In Part IV of this five part series, Bash Halow recounts his chance to assist with the cadaver and rescue dogs ‘working the pile’ in the aftermath of the September 11th terrorist attack.
An Unexpected Invitation
On the third day, my boss, Dr. Marc Siebert of The Heart of Chelsea Animal Hospital, got a call from a downtown official requesting that he come to the Ground Zero site and assist in the treatment of the cadaver dogs, those K9’s trained to smell for human remains. While he was on the phone, I prompted him to ask if he could bring a technician to which he was told that he could. In the next hour, I assembled a mobile triage pack of sorts which included eye wash, syringes, pain medications, antibiotics, surgical instruments, fluids and medicines for respiratory difficulty. I packed all of this in a backpack along with a deli sandwich, some water, my camera and film. I put on my roller blades and the doctor and I, he on his bike (there was no other possible transportation), made our way to the West Side where I had first seen the flaming Towers 48 hours before. It was 6 p.m. on a beautiful, September evening.
There were many check points set up along the West Side Highway that we made our way through without too much difficulty. Lining the streets were hundreds of well wishers who, thinking that we were human doctors, cheered and thanked us. Because the applause was unmerited, it was embarrassing. At Pier 40 near Houston Street (maybe a 1/2 mile away) an enormous gathering was assembled: Carmelite nuns ran a kind-of soup kitchen; hundreds milled about for photo opportunities; while others were assembled into groups depending on their skills, such as doctors, nurses, and construction workers. Beyond all of this, the site of the disaster continued to smoke. The column was steamier and not as dense, but very wide at the base covering many blocks. After some hassling by the attending police at the Houston Street checkpoint, we were escorted into a golf cart by one of the park rangers and driven to Stuyvesant High School located at the perimeter of Ground Zero.
I can’t remember the park ranger’s name, but he talked like a rancher. He walked like one too. He had that easy way about him, slow, like there was time for pie. He told us about the golf cart that we rode in which really wasn’t a golf cart but more of a golf car and which was on loan from a government organization and about how energy efficient it was and how not a whiff of smoke was emitted from it when it ran and yet, well he’d show you if there weren’t so many people in the way, the vehicle could practically do forty if you floored it. It was a clean machine except for the fact that it had been used to transport all sorts of people to and from what amounted to a small-scale version of Armageddon so now was muddy and chipped and not fit to be returned. No matter, he was going to make up some excuse, some damn thing. They’d listen. He wouldn’t have to pay for the damage. This park ranger had pull. At one point he stopped and talked to a group of firemen, policemen too, ranchers all. “Yep. We’re going to dredge out that marina tomorrow and get some barges in there so they don’t have to cart all that shit up the Highway. Just put in a turnaround where that fence is and load up those barges and cart that crap off.” When you leave it to park rangers, things get done. We drove off.
We found our rescue unit surprisingly easily considering the dozens and dozens of vehicles that were double parked all along the West Side Highway from Ground Zero north to Christopher Street. Here we were briefed on the protocol for treating the animals and met some of the other emergency doctors and technicians. Shortly after we arrived we saw some of the first patients: able, stout German Shepherds that were filthy with wet soot, ash and plaster. We stood back and watched those who ‘knew the drill’ do their work. The dog’s feet were bathed, his eyes washed, his paws inspected, his temperature taken. They also administered some sub-cutaneous fluids since so many of the dogs worked themselves to the point of dehydration. The amount and level of care was amazing. These doctors and techs were pouring their hearts into their work, not just for the dogs, but for the entire cause which couldn’t help but stir one’s soul. Anyone in that unit or the others nearby would have hauled steel out of the pile had they been asked. Once I understood how I was supposed to assist, I made an effort to assimilate into the group, but on this day, there were plenty of volunteers and additional hands seemed detrimental. I hung back and watched the others work or watched the activity all around me. Vets that worked on other days had a different experience.
An Up Close Look at ‘Ground Zero’ and ‘ The Pile’
The constant siren song to everyone however was what lay ahead, Ground Zero itself, which was completely obscured by smoke, the buildings that remained standing, many emergency vehicles, and a final, severe check point set up by the National Guard. I longed to get inside and after a while told my boss that we should somehow try to make our way inside the check point and walk around and see what we could see. He agreed and we made our way off. Getting through the main conduit into the site seemed unlikely, despite the fact that we looked very much like human doctors outfitted as we were in scrubs, surgical masks, stethoscopes and rubber gloves (we were cautioned that the dogs had contact with the corpses and consequently were potentially infectious). I had heard over and over again that this main site was overstaffed with all sorts of personnel and we both strongly felt we would be turned away. Instead, we tried to enter from farther west, near the financial buildings that border the Hudson on West Street. It was now twilight and the streets off of the illuminated center were without power and blacked out.
We passed eerily deserted buildings, fancy restaurants whose insides had been soiled with fine, chalky powder. Some of the doors to these places had been jammed open. The fireman had looted the interiors for chairs; consequently the disaster area had finely-furnished outdoor seating. Only one police officer stopped us, but after checking our bags and ID, allowed us to pass.
On one of the side streets, we got our first real glimpse of the disaster. We were not the only ones held in thrall. Hundreds of firemen and police officers stood the ground near us, in organized clusters, awaiting orders of deployment. They stood watching the digging operation which was being carried out by large cranes, welders and daisy-chains of firemen. The size of the wreck filled my entire scope of vision. It was a horror vacuui of twisted metal and debris, concrete and welder’s sparks. Still the angle at which we stood did not encompass both foundations of the former towers and my boss and I agreed that we should try walking farther south, out near the water’s edge, and attempt to see the whole site by going up the main thoroughfare out of the marina.
We walked just east of one of the newest financial buildings constructed on the edge of the Hudson. The structure looked virtually untouched and I was surprised to see a few of its windows lighted. As we entered the courtyard of the marina, I could see that the east side of the atrium building, (a beautiful all-glass structure that contained some eight full-grown palm trees), was missing so that one could see straight through it to the illuminated site of the wreckage beyond.
Many firemen walked in ant-like lines along the edge of the financial buildings through a good inch of water and soaked ash. Everywhere on the ground there were fire hoses. The courtyard restaurants were a mess; covered with mud, shrouded in the dark, and blanketed with more fire hoses still. There was very little sound or talking despite the activity of many, many men; despite a tight and long line of workers unloading a boat of supplies by passing, hand to hand, package after package. I took a moment and looked out across the once lovely plaza, across the marina, and out to the vast Hudson. It was eerily dark but for the blue flashing lights of police boats and the many bobbing papers that littered the water. It was moving to see this lunch-break and after-work-happy-hour piazza turned into something so dire. We walked past a large outdoor cafe, its tables and chairs were resting in a surprisingly orderly fashion, yet they were covered with the ubiquitous white dust. The bordering cherry tree garden looked singed, but beyond this the large, landmark Lichtenstein sculpture still gracefully stood.
Next installment, Part V: An unobstructed view of the disaster site and a surreal scene at Ground Zero
[…] Read Part IV […]