As a native Milwaukeean who spent the first 30 years of my working life as a journalist here, it’s still hard for me to believe that my writing work in New York brought me so close to both deadly terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center—Feb. 26, 1993 and Sept. 11, 2001.
With the recent 20th anniversary of 9/11, my vivid memories of those awful sights and sounds still seem like only yesterday—those horrendous days the magnificent Twin Towers were attacked. The first killed six New Yorkers and wounded more than 1,000 and, eight years later, a second killed 2,606, wounded more than 6,000, as the towers collapsed into the ground.
Like the brilliant 1951 science-fiction film, both were The Day the Earth Stood Still. But Feb. 26, 1993 and Sept. 11, 2001 were not fiction. They were gut-wrenching reality for my generation, just as was Dec. 7, 1941 for my late parents, when Japan launched a deadly attack on Pearl Harbor, killing 2,403 Americans and wounding 1,178 others.
In late February 1993, as Director of Communications & Public Affairs at New York University’s Stern School of Business, I was cruising through paperwork anticipating a 12:30 lunch date. Then I was startled by a tremendous explosion that rattled the windows. I felt the power of the blast.
Black Smoke Rising
From my fourth-floor office at 40 W. Fourth Street, I could clearly see heavy black smoke rising from the Twin Towers, less than a mile away. Rushing outside, I joined a growing crowd milling around on the sidewalk and in the street and, as did others with whom I spoke, wondered aloud what had happened.
Returning inside after forgetting the lunch date, I invited my shocked, four-person staff into my office to talk about the attack, as we watched local news TV coverage of its troubling aftermath. Hearing reports that it may possibly have been perpetrated by foreign terrorists, everyone wondered if, and how, America would respond.
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That night—after some trepidation—I attended a previously planned, retro R&B performance by The Spaniels, of “Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight” fame, at the storied Roseland Ballroom. There, I was introduced to the jam-packed crowd by legendary lead singer James “Pookie” Hudson, as the Spaniels’ authorized biographer.
In brief remarks from the stage, I extolled the virtues of the 1950s-‘60s hit-making doo-wop vocal group. But before they sang, I referred to the day’s horrific events with each member of the group expressing concern. Along the way, many in the mixed-race audience joined in to voice their consternation and anger. Some called for swift revenge.
Frantic Call
On Sept. 11, 2001, a gorgeous, late summer day in nearby White Plains, I returned home from the supermarket at 8:45 a.m., planning to begin writing a freelance newspaper column on an upcoming championship boxing match. This was exactly one minute before terrorists high-jacked the first airliner, carrying 92 passengers and crew, and flew it into the north tower of the World Trade Center.
But I didn’t learn of the deliberate crash—or that of the second airliner with 65 aboard, or the third, carrying 64, or the fourth carrying 45—until late morning. Ironically, the news came in a frantic call from my wife, Susan, who was visiting in California.
I quickly turned on TV and we watched together, 3,000 miles apart, with millions of others. We saw graphic video tape of the huge airliners—at excess of 500 miles-per-hour—smashing into both towers. We saw human beings jump from windows to escape the raging fire. And we were stunned as New York’s 110-story landmarks, monuments to American financial enterprise, crumbled to the street below as people ran for their lives.
During our amazing five hours on the phone, I had an unrestricted view from my ninth floor apartment of countless hospital ambulances—red lights flashing and sirens screaming -- roaring down a close-by expressway on their way to Lower Manhattan.
A few days later—using my New York Amsterdam News press credentials—toured the devastated site where the Twin Towers once so proudly stood, and was stung by the ruins and the lingering odor. A few weeks later, I took my wife and her elderly parents visiting from Chicago, by subway to the fenced, boarded-up remains and noted how overwhelmed they were by the surroundings. This included hundreds of signs and posters with photos of loved ones and friends missing in the attacks.
In the years since, such images have been burned into all of our minds. TV has presented endless news footage, documentaries and specials. We have seen interviews of eyewitnesses and relatives of victims, and heard the heart-wrenching stories of survivors, as well as heroic police officers and fire fighters. All were well worth our time.
