In the Wake of the Falling Towers

On the morning of September 11, 2001, the United States experienced an unprecedented terrorist attack. Nineteen men associated with the extremist group al-Qaeda hijacked four commercial airliners. Their goal was to use the planes as weapons against symbolic American landmarks. At 8:46 a.m., the first plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City. Seventeen minutes later, a second plane hit the South Tower, confirming that the country was under attack.

Shortly after, a third hijacked plane crashed into the Pentagon, the headquarters of the U.S. Department of Defense, just outside Washington, D.C. A fourth plane, United Airlines Flight 93, never reached its intended target—believed to be the U.S. Capitol or the White House—because courageous passengers fought back. That plane crashed into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

The impact on the World Trade Center was catastrophic. Both towers, once symbols of American economic strength, collapsed within two hours, sending a massive cloud of dust and debris through Lower Manhattan. Nearly 3,000 people were killed that day, including first responders who rushed into the towers to save lives. It remains the deadliest terrorist attack in world history.

This was one of those moments in history where you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing the instant it happened. For me, it was a scheduled day off from the firehouse. I was at our family cottage, working on some preventative maintenance on our boat, with the radio playing music in the background. Everything felt calm and ordinary—until the music was interrupted by breaking news: a plane had crashed into one of the towers at the World Trade Center. Like many, I initially assumed it was a tragic accident.

But then came the second report—a second plane had struck the other tower. That’s when it became clear: this was no accident. I stopped what I was doing and stayed glued to the radio, listening in disbelief as the scope of the attack unfolded. Each update was more sobering than the last. The events of that day were incomprehensible, a surreal and gut-wrenching reality I could hardly process.

As the day progressed, the gravity of the situation deepened. The nation was under attack. And for those of us in the fire service, the loss felt especially personal. We knew instinctively that many of our brothers and sisters had answered the call, and many would not be coming home.

When my shift returned to duty at the firehouse, the conversation was dominated by the events that had just shaken the nation. There was a shared sense of shock and sorrow, but also a growing awareness that the ripple effects would soon reach us more directly. Russ Mitchell and I were especially attentive to the news, as we were the only two members of the Wilbraham Fire Department who belonged to a specialized Massachusetts State team that was rumored to be preparing for deployment to New York City.

Russ and I served on the Professional Firefighters of Massachusetts (PFFM), District 5, Critical Incident Stress Management (CISM) Team—a group comprising firefighters from across Western Massachusetts, including departments from Pittsfield, Chicopee, Ludlow, and Amherst. I was relatively new to the team at the time, having recently completed my training. While I was eager to serve, I couldn’t help but feel some apprehension knowing we might soon be called into an environment of such unimaginable trauma and devastation.

The mission of the CISM team is to support first responders who face tragedy on a daily basis—sometimes in ways that become overwhelming, whether all at once or over time. Our teams are staffed by specially trained public safety personnel and mental health clinicians and are available for activation 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Our role is to provide crisis intervention, emotional first aid, and peer support to those who need it most, with the ultimate goal of keeping our fellow responders both healthy and mission-ready. If needed, we also connect individuals with professional clinicians for further care.

9/11 was the kind of incident that tested the limits of even the most seasoned firefighters. For many of us on the team, this would become one of the most defining and humbling experiences of our careers.

On September 21st, just ten days after the attacks, our team was deployed to New York City. Upon arrival, we joined the rest of our Critical Incident Stress Management unit and began the in-processing procedures. This included securing identification badges and federal clearances through the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), which were necessary to access the heavily guarded perimeter surrounding Ground Zero. Inside, hundreds of emergency workers were engaged in grueling rescue and recovery operations. Sadly, by this point, it had become clear that the mission was no longer a rescue—it was a recovery. The scale of loss was overwhelming, and the atmosphere was heavy with grief, resilience, and determination.

Once we received our credentials, we reported to our assigned base in Midtown Manhattan—a high-rise hotel in the heart of Times Square. This would serve as both our lodging and coordination center during the deployment, providing rest between our eight-to-twelve-hour shifts at Ground Zero. The morning before our first assignment, we attended a critical briefing where we were introduced to our deployment partners: the dedicated men and women of the Los Angeles Fire Department.

In one of the hotel’s large meeting rooms, we gathered around long tables as the 24-hour Incident Action Plan was distributed—a document nearly half an inch thick, packed with essential information about the ongoing operation at Ground Zero. These briefings were intense and meticulously organized, covering everything from deployment schedules and morgue duty rotation logs to CISM operations, command structure charts, safety protocols, crane placements, medical contingency plans, weather updates, and current threat levels. It was a sobering glimpse into the scale and complexity of the mission we were about to undertake.

With all preparations behind us, it was finally our turn to make the drive down the West Side Highway into Lower Manhattan—a route that would lead us straight into what I can only describe as hell. In the days leading up to our deployment, I did everything I could to mentally prepare myself. I watched the news, read reports, and studied photographs, trying to grasp the magnitude of what we were about to walk into. But no amount of reading or watching could have braced me for what I saw when we arrived.

We reported to Vesey Street, where our Command Post was established. From that vantage point, the scale of destruction came into full view. World Trade Center Building 6 stood directly in front of us, still burning, visibly unstable. A thick haze of smoke clung to the air, muting the world around us into a palette of ash and gray. It felt as if all color had been drained from the landscape—this was the concrete dust that blanketed everything.

World Trade Center, New York, 9-23-2001 (Andrea Booher/FEMA Photo)

Towers 1 and 2 were completely gone, along with Building 7, the Marriott Hotel, and the elevated Skywalk. Buildings 4 and 5 were partially collapsed. Countless surrounding high-rises had sustained severe damage. It was like nothing I had ever seen—whole structures reduced to rubble, streets torn apart, and the familiar transformed into something unrecognizable.

One image that still haunts me was a small donut shop tucked along a side street. Its windows were blown out, but inside, the racks were still neatly stacked with donuts from the morning of the 11th, now coated in the same lifeless gray dust that smothered the city. All around us, paper and pieces of clothing fluttered in trees and clung to fire escapes like ghostly remnants. There were tons of it. The air carried a heavy, acrid odor—a mixture of smoke, pulverized concrete, and something far worse. Even back in Midtown, at our hotel base, you could catch that same sickening scent when the wind shifted just right, but nothing compared to standing in the middle of it.

Now came the work we had trained so long and hard for—supporting our fellow firefighters as they carried out the grueling task on what had come to be known simply as “the pile.” Our mission was to listen, to be present, and to offer a space for emotional release amid unimaginable stress. We began speaking with firefighters who had been working around the clock, but it wasn’t long before police officers joined the conversations as well. Many had been on duty that tragic morning. They recounted what they had seen, what they had endured, and the trauma they were still processing as they continued their work amid the devastation.

You could hear the pain and exhaustion in their voices. But I believe that speaking with us gave them some measure of relief, even if just for a moment. Over time, other workers on the scene—steelworkers, crane operators, and construction crews—also began to open up. Their stories were just as profound and heartbreaking.

One steelworker shared something I’ll never forget. He was working side by side with his father, who had come out of retirement to help. The father told me he had helped build the World Trade Center towers in the 1960s and ’70s as a young man. Now, decades later, he stood with his son, dismantling the very structures he once took pride in erecting—now reduced to twisted steel, shattered glass, and broken concrete. His sorrow was quiet but immense.

I can only hope that, in those dark and difficult days, we were able to provide some measure of comfort to those we met. That our presence, our willingness to listen, helped carry some of the weight they bore. It was an experience I will never forget—and one that changed all of us.

By the end of that first day, I was both physically and emotionally drained. The sights, the stories, and the sheer weight of what we were witnessing left a lasting mark. I saw bodies being carefully removed from the pile, and small boxes containing recovered remains being carried to one of the two temporary morgues set up on opposite ends of Ground Zero.

These were quiet, somber moments that spoke volumes about the magnitude of loss.

I couldn’t begin to fathom the trauma felt by the first responders who were there the day the towers collapsed—or by the rescue workers who stayed for weeks and months, searching, recovering, and honoring the fallen. My heart goes out to each and every one of them.

What we experienced in our brief deployment, which lasted just under a week, was enough to change me forever. For those who remained on the scene long after we left, I can only imagine how heavy those days—and that mission—must have felt. For many, it must have seemed like a lifetime.

When we returned home, the tragedy of 9/11 took on an even more personal meaning. We learned that a hometown son, Eric “Rick” Thorpe, was among those who lost their lives when the towers fell. Rick, just 35 years old, was a vice president at the securities firm Keefe, Bruyette & Woods, working on the 89th floor of Tower 2 when United Airlines Flight 175 struck the building at 9:02 a.m. on September 11, 2001.

Eric “Rick” Thorpe (Rick’s Place)

A proud graduate and star athlete from Minnechaug Regional High School, Rick grew up in Wilbraham and was well-known in the community. He was also a devoted husband and the father of a 15-month-old daughter, Alexis. His loss brought the heartbreak of that day painfully close to home. It served as a powerful reminder that no community, no matter how small or far from New York City, was untouched by the events of that tragic morning.