by F. P. Lione
The chaplain didn’t try to help us make sense of it, he just drank his beer with us and prayed for God to bless us and keep us. It was funny, but as he talked to us about how God was gonna help us get through this, I pictured Jesus in the garden when he was on his knees, praying and sweating blood, refusing to give in to his emotions and let fear and dread keep him from the cross. I made a decision right then that I wouldn’t be moved by whatever was around me and that I would do God’s will for me in this place.
We heard a “Hats off” call as a body was carried past outside the bar. It was draped in a flag, another fireman. We put our drinks down and knelt on the ground as the chaplain went over to bless the body. We lifted our bottles to the body on its way out and finished our drinks before heading back to reality.
Romano left after that. He was going over to Liberty and West to try to meet up with guys from his house. At this point the cops and firemen weren’t separated, but I could tell by the amount of people coming in that we would probably start being posted around the whole perimeter of the site to keep people out. It was dangerous here, and even though no civilians were supposed to be here, I could see them threaded in with us.
We were getting used to the fighter jets flying overhead, and we barely looked up anymore when they passed.
The day wore on as we searched through the rubble. I tried not to stop too long on the personal items we came across. A shoe or an interoffice memo could be dismissed as anyone’s, but when I came across a school picture of a little girl who looked about ten years old, my mind stayed on it. I wondered if it was on her mother or father’s desk and if they were alive or buried under here somewhere. Or if the glass paperweight that had starfish and seashells inside it was from someone’s family vacation or a souvenir someone brought them. I thought about my cousin Gino buried under all of this and prayed for my aunt and uncle and Paulie and Gina and for the rest of my family, for God to help get us through this.
As I looked around I realized there were probably about five hundred people searching the area with us. There were a lot of members from different departments that had family members missing. I could see the horror and panic on their faces when they realized that their children or brothers or sisters could be trapped in this. I’d been here over thirty hours now, and I still hadn’t seen anyone come out of this alive.
As the sun went down we started seeing new faces come in, and while the tours were 4:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., no one seemed to be relieving us, just adding to us. We could tell who the first timers were when the new cops came in with their clean uniforms and the looks on their faces when they saw this up close for the first time.
At 9:00 p.m. Hanrahan got the call for all day tour posts to 10-2 the command post, which meant to go back to West and Vesey.
“What are you guys gonna do?” I asked the Miami cops, wondering if they had a place to stay.
“Someone made arrangements for us,” John said. “We have a hotel on 42nd and 10th, they said there was free parking there.”
“We’ll stay a little more,” Herman said. “What time will you be here tomorrow?”
“Same time,” Hanrahan said. “If you want, you can meet us at the command post around five or five thirty.”
We shook hands and thanked them, telling them we’d meet them in the morning.
It took us awhile to get back to the mobile command center. The city was quiet again except for the sounds of machinery and the hum of the lights from the generators.
The command post was lit up, with a lot of movement, people going in and out and handing the brass papers and them barking out orders into their radios.
We were shuffling now, with barely enough energy to pick up our feet as we walked. I pulled off the leather work gloves that someone had donated earlier in the day and stuffed them in my back pocket.
The lieutenant talked to Hanrahan and told us, “You’re out at nine fifteen, your tour is over at twenty-two hundred hours,” giving us forty-five minutes of travel time that we wouldn’t need to get back to the precinct.
Walsh was a little better today as we made our way back to the van. We were torn between not having the energy to stand anymore and not wanting to leave the site.
The van was covered in a couple of inches of dust and from a distance almost looked like your car does when you come outside after a snowfall.
Our mood was somber, and the streets were empty again as we drove, but I noticed traffic was down as far as Canal Street now. Noreen would beep the horn as we passed cops or other emergency vehicles as we drove up West Street.
Walsh broke the silence by saying, “Do you think anyone’s still alive?”
No one answered at first, and then Rooney said, “I hope so.”
“I know you hope so, Mike, but in reality, is anyone alive?” Walsh sounded agitated. “I mean, half the stuff is still on fire. Can somebody be alive buried under all that stuff, breathing in the smoke?”
“I don’t know,” Rooney said. “But I hope so.”
My mind was wandering as we drove up West Street. I thought about Romano and my cousin Gino, and about my father coming to look for me yesterday when he thought I got caught in the building coming down. He’d never been a protective father. When I was a kid he used to throw me to the wolves, trying to make a man out of me. When I saw him at the precinct he was like a thousand other fathers I’ve met, beside himself that his kid was hurt and scared that he was dead. I guess in a way I’ve always seen him as so strong and tough, and it was strange to realize he was just like everyone else. I got a glimpse of how he really feels about me, and I wondered how it would play out from here.
I thought about Michele and Stevie, and I realized they were my real family now. I felt like I was starting to get this love thing with Michele, and over the past few days I’d started to let her see me for who I am, all the good and bad, strengths and weaknesses. When those buildings came down and all those people died I felt like God spared me, and I didn’t want to take that lightly. And in the middle of all that horror I thought about her and Stevie out in Long Island safe at home waiting for me. And I wasn’t gonna screw it up.
About a hundred yards south of Christopher Street we heard a commotion, with a crowd yelling as we approached. I was in no mood to deal with anything right now, and I hoped whatever it was, they didn’t need cops for it.
There was a crowd of people facing the northbound traffic on West Street. They separated into two groups, one on the east side of West Street and the other on the island in the middle of the street. We all sat up to look at them and saw they were waving and holding up signs and yelling.
We couldn’t see what they were doing until we got right up to them. They were jumping up and down, waving the signs at us. They didn’t look like protesters, and then we heard them.
“You guys are heroes . . .”
“We love you . . .”
“God bless you . . .”
The signs said, “New York loves NYPD,” and “Our Heroes,” and “God Bless America.”
The “New York loves FDNY” sign didn’t surprise me, everyone loves them. I was more shocked that they were cheering for us; usually they spit and throw bottles.
The light was red, and we actually stopped. There were no cars on the road and we didn’t have to, but I guess we wanted to hear them.
We must have been a sight, because I saw some people start crying when they looked at us.
“We love you,” they yelled. “You’re our heroes.”
We all leaned forward, staring at them as they yelled and cheered, touched and encouraged that they came out here to do this for us.
We waited for the light to change, waving at them as we drove past. I sat back, still amazed at the cheering crowd. Tomorrow morning when I had to go back down and sift through that rubble, I’d pass this corner and think about them cheering us on. And I’d be able to do it again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We found that as we wrote this book we had to keep
a running tab on everyone we want to acknowledge for their input along the way.
First and foremost Mike Valentino, our agent. This is the fourth book and we never stop being grateful for you taking us on in the first place. We’re glad the curse of the Babe is finally broken and you got to see Boston win a series in your lifetime. We hope you took pictures, it may not happen again.
Lonnie Hull DuPont, the more we do this, the more we love you. Opa baby, bada bing.
Sal Ventimiglia, thank you for sharing your experiences at the Trade Center on that day and about FDNY. Thanks, bro, you’re still our favorite hosehead.
Joe Folino, retired FDNY and OEM. Thank you so much for letting us read your personal account of 9/11 and afterwards, we were riveted by your story.
Al O’Leary again for his friendship and endless connections. You’re a great guy.
Sandy Pedersen, the second born like me. Thank you for all your years of friendship and for really understanding the alcoholic family. Thanks for all your input, especially on step 4.
Richie Henberry, thanks for reliving the horror to give us your perspective of the towers when they fell. We hope we did it justice.
Scott Hennessy for sharing his story about that day before Frank got there.
Everyone at Baker Books.
Ben Laura and Pure publicity for all their hard work.
And Kathy Lione for her nursing experience, love, and support. I love you, Mom.
As always, Georgie and Frankie for their love and support, we love you more every day.
And P. O. Stephen Driscoll and Cira Patti, two of the many who lost their lives that day. May you rest in peace, old friends.
F. P. Lione is actually two people—a married couple by the name of Frank and Pam Lione. They are both Italian-American and the offspring of NYPD detectives. Frank Lione is a veteran of the NYPD, and Pam was a medical sonographer in vascular ultrasound until she decided to stay home full time with their two sons. Frank and Pam divide their time between New York City and Pennsylvania. They are the authors of the Midtown Blue series and Clear Blue Sky. To contact the authors, log on to their website at www.midtownblue.com.