Heroes Then – Heroes Now Memories of NYC Rescuers After OKC Bombing By Kathleen Highfill

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It was nighttime as the weary men of a New York rescue team gathered around a table in the Myriad. They petted the therapy dog, sitting there to raise their spirits, and they talked. They talked about Oklahomans and the outpouring of support rescue workers had received while working at the remains of the Murrah Federal Building. They were surprised when a bunch of cigars appeared within an hour of one member mentioning that some funky, stinky ones would help clear their sinuses. They spoke in awe about the long tables piled with supplies delivered by someone who thought they might need them. One rescuer took a pair of work boots from a line of donated ones. He tried one on to see if it would fit while his feet were swollen, but something stopped his foot. He looked inside and pulled out a rolled up pair of white socks. "They even put in a pair of socks," he said softly, in a Bronx accent. He noticed some writing on the sock, unfolded it and showed it to the others. "God guide and protect the man who wears these boots." They turned to the one Oklahoman in their midst, the therapy dog handler-me. It seemed they wanted to express their admiration to someone from here. They said it was humbling to be with people who were so caring, giving and brave. One man with a large nose and flashing white teeth in a dark face told me, "The people here are a breed apart. You set the standard." I disagreed. "If this had happened in your city, the people would rise to it as we did." The table erupted in guffaws. A tall blond man mentioned the World Trade Center evacuation after the 1993 bombing. "Fifty floors we carried that guy through the smoke to reach the ground. And New Yorkers were lining the streets when we came out, lined up with bottles of water. Only they were hawking them to us!" "Yeah," another chimed in, "at three times the price charged in the stores." "If the damage had been more visible, like ours, the people would have risen to it," I countered. "If something this bad happens, you'll see." The crooked smiles hinted at thoughts that I was naïve. As the tall blond hefted his heavy gear and headed for bed, he laughed, "Not in my lifetime." Time and again, my bulldog Lily enticed silent men into sitting with her. The scent and feel of a dog appeared to ease tension and start them talking. But for some, when they began to really open up, a funny look crossed their faces. They would excuse themselves to go over and talk with a thin chaplain, with a shock of white hair, standing nearby. This frustrated Lily, so I gave her treats while we watched the chaplain. Beautiful eyes highlighted a face drawn with kindness, yet strength. And man after man seemed to go away comforted. I knew he was giving them something we couldn't. And I gave thanks that he was there, taking the awesome responsibility of finding the right words. When the giant, echoing room had almost emptied, he came over with his cup of coffee and a smile. "May I join you? I might as well move over here and spare them from walking over to me." He said he had seen the great job we were doing and wanted to thank me for helping his boys. I pointed out it was him doing the real work. He waved that aside and peppered me with questions about what therapy group I was with and what kind of training the dogs and handlers had. I told him about our work in hospitals, of Lily's gift of getting people to talk until they reached their pain. He listened as if I was the only person on earth, and, in his presence, I felt my strength returning. After I fell silent, he described his beginnings as a police dog handler before "getting the call." He talked of his mission while rubbing Lily. Suddenly, he shook himself back to full alert and looked at her with some alarm. "Go on," he told her. "Go work your hoodoo on someone else. Off with ye." He had introduced himself only as Mike. Could that have been Father Judge, the one who died at the trade center while giving last rites? I don't know. If so, the world has lost a wonderful person. But then, so many were lost September 11. The last day that particular group worked at the bombing site, they refused the buses waiting to take them back to the Myriad. Instead, they walked back as a show of solidarity and respect for the people of OKC. I was there by chance and saw their bone-weary faces as they solemnly marched. I noticed two that I knew were breaking doctor's orders, because they had been pulled off the site due to injuries. The unit from New York, the ones from California and who knows where else, they all struck me as being young and earnest. They came so far and did everything in their power to help. A year later, on the day of appreciation, many came back, some paying their own way. I made some silly ribbons with hand-lettered words: Oklahoma City, Home of Heroes, Welcome Home. Volunteers directed me to a beefy man with white hair, wearing the dress uniform of the New York City Fire Department. I pressed handfuls of ribbons on him and asked that he take them to the ones still in New York, the ones pulling double shifts and working short-handed to cover for those who were here. And I asked him to deliver a letter I had written to the morale officer, telling him the ones still in New York were heroes too. I had misspelled morale, addressing it to the moral officer. The fireman joked that he shouldn't read it, not sure that he qualified as a moral officer. He laughed, hugged me, and said he would see to it that the ribbons were posted on bulletin boards at every firehouse. His name was Ray, assistant fire chief, now dead from the trade center collapse. They came here in our time of need and served and asked nothing in return. Now, they deal with another tragedy, and many of the victims they search for are their own–rescuers who raced into the valley of the shadow of death to help others. We remember and salute them: heroes then, heroes now, heroes tomorrow. Back to Archives

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