A Day of Disaster

As told by my friend Mitchell Stern

"The Shark"

Retired NYC Paramedic

It was September 11, 2001. The air felt crisp, and the drive from one side of Staten Island to the other was absolutely fabulous. I remember thinking about the onset of fall. Soon the leaves would be changing. It’s favorite time of year. As I had done every day for the past month, I arrived at the store at 5:00 am, fired up the grill and turned on the coffee to get the morning started. My new restaurant, Uncle Mitch’s Kitchen, was quickly becoming a popular spot, and soon my regulars began to arrive. Like me, they were early birds. After a 24-year career in EMS, I was used to getting up early.

“Good morning,” I said as my customers began to arrive. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Gonna be,” one of my new friends said. “Let’s get that coffee going, Mitch.”

“Way ahead of you,” I said pouring from the freshly brewed pot. We stood around and chatted for a while. I served a few breakfast orders and told a few jokes. We were just beginning to discuss the Giants’ upcoming season when the phone rang. I glanced at the clock as I was reaching for the receiver—8:50.

“Mitch,” my wife said. “You need to turn on the television.”

“Which channel?” I said reaching for the remote.

“Any of them,” she exclaimed. “All of them!”

I turned on the TV, and for the next fifteen minutes we all stood in silence and watched the scene unfold. Smoke and flames poured out of the tower. Emergency crews were arriving in droves. I felt a rush of adrenalin as I tuned the radio to 1010 WINS in hopes of gathering more information. The reporter added some details and said that fire and police requested all retirees and available personnel to report to the closest firehouse for mobilization. I had recently retired from EMS, following a 24-year career. I had done my part, but I knew in my heart that I had to go back.

“That’s me,” I said turning to my waitress. “Hold down the fort.”

“What?” she said glancing at the customers. “Where are you going?”

I tossed her my apron and pointed at the television screen. “There!”

I flew home, not stopping for lights, stop signs or traffic. All I could think of was getting to Manhattan fast. I still had a job to do. My wife was waiting for me when I pulled in the driveway at home. “Here,” she said handing me my uniform and equipment belt. “I figured you’d be needing these.” I donned the uniform and turned on the portable radio I had received as a retirement gift from the FDNY Communications Commissioner. I turned to the Special Operations channel for PD and heard the craziness that was on the air. A massive evacuation was in progress. Firefighters were going in. They needed more units.

“What’s happening?” my wife said. “Can’t the fire be contained?”

My wife kissed me. “Be careful,” she said as I was jumping back in my car. I waved goodbye and raced toward Manhattan. My mind raced ahead of me. Some sort of plane had hit the tower. What in the world was happening? What would they ask me to do? I realized there would be danger, but I had no concept of the destruction that lay ahead. I was pumped up on so much adrenalin all I could think of was getting there. I was on the Gowanus Expressway approaching the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway tunnel when my cell phone rang.

“Are you crazy?” my brother-in-law exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help.”

“But, Mitch, you don’t do this anymore, man. Let them handle it.”

“You don’t understand,” I explained. “I worked with these people. I have to be there.”

A Port Authority Officer waved me through the tunnel. When I came out the other side I saw road barriers already in place, and an area set up for construction personnel. Guys in yellow helmets were standing around waiting. Apparently this was a huge undertaking. They were mobilizing for the worst.

I parked my car and trotted a few blocks to the to the unified Command Post on the first floor of the North Tower. The street was littered with concrete and glass. People poured from the building, but I saw a line of firefighters humping hoses and other equipment, walking the other way, going in. I glanced at the smoke-filled sky. It seemed so strange to see the top of the tower on fire. The destruction was obvious, but I still got a feeling the worst was yet to come. A mass casualty incident was about to take place. I ran inside the building and found the Incident Command Chief.

“EMS,” I said practically out of breath. “How can I help?”

“You a paramedic?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. We have a treatment sector set over on West Street. I need you there. Go!”

I exited the building and started toward West Street. People were running in every direction. Some wore uniforms, others civilian clothes. Police shouted orders, sirens wailed all around. Fiery pieces of debris showered down from above. I knew I needed to move fast.

I was running across the plaza toward West Street, dodging falling debris, when I heard a strange sound above all the din. I stopped and glanced at the sky. A large shadow flew dangerously low and fast. It seemed out of place in the sky above Manhattan. I knew what it was in an instant.

“No!” I shouted.

I watched in horror. The plane crossed the rooftops and plowed into the North Tower, exploding in an orange ball of flames that poured from both sides of the ruptured building. The shock wave knocked me down. My eardrums almost burst. I lay on the ground looking up at the building almost unable to comprehend what was happening all around me. Then the debris started to rain down, much more than before. Hot burning pieces of building and people fell from the sky.

“God,” I shouted jumping to my feet. “Run!”

I ran for my life with hundreds of other people.

“Those poor people,” I cried. “Those poor people!”

I made it to the West Street South corner in one piece. The injured were everywhere. I saw people burned and cut. It looked like a war zone. I spotted an ambulance and ran over.

“How can I help?” I said. “What do you need?”

“Set up triage,” the medic shouted. “Send us priority patients.”

I set up a triage area on the sidewalk beside that truck and began sorting patients. And the wounded came pouring in. Burns and lacerations. Inhalation injuries and broken limbs. It was like the emergency room on a busy Friday night, only worse. Chaos ruled. People were scared out of their wits. I did my best to keep myself together, but it was like trying to hold back a fire without water. There was no controlling the scene.

“You, sir,” I said to one man. “Your arm is broken, but you will have to wait. Help me with her,” I shouted reaching for a critical burn patient. “Let’s get her to the ambulance.”

And so it went, for what seemed an eternity. More medical personnel arrived, more ambulances and supplies, but so did the victims. It was overwhelming. In twenty-four years of emergency service I had never seen such a mess.

“Hey,” I heard someone shout. I glanced at the closest ambulance. A paramedic was leaning out of the back of the truck waving me over. “Hurry,” he said. “Burn victim, man. We need help!”

I ran over and jumped into the ambulance grateful to have a break from triage.

“What you got?” I said.

“She’s shutting down,” he said. “She can’t breathe!”

The victim, a middle-aged female dressed in a singed blue business suit, appeared to be unconscious. She lay on the stretcher with severe burns over her face and a large part of her body. Another paramedic sat in the captain’s chair holding a bag-valve-mask over her face attempting to ventilate her. Both of the medics looked like I felt, on the verge of panic.

“Have you tried to intubate her yet?”

“We tried,” the first medic responded. “We, neither of us, we couldn’t get it. Can you help us?”

“Sure thing,” I said trying to remain calm. I climbed around him, waited while the other medic moved, and then positioned myself at the head of the stretcher. The victim was barely moving air. It was obvious her airway was closing. “Hand me the laryngoscope,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

I was just about to reach for the laryngoscope when I heard a low rumble.

“Oh, my God,” one of the men said. “What’s that?”

The ground began to shake. The rumble turned to a roar.

“The tower’s collapsing!”

I glanced out the back of the ambulance and saw a huge brown cloud rushing toward us. Thankfully, someone on the outside of the truck had the presence of mind to slam the back door. Then a tremendous wave of dust and debris poured over the ambulance and enveloped us.

I had thought we were far enough away from the tower. I had feared that it would tilt back where the plane had struck it, and that top portion might fall off, but the entire tower? The ambulance shook like a toy as huge chunks of debris struck us. I suddenly remembered my patient.

“Help me,” I shouted. “I need a number eight tube.”

I inserted the laryngoscope blade into our patient’s mouth past her tongue and lifted.

“Okay,” I said snapping my fingers. “I see her vocal cords.”

He placed a #8 endotracheal in my hand. I was just about to insert it into the victim’s mouth when I felt a tremendous impact. Something heavy hit the truck. The roof began to bend and collapse down upon us as if stepped on by a giant.

“Oh, my God!”

My helmet took most of the force, but my neck felt like a pogo stick being pushed down under the weight of the roof. At first I thought my neck was going to snap. The entire rear compartment was being crushed. I dropped the laryngoscope and lay down as best I could. The roof pushed down and finally stopped just inches from my face.

“Help!” I shouted. “Help!”

The other medic joined in. Several minutes went by before some firefighters removed the back door with a crow bar.

“We thought you guys were goners,” one of the men said.

“So did we.”

The patient’s stretcher was removed from the truck. We took care of her airway as best we could, but decided, that with all the dust and smoke we just couldn’t stay there any longer. There was too much devastation. Too much debris and confusion for us to continue working on West. We moved our operation into the American Express building and continued treating patients as they arrived.

As some point I glanced at my watch—10:59. Just over two hours had passed since I first received the call, but it seemed like eternity. My neck didn’t hurt, and I was breathing okay, so I decided to continue my work.

Hours later, after finishing triage and moving over to help with search and rescue on the pile, I decided to call it quits and go home. My uniform was covered with white and gray dust. My nose felt clogged like I’d been doing concrete work. I didn’t feel too bad, but maybe that was just the adrenalin still working, because my wife informed me that my speech sounded slurred.

“Something’s not right, Mitch. You need to go see the doctor.”

I made appointment with my personal physician, Dr. Tambour. He examined me the next day and sent me St. Vincent's for further evaluation. After numerous examinations and x-rays, it was determined that I had suffered multiple compressions of my cervical spine with a linear fracture of one of the bones. I was admitted and underwent surgery. I came out with rods in my posterior cervical spine, and a halo around my head. I spent the next three weeks in the hospital and was discharged on September 30th. I never received compensation and have since had many medical problems.

What started out as a beautiful day in Staten Island, ended for me, in disaster.