lumbering under it’s own weight. Its collapse occurred after the building had been evacuated. Therefore it wasn’t drawing attention from rescuers and the street in front was completely empty except for a lone tractor pulling steel away from the perimeter. Dust filled the street and sidewalk. On the street level stores, the windows that weren’t broken were marked with sayings like, “God save us” and “Gold Bless America”. These were simply drawn on the glass through the dust. 7 World Trade Center blocked my southern travel and forced me west back towards my motorcycle, but several blocks south. I exited the tomb of 7 WTC and entered a beehive.
Hundreds of workers were passing buckets in a fire line as if it were the 1800’s. Fire lines and bucket brigades were used in the 1800’s before fire trucks had the ability to pump water from a fire hydrant through the truck (or “pumper”) and then through fire hoses to extinguish a fire. The old time bucket brigades would literally uncork a wood dowel from the water supply pipe and fill the buckets one at a time. This is where the term “fire plug” originated. But instead of fire fighters running water filled buckets up the fire line, the workers were handing debris filled buckets away from the complete and utter devastation of the World Trade Center towers. From my new vantage point I couldn’t tell what was south of the fallen pedestrian bridge that used to connect the north tower to a building on the other side of the West Side Highway. I climbed a small dirt mound that used to be a beautifully landscaped area in front of a building to help in the surface search for evidence. The tip of this modern day bucket brigade was searching and removing the top three or four inches of dirt and debris on the north side of the bridge. I helped pull equipment and tools from the ground that had been buried after the tower’s collapse. At this point I still didn’t know the extent of the destruction. 7 WTC was bad and I had thought I had seen the worst. I was wrong.
Pieces of the building we were standing next to would fall periodically. Looking up the corner of the building was exposed. It appeared like a huge wrecking ball had had its cruel way with the building. Several large steel beams were hanging off as if ready to fall at any moment. The danger didn’t deter work from continuing at its base. Two different teams of searchers were getting ready to enter the area beyond the footbridge. They were obviously anxious and asked for ropes to be cut in 30’ lengths for self-rescue. I helped cut ten lengths of rope. Before I knew it the searchers were gone having disappeared on the other side of the bridge. I was left with three lengths of rope. I’m not sure what time it was or how long I was north of the bridge. I knew there was more for me to do, not just cutting rope and removing buried equipment. But how could I be upset at myself? Just two hours earlier I had been at home in Connecticut thinking about helping in the effort. Now I was in the middle of it all. Even if I had done only this much I would have been satisfied. As it turned out, my effort didn’t end there as word quickly spread that five FDNY fire fighters were discovered alive on the other side of the pedestrian bridge. A new team of rescuers was quickly formed and I joined them with my three lengths of rope.
I was second in line following a chief from NYPD. He wore a white button-down shirt and black pants. Behind me were several FEMA and NYPD officers wearing rescue gear. We worked ourselves under the bridge. There was enough space to crawl into as the concrete barrier, erected following the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, didn’t allow the bottom of the bridge to rest flush with the street. On the other side we climbed. We climbed up steel “I” beams as if we were on gymnastics balance beams. We would step from one to another as they ended their length or became too steep. What I saw next was hard to believe. This was ground zero. As my eyes adjusted to the view I saw an enormous open area. It was an area as big as eight football fields, four by four. We were on the northwest side of the debris field. All the surrounding buildings of the northern and southern WTC towers formed a huge containment area for the collapse including the bridge I just crawled through. As it turned out the five fire fighters were on the opposite side of the debris field, but I later learned it was a false report. As of that point, nobody had been rescued alive since the day before.
The team I had entered with began to work. Working at ground zero meant picking a place not previously searched and dropping down between the steel beams. Once down as low as possible we started to dig. Each void had to be checked. No one was near either tower. They were too unstable. Each tower still rose above the ground some 50, 60, 70 feet. It was hard to judge the height of the jagged edged remains. There seemed to be several hundred searching rescue workers in this debris field. They combed the area from the highest point, not including the towers, to the lowest void. Every once in a while we had to stop working and freeze while making no noise. It was at this time workers thought they heard tapping from trapped victims. Work would eventually resume within a minute or so.
It was hot in the debris field. It was a mixture of hard work, a hot day, and heavy protective clothing. I was initially working by myself in an area. I was focused on working my way down between beams when a fire fighter from FDNY Staten Island called me over. He said I shouldn’t work alone and I could join him and his guys. All five of them removed their right glove, shook my hand and introduced themselves. They had been there Tuesday, Wednesday, and now Thursday. They looked tired. I didn’t ask them if they had lost anyone from their fire company during the collapse. That conversation didn’t seem appropriate. As a matter of fact, there wasn’t much conversation at all. Like them, I removed my jacket and placed a thin white protective mask over my nose and mouth. Masks were being given out in the debris field. This was the only protection from the smoke and dust constantly around us.
The six of us dropped down to a new search area. We helped each other walk down the beams, past sharp edges, and crawl under steel and aluminum. Our goal was to find holes or voids between the large steel “I” beams. Each void was filled with paper, microfilm, and dust. The dust was a byproduct of the collapse, dry wall, concrete, and glass. We hoped to find voids big enough where a victim might still be alive. A search team near us found the top of an NYPD police car. They called for a FEMA or NYP K-9 dog and handler. They couldn’t manage to reach the top of the car due to the steel beams. Heavy equipment couldn’t be called in because they couldn’t penetrate the perimeter of the debris field. In our case, the footbridge was blocking the way. They hoped the dog would be able to tell if there was anybody in the police car. Nobody was found. The dog and his handler passed our search area, but the dog didn’t want to leave. However, we all had to leave as word came from the north side of the bridge that the tractors and cranes were going to try to move the bridge. This would allow the heavy machinery to penetrate the debris field. Staying where we were would be too dangerous so we had to pull out for a while. We needed the rest and time to find some water. The dog’s handler said we should return to that spot as someone was definitely under there. His dog is trained to stay on a spot when he finds a “target”. We marked the site and pulled out.
There was no further attempt to move the bridge and we were allowed to make our way back to the search site. We picked our individual search areas and began to remove debris by hand. The flimsy masks we wore might have helped keep some of the dust from our noses and mouths, but didn’t do much for the smell creeping up from the collapsed rubble. I wasn’t familiar with the smell and learned from one of the FDNY guys that there was probably a body nearby. The smell was particularly strong in my little search area. I was beginning to find more than paper and microfilms. I came across a battered business card. I found a wheel from the bottom of an office chair. I pulled out a fresh chunk of tree that had probably lined the streets before the collapse. I found a dusty sheared-at-the-threads bolt that once connected steel “I” beams. I needed to stop my search every once in a while and lift heavy long pieces of metal being passed from our search area. We were completing individual searches, but at the same time working together as a team. I continued digging through multiple voids in the beams. When I would exhaust one void I would move to another. This required little movement, just shifting my kneeling body. I knew I was near someone’s office when I began to find pencils and pens and paperclips. The smell would get worse as more voids were uncovered. I found two large “I” beams still held together by a two-inch plate of steel. The plate was about six feet long and four feet wide. The steel plate was angled such that my side was up on a slight incline whereas the downside was toward the next searcher. This angle created a chimney effect for the strong aroma. I had to bend over as far as possible to check under the steel plate. I pulled my flashlight from my belt and what met me tested most of my senses.
I began to remove the paper that was stuffed under the steel plate. I reached in as far as possible. I asked the rescuer on the other end to do the same. We were clearing under the plate from different ends. After I would clear some debris I would let the dust settle and check with my flashlight. After several passes of piling the debris on either side of me I came across a men’s black dress shoe. I called out to the others what I had found. One of my team came over and looked over the shoe. He pointed out the blood to me. Finding a shoe seemed significant. It belonged to someone and had his blood on it. There weren’t a lot of bodies or body parts being found on Thursday. Only 200 of 5,400 bodies had been found after a week of searching. So finding a shoe seemed like it mattered. It mattered to me anyway.
I then found a photograph. It was a baby photo with a name written on the back. I placed it in my pocket. I wanted to bring it out and give it back to whomever it belonged to. I knew, however, that whomever it belonged to was probably close by. I continued my search deeper under the steel plate. The odor was strong and met my eyes and nose each time I bent over. We removed as much of the debris as possible and, when the dust settled, created a clear visible path from one end of the plate to the other. I went down for one final check with my flashlight and there it was. Less than a foot from my entrance, along the left inside of the “I” beam, was a dirty, dusty hand. It seemed to stand straight up from below. I called over the rest of the team.
It was the right hand and forearm of a white male with dark hair. We were able to clean off enough dirt to determine that. The man’s forearm continued under the beam where presumably the rest of his body was. Members of the team went to the far side of the steel plate to see if they could uncover anymore of his body. They found his pant covered leg and foot. I figured a FDNY fire fighter would mark the site and call over an official in order to recover the body properly. I forgot they were the officials and that each team carried a bright orange body bag. The guys removed the leg which seemed to be 98% severed from the body and placed it into the bag. When the fire fighter was removing the leg from under the “I” beam some blood and other stuff splattered onto his tee shirt, arms, and face. Between that and the smell he began to wretch, as if he was going to vomit. He held it down long enough until the leg was placed into the body bag and zipped closed. My team was done emotionally and physically at that point. FDNY Staten Island carried out the bag as I lagged behind to collect the shoe. From the bottom of the pit I saw the one of the fire fighters vomit on his way out, and after that I never saw my team again.
I too was also done at that point. I was hot, nauseous, and emotionally spent. Word was spreading around the debris field that one of the buildings was about to collapse. It was a building with a U.S. flag on it. When I looked up at the surrounding buildings they all had flags on them. I sat down in the middle of the debris field. I had to rest. I was still carrying the shoe. I wanted to put it in the body bag with the leg. I thought it might help identify the victim. I couldn’t find my team and left the shoe at the command center. I was unsure how to exit at that point and didn’t want to stick around anymore if a building was going to come down. I asked someone which way to the nearest exit and he pointed to a building with open doors in its center. I ended up following another team heading out of the debris field through the exit when they turned around for some reason. I left the bright open debris field to enter a dark and damp hallway. I had to use my dusty flashlight to find my way. Lucky enough for me there was a water charged fire hose. Fire fighters are taught to follow fire hoses when temporarily lost in a structure. The training worked and I found myself in a marble and granite lobby of what used to be a beautiful building.
I was exhausted making my way back to the motorcycle. I was soaked under my gear from sweat. I had a pounding headache and the constant feeling of nausea. The smell was still all around me. It was an unbelievable contrast walking out of that area where dust covered everything but the weather was so crisp and sunny. Remains of police cars and fire trucks lined the walk back. I now felt like I belonged there. I had completed a task. Now the only thing I wanted to do was get out of there. But I had someone’s baby’s picture in my pocket. I made it back to my motorcycle and packed my fire gear. I placed the photo in my wallet.
I didn’t know where to bring the photo. I assumed it belonged to the man I found under the steel plate. I wanted to let his family know. I drove the motorcycle north to where the news cameras were. They were all congregated in one area as they couldn’t advance below a certain point on the West Side Highway. I was looking for a friend who works for NYC’s channel 11. I wanted him to show the photo and tell the family. I knew families were looking for closure and if, by chance, it belonged to a survivor then the family would know where to find the photo. I couldn’t find my friend, but found a CNN reporter. He asked me to come on TV and talk about my experience of finding the body, but I declined. I wasn’t there for that. I just wanted him to take the photo, but he refused. He didn’t want to simply show the photo which had the name of the baby written on the back and announce to the family that the baby’s father didn’t make it. The reporter didn’t want to make the assumption that the photo belonged to the victim. He also said if it were him he would hope his family wouldn’t find out that way. He gave me back the photo. I still had to do something with it.
I first traveled to St. Vincent’s Hospital at 14th and 7th where there was a center set up for missing persons. I talked to the people in charge and they directed me to the Armory at 26th and Lexington. The interior streets of Manhattan were busy with local traffic, law enforcement vehicles, and constant ambulances. I was able to make my way around fairly easily on the motorcycle. I parked at the Armory and eventually found a female NYPD detective who took the photo from me. I hope the family will eventually get it.
Now I was done. It was a long ride home on the motorcycle. The muscles in my fingers, legs, back, and jaw cramped along the way. My head was pounding under my motorcycle helmet. I periodically rested my head on my left forearm as my right hand stayed on the throttle. I made it home by 5:30, eight and a half hours after I’d left. I felt sick the rest of the night and tried to get to bed early. I had trouble falling asleep as images of the day kept running through my head. I didn’t know if I’d be able to tell my family what I had seen. I was just very glad to be back with them.
