The 9-11 Experience of My Husband, Rick Mitchell

This is an account of the strangest day of my life. It was a beautiful day – warm and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. It was Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I had just come through the lower levels of the World Trade Center (“WTC”) about 8:30 AM as usual, switching from a Port Authority Trans Hudson (“PATH”) train from New Jersey to a New York City (“NYC” subway train bound for my office near Whitehall Street Station in lower Manhattan. I was in the office by 8:45 AM.

 

At 8:48 AM the first jetliner hit the North Tower. A co-worker told me that an airplane had hit one of the WTC towers and that the smoke from the building could be seen from the mailroom, which had a straight-on view of the south face of the south tower. The plane had hit the north tower, which was hidden from our view by the south tower.

 

As soon as I had completed a couple urgent tasks, I called my father in West Virginia to make sure he was watching the morning news on TV and to let him know that I had not been affected by the plane crash even though it had occurred very close to my workplace. After talking to Dad, I grabbed a disposable camera that I had in my desk and headed for the mailroom, which was also on the 19^th floor of the building I worked in at 2 Broadway, about 8 blocks south of the WTC. After photographing for a few minutes the huge column of black smoke billowing from the north tower, I noticed to my left a large airplane (later identified as a Boeing 767) heading from south to north, obviously flying much too low. As we watched in horror and disbelief, the plane smashed into the south face of the south tower, creating a huge fireball and causing a rain of debris to fall to the streets surrounding the tower. I had always thought that the first crash was no accident, but still I did not anticipate, nor did anyone else around me, that another aircraft would hit the second building. I was very shaken by the event, but somehow I managed to get a photo of the fireball and debris from the crash.

 

Since I had used all my film, I headed for the camera shop at Beaver Street and Broadway, bought two more disposable cameras and hurried over toward West Street and ran north toward the WTC. As I was photographing the burning skyscrapers, the first tower (the south tower) collapsed in front of me, sending a vast cloud of dust and debris my way. I managed to get six photos of the building as it fell to the ground, covering West Street with ten stories of wreckage and smashing the facade of the World Financial Center across the street. I soon found myself in a crowd of 2,000 or 3,000 people, all running toward the southern end of battery park to escape the rolling cloud of dust that was headed toward us at great speed.

 

The park ends at the confluence of the East River and Hudson River, so eventually the crowd came to the water’s edge, and a frantic scream arose from those who suddenly realized they had no place to run and were feeling the crush of the crowd behind them. In the middle of the crowd, I ducked behind a small building as the panicked crowd headed back north in my direction. As soon as the crush of people subsided a bit, I ran back east toward my office. The dust and debris overtook me, and I was covered with a layer of heavy gray dust. I pulled my undershirt up over my face, trying to minimize the amount of dust inhaled. That helped, I’m sure, but I still had a dry cough for several days. According to the local authorities, it was mostly cement dust, with a trace of asbestos.

 

I was still two blocks from my office, surrounded by several 60-story buildings, when the air was again filled with the roar of jet engines. I wondered which of the buildings would be the next one to be hit. For the first time that day I was frightened, and I looked for a place to find shelter from any debris that might come my way from the next attack. I didn’t know it at the time, but the roar I heard came from two US Air Force F-16s that had been sent to intercept the hijacked airliners that had already hit their targets.

 

When I got back to the office I found that hundreds of office workers had been moved to the lobby, which was considered the safest place to be in the event of an attack on our building. After a while we were permitted to walk upstairs, but only to the fifth floor, to escape the dust and smoke that had been pulled into the lower floors by the building’s air conditioning system, which was soon shut down. (Most buildings in the area were prohibited from using their air conditioning for about two weeks, because of the smoke from Ground Zero and a shortage of electricity in Lower Manhattan.)

 

A few minutes later it was announced that the building was being evacuated, by order of the NYC Police Department. We were directed to exit the building by the Broad Street doors and head for Pier 11 at the South Street Seaport – the southernmost tip of Manhattan, about half a mile south of my office. Everything in Lower Manhattan was covered by an inch or more of fine gray dust. By this time, about 12:30 PM, both towers had collapsed, turning a sunny day almost dark as night. A breeze off the water blew dust and smoke in my eyes as I walked down the middle of the streets, which were occupied by only abandoned vehicles and people trying to find their way out of the area and toward transportation home.

 

Although the building was evacuated, we were not permitted to return to offices above the fifth floor to retrieve briefcases, driver’s licenses, keys, money, purses, cell phones, etc. I had some cash, my wallet and a spare car key, so I was in relatively good shape,

 

But some, especially the women, were without articles needed to get home, such as money or prepaid subway tickets. We helped each other so everyone could get to safety.

 

I reached South Street Seaport in a few minutes and caught a ferry back up the Hudson River to Hoboken, New Jersey. Upon my arrival in Hoboken, I had planned to simply take the next train back to Dover, New Jersey, about thirty-five miles to the west, where my car was faithfully waiting for me in the train station parking lot. However, the “authorities” had other plans for me. They insisted on “decontaminating” me by spraying me down, clothes and all, from head to toe, with very cold water from the 4-inch hose of a fire truck. This caused a sharp, but brief, pain in my chest, but I was okay, even though I was shivering and soaking wet. Emergency medical personnel attended to me and gave me a sheet to use to dry off a bit. For about an hour I was held in a triage unit with scores of other people who had been decontaminated in the same manner.

 

I talked with a young Asian woman who had been late for work. Her office was on the 90^th floor of the south tower. She did not know the fate of her co-workers since she had not been able to get to work. An electrician who had been working in a building a block from the WTC said he had seen several people jump to their deaths from the towers. Others had stories they wanted to tell, but most simply sat in stunned silence.

 

After I was released from triage I caught the second train back to Dover. The first train scheduled to leave for Dover was so crowded that people were literally hanging out the doors. I easily found a seat on a second train, which was nearly empty even though it was only three tracks from the first train. Two hours later (around 3:30 PM) the train pulled in to the Dover train station. We were informed that the authorities wanted to decontaminate everyone on the train, even those who had taken the train from towns far west of Hoboken – because they had been sitting next to people like me who had been in the dust, smoke and debris of the towers. I made a rather strong argument that I had already been sufficiently decontaminated, so they let me go without the second decontamination. The others on the train were being lined up behind a fire truck as I quickly headed for my car.

 

A few minutes later I was perched in front of the television set, watching CNN explain what I had just experienced earlier that day. Those of us who were close to the scene in Lower Manhattan got the latest news (e.g., the collapse of the second tower, the attack on the Pentagon, the plane crash in Pennsylvania) only by word of mouth, from people around us. After watching CNN for a while I drifted off to sleep. I just couldn’t watch those images any longer.

 

My office was closed until the following Monday as all of Manhattan south of 14^th street was closed. Since my regular route to and from work had been destroyed, I had to take a ferry from Hoboken to Pier 11 at the southern end of Wall Street then walk about 15 minutes to my office. No more PATH train, no more subway and no more WTC. Just long lines at the ferries, frequent bomb threats and, of course, the anthrax “attack.” One lady in my office was badly bruised when the crowd trying to avoid the debris from the first plane crash shoved her up against a wall. Another co-worker lost his brother-in-law, who worked in one of the towers. My life was disrupted a bit, but the inconvenience I experienced was nothing compared to those who had lost friends, family members or co-workers.

 

Smoke continued to billow from the WTC site until mid-December and drift south toward my office. The smell of the smoke was a constant reminder of the horrible events of September 11, 2001. For several months passengers on the ferries and trains were much quieter than usual, especially as the ferries that passed the WTC site, where workers continued their search for the remains of those who had perished.

 

For a long time taxis were the only civilian vehicles seen on the streets. However, military vehicles, fire trucks, police cars, ambulances and trucks hauling debris from the WTC site were everywhere, as were police officers and unarmed National Guard troops in camouflage uniforms and helmets. It was a very strange environment, and it remained that way for a long time.

 

I took about 120 photographs of the 9-11 events and their aftermath. Since I have never been especially interested in photography, I have no idea why I left the relative safety of my 32-story office building and ran into the streets with my pockets full of disposable cameras. But I’m glad I did, as I was able to capture many good images of the worst attack on America since Pearl Harbor. Several of my co-workers said they thought I was crazy, but most of those people wanted prints of my photos. Maybe I wasn’t so crazy after all.

 

Most people who were there in lower Manhattan on that day describe the events they had witnessed as surreal – like a movie – but one so bizarre that no human being could possibly have created it. I can think of no better description.