The trip northward  on the New Jersey Turnpike at 1 a.m., that normally takes and hour lasted almost three.

From a point just behind the Statue of Liberty we saw first hand what till then had been only photographs and video of the New York City skyline clouded over by an ominous plume of dark grays and black smoke.  It was from this vantage point behind the "Lady of Freedom" that the reality hit home.  They were gone.  The twin towers that were so obtrusive in all my past visits were missing.  My thoughts returned to the view from the 110th floor observation deck, and the high speed  elevator ride to the top floor observation deck,  flooded through my mind trying in vain to disbelieve what I knew was true. From where they once stood majestically now skyward rose only the smoke, now lit by millions of watts of lights giving the appearance of some living entity.

The boat ride across the harbor was silent.   A silence more felt than heard.  The cacophony of heavy equipment, sirens, engines, breaking glass,creaking debris and whispers of disbelief  all intermingled into a  drone that seemed far away, almost in another dimension.  We would become numb to it too, as all who were there already were.  As the boat docked, something that I had thought that was finally buried deep in the recesses of my mind returned, seemingly as if it had never left.    My friend Rick, turned to me to ask the inevitable, and I knew it would come, but hadn't planned on it quite so soon.  Before he could utter a word my voice said quietly,it's the smell of death.

We disembarked, signed the appropriate forms, spoke to the operations site manager, then boarded a small van that would lead us south in the direction of the ghostlike pall rising endlessly from what was now referred to as Ground Zero.  As we neared our embarkation the silence only deepened.  There was nothing to say.  There was nothing anyone could say.  You were left to feel.  Feel the heat emanating from the ruins.  Feel the dust as  it settled upon you.  Feel the pent up emotions inside yourself and  in everyone surrounding you.   And feel, what I can describe only as a presence.  Nothing supernatural, but something in the air if you will.  Perhaps foreboding, perhaps fear.  

The silence was deafening, and the smell permeated your being.   The acrid smoke and dust was filtered out through the respirators, yet the renal senses were inundated with an odor, that can be experienced, but cannot be described.  Rick, his brother and myself walked toward the area we were assigned and began to clear small bits of what was once the Twin Towers.  The dust covered everything reminding me of a new fallen snow, but this snow was gray and rose in small clouds whenever it was disturbed, only to settle elsewhere. As we exposed one area, the settling dust obliterated another.

Our intentions were shall we say, well meant.  I  wondered just why we were there, and thinking about it helped to keep the mind occupied instead of dwelling on thoughts of what you were standing on.  There was no perfect answer.  Yes we were there to help in any way we could, but help who?   Ourselves perhaps by easing some sort of guilt that seemed to weigh on everyone's shoulders.  Not that any of us could have prevented what had happened, but  we all wondered just how this could happen, maybe blaming ourselves in some sort of self penance that we were spared, and someone else had paid the price of our collective misgivings. Perhaps it was just the human aspect of wanting to do something to help, to alleviate the complete and utter feelings of frustration and helplessness.  Who knows?  Whatever the answer, if there are any, will never be known, and that too adds to the feelings of  helplessness   There was another feeling that was visibly evident as the day wore on.  The feeling of hope.  Many times during the day everyone would stop, and listen. Hoping that "this time" the groan heard was not that of the debris shifting, but a sound made by one of the living.  Unfortunately, we never heard the sound we so desperately wanted to hear, though there wasstill something inside us all that would not give up nor let go of,  and we continued to dig.

Personal effects took their toll.  Briefcases, some intact, some twisted and mangled.  Picture frames that once stood on someone's desk were now picked up, and tossed in the buckets for disposal, but we all looked at the pictures.  Some showed a family, now no longer together.  Some were pictures of children, that now had no mom or dad to comfort them.  Some were relatives, or friends or lovers, and eachone took its toll.  Sorrow, anger, and frustration came in waves, and with each wave came the tears.

We all cried.  From myself who had thought he had seen it all in Nam, to the grizzled Fireman and Policeman who thought they had seen it all.  This was different.  This was personal. This was home.  Not some far away place where the mind could disassociate itself from what was going on, or from what you had to do.

As the night wore on the silence broke, and we all broke along with it.   A pitiful broken voice rang out with "Oh my God No".  We moved toward the commotion and watched helplessly as the  bodies of three fireman were removed from the rubble and placed in the ever present   body bags. And the helplessness only deepened as we saw a fireman collapse from the shock.  Not the shock of seeing a mangled body.  But the reality of seeing three of his friends who he was to relieve at the end of their shift.  As if that weren't enough, two of the victims hit closer to home.   One was his brother, and the other his Father.  A family that he no longer had.  Again the tears came, and with each coming  time felt worse than the ones before.  The tears were endless, and the hurt grew throughout the night, minute by minuted and hour to hour and on  into the next day.

As the sun began to rise on Sunday morning, the light seemed to ease the exhaustion everyone felt, seeming to give us all renewed strength and vigor.  With it being Sunday, and hearing church bells from the distant St. Patrick's Cathedral thoughts of the Almighty crept into our thoughts.  Some will say it was "his will" that this had happened, and that there is a purpose in his scheme of things.  Others like myself thought of the childhood teachings drummed into our heads, of a just and merciful God, and became more confused and apathetic to the entire concept.  "Just"?   "Merciful"?  Though I honestly tried,  I saw none of it.  I beheld  sadness, pain and horror.   If this was anyone's "Will",  as far as I am concerned they should have suffered the same fate as the innocents entombed in this dust covered hell. But each person handles it differently, as is our right guaranteed by our Constitution,   and this writer
has no qualms at all about that.

Again we resumed our task knowing that we only had a few more hours to give before we had to return to our "normal lives" and work the next day.  We discussed staying as we worked and were in the middle of a heated conversation when I stopped and grew silent.  I felt the tears begin to well inside me again, but held them back as my hand pulled back a piece of sheetrock.  The hand is what caught my eye, and I knew what  was about to uncovered.  I was wrong.  As the debris was moved, Rick and his brother came over to help. Each of us spoke the same word.  NO.  Now visible before us was an entire arm and shoulder.  That was all. Not a body.  Just an arm.  A small arm.  To this day I have convinced myself that it belonged to a frail tiny petite woman, but my heart knows differently.  It knows the truth, and my body shuddered with the sobs wracking through me, only to be quelled temporarily by the anger inside me wanting vengeance on those who had taken this childs life.  Decency and humanity be damned.  I still want vengeance, and only become frustrated by the fact that there is no vengeance in the world that will undo what has been done.  None that will ease the pain and sorrow.

We took our "find" to the Armory, to be added to the growing list of entries, and prepared to leave, still wishing we could do more.  By now we were hardened to it all.  Not by a longshot.  Leaving the Armory we were greeted by faces.  Faces with blank stares of  possible hope.   Faces, who's eyes begged you for help.  Faces of people.  People who held  up pictures of their loved ones for us to see.  They didn't speak. They asked nothing.  But their eyes all ask the same question.  Have you seen this person?  Do you know anything about them?  Can you help me?

The feelings of helplessness were complete, and we all held back what was inside us, knowing that soon, those hopes would be shattered for each of those faces.  In silence we re-traced our path back to our vehicle, and headed homeward.  We got as far as the first rest stop and pulled in for more much needed caffeine, and were surprised by the comments of the cashier who refused to take our money.  He said simply, Thank You,  as he looked at the dust and grime covering the three of us.  We made it back to the truck  before it hit us what he had meant.  And the tears came, and kept coming for a long time, and occasionally still do, if for no other reason than a passing thought.

With that we returned and began to get on with our lives, each knowing that they would never be the same.