Essen was way ahead of him in estimating casualties and that 500 meant 500 firemen presumed missing.
And so it began for Ray Pfeifer, his struggle with something new to him, trying to comprehend both the scope and the permanence of this tragedy, the idea that this was a nightmare he would never wake up from. It was never going away, and nothing was ever going to be the same for him. It was not a new chapter in the book of his life, it was more like a new book for his life.
Back at the firehouse, there was a darkening sense of what was happening, of how terrible it was, a tragedy beyond anyoneâs comprehension. By the early afternoon, there was talk that the department might have lost more than 300 men. Most of those gathering back at Sixty-sixth Streetâmany of them sent in from other housesâknew all too well from watching television and seeing both buildings pancake down that this collapse was likely to have been fatal to anyone under it. Gradually, there was a strong sense that the unthinkable had happened, that every man they had sent down from 40/35 might have died. Throughout the day, there were more and more reports, and the news was unrelentingly bad. Not only had their own men probably been lost, but also a number of other firemen with exceptionally close ties to the firehouse, men who still palled around with the 40/35 men: Larry Virgilio, who had worked there for years before going over to Squad 18 (a special unit committed to dealing with hazardous materials); Mike Boyle and David Arce, the boyhood friends who had become firemen together and, even after moving on to Engine 33, still played on the 40/35 softball team; and Larry Stack, a big strapping man of about six feet four inches who had served as a lieutenant at 40/35 in the early â80s, and had worked there as well as a covering captain when one of the houseâs regular officers was either sick or on vacation. Stack was widely regarded by the men as an almost perfect officer, balancing an instinctive sense of command with just the right amount of warmth, which he always seemed to summon at just the right time. Slowly it dawned on everyone that they were witnesses to, and part of, the worst day in firefighting history.
One of the genuine heroes who emerged at 40/35 that day was Mike Kotula, who had been among the men playing golf in Maryland. On his return, Kotula had joined the others from the house in the search for their buddies at Ground Zero, and he saw at once how hopeless it all was. Trying to find anything under that grotesque mountain of rubble had been more than he could bear. So it was that when he got back to the firehouse around midnight on Tuesday, he had begun almost purely by instinct to man the phone, taking the incoming calls from the wives and families and closest friends. He had done it in part because he could not bear to go back down to Ground Zero, but he had also done it because he believed that someone who knew and loved all these men and their families should be on the phoneâthis was not a job for a stranger.
His new task was in those heartbreaking hours and days very important, and he stayed on the phone, almost without a break, through Saturday night. Early on, he had taken a brief break to eat while one of his colleagues manned the phone. Just then, the daughter of one of the missing men called in for her hourly update, and she was upset that Mike was not there to field her call. With that, he did not leave the phone until Sunday morning. Other men brought him food and coffee, and he worked through the night, for the vigil never ended, nor did the incoming calls. Somehow it was decided, without ever being decided, that Kotula was very good at this, and therefore he should stay on phone duty as long as he could handle it. Kotula was aware that in the very first hours after the attack, some newcomers to the house had handled the phone and had, because of their own inadequate sources, passed on erroneous
And so it began for Ray Pfeifer, his struggle with something new to him, trying to comprehend both the scope and the permanence of this tragedy, the idea that this was a nightmare he would never wake up from. It was never going away, and nothing was ever going to be the same for him. It was not a new chapter in the book of his life, it was more like a new book for his life.
Back at the firehouse, there was a darkening sense of what was happening, of how terrible it was, a tragedy beyond anyoneâs comprehension. By the early afternoon, there was talk that the department might have lost more than 300 men. Most of those gathering back at Sixty-sixth Streetâmany of them sent in from other housesâknew all too well from watching television and seeing both buildings pancake down that this collapse was likely to have been fatal to anyone under it. Gradually, there was a strong sense that the unthinkable had happened, that every man they had sent down from 40/35 might have died. Throughout the day, there were more and more reports, and the news was unrelentingly bad. Not only had their own men probably been lost, but also a number of other firemen with exceptionally close ties to the firehouse, men who still palled around with the 40/35 men: Larry Virgilio, who had worked there for years before going over to Squad 18 (a special unit committed to dealing with hazardous materials); Mike Boyle and David Arce, the boyhood friends who had become firemen together and, even after moving on to Engine 33, still played on the 40/35 softball team; and Larry Stack, a big strapping man of about six feet four inches who had served as a lieutenant at 40/35 in the early â80s, and had worked there as well as a covering captain when one of the houseâs regular officers was either sick or on vacation. Stack was widely regarded by the men as an almost perfect officer, balancing an instinctive sense of command with just the right amount of warmth, which he always seemed to summon at just the right time. Slowly it dawned on everyone that they were witnesses to, and part of, the worst day in firefighting history.
One of the genuine heroes who emerged at 40/35 that day was Mike Kotula, who had been among the men playing golf in Maryland. On his return, Kotula had joined the others from the house in the search for their buddies at Ground Zero, and he saw at once how hopeless it all was. Trying to find anything under that grotesque mountain of rubble had been more than he could bear. So it was that when he got back to the firehouse around midnight on Tuesday, he had begun almost purely by instinct to man the phone, taking the incoming calls from the wives and families and closest friends. He had done it in part because he could not bear to go back down to Ground Zero, but he had also done it because he believed that someone who knew and loved all these men and their families should be on the phoneâthis was not a job for a stranger.
His new task was in those heartbreaking hours and days very important, and he stayed on the phone, almost without a break, through Saturday night. Early on, he had taken a brief break to eat while one of his colleagues manned the phone. Just then, the daughter of one of the missing men called in for her hourly update, and she was upset that Mike was not there to field her call. With that, he did not leave the phone until Sunday morning. Other men brought him food and coffee, and he worked through the night, for the vigil never ended, nor did the incoming calls. Somehow it was decided, without ever being decided, that Kotula was very good at this, and therefore he should stay on phone duty as long as he could handle it. Kotula was aware that in the very first hours after the attack, some newcomers to the house had handled the phone and had, because of their own inadequate sources, passed on erroneous
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