A Morning Burned into Memory Forever

Story and photos by Bob Nesoff

Editor’s note: Author, Bob Nesoff, was Communications Director for the Bergen County, NJ Sheriff’s Department and was on the way to his office when the unthinkable happened.

A movie from the 1940s that is out of favor today, “Song of the South”, had a memorable song that people hummed for years. “Zippidy Doo Dah, zippidi ay. Beautiful morning, beautiful day.“

September 11, 2001 was such a day. You could be driving to work, humming the tune if not the lyrics. That was about to change. A change not only for you, but the for the entire nation and the entire world.

There was barely a cloud in the sky. The sun shown and the sky was virtually an unbroken blue.

In seconds that changed. A bulletin on the radio broadcast the impossible. A passenger plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, an iconic New York City landmark. Impossible. Could not be. In 1947 a B-25 bomber crashed into the Empire State Building. The day was foggy and aircraft did not have the radar and controls in all of today’s modern aircraft. Impossible. How could a pilot not see those two, beautify and magnificent towers; a trademark for New York City.

Impossible. But it happened. An accident? Maybe. Pilot error? Perhaps.

Racing to the County Administration Building where the Sheriff’s Office was located, parking and running up to the office to see the TV news. In the conference room officers actually mingled with inmates, watching the news. 

The answer was forthcoming. A second plane crashed into the South Tower as smoke billowed from the fatally injured North Tower. It was not an accident. It was terrorism and murder on a scale that never happened before in the United States.

People trapped on the upper floors of the 110-story building opted for certain death, suicide, jumping to their deaths rather than chance being burned alive. Photos showed the bodies plummeting to earth. Their fate was sealed and they would never have been able to come out of it alive. The North Tower collapsed into a massive pile of rubble at 10:28 a.m., disintegrating the bodies of those still in the building. Office workers, police, firefighters, all perished, literally ground to bits.

We all stood around in the conference room, too stunned to do anything and barely able to comprehend what we had just seen. This was impossible. This just did not happen in the United States.

But it did. And 2,977 people perished on that date. That was just the beginning. In the years since more firefighters and other personnel who died from the fumes, asbestos and other contaminants in the  air have far surpassed those who died on 911.

I drove home in a daze, not knowing what to do. My middle daughter, knowing me, begged me not to go into New York. I lied and told her I would not, knowing full-well I was going in.

Then I decided to go to the commanded center at the George Washington Bridge where SWAT teams and medical personnel were preparing for whatever might next be coming. I spoke to Sheriff Gordon Johnson and said we have to go in and help. We prepared to cross the bridge and it was suddenly shut down. We had planned to escort a buss full of medical personnel. A rumor had come in that a truck loaded with explosive was on the way to take out the bridge. Fortunately, it was only a rumor.

With the all-clear, we led a small convoy of trucks with water and essentials for the men working to clear the site. Over the bridge and onto the West Side Highway, lights flashing and siren blaring, we moved at a good clip. Suddenly, people began jumping off the side walks holding signs: “God bless you,” “You are heroes.”  All the macho men heading into the hell of what was the World Trade Center were silent, tears running down all of our cheeks.

The full impact hit us as we drove past the Jacob Javits Convention Center. More than 30 ambulances sat, backed up against the building waiting to called into action. There was no need. There were no survivors. Doctors, including my brother Aaron, rushed into The City to volunteer. They were sent back. No victims to treat.

Driving was difficult because of the smoke and concrete dust drifting down from the Towers. If the emergency lights on the cars had not been flashing, we would have been separated.

Pulling up at Vesey Street, a block from the debris field, a firefighter rushed over to give us masks. We learned later that those masks were useless. We stood in the street with a blizzard of papers that had been blown out of offices, raining down on us. The air was barely breathable. And we all knew, without saying it, what the smell coming from the burning debris was from. 

We helped distribute the water and supplies to the men digging their way through the rubble, hoping against hope to find survivors. Many of these workers later because victims themselves as the poisoned air they were breathing destroyed their lungs, caused a hodge podge of cancers and myriad other problems.

The street was covered inches deep with the remnants of the majestic towers. I looked at the concrete dust and papers and saw, not far away, a brand-new work boot. None of us wanted to see it closer, not knowing if there was a foot in it. It was a scene that even the most horrific movie-maker could not have envisioned. Dante’s Hell was not as bad.

We left and drove to One Police Plaza, met with Commissioner Bernard Kerik, who with Mayor Rudolph Giuliani took complete control, made their presence known and offered solace to all.

Not much more we could do and decided to head back to Bergen County. I drove home and stopped in the entrance to my house. I shed the clothes I was wearing as they were totally coated with the World Trade Center. 

I’m one of the lucky ones. I went back to volunteer a number of times and was assigned to provide security for everything from the NYPD Bomb Squad to a lot where ambulances and fire trucks waited for orders…that never came. New York wanted people who were armed and had arrest authority to provide security for these locations. 

There is a building that towers over the Memorial Plaza today where the Twin Towers once stood. People come to see where the buildings were, to visit the amazing adjacent museum that should be a must for everyone.

Physically and health-wise I am OK, not having suffered any ill-effects from the dust and smoke. But there are times when something reminds me of that night and I choke up. That will be with me for the rest of my life.

As a side note, my niece worked in the South Tower. She lived in the town of Hoboken across the Hudson River, and was on her way in when the second Tower was hit. The ferryboat captain turned around and returned to New Jersey.

Because of the destroyed infrastructure, she could not make or receive calls. No need to describe the mental condition her mother was in until she finally made contact. Two months later she was married. Ten of her friends who were in the building and would have attended, were there in memory.

There was some solace when SEAL-6 took out Osama bin Laden and team member Robert O’Neill shot the terrorist leader dead. 

A video by the author’s grandson,15-year-old Matt Naimaster