I Was An NYPD Detective On 9/11. This Is What I Saw.

It’s difficult to believe that 24 years have passed since that fateful September morning in 2001 when a group of radical Islamic terrorists slammed planes into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and a rural field in Pennsylvania, murdering 2,977 innocent people.

So much had changed in New York City in the years leading up to that day. The city had been rescued from the throes of an unprecedented period of violent crime and disorder, fueled by a crack epidemic that ran from the early 1980s into the early 1990s. But in the decade leading up to September 11, 2001, the Big Apple had blossomed into the safest big city in the world. Businesses were flourishing. Tourism was booming. There was an atmosphere of safety and law and order in the streets. New York City was once again the mecca of the western world. I saw it happen and it was a beautiful thing to watch.

Under the leadership of Republican Mayor Rudy Giuliani, and Police Commissioner Bill Bratton the NYPD was transformed from a rudderless, leaderless, reactionary force of report takers with no direction into an organized army of crime fighters who identified and attacked high-crime areas with a zero-tolerance policy, targeting hardcore crooks and putting them behind bars where they belong. I was a proud member of that army. It took a lot of blood sweat and tears to reduce crime to levels no one would have imagined just eight years earlier.

The city was like a shiny, old, classic car. It had a few dents and even a few ugly rust spots but the engine was humming and millions of citizens, tourists and businesses were riding around with the top down enjoying the sweet music and the cool breeze blowing through their hair. And then, on 9/11, when those planes smashed into our city, it felt like a cinderblock crashing through the windshield of that classic car.

I was at home that morning, getting ready for work when the first tower was struck at 8:46 AM. I was a Detective Lieutenant in the NYPD’s Intelligence Division. My first thought was that the plane striking the North Tower was an accident. Then, 17 minutes later, the second plane struck and there was no doubt we were under attack. I grabbed my suit jacket and raced toward the city.

I met up with a few members of my team on the side of the highway. We piled into one car and headed for Manhattan. There was no conversation. We drove in silence, listening to the frenzied traffic on our portable radios and the haunting, gut-wrenching transmissions of our fellow officers already on the scene pleading for help, some coughing and wheezing in the rubble, perhaps taking their last breaths. It was heartbreaking.

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As we approached the Queens Midtown tunnel, we saw the North Tower crumble and disappear from the skyline. It was another cinderblock crashing through the windshield of our classic car. I was seething.

We raced down the FDR drive headed south toward the Trade Center where we came upon a ghostly parade of terrified people covered in grey dust running north in the opposite direction we were headed. One of the guys in the car with me mumbled, “I think we’re going the wrong way.” I turned to him and snapped, “No. We’re going the right way.”

We eventually came to a stop just south of the Brooklyn Bridge because the FDR Drive had become an apocalyptic parking lot jammed with abandoned cars. We set out on foot crossing over from the FDR Drive to the side streets where we flagged down an empty ambulance and asked the driver to take us as close to the Trade Center as possible. We climbed into the back and slammed the door shut. As we moved through the narrow streets of downtown, the small rectangular window in the back of the ambulance only grew darker and then the ambulance stopped. This was as far as the driver could take us.

When we spilled out onto Broadway, it was like landing on another planet. Dust was flying everywhere. There was a 6-inch layer of ash, papers and personal belongings blanketing the streets. There was a ceiling of toxic smoke hovering over downtown like a London fog. The carnage was all around us. But the thing I remember most were the shoes. Maybe because I knew they were once connected to people. I wondered if they had run out of them and escaped or if their owners were crushed and burning in the rubble. As we wandered aimlessly in a pack, toward what was once the North and South towers, it was hard to fathom what we were seeing. In some places there were 10 story sections of buildings leaning up against other buildings. Fire trucks and cars were crushed beneath the smoldering rubble. We came upon a turbine from one of the planes near the corner of Murray and Church Streets. Further down the block was a piece of the landing gear.

As we wound through the streets, we could hear and feel the rumble of explosions beneath our feet. I imagined it was gas tanks of buried cars exploding beneath the fiery rubble until we encountered a pack of dust-covered firemen wandering around like we were. They warned us the explosions were manhole covers being blown up into the air by the pressure and heat of the fires raging below us and urged us to stay on the sidewalks to avoid being killed. So, we heeded their advice, breathing in the dust, trudging through the debris looking for survivors or people in need of help but only the dead beneath the rubble remained.

Andrew Lichtenstein/Corbis via Getty Images

As the afternoon wore on, and communications began to settle down, we got more organized. We eventually helped set up a makeshift morgue in the lobby of a building a few blocks north of the smoldering Trade Center. I don’t recall how many bodies came in. It wasn’t more than a few. But the one I remember most was Father Mychal Judge, the Chaplain of the New York City Fire Department. Five brave, somber, exhausted firemen carried his limp body into the lobby. They knelt down and prayed over him. It was a very moving. He had been struck by debris in the Lobby of the North Tower when the South Tower had collapsed.

By the afternoon, we were deployed up to Greenwich Street, several blocks north of Building 7 where we helped set up a perimeter to keep unauthorized people out of the area. We had a clear view of the 47-story building 7 and the fire raging halfway up inside. At 5:20 PM the building began to tremble. The windows popped across it like bubble wrap. The mighty building shook one last time and then fell straight down into itself sending a cloud of dust tumbling in our direction. The worst of the cloud dissipated before it could reach us. Watching that building fall was the final gut punch. I was so angry and so sad. It was hard to wrap my head around everything we had seen and heard that day. It still is 24 years later.

Every year, when this tragic anniversary rolls around, we hear the common mantra “Never Forget.” And it is true, we should never forget. But for the other 364 days of the year, many of them, especially those on the left, wake up every day trying to find new ways to divide us.

That’s why I prefer the phrase, “Always Remember.”

Always remember the sense of patriotism and unity we felt in the days, weeks, months and years that followed this tragedy.

Always remember how people from all different walks of life, strangers, came together and rallied around each other in ways I had never seen in my lifetime.

Always remember the caravans of civilians and first responders from all over the country who poured into the city with trucks, saws, and heavy equipment or just their hands and hearts begging to help with the rescue and recovery operations.

But most importantly, always remember the heroes, first responders and civilians alike, many of whom lost their lives, rushing into those buildings to save their fellow human beings, never for a second considering the race, religion, creed or sexual orientation of those they were trying to save.

Hate lost that day. 24 years later, however, it’s making a comeback. But if we just take the time to remember those things that united us, hate doesn’t have a chance.

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John Dove is a retired NYPD Detective Lieutenant and the former co-executive producer of “CSI-NY” starring Gary Sinise.

The views expressed in this piece are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The Daily Wire.