(Fr. Joseph F. O’Donnell, CSC ’55 Continued)

I was asked to be in New York as part of an American Red Cross (ARC) Air Disaster team.  After the Florida ValuJet crash, Congress tasked the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) to form a team to provide mental and spiritual health to survivors and families of air crashes.  ARC was contracted by NTSB to provide that care.  ARC proceeds to train mental health and spiritual care specialists, with the proviso in accepting the training that each person would be on call one or two months a year.  On call meant being ready to fly within four hours and stay for two weeks.

I have been a member of that team since 1999, but never called up until Saturday 21 September, when I, while not on the monthly duty list, was called and asked to report to New York the following Tuesday for three weeks duty.  The commitment was/is to do whatever one is asked to do, within the context of spiritual care.  Some of the work involves supervision, screening, scheduling, and training, as well as staffing recovery sites, morgues, and family assistance areas.  I did all those during my time in New York.

After arriving on Tuesday evening, the rule of flexibility began right away as my hotel was changed from the Marriott Marquis (in the heart of Times Square) to Le Parker Meridian (56th Street).  It was a good move.  I couldn't afford a room at either hotel on my own.  The hotel welcomed all of us as "first class" guests.

The next morning I reported to Red Cross headquarters in Brooklyn via a chartered bus which picked us up at the hotel at 0630.  It took until mid-afternoon to get checked in, meet the chaplain staff, and learn that I would start work in three hours, that night as the night supervisor for spiritual care.  So I first worked for two nights, from 2000-1000.  By the time I got back to the hotel, it was noon, and I was up again at five for another day.  But that lasted only three days, because another chaplain came in for that particular job.

I then was placed in charge of chaplains at two Respite Centers (feeding and relaxing places for firemen, police and rescue workers) located within a block on each side of the WTC site, and also of two morgues, one located at the site, the other outside (on the street) the NY Medical Examiner's office a few miles away.

I spent most of my time at Respite #1, located in a building once housing the College of Insurance, and now being used (until the blasts) by St. John's University.  They gave it to the Red Cross "for the duration."  Respite #1 was serving over 11,000 meals a day while I was there, and as many as 19,000 on some days.  We tried to keep 3-4 chaplains there 24 hours a day, just to be present for the (mostly) men who came in to rest, eat, cry, and talk.  Most were working 12 on, and 12 off.  You could see the anger, exhaustion, and hope in their eyes, even though they knew there would be no one else found alive in the rubble.

One NYPD officer told me that he was working directly next to Father Mychal Judge, OFM, an FDNY chaplain, when Father Judge was at first thought to have been hit by falling debris or a human body (later it was determined that Father actually had a heart attack).  The officer sent his younger partner running to nearby St. Peter's Church to get a priest.  There was none there, and the secretary told the young officer "to anoint him yourself, as best you can."  The younger officer returned to the scene, and fire and police officers carried Fr. Judge to St. Peter's in a chair, there being no available stoke (stretcher).  They placed him in front of the altar, saluted, and "told him" that they had to return to work.

The officer who related this story to me did so with stoic tears, in front of a dozen others sitting nearby.  It was one of the most reverent moments of his or my life.

Red Cross workers were not allowed to "wander" in the rubble areas.  But my job called for moving from one Respite Center to the other (at first, a local tourist ship, the "Spirit of New York," which was tied up at Battery Park pier, a half block from WTC, and later at the Marriott Financial Center Hotel, one block south of the rubble).

In between was the temporary morgue, staffed 24x7 by two priests of the Archdiocese of New York.  I stopped by a couple of times a day to check on them and their most difficult task.  The first time I was there, standing in front of the tent, all movement suddenly stopped, and I saw the heart-breaking scene repeated dozens of times.  Eight firemen carrying two stokes, followed by a FDNY chaplain, made their way from the rubble a half block away to the temporary morgue.  Each stoke was covered by an American flag.

It was clear as they passed, and we saluted, that there was very little on either stoke.  Most of the time, all that has been found are parts of human remains.  I admit that being in New York, being where I was at that moment, touched me deeply and my own tears flowed freely, for the dead, their families, and for the noble rescuers trying to retrieve their buddies from the horror.

Over my time there, it was all the more difficult because it was virtually impossible to find every body part in the rubble as it was hoisted into trucks, decontaminated at the scene, and then moved to the recently closed, and then reopened, landfill on Staten Island.  (At the landfill, NYPD detectives and FBI agents raked the rubble again, and began finding body parts there as well.  This raised the rage level of the firemen, who declared "they're not going to bury my buddies in a landfill."  FDNY is not only challenged by the horrendous loss of life, but by the deeply emotional bond that ties firemen together as brothers and sisters.  It will be a very long time before, if ever, their lives can return to normal.)

I never walked in the rubble.  There was no need for me there, and it was clearly very dangerous.  But I would stand on the corner, often by the former customs building (a 6-8 floor structure, burned out but still standing).  U.S. Customs police were on duty all hours, and inspected every piece of paper that came from their building.

The second day I was there, I noticed a hand-painted sign on the side of an entrance way into the customs building. It said "God's House," and an arrow pointed inside the building.  Two days later, I finally asked the officers at this perimeter what it meant.  They introduced me to Frank S., a construction laborer on the site, who took me, another chaplain, and the two officers into the customs building (where none of us were supposed to be) and showed us the site he had "discovered" in the courtyard.

There was rubble everywhere, steel, concrete, dust, office supplies, and surely human dust as well. But clearly present in that courtyard were three crosses, formed by the falling rubble.  One was "perfect" in its formation, another quite high on the left, another low and bent on the right. Frank, like the rest of us, was searching for some meaning to the insanity before us.  He had gone to his supervisor when he discovered these crosses, and had made them his own response to the disaster.  He apparently knew which buttons to push, because in a day or so the Mayor's office promised to retrieve at least the main cross and save it.

I made copies of a short newspaper article that Frank had gotten into a Long Island paper, and gave them to him the next day.  A few days later, on 04 October, the feast of St. Francis, the cross was removed from the rubble during the night, at considerable risk, and then was welded to a stanchion in the middle of the street near the customs building.  The stanchion was the only remaining piece of a pedestrian bridge that had connected the WTC buildings.

At 1300 on the feast of St. Francis, a lone bagpiper started down the street toward the covered cross.  The music stopped all work on that side of the rubble.  Then fifty uniformed police officers and fifty uniformed firemen marched to the area of the cross, near two cherry-picker fire trucks already in place.  A Franciscan priest offered a short prayer; a police officer and a fireman said brief words.  The cherry pickers then were raised to the top of the cross and the blue tarp was removed.  There was just silence.   In a short time, the uniformed men and women marched away, and work resumed.

The Mayor and everyone else have been very sensitive to the multitude of faith traditions which the victims of this terrible act held in their own lives.  It is very interesting, however, that 95% of FDNY and 86% of NYPD profess to be Catholic.  A high percentage of the construction workers as well are Catholic.

In the first few days, priests, rabbis, and ministers across the board came to the scene and helped in every way they could.  As rescue operations became more structured, the attraction of "Ground Zero" became both a blessing and a curse, even for faith group providers who came from all over the country.  Some came with their own agendas, and not just to help and be of service.  This was a cloud that for me won't go away for a long time.

At Respite #1, St. John's University, the FDNY chaplain had arranged for a Mass to be offered each afternoon, usually by the priests from nearby St. Peter's.  Several times the priests could not be there, and I offered the Mass.  Small numbers of weary firemen, filled with dust and yuck, exhausted police officers, Red Cross and construction workers, found their way to the auditorium for a few minutes respite and prayer. It was a privilege to serve them.  I even met two O'Donnell's, one the construction boss for Con Ed (with a thousand workers on scene), and the other a NYPD officer.

These six days were the heaviest of my time there.  Just sitting with individuals or small groups, asking them how they felt, just listening most of the time, trying to "lighten" the scene once in a while, trying to give the slightest degree of hope in the midst of such destruction and loss of life.  I generally spent 10-12 hours a day there, preceded by a 0700 staff meeting in (the bar of) one of our hotels in mid-Manhattan, and followed by some time in the Brooklyn office before returning to my hotel usually by 2300.

When the Chaplain Supervisor has completed his time there, the Washington, DC bosses told him to pick one of our team to succeed him, since there was no one else in the pipeline at the time.  I was asked to take over the supervisory position.  It meant having less time "on scene," but my commitment was to do whatever I was asked to do, so I did.  This meant spending more time in the office, screening local chaplains (we had over 500), training, interacting with Red Cross administrators, and attending the senior staff meeting every day.  The latter was usually dry, impersonal, matter-of-fact, and not-where-I-wanted-to-be.  But there I was.

One day the head of Security for ARC told a story (I had several "in my wings" waiting for the right occasion -- even though they came to expect such from me).  They did not expect his story.  He told of picking up a FDNY fireman earlier that afternoon at the rubble.  The firemen was "hitchhiking" out of the rubble (I did that almost every night, looking for a ride to the subway).  Our security chief drove him to his firehouse, a 45 minute drive into the Bronx.  One the way he told his story...of working his regular 24 hour shift, then coming to the rubble to work a second 24 hour shift...in an effort to "find his eight buddies" lost in the rubble from his firehouse.  He told of finding a kneecap, along with firemen's protective clothing.  A DNA check showed this to be part of one of his buddy's remains.

The fireman cried most of the way back to his firehouse, but said he felt good because he was able to find something.  When our security person finished telling this, there was dead silence in the room.  A couple of the "heavies" clearly were upset, or at least astonished that this particular person told this story.  I stood up and spoke, "Thanks, Jim, for reminding all of us why we are here."

After the meeting, I sought him out, and learned that he was a retired CHP (CA Highway Patrol) officer.  When I told him that I worked for DPS (AZ Highway Patrol), we became instant close friends.  We talked though his ordeal and feelings.  After that, for my remaining days there, he was my "bosom buddy."  Amazing things happen when we are willing to share our lives!

Let me mention just a couple of other items.  The first is the Family Assistance Center set up by the Mayor's office at Pier 94, and run by the Red Cross.  It is a huge facility, a half mile long, and we filled every corner.  When the Mayor announced the changes in law and process for getting death certificates, we expected large numbers of people to come to the pier.  When I left, only 700 had obtained death certificates.  But thousands came to the Pier every day for every conceivable kind of help.

Each family member was met by a uniformed NYPD community affairs officer and escorted through the simplified process to obtain the help they needed.  (In all the recent turmoil of how to distribute donated funds, including great turmoil at Red Cross, the operation at Pier 94 has continued to be praised for its care, concern and efficiency.)

People who came there also were offered the opportunity to go to Ground Zero by boat.  When they did, usually groups of 60-70, they were protected by a myriad of police, and accompanied by chaplains and mental health workers.  Many broke down; many others tried to achieve the smallest degree of closure.  They walked to the site from Battery Park, surrounded by police, each wearing a distinctive hard hat.  A simple "reviewing stand" had been built for them to safely view the scene.  After whatever time they needed, they moved to a large Firemen's shrine in the park, where once of the chaplains offered a prayer.  It was difficult to note that in the nearby trees in the park, there still were papers, dust and mud from the blasts.  Then slowly the group returned to the boat for the ride back to Pier 94. No media were ever allowed near these people.

Perhaps the two most significant groups who took the boat trips were a large number of United and American Airlines flight attendants who came to honor their own, and a small group of WTC building engineers (those who had constructed and maintained the building since its inception).  Chaplains reported that these trips (I did not make one) were the heaviest moments of their time in New York.

Another significant (for me) role, though much less exciting, was to be asked to be a member of the Mayor's Office team which was/is trying to help local clergy deal with the long term aftermath of this crime.  They fully realize that some have abused their own privilege as clergy. Along with the NYPD and FYND chaplains, I attended a series of meetings with the Mayor's staff, and offered assistance in formulating a long term program for local clergy.

In all of this, I did have a day off.  A CSC padre friend came down from Fall River on Columbus Day, 09 October.  We attended part of the Columbus Day parade, standing in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral, while Bishops and priests in their flowing robes (a different church from mine...) stood in front of the Church to welcome those in the parade.  We watched only the Mayor, Governor, and Junior Senator come by. And the fire trucks -- none from NYC -- they said they just could not march.

Then we walked through a good part of Manhattan, to 10th Street, visited an Italian restaurant just off Times Square for an early dinner, and I was bed by about 2100.  It was a good day.  That day, and three other nights as some of went out to dinner, we struggled along with the rest of New York to return to some sort of normal life.  I admit to becoming angry on some occasions, wondering how people could laugh...when there still was a mound of rubble down there with 4900 bodies in it.  That was not fair on my part.  Most had not had the privilege that was mine, to be a part of the recovery.

On one Sunday of my time there, the Gospel was about Lazarus and the rich man.  That evening, before going to my night position, I had dinner in a posh Italian Restaurant (right across from Carnegie Hall) with my cousin's daughter.  As I entered the subway afterward to go to work, I walked by "Lazarus" three times...sleeping on the concrete. It was difficult for me to talk about the Gospel which I had just lived.  I wish I knew the answers!

New Yorkers were amazing and wonderful.  If they somehow learned that we were part of Red Cross, they thanked us over and over for coming.  One scruffy looking guy on the subway escalator (I going up, he down) looked me right in the eye and said, "Thank you for coming." He floored me! My own image of the city disintegrated before my own eyes.  Oh, it isn't perfect, but neither is Phoenix, or anywhere else for that matter.

At the airport on the way home, after finally getting through security and getting my ticket (to a mostly empty flight), the ticket agent came around the counter, and in the presence of several hundred people, hugged me and said, "Thank you for coming to help us."  We both cried, on the spot.  That's the way it was in NYC!

At the end of my three weeks, I clearly was physically exhausted.  The mental toll was less clear.  Stories one after the other remain in my heart.  The night before I left, a mental health worker lassoed me and took me into an empty office so that we could "debrief."  It was most healthy for me, to let it all out, tears included, and to express the frustration that I was able to do so little during my time there.  I spoke of my God, wondering where this God was at times like this.  I wondered aloud why it took so much evil to bring out so much good in people.  I knew I had been changed by the experience.  I feel ever more comfortable in the ministry to which I feel called, especially that to our police officers and their families.  I wish there were more of me (well, understand that in context), so that I could offer the same presence to firefighters as well.

As I came home, the fire still was burning in WTC.  At the core, the Army Corps of Engineers told us that the temperature was from 1900-2500 degrees.  They had no idea when the fire would finally be snuffed out.  That is why you see steam, smoke and occasionally flames in the rubble.  Every time an air pocket is released by removing rubble, the fire flares up.  Many firemen and construction workers have had to change their boots every few days, as the boots begin to melt from the heat.  Engineers exploring the clogged subway lines have discovered dripping steel which they first thought was fuel oil or gas.

The image of the fire stays with me.  I know it will burn out some day.  I sincerely hope that our own resolve, our own responses of love, care and concern, will not burn out with the fire.  Too many people need all of us; each of us has something he or she can do. God calls us to the task.

My life has been changed a number of times.  I thank God for the ability to do so.  When I was first ordained, there was a change, for sure.  Vietnam scarred me immensely.  My own wresting match with depression four years ago sure changed me.  And now this -- the havoc of war, the destruction of thousands of innocent lives, the realization that we Americans don't always have it all together any more than others in our troubled world, and the haunting decisions that must be made in the days to come.

My own decision is to be the best person I can be, today.  I am far from perfect.  I am far from being the perfect priest, the perfect religious.  I don't believe there is such.  I wrestle with the questions that face all of us.  And I hope, I trust in the Lord to walk with me through today, and each day of life God gives me.

Thank you for listening to all of this.  Thank you for your support, your prayers, your love. I say it again, we are an amazing class!  God has blessed us.  God bless us all!

Joe
 
P.S. How does a NYPD officer say "Thank you"?   There are ways.... One night I was especially tired as I left the WTC area.  I stopped by the NYPD command center to bum a ride to the subway.  An officer hopped into his car and said "at your service."   Another officer was with him, and I rode in the back (no cage, thankfully).  The subway stop was about four blocks away, but I wasn't really sure at that time where it was.  He wasn't either...he worked in the Bronx...but he wouldn't admit that to me. It took us twenty-five minutes to find a (not my) subway stop where I could get an "A" train.  The fun part of the trip was that in the entire time we drove, we never went in the direction of the arrow (one way streets).  Even when faced with four lanes of traffic, our lights and siren took us forward, and he remarked, "It's okay, Padre, as long as we don't hit a pedestrian."  Granted, however, most of the ride was within the closed off area of the city, but not the four lane road or the corner where the subway station was located.  Great fun, as we drove onto the sidewalk at the subway stairs.  He accompanied me downstairs and through the "free" gate before saluting and returning to work.  That's the NYPD way of saying thanks!  Cool.  Actually, this happened a second time, during the day, when I had been at Pier 94 (54th Street) and needed to be down at Respite #1 (WTC) for Mass.  The NYPD chaplain and his bodyguard/driver drove me down West Drive (closed to all but emergency traffic) -- it took four minutes to reach Ground Zero, about four miles.  Along that ride, we saw a perennial group of "cheerleaders," later written up in the NYT.  They stood along the street at the end of Christopher Street and cheered all those who went by, waving signs of "Thank you" and "God Bless America."  So goes New York.  God bless 'em.

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