We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer (9 page)

“NO!” she screamed back at him. “NO! He didn’t make it. He didn’t make it out. My son is dead. Pasquale is dead!” She put her face in her hands and wept.

Ugo drove on in silence. From time to time, he shook his head, as if to clear what was happening inside of him. He whispered again, “He got out.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We’ll Get You Down

“I couldn’t wait to get down there to start digging for Pasquale and the others.”

~ Lieutenant Michael Martire,

NYPD Brooklyn North

“We’ll get you down!” the voices promised from below.

The firemen were back, and just that human touch after being caught in limbo in such an unfathomable place, such a terrifying oblivion of destruction, was enough to send relief surging through Pasquale’s body. Slowly, he let go of the metal he’d been holding on to, putting aside any thoughts of suicide as he let the weapon fall from his hand with a ringing sound—clapper against bell—down the pile of rubble. He was going to live, no matter what.
I couldn’t have gotten this far, this close, only to die
. The God he believed in wouldn’t be that cruel; he’d been chosen to live. He knew that. Why he’d been chosen wasn’t a question he could face yet, but it was there, lurking at the back of his mind:
Why me
?

More voices shouted around him: “Over here! Yeah, up on that ledge! See ‘im?”

It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard: human voices, working their way toward him. The firemen called to each other, and he called back. There were deep voices, rolling answers—new, normal sounds in the middle of all that chaos. “How we gonna get him down? What about…”

They talked back and forth as they figured out what they had to do. It was conversation, bouncing ideas off one another—something so normal, so human in that abnormal, inhuman place of creaking metal, crackling fire, dust, smoke, and the stench of something he’d never smelled before.

Below him—way, way below him—one of the men began to climb the pile where he lay. He could barely see the man, catching only a glimpse now and then as the fireman circled and climbed, putting a hand out to catch a piece of steel beam here, a stack of concrete there—testing each grasp, then taking another brave, cautious step. Everything moved so slowly, for there was so much there that might give way and kill them.

Pasquale lost sight of the man for a few minutes. He worried that maybe his would-be rescuer had fallen, that maybe there was no way for anyone to rescue him.
Maybe this is the end. Maybe it’s hopeless, no matter what anyone tries to do.

It was almost more than Pasquale could take. His leg was swollen; he could feel the painful puffiness with his fingers. His ankle throbbed. He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep, arduous breath and decided that nothing was going to stop him from getting out of there.
Not now. I’m too close…

He leaned up, straining to see the men below.
Maybe they had to leave again,
he worried.
Maybe they’ve given up because they can’t find a way to get me out. What fire department would have trained for something this big? What awful mind could have dreamt of a disaster this monumental?

Hope and despair battled inside him, but he knew there was no choice. He was sure that if he’d only wait and lie still, someone, somehow would eventually come for him.
What else can I believe? All I can do is…wait.

High up, behind him, there came the sound of rock falling on rock. He craned his neck back to see. He thought it could be just a settling of the pile he lay atop, or else the whole thing could be falling again. He was powerless either way. If the pile he lay atop gave way, he would fall to his death, into the open pit below. Every sound now took on magnified meaning.

There was a sharp noise behind him, and he tipped his head back to find the source of it. A fireman stood there, up on a mound of steel, a stranger with a dirty face. The man’s boots kicked down rubble as he scrambled to get a foothold. He talked as he scrambled. Pasquale couldn’t tell if he was talking to him, down to the other fireman, or to himself. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He only knew the voice was a welcome relief.

There was a closer noise, almost a
thud
, behind Pasquale’s head as the fireman dropped down from another part of the pile to stand directly behind him, into the small space where twisted pipes stuck up in a circle around Pasquale.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” the man said, his grimy face just inches above Pasquale’s. He was at work immediately, his face intent on fashioning a rope into some form of cradle. He bent to his work as if it were any fire, any place—all in a day’s work for a fireman and just another dirty job that somebody had to do.

There wasn’t anything Pasquale could think to say to the man in his dirty yellow coat, his tattered and tarnished helmet, to the man with the painful-looking red eyes. If Pasquale had ever expected to see an angel in his life, that angel wouldn’t have looked at all like that man, but there he was, so certain he was going to save a life.

“What time is it?” Pasquale asked as the man worked behind him, threading rope over rope.

The firefighter stopped, frowned, and then checked his watch. “Three o’clock, buddy.”

It had been hours since the building had fallen, hours since Pasquale had flown into free fall. It didn’t seem possible.

The man reached for Pasquale. “Okay, fella, now put this rope behind your knees, then up under your armpits,” the guy said. “We’re gonna hafta lower you down. Here we go,” he said and slung the rope attached to the cradle over a twelve-inch fire standpipe. He pulled at the rope, and then pulled again. “Good enough. It’ll hold just fine.”

The ropes went around Pasquale. He tested them, pulling to see if he would be safe. It worried him to depend on those tethered ropes, but that worry only lasted a couple of seconds. He tugged at the ropes one last time. Everything seemed sound. He had to believe in the guy, to believe he knew what he was doing. Pasquale inched his way to the edge. He knew he had to be careful.
If I drop now, I might take the fireman with me—and maybe the others below too.
His leg twinged.
Not now!

“I’ll hold on up here while I lower you to the next guy. There are guys in position to grab you all the way down.” The fireman nodded, encouraging him.

Pasquale weighed close to 300 pounds, and at six-two, there was a lot of him to move. “You sure this is gonna hold me?” he asked a last time, just a little doubt bothering him as he inched his way slowly to the edge, toeing steel beams, concrete, and things he couldn’t recognize any longer.

“Rated to 600 pounds.” The man looked down at him and grinned. “Oughtta hold ya just fine, friend.”

Pasquale tested the rope again, scrambled his feet around, and then lowered his legs over the edge. He held tightly to the ropes around him.

“I got you up here!” the rescuer called after him. “You’re free. Let go. There you go. That’s it. Now let yourself drop. Don’t worry, buddy. You won’t fall far.”

Pasquale held his breath.
So easy to say, “Let yourself drop.”
That edge was all that had been between him and a fifteen-foot fall down into an open, black, bottomless pit. What they were asking of him called for a lot of trust—in them and in their rope that could supposedly support twice his weight. Still, he wanted out of there, and if it took trust, that was what they were going to get. He inched the rest of his body over the edge and let go.

At first, his feet hung in space. He dangled, turning to face the stack of rubble. He pushed at the pile with one hand and held tightly to the rope with his other hand. Slowly, inch by inch, he moved downward.

Inch by inch he went. He used his fingertips to push his body back, away from the concrete and metal. He dug his toes in wherever he could get a firm enough hold. The pain in his leg and ankle shot through his body, but he couldn’t think about it, other than to wince every once in a while.

He held on to nothing. He dangled, then fell again—off into space.

But as the firefighter had promised, he didn’t fall far. The small man above held on. The rope caught and grew taut. Slowly, he let out more rope, until Pasquale hung just above the heads of two more firemen who were waiting below, with their arms up to grab him.

One of the men held on to his foot. Pain became a red thing behind his eyes. Something was definitely wrong with that foot, but he didn’t have time to think about broken bones. He had to help them save him. He had to concentrate, for that was his only way out of there—the only way to get home.

He descended a bit further. His arms and hands hurt, his arms were stretched and taut, and his flesh was being mercilessly scraped by the rope. It seemed harder and harder to catch his breath. He thought maybe he’d been holding it.
Maybe there’s more wrong with me than I thought…

The next pair of arms came up to catch him. One of the men got his hands under Pasquale’s arms and pulled his body across the twisted beam, to where the man stood.

Pasquale settled beside him on that massive beam, pain almost knocking him senseless. He didn’t know how he was going to go on. Something was very wrong. He was too weak, and his head felt light. He worried that he’d black out, that he’d fade out cold again any minute.

“Can you stand?” a fireman asked, bending over him, wearing a dirty, concerned face. Pasquale nodded.
If that’s what it takes…
But the pain must have showed.

“Do you think you’ll be able to walk on that?” the fireman asked, pointing at his leg, swollen to the point of ballooning his pant leg. “We’ve got a lot of climbing to do in order to get you down.”

“Let me try,” he begged. “I’ve got to call my wife. She doesn’t know I’m alive.” It may not have been what he should have been concerned about right then, but Louise was all that was on his mind, especially now that he knew he was going to live.
If she saw the building come down…If she thinks I didn’t have time to escape…My God! Louise! The baby!

The fireman nodded. One stood in front of Pasquale while the other was behind him. They had tied a rope around just him in case he might fall. The firemen looked concerned, but they began to work their way down, always testing each foothold, finding another when the pile shifted beneath their feet. Pasquale’s body was covered with soot and ground dust and sweat. The place was hot, the pain intense. They moved down another 100 yards, and that was it. That was all he could take.

I need to keep moving, but I can’t. Rest…I just need to rest, only for a minute…
He found a small ledge, sat down, and put his head in his hands. He had to take a break, or he was going to faint. “Just five minutes, okay?” he mumbled to the fireman climbing down with him.

The man looked worried.

Pasquale turned to stare hard into the wide, empty abyss below, another yawning chasm. He needed to take deep breaths, to feel the breeze around him. It was still hot with smoke and strange aromas, but at least the air was moving there. He could finally breathe.
But…

The fireman called to the others.

Voices came back, but Pasquale couldn’t make out what they were saying. Inside his head, it was as if he couldn’t hold on. Inside his head, everything went white, then dark.
So, so weak…so, so tired…

“Hey, fella, what’s your name?” a fireman with a thick Irish brogue asked, as if to distract him.

“I…er…uh, Pasquale. My wife’s pregnant. I’ve got to get…”

There were more men beside him, along with a gurney to carry him.

“Relax, buddy. Let us do the rest. You’ll be out of here soon.”

Hands grabbed and strapped him on the gurney, and then he was lifted, up and over the piles of block and pipes and steel. In places, the hands that reached up to take him let the gurney slide, and then he’d be stopped and handed on down. Hands stretched up to get him and worked in unison to move him to safety. Again and again they went: up, holding on, down, closer to the ground.

One of the firemen grunted under the unexpected weight of the big Mr. Buzzelli as the gurney was handed to him. “Man, you are one heavy fuck,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t worry now though. You’re almost there. We’ll get you back to your wife.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking about going on a diet.” Pasquale smiled up as he slid on passed. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“John,” the man answered. “I usually work the fire rescue boats on the river—but not today.”

They moved him—the line of heroic men—the last 100 feet, down to the Westside Highway. There, more hands took him and slid him, this time into a waiting ambulance. The highway—what he could see of it—was like nothing Pasquale had ever seen before: no rush-hour traffic, no noise, and no horns. The Westside Highway was a parking lot, full of standing emergency vehicles, ambulances and police cars stopped at odd angles. Regardless of all the people standing about, it was nearly silent, with no shouting and no frenzy, as one might expect.

It’s so…quiet.

“We’re going to St. Vincent’s. Where you hurting, guy?” a paramedic asked, leaning over him.

The paramedic’s face, like those of the other rescuers, was like no face Pasquale had ever seen. There was something written there, something bad. Pasquale only had one thought as the man efficiently slapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and knocked on the window to the driver: getting home to Louise.