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Copyright © 2021 by Joseph Pfeifer
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1 by Jean Nichols; 2 and 3 courtesy of CNN; 4 by Masatomo Kuriya / Corbis Premium Historical via Getty Images; 5 and 6 courtesy of CNN; 7, 8, and 9 courtesy of CNN; 10 courtesy © GaryMarlonSuson; 11 by Jeff Kowalksy. Unless otherwise noted all other photos courtesy of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Pfeifer, Joseph, 1956– author.
Title: Ordinary heroes : a memoir of 9/11 / Joseph Pfeifer.
Description: New York, NY : Portfolio/Penguin, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021024461 (print) | LCCN 2021024462 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593330258 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593330265 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Pfeifer, Joseph, 1956– | New York (N.Y.). Fire Department. | September 11 Terrorist Attacks, 2001. | Fire fighters—New York (State)—New York—Biography. | Search and rescue operations—New York (State)—New York. | Heroes—New York (State)—New York.
Classification: LCC HV6432.7 .P492 2021 (print) | LCC HV6432.7 (ebook) | DDC 973.931—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021024461
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021024462
Cover design: Sarah Brody
Cover image: Michal Besser / Alamy Stock Photo
Book design by Ellen Cipriano, adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen
Map by Jeffrey J. Ward
pid_prh_5.7.1_c0_r0
To the victims and survivors of extreme events throughout the world, especially my brother Kevin Pfeifer, an FDNY Lieutenant in Engine 33, and one of the 343 firefighters who died at the World Trade Center on 9/11. And to all those who run into danger so others may live. Your bravery is the inspiration for this book.
CONTENTS
1. An Ordinary Day
2. Aiming for the North Tower
3. Go Up
4. Déjà Vu
5. A Loud Rumbling Sound
6. Cloud of Darkness
7. Brother Searching for Brother
8. Fear at Home
9. The Pile
10. An Avalanche of Memories
11. A Race Against Time
12. Unthinkable Losses
13. Family Time
14. Becoming
15. Saying Goodbye
16. Through the Lens
17. Emerging from the Ashes
18. How Can I Help?
19. Igniting Change
20. Glowing Red
21. Smoldering Embers
22. The Whole World on Fire
Epilogue
Photographs
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
1
AN ORDINARY DAY
In the summer of 2001, all of us in the Duane Street firehouse had been hoping for a real fire. What we got were smoke detectors going off in office buildings, a car fire or two, and a phone book aflame in a garbage can. Nothing exciting.
We didn’t want a fire for the sake of a fire—we wanted one for Jules and Gédéon, and for Tony. For several months, Jules and Gédéon Naudet, two young French filmmakers, had been living at our firehouse on Duane Street. They were following Tony, a probationary firefighter—a “probie”—chosen during the three-month training academy of the Fire Department of the City of New York (FDNY). Their idea was to make a film portraying a “boy becoming a man in nine months”—the probation period when firefighters prove themselves.
And proving himself was what Antonios “Tony” Benetatos was eager to do. Unlike many probies, who had fathers or brothers in the department, Tony had no previous connection to the FDNY. He hadn’t grown up in firefighter culture, but he had the drive for it. “It sounds kind of cheesy, but I always kinda wanted to be a hero,” Tony had told Jules and Gédéon when they screened guys in the academy. “This is really the only thing you can do that you can do that.”
On June 1, Tony had been assigned to 100 Duane Street. Home of Engine 7, Ladder 1, and Battalion 1, the Duane Street firehouse was one of New York’s biggest and most historic firehouses. The Engine pumps water, and the Ladder, sometimes called the Truck, is a seventy-five-foot tower ladder. Founded in 1772, Ladder Company 1 predates the FDNY by almost one hundred years.
Probies learn to work both Engine and Ladder. After arriving at the scene of a fire, Ladder companies search for victims and locate the fire. Usually, the room is filled with smoke and you can’t see your hand in front of your face. You search the room by keeping one hand on a wall, crawling and feeling for victims as you go, trying to sense heat, paying attention to how to get out fast if necessary.
While the Ladder searches, Engine companies hook up the hose to the hydrant, then stretch the hose from the pumper up the stairs to the location of the blaze. The Engine is a four-person team working the hose to extinguish the fire. What seems simple is a highly coordinated team effort. It takes four people to handle a hose. The nozzle firefighter directs the stream. Tony would have to learn it all, but for now he was on Engine 7. Teaching those skills and that mindset takes time and is the responsibility of the entire firehouse.
I was the battalion chief in charge of this firehouse and three other firehouses in lower Manhattan. Each fire company has one captain, three lieutenants, and about twenty-five firefighters.
A firehouse is very hierarchical. The captain is the head of the house, assisted by three lieutenants. The officer in charge of the unit, whether a captain or lieutenant, must account for everyone who is on the fire truck. The Engine chauffeur drives the rig to the scene and gets it set up near a hydrant to supply water to fire hoses. The Ladder chauffeur has to position the rig in front of the building, so if someone is on the roof or shows up at a window, they can be rescued. Officers and chauffeurs, with their firefighters, form a unit that looks out for each other as they carry out their mission to fight fires and save lives.
The guys and I welcomed Tony. Right away, he began fitting into firehouse life, checking equipment, washing the fire apparatus, cleaning pots, mopping floors, and practicing sliding down the fire pole, all the while waiting for his first real fire.
But things were slow when Tony was on duty. All we were doing was answering Class E alarms—smoke detectors going off in high-rises—and conducting building inspections. Though we had medical calls, we had no structural fires. Zero. After eight or nine weeks, Tony did get to put out one fire.
“I got to spray some water,” Tony said with relief back at the firehouse. “I’m getting closer.” He said “closer” because the fire had been a car ablaze on the Brooklyn Bridge.
“That’s all right,” firefighter Pat Zoda told him, patting his shoulder. “My first fire was a garbage can fire on West Broadway and Franklin.”
If I thought back to my probie days, I could identify with Tony waiting for his first big test, his chance to prove to his fellow firefighters and himself that he could do the job. I could vividly recall one of my first fires in an occupied residence—entering the dark, smoke-filled room, finding the fire, putting it out—and understood his excitement and hi
s trepidation.
And I could identify with his desire to be a hero. As a teenager, I’d been a lifeguard, a certified emergency medical technician (EMT), and a volunteer firefighter. I loved that sense of purpose, of knowing I was helping people who were in danger. We all did.
Captain Dennis Tardio of Engine 7 put it this way: “You need to get up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror and say you are doing something with your life.” For all of us in the firehouse, our jobs as firefighters provided just that sense of mission.
In FDNY lore, probies get dubbed “black clouds” or “white clouds.” Black clouds bring fires, which keep the house busy doing the job firefighters love. White clouds bring no fires, no action, just boredom. Engine 7 Firefighter James Hanlon teased the frustrated Tony: “The kid is one very white cloud!”
Joking around was part of firehouse life, as a way to build trust in your team. One night, the guys lured Tony outside and dumped a bucket of water on his head. He looked peeved. A firefighter told Tony, “We’re going to bust your chops till you laugh about it.” Tony was being accepted, but, as Gédéon said, “The guys were not going to make it easy on him.”
Neither were the fates that controlled fires. July and August passed without a fire for Tony. But after twenty years with the Fire Department of New York, five of those years as a battalion chief, I knew it was just a matter of time.
* * *
• • •
On the evening of September 10, 2001, the aroma of roasting leg of lamb wafted up to my office from the firehouse kitchen, along with the sound of raucous laughter. The French guys were cooking.
I had arrived before 6 p.m., driving west from my home in Queens, across the Brooklyn Bridge to the firehouse at 100 Duane Street. That time of day, it usually took about forty-five minutes, and I enjoyed watching the sunset behind one of the most iconic views of the city: the Twin Towers with the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
Five days before, on September 5, I had celebrated my twentieth anniversary with the FDNY, becoming eligible for retirement. But leaving at age forty-five was unthinkable. I had studied hard to make battalion chief. I loved the job, as did my younger brother, Kevin. He’d joined the FDNY in 1991 and was now a lieutenant in Engine 33. His firehouse on Great Jones Street—a historic house built in 1899—was only a mile away from mine.
As brothers, Kevin and I were close. We lived in the same neighborhood where we grew up, Kevin only two houses away from my parents. My wife, Ginny, and I had bought a house a half dozen blocks away. Whenever we got together to sail, barbecue, or just hang out, Kevin and I talked about firefighting. We both loved the department and working downtown. Still single, he enjoyed the nightlife and exploring the city.
Firefighting had brought Kevin and me even closer together. The FDNY was our family in a way most jobs are not. The department fostered a close-knit atmosphere with picnics, barbecues, Christmas celebrations, and recognition dinners for firefighters and their families. Firefighters helped each other with household projects, big and small. Spouses got to know each other. Kids were welcome at the firehouse. We formed study groups to prepare for promotion tests. In a world where many have only a handful of good friends, we had dozens. Firefighting was our way of life.
It was fate I was at the firehouse that night. I typically worked two nine-hour day tours with forty-eight hours off, then two fifteen-hour night tours followed by seventy-two hours off. However, we could do a mutual exchange of tours and work twenty-four hours straight. Another chief in the battalion needed to be off and asked me to do a “mutual” swap, meaning I’d work from 6 p.m. on September 10 until 6 p.m. the next day. I thought nothing of it and readily agreed.
Though my office and quarters were at the Duane Street firehouse, I had management responsibilities for four firehouses. During my twenty-four-hour tour, I’d check in with the other three as well: Ten House—the firehouse of Engine 10, Ladder 10—was located on Liberty Street across from the World Trade Center; historic Engine 6 at 49 Beekman Street, located by City Hall and sporting the enormous image of a tiger’s head painted on its main door; and the South Street firehouse, Engine 4, Ladder 15, near Wall Street.
I loved being a battalion chief. For the first time in my career, I wasn’t focused on advancement. I had found the perfect rank, which combined commanding at fires from Canal Street to the very tip of Manhattan and connecting during meals with the guys in the firehouses, hearing their stories, especially about big fires.
Each night, in every firehouse in every borough of New York, firefighters eat a hearty dinner together. Firefighters are great cooks, and preparing and eating meals together builds camaraderie. After a fire or other emergency response, everyone sits around the enormous kitchen table to talk about what we did and what we’d do differently next time. Telling stories, especially after a demanding experience, is part of learning as much as it is about friendship.
Tonight, when I got to the firehouse, it wasn’t firefighters cooking, though. It was Jules and Gédéon, the French filmmakers.
The firefighters hadn’t made it easy for the Naudet brothers—the “frogs,” as they called them. Half the firefighters refused to talk to them for weeks after they moved in on June 1. Others dropped their pants, shot them the finger, or cursed with colorful and over-the-top profanity whenever Gédéon’s camera was rolling. But thirty-one-year-old Gédéon just kept filming.
In August, Jules, who was twenty-eight, mentioned their frustration to his grandmother. She told her grandson, who had learned his way around the kitchen at her knee, to “start cooking.” Jules took her advice and got to work. He made fresh pommes frites and lasagna for communal meals, and slowly the guys warmed up.
To show their gratitude to the firehouse for embracing them, on the night of September 10, Jules took over the kitchen to make his specialty—roast leg of lamb—for thirteen very hungry firefighters. Mouths watered in anticipation.
I stayed out of the kitchen; officers are not allowed near the stove. That’s the firefighters’ domain—a sign of respect as well as defining people’s roles. If an officer even tries to wash a pot—or touch a hose—firefighters will wrestle it from their hands.
As Jules and Gédéon cooked, everyone talked. They chatted about fires, about family life, about what we were going to do tomorrow. The meal tasted fantastic but fell spectacularly short in quantity. Firefighters eat fast—because they may have to run out to a fire—and have huge appetites. The thin slices of Jules’s perfectly cooked lamb, roast potatoes, and vegetables disappeared in minutes.
“That’s all we get?” one strapping firefighter complained. “That’s not even a snack!” For the rest of the evening, the guys taunted the brothers for roasting only one leg of lamb instead of four, gnawing on the huge bones as if they were starving cavemen.
“Where’s Frenchie?” said firefighter Kirk Pritchard. “A couple more meals like this, and we’ll be able to share shirts.”
“All right, all right, I got a small piece,” Jules said, hanging his head. “My mistake.”
To rub it in, the firefighters later ordered pizza. “We had a great time,” Gédéon said later. “We were getting accepted.” In a way, they were also probies. They slept in the firehouse and sometimes sat “housewatch”—to monitor the computer for calls and listen to surrounding fires on the department radio. But they were frustrated and discouraged on a professional level.
“By the end of August, we knew that we had a great cooking show,” Gédéon said, “and there were no fires.” But as Jules said, “Every time we would talk with some of the senior guys, they always told us—well, be careful what you wish for.”
It’s always dangerous when a firehouse hits a long dry spell. According to an old firehouse legend, when it ends, you’ll get a really big one.
Tony had already gotten a glimpse of the very real risks. On the first day of September, he and thousan
ds of other members of the FDNY had attended the funeral of a rookie firefighter from Staten Island who’d died of a heart attack during a blaze after only a few months on the job, leaving behind a two-year-old son and a wife with a baby on the way. Tony was given the sobering task of lowering the firehouse flag to half-staff in the rookie’s honor.
I enjoyed Jules’s lamb dinner with the rest of the guys, then returned to my office to do some paperwork. I never slept at the firehouse, only occasionally resting my eyes between runs. That night, we had several—a smoke detector going off in a high-rise—but nothing requiring putting “the wet stuff on the red stuff,” as firefighters liked to say.
2
AIMING FOR THE NORTH TOWER
The morning after the lamb dinner, loud chatter and the smell of coffee filled the firehouse. Firefighters bustled around the kitchen, cracking eggs and frying bacon. Jules and Gédéon were still getting razzed about the lamb dinner, especially by some of the bigger guys. But they took it in stride, happy to be teased.
I ate breakfast with the outgoing crew and those coming on for the next tour, which started at 9 a.m. after morning roll call. I had worked fifteen hours and had another nine to go. Despite not having slept, I wasn’t all that tired. I was used to this kind of shift, and the long hours didn’t bother me.
I’d called my wife, Ginny, the night before, as I usually did. An oncology nurse, Ginny was off that day. We alternated shifts so one of us could always stay at home with our children—Christine, age fifteen, and Greg, age twelve. When I worked, she would boast about having the whole bed to herself, but we couldn’t wait to be together when my shift ended.
At 8:33 a.m., we got the call to respond to a “possible odor of gas” about seven blocks north of the firehouse. Firefighters gulped the last of their breakfast coffee and grabbed their helmets and bunker gear. Guys still upstairs slid down the firehouse pole.
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