Our team of firefighters was one of many from around the country who responded to New York on a rescue mission. We began loading up our gear, tools, and equipment immediately after the second plane hit the Tower. The experiences we had at Ground Zero and the lessons we learned about humanity are too strong to keep to ourselves. We owe it to those who died to remember their story.

Before dawn of September 12th, we were on our way to New York City. Our caravan of trucks and vans carried 100 rescue technicians and our equipment. The mood, as expected, was somber. Many of us had close friends on FDNY, and their images clouded our thoughts. Had they made it? We kept our focus by staying busy. I was in the lead van surrounded by some of the greatest firefighters I know. Three other chiefs and I organized our firefighters into teams and plotted our strategy. One of our firefighters was supplying us with updates from FDNY Communications.

A never-ending rotation of state police escorted us as we raced across the states towards the East Coast. Cars honked and waved, showing their support as we passed. Somewhere in Ohio we stopped for fuel and ran into a restaurant to pick up sandwiches for the ride. Several people stopped to say “God Bless You” or “Thank you.” Many of them had tears in their eyes. Although we tried to turn him down, a man in a business suit gave us 200 dollar bills to pay for our food. Other customers started to reach into their wallets. We refused their generosity, thanked them, and once again we were on our way. All of us were touched by the kindness of these total strangers.

The messages we were getting from New York grew increasingly grim as we closed in on our destination. The number of missing firefighters increased with each new report. The list was now well over 200 and growing. Among them were some of my personal friends. As we crossed the George Washington Bridge to Manhattan, all heads turned toward the billowing smoke clouds in the distance. Across the Hudson River, thousands of floodlights lit up the evening sky giving an eerie glow to Ground Zero. Our convoy weaved through the traffic and passed several police checkpoints. The glow was becoming brighter and the smoke thicker as we neared our destination. Finally, we turned a corner and there it was, bigger than life. Piles of rubble several stories high and more than a quarter- mile square were all that remained of the towers. Several badly scarred high-rise buildings, some close to collapsing themselves, surrounded the area. No photograph or television image could ever come close to what we could see with the naked eye. Exiting the van, we were greeted by a dust covered New York firefighter with a zombie- like expression on his face. He shook my hand and said in a pained voice, “Hello Chicago, welcome to hell.”

For the first time, we could see what we were up against. Finding survivors in this massive pile was improbable at best. We set up a base camp a few blocks away at a grammar school. All of the school windows that faced the towers had been blown out; the building was full of dust; and there was no power or running water. This would be our home for the next week. Ten years later, I still have visions of terrified children running for their lives out of that school. Many of them lost their father or mother that day when the cold reality of the cruel world disrupted their peaceful lives.

After establishing a base camp, our team spent several hours unloading our equipment, while others manned several hose lines to extinguish some of the buried pockets of fire. After a few hours, we staggered back to our base camp to get some much needed rest. Having not slept in over 48 hours, several of us dropped our sleeping bags on the dust-coved sidewalk and fell fast asleep. We awoke covered in concrete dust as the morning sun fought through the smoke and dust cloud. Our eyes burned and throats scratched, but with no running water or electricity in the area, all you could do was dust yourself off and go to work.

Our teams walked in tight groups as we headed back to the pile. A block from Ground Zero, hundreds of people lined the walkway leading to the ruins. Each wore the pained look of loosing a loved one. Tears poured down their faces as they handed us flyers with pictures of their missing family members, along with their names, description of clothing, and which building they worked in. The flyers were the type you post when you are missing a pet. These were for their husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. This hit us hard. These people were counting on us to bring back their loved ones, and they believed the information they provided would help us locate them. Knowing the astronomical odds that we were up against, we felt helpless; but you had to try.

Splitting into teams, we climbed a mountain of debris to start our search on what less than 48 hours ago had been the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Once atop the pile of twisted steel beams and pulverized concrete, we joined hundreds of other rescue workers searching every void that could be found. Safety of our members was a big concern due to the conditions. Each step was an adventure as we crossed over crevices and voids that varied from a few feet to over 50 feet in depth. Every couple minutes, crane operators swung 50- ton steel beams dangerously over our heads as the frantic search continued. Our dust clogged eyes burned badly, and a river of sweat poured from our bodies. I remember pausing to admire the beauty of an American flag gently flying overhead as it hung from a piece of iron. Its colors looked so bright and bold in contrast to the ugly shades of gray that seemed to envelop Ground Zero.

Emotions were high, and yet conversation scarce as we went to work investigating every nook and cranny to see if it led to a potential survivor. At one point, our team climbed down a deep crevice. After climbing and crawling some 60 feet deep into the pile, we thought we must be into the lower level parking garage below the North Tower when my light hit a red vehicle buried under a million tons of debris. We were shocked to find it was a crushed fire engine buried in the street. In this confusing maze, we were over the street more than a hundred feet from the building.

Halfway through the day, it was starting to sink in: “Maybe there are no survivors here.” Late in the afternoon my team found a very tight opening that seemed to lead to a larger void. I had to strip out of my gear to fit through the small hole. I was securing a length of webbing around me as a safety line when a New York firefighter pushed in front of me. He had that zombie look. “I’m going”, he said in an angry voice. “These aren’t your brothers, they’re mine.” “Okay, I’ll go with you,” I replied. He stripped out of his coat and squeezed through the opening. I followed closely behind him, but we didn’t talk. The large space narrowed as we crawled forward forcing us to our bellies. We slithered forward to another small opening and lowered ourselves down into a room-sized void. On the far end, we could see what appeared to be a stairway door. My heart was jumping out of my chest with excitement. Maybe this will lead to survivors, I hoped. Much to our disappointment, it was another dead end. Shining my light through a small crack in the door, we could see the other side was buried with tons of debris.

Just then the silence was broken by my new partner’s radio. There was excitement and yelling on the New York Fire Department frequency. Survivors had been found, and they were bringing them out. I quickly followed my partner back up towards the surface. By the time we squeezed through the tight passage and crawled back out into the daylight all of Ground Zero had come alive. Hundreds of firefighters were cheering. Heavy equipment operators were hanging out of their cranes screaming. In the distance, we could see two firefighters being carried out of the ground in bright orange stokes baskets. One of the victims raised his fist to the air, my whole body tingled as Ground Zero broke into the loudest cheer I have ever heard. There are survivors! There is hope! The New York firefighter grabbed me in a bear hug. He looked at me with watery eyes and said, “I was wrong, they’re your brothers too”.

Finding those firefighters gave a whole new energy to the rescue operation. The mood was much brighter, and rescuers got back to work at a feverish pace. I had a hard time getting our team to even take a water break. By the end of our shift, we were all emotionally and physically drained. Our team slowly staggered back towards our base camp. I was too tired and dehydrated to walk back so I sat on a curb to rest. Through conversation with passing firefighters, I found out that the rescued firefighters were not survivors of the collapse. They were firefighters from Jersey who had gotten trapped earlier in the day during the rescue effort. This kicked the remaining wind out of my sails, and the emotional pain set in hard. Death was everywhere. We were finding body parts not survivors. I sat there physically and mentally drained, thinking of the families left behind.

Just then two Chicago firefighters passed by on their way to the Hudson to see the Statue of Liberty. I felt a need to join them. As we silently walked towards the river, more firefighters joined in. When we arrived a few blocks later, our group had swelled to a dozen. Bright sun was shining upon this beautiful lady as she proudly stood in the harbor defiantly holding her torch. All of us were deeply moved by this emotional moment. For the first time today, I noticed that away from Ground Zero the sky was still blue. This gave us time to reflect on what had happened. I looked at my partners and realized that the terrorists hadn’t destroyed us. They made us stronger. I have never been prouder to be an American or a firefighter.

The next several days were filled with similar emotional experiences. The mood grew darker as chances of finding survivors lessened with each passing day. It was becoming a recovery operation instead of a rescue mission, and firefighters hate recovery operations. After a week, our mission was coming to an end. There was no happiness as we packed up for the ride home. We were overwhelmed with a feeling of failure. A photographer took a group shot before we boarded our vans and trucks. Seeing that picture several days later made me realize that our faces had become the zombie face of that first firefighter who had welcomed us to hell. He was right.

The ride home was the first time all week that we were able to read a newspaper or listen to a newscast. We learned how this incident was affecting the whole world, and as we drove through the country we could see the difference. Flags were flying everywhere. We couldn’t pass a car without them honking, waving, and smiling. Halfway home we stopped for gas, and a college-age girl jumped out of her car and ran up to us. Tears welled up in her eyes as she told us how she had driven 50 miles past her exit following our convoy hoping that we would stop for gas or food so she could thank us. This beautiful little girl drove over 100 out of her way to say thank you to total strangers. There wasn’t a dry eye in our group as she talked.

When we arrived in Chicago, we could see a noticeable difference. Sure, flags flew everywhere; but it was much more than that. The people had changed. Strangers smiled at each other when they walked down the street. Neighbors looked out for neighbors. Patriotism was everywhere, and everyone was acting like good Americans.

Everything seems to fade over time, and, unfortunately, over the last ten years most people seem to have forgotten how they felt that day. Most have long lost that patriotic feeling and reverted to their old ways.

We can’t let these important memories fade. We owe it to those who died to never forget. Never forget the 343 firefighters and 60 police officers that gave their life to save total strangers. Always remember the two thousand civilians at the World Trade Center and the military personnel at the Pentagon that died that day. Many valiantly risked their lives trying to save coworkers. Let us never forget the airline passengers or the heroic actions on Flight 93. Always remember the men and women who joined the military to defend our freedom, especially those who have made the ultimate sacrifice…freedom is not free. Never forget the way we felt that day or the vows we made to ourselves to be better people.

What is the best way we can honor those heroes on this anniversary date? Honor them by becoming the person you were in the days after 9/11. Support our military troops, police officers, firefighters, and medical professionals. Most importantly let us all be good Americans. Watch out for your neighbors well being. Respect others and treat them the way you would like to be treated.  A simple smile or small act of kindness to a stranger brightens their day. These acts become contagious and soon the world starts becoming a better place, one person at a time. It starts with that person that you see in the mirror.

God bless America.

Stay safe always.