Latest / The Decision Advantage / The View From Engine 251: A 9/11 Remembrance
Transcript
- Brian: Welcome to a special edition of the Decision Advantage. This week marks the anniversary of September 11th. Today we're setting aside our usual operational discussions to share a deeply personal, first-hand account from one of our own. What follows is a reading of a remembrance written by Robert Ravert, consultant in emergency management here at Fermi Consulting. As he looks back on his experience as a firefighter responding to the events of september eleventh, two thousand one. Here's his story. What I write is what I remember from a very long time ago, and as I write, you must understand that I will at times paraphrase what others have said. I have been told that in the course of history, it is human nature to remember events by their emotional importance, not necessarily by their chronological events. However, the timeline of events is exact. The narrative is not. Furthermore, the passage of time diminishes memory. If it does not diminish memory, it certainly influences it. After all, it's been almost twenty five years, a quarter century since that day. But here goes, as best as I can recall. Tuesday, september eleventh, two thousand one, brought with it a beautiful late summer morning that we in New York look for after a hot summer. New York City summers are muggy, humid, hot, oppressive affairs. Your clothes stick to you. Garbage has that putrid smell. There's a certain odor of rot and dog shit in the air. We look forward to a good rain, even a small hurricane to give the place a good wash. So when September rolls around, you look forward to the reduced humidity, the fresh air, a clean breeze, while retaining the warmth of summer sunshine. September eleven was a beauty. Clear, blue skies, low humidity, warm but not hot temperatures, just a great New York day. Right up until zero eight forty-six. That's when the first plane hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The plane hit diagonally and stretched between the ninety-third and the ninety-ninth floors. Thirty minutes later, a second plane hit the South Tower at zero nine three, between the seventy-seventh and eighty-fifth floors, right at the southeast corner of the building. At zero nine thirty-seven, another plane hits the Pentagon in Washington, DC. At zero nine fifty nine, the South Tower, the second tower hit, collapsed, sending a putrid squall of ash, diesel, pulverized cement, drywall silica, and the remnants of hundreds of ground up bodies. The brown, green grey cloud just enveloped the street and reduced visibility and breathing to nothing. Finally, at ten zero three, flight ninety three, the last of the hijack planes. crashes in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. At 1028, the North Tower collapsed. The pancaking collapse flattened each faltering floor underneath it. Again, a cloud of toxins enveloped lower Manhattan. At 1720 hours, World Trade Center 7 collapses. However, there are no further deaths. Because of the way it fell and its lack of height, like World Trade Center one and two, there was a reduced noxious cloud of dust, but it still burned. The sixteen acre complex burned throughout the night. A total of 2,977 people died during the attacks, which include 2,707 people at or in the World Trade Center towers or on the ground, 343 firefighters, 23 NYPD police officers, 37 PAPD police officers, and seven other first responders, including law enforcement officers and emergency medical technicians. So ended a beautiful late summer day and started a nine-month-long process of work, funerals, and World Trade Center clean out for the FDNY, NYPD, and PAPD, and 20 plus years war for the United States that decimated two countries. In the span of less than two hours, the world changed forever. Me, I was in 251, the last outpost in Oakland Gardens, Queens, New York. I had been a probationary firefighter assigned to Engine 233, ladder one seventy six, in a place called Ocean Hill, Brooklyn. No ocean, no hill. But E two hundred thirty three L one seventy six, known as the Tin House, occupied the four corners of the globe. At the intersections of Brownsville, East New York, Bed-Stuy,and Bushwick. I took the oath of office to become a FDNY member on November nineteenth, nineteen ninety nine, And I was assigned to E233 in March of 2000, after the training academy. I learned my basics in the academy, but the education came in the firehouse. According to FDNY training unit policy, I will be temporarily assigned to another firehouse, E251, before returning to E two thirty three after one year. It was called the Rotation Program, so that all members could get an overview of the absolute diversity of New York City. And if there is one thing that New York City has, it's diversity. Glen Oaks and Ocean Hill were worlds apart. The Glen Oaks Firehouse was down the block from the Queen's Farm Museum, the last working farm in the five boroughs. The Ocean Hill Firehouse was across the street from a vacant lot where they used to find dead bodies and burned cars. But no matter where you are assigned to or the firehouse that you came from, the FDNY routine is basically the same. Usually for any firehouse, you arrive early, you get ready, you place your gear next to the rig so that you're ready to go. And then you conduct the following items in order all the time. You do your PC, PCI, Pre-combat checks, pre-combat inspections, Your gear first, then the rig, then the house watch, the area where messages come in from. Then the house maintenance. And in simpler terms, you ensure that your gear is ready to go. Mask, helmet, turn-out gear, face piece, spanner wrench, gloves, hood, jocks, lightworks, all of it. Don't miss a thing. There are no shortcuts. Then you turn to the rig. Water, fuel, booster pump, scot masks, extra bottles, compartments, all of it. No shortcuts. If you have a double house, that is an engine and a trunk, you turn to the other rig and give it a going over. Why? Because you must know what works, what needs to be replaced, and where things are. All of it. Then turn to the housewatch, check the books, the messages, the pass it on the book. All of it. Then the house itself, which generally means grab them up. Firehouses, because of the nature of the business, are notoriously dirty. Fires aren't clean. So you clean it up. At 0900, roll call, final equipment check, drills, hydrants, building inspections, and so on. And of course, stand your watch. Answer the alarms. E233 L176 was where I learned that the F DNY will be brutally honest with you, and while everyone takes the job seriously, they do not take themselves seriously. Oddly enough, there's a tremendous amount of humility in the firehouse, and arrogance is not. Tolerated. You must remember that you are the new man, the probationary firefighter, the probi. You prove yourself to be trustworthy, confident, but not cocky, and reliable. Remember this as well. The guys are watching you. They always know. Watching, assessing, teaching, learning. There are no secrets in the firehouse. You work, you fit in, you shirk your duties, transfer out. Simple rules for a simple life. It's in this amphitheater or this learning curve of life that he learned about Ike and Ted. two notorious people who live in every institution known to man. Ike is the I know everything, and Ted is the educated douche. The firehouse is a brutal place to be either Ike or Ted. So you show up and you show up early, ready to work, and you're sober. You're the first person to the sink, the mop, the broom, to drill, to the books, to the rig. You're never late. The last to eat and the first from the table. No one will wait on you. That rig will leave without you. When it comes to fires and rescue, you know nothing but know everything. You know where everything is because you inspected the rig. You anticipate what will be needed, but confirm it before you take action. The phrase I know will never come out of your mouth, but I got it will. You're a sponge soaking up all the collective knowledge that the house has to offer. The FD has a mean way of humbling people because each emergency presents different situations. But basic adaptation and fundamental principles can be applied across a broad spectrum of scenarios. Things will go wrong, sideways as they say. So you take care of the basics, such as the positive water supply and a line stretched to the main means of egress, ladder window. Don't just stand there and look at a potential issue. Fix it, and the rest usually works out just fine. You live and learn, and only over a long period of time. Become a good firefighter. The same applies to fire marshals, police officers, or detectives. Time and experience are great equalizers and outstanding teachers. No college in the world will be better than experience and corrected mistakes. And so on. On or about january one, two thousand one, I was temporarily transferred to E two five one, The last outpost from E two three three L one seven six, the tin house. E 251 was at one time a Brooklyn fire company in the same neighborhood as E two hundred three. On february twenty sixth, nineteen twenty, a third alarm fire broke out in an oil tankyard of the Brooklyn Union Gas Company, which E two five one responded to along with the rest of the thirty seventh and forty seventh Battalion. The fire was about a hundred and fifty yards from the Brooklyn Manhattan Transit train station and the U.S. Navy dockyards. So an explosion would have been catastrophic. The engine responded that day with nine firefighters. Three stayed with the rig and six went with the line. They were placing copious amounts of water on the tank when a fireball consumed them. Fireman Michael Carkell and Thomas Brennan died that day at the scene, burnt to a crisp. Fireman James Brunnan died two days later, February 28th. Fireman Frank Kalmyyer Fireman James Hughes I died march third, hours apart, and finally Captain Samuel Brown died march twenty sixth, nineteen twenty. The Brennan's were related, and the firemen were all from the same neighborhood. They were like all very close societies, both friends and neighbors. The firefighters found it very hard to go back to the firehouse. It felt empty. And it's a funny thing about firehouses and the surrounding areas. You're part of the fabric, intricately interwoven into it. And when death swings its long, sharp scythe, everyone feels it. This is a long time before modern therapy, but the fire department did something in which it is famous for goodwill and looking out for its members. They moved the company intact. Ricklin was crowded and getting denser all the time. It is referred to as the borough of churches because of the sheer number of places to worship. One or more per block is not unusual. Queens, on the other hand, is the borough of stone due to the number of cemeteries and farms. So with the expansion of Queens and the need for FD response, the FDNY HQ moved E251. From Brooklyn to Queens, kept its engine number for legacy and placed them in the most rural parts of the metropolis. The fresh air and the low number of runs helped the guys heal while simultaneously filling the need for public service. Over time, E-251, which still has a reputation for quick response, became a place where older firefighters go towards the latter part of their careers. Some refer to it as the land of broken toys. Where battered men go before being put out to the grazing fields. When I got there, it was full of wisened, crusty men who paid a price during the war years of the nineteen eighties and nineteen nineties, and were winding down, worn but not broken. The alarm runs were low, but fire duty was surprisingly high. But this is that story of that day. E two five one is a single engine, so after all the primary work of checking gear, rig, and housewatch, I grabbed a mop and a broom. I was mopping the second floor. Over the PA system you could hear the dispatch say second alarm transmitted for the borough of Manhattan. Almost immediately afterwards, third alarm transmitted for the borough of Manhattan. Then a fifth alarm. During this time, a guy named Bob Kelly, a senior manned firefighter from E two hundred two seven in Brooklyn, seasoned vet of the crack wars, Came upstairs and said, Turn the TV on. A plane just hit the World Trade Center. I turned on the TV, I saw that there was a diagonal scar running across the lower left of the upper right on the face of the tower. Smoke, more than fire, was seen rising out from the building. All I could think of was who couldn't see the Trade Center on a clear day like this. Planes have hit skyscrapers before, but usually in fog or bad weather. But today was beautiful. Then we had a friend of ours from a firehouse, a lieutenant named Bob Weezak, who was taking flying lessons. Jokingly, someone asked, Anyone seeing the wild weezer? Because if there's a guy who'll hit a very tall building in downtown Manhattan, it's Weezak. We knew it wasn't Weezak. The scar was too big. And Weezak is a good officer and a pilot, not prone to mistakes. But no one thought deliberate yet. From the looks of the fire, it was bad. We knew people would die. We just hoped that the amount was kept to a minimum. Bob Kelly had a brother named Tom Kelly in L one eight, also in Brooklyn, who would be second due on the second alarm at the Trade Center. So by the time the fifth alarm rolled in, Bob knew that Tom was on his way to the scene. Then it got worse. The protocol says that any aviation accident in New York City will immediately shut down and reroute air traffic away from the scene. This allows unrestricted access for air assets to the scene, minimizing the need to coordination in an unfolding event. When a jumbo jet was seen in the background flying low against the sky, there was something wrong with it. Something creepily, eerily wrong. You could see it. Hell, you could taste it. Then a couple of minutes later it slammed into the South Tower. You ever been punched in the stomach? Had the wind knocked out of you? I have both literally and figuratively. Growing up when I was about eight or nine in a place called Elmhurst in Queens, family lived down the block from us, and I was chasing one of the kids around like kids always do. No harm, just fawn. This is what eight or nine year old kids do. The kid had an older brother named Roman, who I guess thought that I was going to hurt his brother So to put an end to it quickly, Roman uppercut me right in the stomach. There is something about a gut punch that you don't forget. The second time this happened to me, I was playing roller hockey and had the legs swept out from under me. I landed flat on my back and the air just came out. It's unnerving. But you survive and you never forget that feeling. Then on october twenty third, nineteen eighty three, I was a duty NCO in the Marines and tasked to go to the message center. When I arrived, I read something along the lines of Beirut, Lebanon, O six twenty two hours, local twenty four, MAU, BLT one eighth. Truck bomb marine barracks two hundred forty one known dead. Gut punch. I thought Peacekeepers, killed in their sleep, I brought the message back to our OIC with a heavy heart. I said nothing and was told to say nothing. This was decades before instant information and the OIC would address it all at formation. I remember that gut-wrenching feeling, the uppercut, the wind knocked out of me. That being said, I should continue. Gut punch. That same feeling happened when I saw the second plane hit the tower. The spectacular fireball that blew through the superstructure. The feeling of futility. Not just helplessness, but uselessness. You see you just can't abandon your post to go help. The whole city must be managed with the resources that you have. The fifth alarm quickly transmitted to the Borough recall. Then a citywide recall. That means no matter where you are or what you're doing, light duty, full duty, medical leave, or vacation, get to work now. Just to show some dedication, I worked with a guy who was on vacation in Italy at the time. He couldn't get a flight back to New York or the States for like two days. Eventually he took a flight from Italy to England, England to Florida, and a train to New Jersey, where his father picked him up and drove him to Staten Island just so he could get to work as soon as he could. It took him four days, but he did it. No one stayed home. no one reported in sick. But we waited and waited and waited. Captain Gallagher was a senior officer in E two five one, a Vietnam vet who served with a 101 Airborne, a seasoned officer and a good man. He spent the entire morning badgering headquarters to get us to the site. He saw the jumpers. We saw the faces of frustration. We saw the towers come down, and not a fucking thing that you could do about it. Watch as disaster. unfolds around you. I called home and told my wife that I was okay, that she should very quietly and very calmly take our daughter home from school, And that I would see her as soon as I could, but not to expect me any time soon. It was going to be a very long night, and everybody knew it. E-251 was in the last relief convoy of the day. The roads were eerily, oddly clear. We went from Glen Oaks, Queens, across the 59th Street Bridge, down the West Side Highway in probably just over 30 minutes. If you live in New York, you know that's not just impossible. It's virtually unpossible. The devastation was thorough and complete. Burned and crushed fire trucks, police cars, garbage trucks. regular ordinary cars and trucks, smashed windows, totally and partially collapsed buildings, jagged window and twisted steel. Everything had a grey pale to it, and we were still moving towards Vessi Street to where our command post was supposed to be. When the rig finally stopped, I stepped out into what felt like a dry, accurate snow, similar to talc but grittier. The wind piled up papers on fire escapes like wind would push snow into mounds. The snow was the fine dust of pulverized cement, ceramics, metal, paper, people, sheetrock, and diesel. The mountain before us was a jumble of immense, wide reaching rubble. From one end to the other, nothing but debris. Huge slabs of concrete and superstructure, immovable by hand. The taste of metal and fuel, the smell of death. Fire still burned out of control, but as much water as possible was placed so that it wouldn't spread. But there was nothing to spread to. Once the fuel source burned off, the fire would burn itself out. The sound was just quiet, but busy quiet. The sound of the few operational engines trying to pump water, some radio squawks, a generator or two, but very little talking. People made themselves busy but unorganized. Some were organized but overwhelmed. Some stood in shock disbelief. And morgue was set up at the partially destroyed Millennium Hotel. When I got there, to me, I knew that was no longer a rescue, but a recovery. However, once again, the FDNY, in its infinite wisdom, turned the first fourteen days into a rescue. instead of declaring it a recovery. Survivors were found on the first day, but I don't recall any after that. But they kept looking, always busy, always moving forward. It was a very long night and full of things that I just don't remember well. Some bodies, mostly body parts, the eternal thirst, no food. place was so dry that we spent all day in those snowsuits. One of the proudest moments I thought, though, was late at night, seeing the iron workers and heavy equipment operators. Those guys who were unheralded. I must salute them. They marched onto the foot of the World Trade Center with the equipment and manpower to actually remove rock. It was at that point I felt kind of relief. I have three very good friends who are quite important to this narrative Joe, Jim, and Gerard. Jim and I were marshals together. Jim was one of my engine company officers, and Gerard is a friend for over twenty years. All long term F D and Y members, all present at the time of collapse, and in short, a snippet of conversation as I remember it. Jim. I was across the street in the staging area, waiting and thinking to myself, so this is how I'm going to die. Joe. I was near the garage and saw the jumpers splatter on impact. I could do nothing more than turn my head so that I wouldn't have to see it, but I could still hear it. Gerard. I was down there from the eleventh to when they closed up May 2002. Last man out. I ran the GPS unit and logged the bodies as we found them. I found friends that I had known since probee school, twenty years ago, and I stayed with them until the end. Our heartfelt thanks to Robert Rabert for entrusting us with his memories of that day. Bob's commitment to service and leadership continues to guide our work every day at Firmon Consulting. If you'd like to learn more about his background and approach to high-stakes environments, be sure to check out his guest appearance on our video podcast episode, Leadership Lessons in Emergency and Crisis Management. You can watch or listen to it right here on this channel. You can also read another one of his personal accounts on our blog at firmden.com. Thank you for watching The Decision Advantage and take care.