We crossed a National Guard checkpoint. Troops in battle dress on the streets of America. We pulled into a line of stopped vehicles and were informed that President Bush was preparing to lift off just to the south of our location. Until Marine One went wheels up we were going no further. We exited the van for the first time in NY. A few blocks to the North was Ground Zero, illuminated like a ghastly carnival of the macabre. Overhead the throb of helicopters and the roar of jets filled the darkness. US fighters planes and helos on combat air patrol over New York City. Simply unbelievable.
Much has been said about the smell. It is palpable. A sharp, acrid, pungent odor that assaults the senses. A foul meld of ozone, explosives, charred metal and other unspeakable ingredients. It is the stink of death and destruction. It is the stink of war.
We met some Narcotics K-9 officers who advised us of Smith’s location. After clearance to move, Wilson led us up the FDR, out of the cordoned area , across heavy city traffic to the opposite side of Manhattan, and back southbound into the snarl of emergency vehicles of every description. Wilson departed for other duties and we followed the K-9 SUV through deserted side streets into the heart of the rescue effort.
We met up with Detective Smith at Chambers and West Streets. It was there that we gave out the first of the Turbines to FDNY as they came off shift. Smith directed us to one of the major staging areas for teams headed to Ground Zero. NYPD ESU had erected tents for their equipment on the street outside Stuyvestant HS, a distribution center for donated supplies. We unloaded the bags of HydraStorm into one of these tents, assisted by two large ESU cops. We now felt confident that they would be distributed to those who needed them the most. We kept about 50 to give to SAR workers as we left the area. Mission Accomplished. On foot, we followed Smith into the heart of Ground Zero.
Within the restricted area it is almost impossible to walk anywhere without being offered water or food by volunteers. Pizzas by the hundreds. Energy bars by the thousands. Scores of pallets of bottled water. Truckloads of goods, equipment, supplies, clothing. All amidst a sea of cops, firefighters, federal agents, National Guard, SAR and EMT teams, volunteers, construction workers, and others. It was chaos and pandemonium drowned by the roar of engines and generators, yet somehow well organized and orchestrated with a grim determination. I was struck by the level of “politeness”. There was no unnecessary shouting or blaring of horns or sirens. No one task was more important than supporting the teams on their way to and from “the Stack”, as the smoking rubble is called. These men and women quietly filed by armed with shovels, buckets, picks and probes. Hard hats, paper masks and respirators, heavy gloves and knee pads. Some wore rappelling harnesses festooned with carabiners and rope. Some led dogs.