My 9/11 Experience

The following is a firsthand account of the September 11, 2001 attack on New York's World Trade Center and the weeks that followed, written from personal experience.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

My most vivid recollection of that morning was the clarity of the light. It was a bright, cloudless day, and the sky was intensely blue. I was on my way to visit my ailing mother in London. I bade goodbye to Bryce in our Manhattan apartment, before catching a taxi to JFK airport.

American Airlines Flight 142 from Kennedy was scheduled to depart at 8.30am, but as I and the other passengers lined up to board at 7.45, we were informed that there were mechanical problems with the aircraft. By the time we eventually took our seats it was already past takeoff time. Sensing our impatience, the captain announced that we should be taxiing out to the runway shortly.

Another 20 minutes went by, and then the intercom crackled again. "Ladies and gentlemen" the captain said tersely, “there has been a disaster in Manhattan. A plane has just hit the World Trade Center, so it looks like there will be an additional delay.  We will let you have further details shortly, but in the meantime please remain seated."

Looking across the tarmac from my window seat, I could see a plume of black smoke rising from the distant Twin Towers. As I watched I assumed this had to be the result of an unfortunate accident involving a small aircraft with an incapacitated pilot. I had yet to comprehend the full severity of the attack now underway.

Seated behind me was a young Irish couple. I heard the wife begin to sob, and when I turned to look she was shaking uncontrollably. Across the aisle, to my right, a man suddenly rose to his feet and demanded to be let off. Flight attendants rushed over to calm him, temporarily obscuring my view. Once the commotion had died down, I noticed he had disappeared.

After a protracted pause the captain came back on the intercom and said we were free to disembark and stretch our legs, adding that we should remain in the departure lounge to await further instructions.

The terminal was in a state of utter confusion. A worried crowd had gathered around the TV monitor at a nearby newsstand, glued to the extraordinary images of the conflagration unfolding in real time in downtown Manhattan.

Eventually there came a further announcement that all flights out of JFK had been cancelled, and that passengers should proceed to the baggage hall to collect their luggage.

In a scene reminiscent of some third world airport, a number of suitcases spilled out on to the carousels, which then continued rotating hour after hour, with little on the belts other than the few remaining items of unclaimed luggage.

For the hundreds of passengers now confined within the stifling baggage-hall no places remained to sit down. The airport staff, meantime, had abruptly vanished. Access to the rest of the terminal had been sealed off, and no one appeared to be in charge. No announcements came through to inform people about what was happening outside, or what to prepare for next. The toilets had been locked, and, lacking any restroom facilities, women began calling out in desperation. The handful of vending machines dispensing Coca-Cola and potato chips - the sole sources of food and liquid refreshment for the remainder of the day - were swiftly depleted. The public telephones and TV monitors went dead simultaneously. We felt trapped and isolated, unaware of the events unfolding outside.

Across the far side of the hall I noticed a man conversing on his mobile phone. I walked over and introduced myself. He turned out to be an American musician, who had been on his way to perform at a jazz concert in the Dominican Republic.  His own American Airlines Flight 587 had been aborted as it was about to take off, because one of the passengers had boarded without proper documentation, and had to be removed along with his baggage.

He kindly handed over his phone and I dialled Bryce at her office on the 28th floor of the News Corporation building, adjacent to Rockefeller Center. The relief in her voice was palpable.

"The TV was on here when I turned up this morning," she said. "The second aircraft had just crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. When I heard that an attack was underway, I immediately logged on to my computer to find out if your flight had taken off. It hadn’t, but I had no idea where you were until you called."

Later, a rumour began circulating around the baggage hall that all air-traffic across the United States had been cancelled for 48 hours, and that every route into and out of Manhattan had been closed. It occurred to me that we might all have to sleep on the concrete floor for a couple of days, unwashed, unshaven, and unfed.

By late afternoon, however, limited services began to be restored. I managed to struggle into an overloaded bus bound for a nearby hotel. It had a restaurant and TV, enabling me to catch up with the news. Outside, hundreds of other passengers - mostly overseas visitors - were sitting or lying on the grass, surrounded by great piles of baggage. A posted sign said, “No Rooms Available,” so they faced the prospect of having to spend the night outdoors, before learning whether or not their flights would resume again.

Around dusk I caught another bus to a nearby subway station, after hearing that a line into Manhattan had been opened. I had to change trains at various points, lugging my increasingly heavy suitcases up and down interconnected flights of stairs. Finally, in the gloom, I emerged on to Madison Avenue, about 20 blocks south of our apartment.

Uptown Manhattan, which the night before had been alive with the glow of lights and the din of traffic, had now assumed the deathly aura of a ghost town, enveloped in darkness. An occasional vehicle swept by as I joined a flow of silent, vacant-eyed figures trudging wearily northwards, shoulders bowed, bound for destinations unknown.

Struggling with my luggage to keep pace, I was surprised when a bus pulled up alongside me. The driver opened the door, and waved me in. He was transporting medical volunteers homewards, after an exhausting day spent tending survivors in the disaster zone.

He dropped me off at the junction of Madison Avenue and 72nd Street, and I walked half a block over to our apartment building. Bryce was sitting on the steps in front, exchanging experiences with some fellow tenants. She herself had earlier attempted to donate blood, but the crush of volunteers meant there would be a four- to six-hour delay, so she decided to come home instead to await my arrival.

She said that another tenant in our building - a hardened criminal lawyer with an office adjacent to the World Trade Center - had just preceded me home.  Before going indoors he described how two of his colleagues had gone out for coffee right before the attack, and returned to the office blubbering like infants over the carnage they had witnessed.

Saturday, 20 October, 2001

Over breakfast this morning, I came across the following item in the New York Times (page B6):

"Some aviation officials believe that American Airlines Flight 142  [the flight I was on], which was due to take off from Kennedy for London at 8:30 a.m. on Sept. 11, was also a target.

"That plane was delayed at the gate when the cockpit crew asked for a mechanic to check a valve in an engine. When a delay was announced, one passenger asked to leave, so the cabin door was opened for him and closed again. Then, according to aviation officials, a second passenger also demanded to leave, and became "rude and indignant" when the door could not be opened immediately.

"A cockpit crew member wanted to alert the F.B.I. immediately but did not know the passenger's name, the officials said. The flight attendants knew the man's identity, but they had been escorted out of the airport with the passengers.

"That plane was a Boeing 777, which would have had an explosive force similar to a 767, but has a slightly different cockpit from the planes that were hijacked."

Wednesday, 5 December, 2001

On Wednesday, December 5th, I boarded the same AA Flight 142 to London that I had been scheduled to take on September 11th, and took my assigned seat by the Exit door. As we began rolling down the runway one of the flight attendants sat down and buckled herself into a crew-seat facing me.

Curious, I leant forward and inquired whether she had been on the aborted September 11th flight.

"No," she replied, "why do you ask?"

I told her of my own experience that day, and she nodded sympathetically.  Once we were airborne she unstrapped herself and disappeared.  A short while later another flight attendant walked back and introduced herself.

"I understand you and I were both on the September 11th flight," she said.

"Yes," I answered, "I gather we may have been hijack targets ourselves."

"I did hear about that New York Times article," she acknowledged. "Beats me why the airline never informed the crew about it."

She went on to say that one of her fellow flight attendants was so unnerved by the news that she requested a transfer from the New York to London route to a safer Caribbean destination instead.

On the morning of November 12th she departed for the Dominican Republic aboard American Airlines Flight 587. Moments after takeoff, it crashed. She was amongst the 265 who perished that day (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Airlines_Flight_587)

Epilogue

The shock of the WTC attack drove Harold - my mild-mannered accountant of 30 years - to a mental breakdown. He locked himself in his office and refused to answer all calls. On my final attempt to reach him, an unfamiliar voice came on the line and reported that Harold had just left to see his doctor. The next day a different voice called to say that Harold had suffered a massive heart attack as he was about to be examined.

"I hope he's in stable condition," I said.

"Very stable," the voice replied. "He's dead."