Thomas Hinton was a freelance photographer covering the September 11 Post. Here you remember the dangerous 29 minutes at Ground Zero between the collapses of the south tower at 9:59 and the north tower at 10:28.
“My life is not supposed to be so short. It ends too soon. The years have passed too fast. I have a lot left to do. “
These were the thoughts that went through my head when the Twin Towers collapsed around me.
My 26 years too short didn’t blink before my eyes, as with some people about to die. What I did see was where the things I hadn’t done yet were. The goodbyes I could never say. Beloved ones I wish I could say for the last time “I love you”.
Moments earlier I had been next to Richard Drew, another photographer, as we watched people run from the burning World Trade Center. Now, the south tower was collapsing into a volcano of dust, incinerated glass, molten steel and burnt flesh. I ran to a building on West and Liberty streets to try to find security inside, but I couldn’t make the lobby in time.
It was in complete darkness. I had no idea if we were buried under rubble or just surrounded by the dense cloud of debris.
“I can survive ten days buried alive,” I tried to reassure myself. I thought of stories of earthquake survivors.
All around me, men were screaming, punching, scratching, and whipping each other to find a way out of the black void. The air was full of sharp, hot smoke. My lips seemed to melt, but I couldn’t feel my skin. I was worried that my skin was so burned that my nerves were gone. I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity.
I’m not religious, but earlier that morning, when I saw desperate people jumping out of the office windows, I started reciting the Hail Mary. Now, in the deadly twilight, I repeated the prayer, for myself.
“Hail Mary, full of grace …
Suddenly a shot rang out. A policeman used his weapon to blow up a glass window and the group of people I fell into in the lobby of the 1 World Financial Center building.
I squeezed between two columns. It was still very dark and we could only see one foot in front of us. We felt the walls: people panicked trying to find our way, finding water, trying to breathe.
Moments later, a policeman took control and told the dozen of us that another window was blown across the hall and we could get out. This cop was taking us to safety. He was composed and commanded our respect. I approached him to thank him and shook his hand. I wish I had gotten his name.
I went up through the broken window. I found an Au Bon Pain, grabbed a bottle of water, and rinsed my mouth and nose. Then I grabbed a case of water and started handing out the bottles. I went down to Liberty and walked east looking for people who needed help.
I saw a body under the pedestrian walkway. As I walked, I realized he was alive and asked him his name. It was David Handshuch, a shooting partner. Her legs did not look good and she was in pain. He had the camera bag almost tied to his arm. He explained to me that he tied the camera bag to himself so that when they came with a stretcher his equipment would not be left behind.
I walked around the path I had taken running from the fall of the south tower. I found two cops unable to reach anyone on the radio.
Back in the lobby I found a photographer. He was leaning against a wall working to breathe. I gave him a bottle of water. On my lap I had a camera like mine. I asked him his name. “Ken Murray, Daily News”. I said, “You’re doing better than me. I can’t find my cameras.” He replied “Yes, I have my digi,” a shorthand for a digital camera a day. Recognizing the distinctive marks of my own lens, I said, “I think you’ve found my camera.” He looked at it and sighed, realizing it wasn’t a digital camera he had, but mine.
As I was walking down West Street, I found an FDNY EMT that wanted to install an area to carry injured people. So I went to look for them. We were next to half a dozen Hatzolah ambulances, with the engines still running. I looked east and north and saw no one.
I took a picture of the sun by the dust. It should have been in the shadow of the south tower, but now it was gone.
From time to time I heard a loud burst or saving. I thought they were small explosions coming from vehicles buried under the pile.
Finally, a firefighter came out of the dust cloud. I saw that he was injured and struggling to get down the pile. I ran towards him. He closed the tank and mask in his left hand and I could see how his right arm and shoulder were broken. I grabbed his team and put his arm around my shoulder. He put his weight on me and I struggled to carry him. He was a giant. I took him to Hudson Marina. I thought it was the headwind and that it would be their best place to find help.
As I pulled away from him, I heard the sound of a fighter jet overhead. Interestingly, it comforted me. I thought “our guys are up there.”
I went back to the pile to look for more people. New York City police officer Pedro Velasquez walked beside me, assisting an office worker. I found the EMT I had known before. There was no one between us and the pile. I looked, looked, listened and found no one.
At one point, I looked at the north tower that was alone. I took a picture of it and, through my lens, I saw the massive antenna fall.
I yelled at the top of my lungs, “IT’S GOING DOWN!”
I looked around for the EMT and he was running in front of me towards the WFC. I followed him. He ran up the stairs to the lobby. I fell to the base of the ladder, picked myself up, and reached halfway to the landing.
Then the darkness closed again and I noticed that the remains of the north tower were raining down on us. I knelt down and prepared for the impact. I heard an explosion, then pieces of small debris and glass, then hot air and smoke, and finally silence.