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re: Annual 9/11 Remembrance Thread: 25th Anniversary Edition
Posted on 9/11/26 at 6:10 pm to CarolinaSandstorm
Posted on 9/11/26 at 6:10 pm to CarolinaSandstorm
Posted on 9/11/26 at 6:28 pm to GEAUXmedic
Posted on 9/11/26 at 6:48 pm to GEAUXmedic
A sad fact: only 20 people were pulled out of the rubble alive at the World Trade Center. It’s always so sad hearing the stories about all of the hospitals that were prepared for a massive influx of patients that never came.
Posted on 9/11/26 at 7:08 pm to Roll Tide Ravens
quote:
A sad fact: only 20 people were pulled out of the rubble alive at the World Trade Center. It’s always so sad hearing the stories about all of the hospitals that were prepared for a massive influx of patients that never came.
And at least 15 of those 20 actually walked themselves out. Fourteen, twelve of them firefighters, survived the north tower collapse in a stairwell, and they walked those terribly damaged stairs down. Another man on a lower floor was knocked unconscious, and when he came to was only mildly injured and was able to get up and walk to a person doing search and rescue.
So, only five people were actually pulled alive from the rubble by S&R.
This post was edited on 9/11/26 at 7:12 pm
Posted on 9/11/26 at 7:34 pm to LegendInMyMind
quote:
So, only five people were actually pulled alive from the rubble by S&R.
That was a hard pill to swallow even for the dogs searching. They would stage mock findings of live people to keep the dogs from getting depressed and or losing motivation.
Posted on 9/11/26 at 7:44 pm to Bobby OG Johnson
quote:
That was a hard pill to swallow even for the dogs searching. They would stage mock findings of live people to keep the dogs from getting depressed and or losing motivation.
That hurts to think about.
Posted on 9/11/26 at 8:51 pm to Keltic Tiger
My friend was there taking pics for the AP.
He said the sound was something he could never get out of his head.
He said the sound was something he could never get out of his head.
Posted on 9/11/26 at 9:17 pm to GEAUXmedic
Excellent interview on Triggernometry
Posted on 9/11/26 at 9:17 pm to LegendInMyMind
quote:
And at least 15 of those 20 actually walked themselves out.
Correct, I should’ve worded my post better. Only 20 total came out of the rubble, either on their own or by being rescued.
Posted on 9/11/26 at 11:42 pm to Roll Tide Ravens
quote:
It was his very first day on the job. By 9:42 AM, he had made an unprecedented decision that altered the course of American history.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, Ben Sliney walked into the FAA's command center in Virginia to handshakes and well-wishes from his colleagues. He was 55, a 27-year veteran of air traffic control, and it was his first day as the National Operations Manager - the man running the room that manages the flow of every flight in the entire country.
Then, the unimaginable happened.
At 8:46 AM, a plane hit the North Tower.
At 9:03 AM, as his staff watched in horror, the second plane hit the South Tower.
Sliney didn't wait for permission. He gave his first order: a national ground stop. This meant no plane, anywhere in the country, was allowed to take off. While ground stops are used locally for bad weather, it had never been done nationwide.
But that didn't solve the immediate crisis. There were still roughly 4,500 planes in the air.
"After the second aircraft hit the building, I didn't know how many more there could be," Sliney later recalled. "There could be 30 of them. I didn't know."
At 9:37 AM, a third plane hit the Pentagon.
In the command center, no one above Sliney had ordered anything. No one had told him what he was allowed to do. But five minutes later, at 9:42 AM, Sliney spoke loud enough for the 40 people in the room to hear:
"That's it. I'm landing everyone."
His second order was the bigger one.
A ground stop keeps planes down, but this order forced them down. Every single aircraft flying over the United States was instructed to land at the nearest airport, immediately, regardless of its destination.
It was a logistical nightmare that had never been practiced, let alone executed. Controllers had to rapidly sequence jets into small regional airports that had never handled them. Thousands of passengers suddenly touched down in cities they had never heard of.
The result? It took just over two hours. 4,500 planes landed. Zero accidents.
Sliney later admitted that in the chaos of that morning, it crossed his mind to wonder if he even had the authority to ground the entire country. He gave the order anyway, deciding to let the question wait.
True leadership is acting decisively when the stakes are highest, even in the absence of a playbook.
The 9/11 Commission's report officially recorded the life-saving order as his. Five years later, when director Paul Greengrass made the harrowing film United 93, he asked Sliney to play himself. He did.
Next month, Ben Sliney turns 81. A quiet American hero who, on his very first day, proved exactly why he was the right person for the job.
Loading Twitter/X Embed...
If tweet fails to load, click here.Posted on 9/12/26 at 3:01 am to GEAUXmedic
God Bless America
Posted on 9/12/26 at 6:11 am to GEAUXmedic
No one really seemed to care this year. More attention was paid to a dead podcaster than the victims of 9/11. Not sure if that is good or bad. Can't mourn forever after all.
Posted on 9/12/26 at 6:27 am to LegendInMyMind
quote:
I just ran across this on the 25 Years Ago 2001 Xwitter feed. Everything stopped that morning.
This video really drives home what you mean by “everything stopped.” Someone recorded themselves channel surfing that day, pretty much every channel had abandoned regular programming and was covering 9/11.
This post was edited on 9/12/26 at 9:28 am
Posted on 9/12/26 at 8:32 am to GEAUXmedic
25 years later it still pisses me off.
Posted on 9/12/26 at 8:56 am to GEAUXmedic
Loading Twitter/X Embed...
If tweet fails to load, click here.quote:
Heather Penney was a first lieutenant in the 121st Fighter Squadron, DC Air National Guard, the Capital Guardians. She had been flying F-16s for a short time and she was the only woman in her class. Her father, John Penney, was a retired Air Force colonel who had flown in Vietnam and was then flying airliners for United.
That morning both towers were burning, the Pentagon had been hit, and there was a fourth airliner still in the sky heading for Washington. United 93.
The alert jets that normally sit armed on the ramp were not available. The squadron's F-16s were loaded with roughly a hundred rounds of non explosive training ammunition, ballast used to keep the aircraft in trim. No AIM-9s. No AIM-120s. Nothing that would bring down a Boeing 757.
Lieutenant Colonel Marc Sasseville looked at her and said he would take the cockpit. She said she would take the tail.
That was the entire plan. Two unarmed fighters would fly into a loaded airliner, aimed like darts at a jet almost seven times their weight, because there was no other way to stop it before it reached the Capitol or the White House.
Penney has said she thought about ejecting at the last second and decided against it. She did not trust herself to stay on target if part of her was thinking about getting out.
They ran to the jets, skipped most of the checks, and pushed the throttles up before the engines were properly warm. She said later that she was going to be a missile with wings.
What she did not know, what nobody in the cockpit knew, is that it was already over. At 10:03 United 93 went into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, nose down at roughly 580 miles an hour, because forty passengers and crew had taken a vote, boiled water, grabbed a drink cart and gone up the aisle at the men who had taken their airplane.
Penney and Sasseville flew for about an hour and a half looking for a plane that no longer existed, then escorted Air Force One back toward Washington.
She flew two tours in Iraq and made major. For years afterward she refused to be called the hero of that story. Her line was that the real ones were already dead in a Pennsylvania field, and that they were ordinary people, mothers and fathers and schoolteachers and salesmen, who figured out what was happening and did the math faster than the United States Air Force could get a jet off the ground.
They did with their bare hands what she was willing to do with a fighter.
Posted on 9/12/26 at 9:26 am to PurpleandGold Motown
quote:
No one really seemed to care this year. More attention was paid to a dead podcaster than the victims of 9/11. Not sure if that is good or bad. Can't mourn forever after all.
If you're talking about Charlie Kirk, that's because his murder was a year ago.
At some point (and I'm not going to be one who says when) you do move from grieving to memorializing. We still mark December 7th for Pearl Harbor, but it's more of a solemn remembrance. At some point, and we may be transitional to that, the same will happen for 9/11. Instead of mourning every victim, the transition will be to remember the heroes - the Welles Crowthers, the Rick Rescorlas, the ones who could have gotten out, should have gotten out, but died trying to get one more person to safety.
I know that train of thought wouldn't sit well with those who lost loved ones that day, but at some point when does reliving every second, reairing footage of those poor souls who had two horrible choices either burn or jump, replaying those heartbreaking final phone calls, turn from mourning to something more macabre?
Posted on 9/12/26 at 9:37 am to PJinAtl
NOBUNAGA
@japan_nobunaga
After September 11, more than a million tons of the World Trade Center was loaded onto barges and shipped to a garbage dump on Staten Island.
Then hundreds of men and women stood at conveyor belts for ten months and picked through every ounce of it by hand.
They were looking for people.
The place is called Fresh Kills. For fifty years it was the largest landfill in the world. It took its last barge of household trash on March 22, 2001, and shut down for good. New York was finally done with it.
Five and a half months later, at two o'clock in the morning on September 12, the landfill's director got a phone call at home. He had just walked in the door.
Two trucks were at the gate. They were carrying pieces of the World Trade Center.
He drove back.
The man who ran the dump would later say, without any drama, that if Fresh Kills had not been closed, this could never have happened. There would have been no room. The garbage would have been in the way.
The site was empty. So that is where the towers went.
Here is how it worked.
At Ground Zero, cranes and grapplers lifted the debris into dump trucks. The trucks drove to a pier on the Hudson. There, the load went onto barges, six hundred tons at a time. The barges were towed down the harbor, past the Statue of Liberty, to Staten Island. More than fifteen hundred barges made the trip.
At Fresh Kills, sanitation workers unloaded them onto a hill.
And then the sorting began.
The debris was mechanically screened into three sizes. Chunks bigger than eight inches. Two to eight inches. A quarter inch to two inches. Anything smaller than a quarter of an inch, the size of a fingernail, fell through the last sieve.
Everything above that size went onto a conveyor belt.
And along the belts stood the detectives.
NYPD. FBI. Port Authority police. Medical examiners. Dressed head to toe in white Tyvek suits, in masks, in gloves, on a hill that stank of jet fuel and pulverized concrete and things nobody wanted to name. Looking down at the belt, hour after hour, as the towers rolled past them a fist-sized chunk at a time.
When they saw something, they reached in and took it, and placed it in a white bucket at their feet.
A wedding ring. A photo ID. A set of keys. A shoe.
A piece of a person.
The white buckets went to a tent that served as a morgue.
The volume was beyond comprehension. In mid-September the operation was processing 1,750 tons of debris a day. By mid-October, 17,500 tons a day. Ten times more. Round the clock. The 200-acre hill was declared a federal crime scene and stayed one for ten months.
A retired NYPD detective later wrote down what a shift looked like, because almost nobody outside knew it existed.
You wake at 3 a.m. You get a giant coffee. You drive two hours in the dark from Orange County, through New Jersey, to Staten Island. You park at the bottom of a hill that looks like the end of the world. You put on the white suit. You go to your belt. You stand there. You look.
Then you drive two hours home and do it again tomorrow.
Sanitation workers pulled sixteen-hour shifts, seven days a week. One of them, a supervisor named Barry Asnes, said afterward what kept him there. We were attacked on our own soil, in the city where I was born. This was personal.
The operation did not stop for weather. It did not stop for Christmas. It ran until July 2002. Ten months.
By the end, the men and women on that hill had recovered thousands of human remains. Tens of thousands of personal effects. Wallets, badges, wedding bands, photographs, all cleaned and catalogued and returned to families who had nothing else to bury.
When they were finished, the remaining material was placed in a 48-acre section of the landfill, a mound two hundred and twenty-five feet high, and covered.
It is a park now.
Many of the men and women who stood on that hill have lung disease. Asthma. Cancer. PTSD. The air they were breathing, eight and ten and sixteen hours a day, was full of the towers. Some of them have died of it.
Almost nobody knows their names. Almost nobody knows the place.
Mention Fresh Kills and 9/11 in the same sentence, the retired detective wrote, and most people will have no idea what you are talking about.
Here is what you should know.
Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three people were murdered in those towers. Only about six in ten have ever been identified.
Every one of those identifications came out of a white bucket.
Every wedding ring returned to a widow. Every badge returned to a firehouse. Every fragment of bone matched to a name and buried with a headstone instead of a question mark.
Somebody in a white suit, standing at a belt on a garbage dump at four in the morning, reached into the World Trade Center as it rolled past, and picked that person up, and put them in a bucket, and sent them home.
They did that for ten months.
Nobody applauded on the hill. There was nobody to watch.
They did it anyway.
@japan_nobunaga
After September 11, more than a million tons of the World Trade Center was loaded onto barges and shipped to a garbage dump on Staten Island.
Then hundreds of men and women stood at conveyor belts for ten months and picked through every ounce of it by hand.
They were looking for people.
The place is called Fresh Kills. For fifty years it was the largest landfill in the world. It took its last barge of household trash on March 22, 2001, and shut down for good. New York was finally done with it.
Five and a half months later, at two o'clock in the morning on September 12, the landfill's director got a phone call at home. He had just walked in the door.
Two trucks were at the gate. They were carrying pieces of the World Trade Center.
He drove back.
The man who ran the dump would later say, without any drama, that if Fresh Kills had not been closed, this could never have happened. There would have been no room. The garbage would have been in the way.
The site was empty. So that is where the towers went.
Here is how it worked.
At Ground Zero, cranes and grapplers lifted the debris into dump trucks. The trucks drove to a pier on the Hudson. There, the load went onto barges, six hundred tons at a time. The barges were towed down the harbor, past the Statue of Liberty, to Staten Island. More than fifteen hundred barges made the trip.
At Fresh Kills, sanitation workers unloaded them onto a hill.
And then the sorting began.
The debris was mechanically screened into three sizes. Chunks bigger than eight inches. Two to eight inches. A quarter inch to two inches. Anything smaller than a quarter of an inch, the size of a fingernail, fell through the last sieve.
Everything above that size went onto a conveyor belt.
And along the belts stood the detectives.
NYPD. FBI. Port Authority police. Medical examiners. Dressed head to toe in white Tyvek suits, in masks, in gloves, on a hill that stank of jet fuel and pulverized concrete and things nobody wanted to name. Looking down at the belt, hour after hour, as the towers rolled past them a fist-sized chunk at a time.
When they saw something, they reached in and took it, and placed it in a white bucket at their feet.
A wedding ring. A photo ID. A set of keys. A shoe.
A piece of a person.
The white buckets went to a tent that served as a morgue.
The volume was beyond comprehension. In mid-September the operation was processing 1,750 tons of debris a day. By mid-October, 17,500 tons a day. Ten times more. Round the clock. The 200-acre hill was declared a federal crime scene and stayed one for ten months.
A retired NYPD detective later wrote down what a shift looked like, because almost nobody outside knew it existed.
You wake at 3 a.m. You get a giant coffee. You drive two hours in the dark from Orange County, through New Jersey, to Staten Island. You park at the bottom of a hill that looks like the end of the world. You put on the white suit. You go to your belt. You stand there. You look.
Then you drive two hours home and do it again tomorrow.
Sanitation workers pulled sixteen-hour shifts, seven days a week. One of them, a supervisor named Barry Asnes, said afterward what kept him there. We were attacked on our own soil, in the city where I was born. This was personal.
The operation did not stop for weather. It did not stop for Christmas. It ran until July 2002. Ten months.
By the end, the men and women on that hill had recovered thousands of human remains. Tens of thousands of personal effects. Wallets, badges, wedding bands, photographs, all cleaned and catalogued and returned to families who had nothing else to bury.
When they were finished, the remaining material was placed in a 48-acre section of the landfill, a mound two hundred and twenty-five feet high, and covered.
It is a park now.
Many of the men and women who stood on that hill have lung disease. Asthma. Cancer. PTSD. The air they were breathing, eight and ten and sixteen hours a day, was full of the towers. Some of them have died of it.
Almost nobody knows their names. Almost nobody knows the place.
Mention Fresh Kills and 9/11 in the same sentence, the retired detective wrote, and most people will have no idea what you are talking about.
Here is what you should know.
Two thousand seven hundred and fifty-three people were murdered in those towers. Only about six in ten have ever been identified.
Every one of those identifications came out of a white bucket.
Every wedding ring returned to a widow. Every badge returned to a firehouse. Every fragment of bone matched to a name and buried with a headstone instead of a question mark.
Somebody in a white suit, standing at a belt on a garbage dump at four in the morning, reached into the World Trade Center as it rolled past, and picked that person up, and put them in a bucket, and sent them home.
They did that for ten months.
Nobody applauded on the hill. There was nobody to watch.
They did it anyway.
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