'Daily News' Scribe Was Eyewitness

By: Emily Gest, a staff writer at the New York Daily News, was an eyewitness to the destruction of the city's World Trade Center last week, and here, in a message sent to those close to her, she tells what she saw.

Dear friends and family,

Many thanks for your concern about my well-being. Physically I'm fine, but mentally I'm a little whacked. But, it's nothing compared to those who were inside the WTC or the rescuers who are digging through the rubble.

I'm sure everyone has heard numerous stories far worse than mine, but I thought I'd take the opportunity to give you all a little flavor of my experiences on Tuesday. (Forgive the improper grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc. And, maybe, I should apologize if I'm a bit maudlin.)

I left my house at 6 a.m. to cover Mark Green for Tuesday's mayoral primary, which was eventually canceled. I left my car on the Upper East Side where Green voted and rode around the city with him while he greeted voters outside polling places. Around 8:30 or so (time has no meaning for me anymore) we were outside an elementary school in Greenwich Village (Sixth Avenue at 11th Street) when people began screaming, "A plane just hit the World Trade Center."

True enough -- there was a gaping hole and a fireball in one of the towers. I called my editors to tell them what happened (it hadn't yet been broadcast on the police scanner). I found a guy who saw the first American Airlines plane tilt its wings and plow into the building. In halting sobs, he told me what he saw and then said, "Thank god, I'm on my way to therapy." Woody Allen would have loved it.

I rode on an "A" train down to Chambers Street beneath the WTC. I emerged from the subway station to pure chaos. The second plane had just crashed. At Church and Fulton Streets (on the east side of the WTC) there were police, FBI, bodies, everywhere. A woman with third-degree burns. Other victims in ambulances. Papers -- trading sheets, etc. -- everywhere. The metal shell of an airplane wheel. Pools of blood from bodies killed by debris from the plane's impact. I found a colleague, Greg, who had been standing next to someone who was sliced in half by debris. He was freaked, but kept working.

I ran around trying to interview those who escaped. Many were too terrified to talk, or couldn't remember their name. When they turned to look at the building, they shook in fear. I saw at least a dozen people leap to their deaths. The first, a man wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants, I'll never forget. I averted my eyes from the rest. At one point, police and FBI wanted reporters, photogs, TV crews to move back a block to Broadway, but we refused. I showed my press badge to an FBI agent, and he said, "I don't care." I ignored him and stayed put.

Then, a huge roaring sound as if 100 jets had started their engines. Panic. Cops, FBI, press, victims -- we scattered in all directions. I hid underneath a granite overhang of an old bank building on Broadway (across from St. Paul's), a block away from the explosion of the first tower. The sound continued, the ground shook and rumbled, and I realized I wasn't safe. I worried the tower wouldn't implode, but would fall like a tree. I looked around the corner to Church Street to see what was happening and a giant gray cloud was coming my way. I had no idea what was behind it. Smoke? Debris? A fireball? And then, I realized I might die.

Like hundreds of others, I ran down Fulton Street, desperate for refuge. As the smoke caught up with me, I clawed my way into a building lobby with a dozen others. The lobby soon filled with white ash and was stifling hot. I was desperate for a phone to call David and the news desk to tell them I was OK, but the phones were dead. Cell phones didn't work then, or for the rest of the day.

I conned my way into a Conway (discount store) that abutted the building lobby and tried to use their phone. But the phone lines worked intermittently, and there were dozens of others who were desperate to call their loved ones. A Pakistani woman who spoke little English was convinced her husband and baby were dead. She cried, prayed, and threw her arms around me. A jerk yelled at his wife on the phone: "You can't deal with this, I can't deal with it. I can't get home!" A pregnant Russian woman bathed in the bathroom sink as she tried to remove the stinging, itchy ashes from her skin.

I was on the phone with my editors during the second explosion. Outside, the windows were covered with ash and then a black smoke that looked like black paint against the windows. Finally, I prepared to go outside. The manager of Conway gave me a bandanna to wear over my nose and mouth and a plastic bag to wear over my clothes. I had the good fortune of wearing a suede skirt and heels that day. (Joke.)

Outside, rubble, debris, an inch or two of ash and awe. I couldn't believe the change in the skyline. No more WTC towers. I walked down Fulton back to Church and saw the destruction. Chairs from the Millennium Hilton blown outside windows. Cars looked like they had been bombed. Debris everywhere. Fires raging. Lots of heat and smoke. Panicked firefighters and cops.

I was worried about my colleague, Greg, but I found out Wednesday he was fine. During the first explosion, he ran into a subway station where he was engulfed in smoke. A man next to him broke his leg. During the second explosion, he followed a firefighter who used his axe to break down a door to a store. The firefighter had cut his leg badly. One of our photographers broke his legs. A firefighter removed him from the rubble and took him to a deli until he could be taken to a hospital.

For the rest of the afternoon, I wandered around, numb, looking for people to talk to, trying to dodge cops who wanted to kick me out of the area. At one point, I entered a seedy bar called the Blarney Stone and just sat, numb, watching the TV. I interviewed a few people, but mostly was too shocked to talk. Firefighters and cops came in to get sodas and free food. We just sat and looked at each other. One cop admonished me for not calling my mother yet. "I asked my boyfriend to call her," I said. "You should call her. She's probably crying. Mine was," he replied. And, yes, my mom said she sat weeping in front of the TV.

For the rest of the afternoon, I was routinely hampered by cops who didn't want me near the site. Another shock occurred later in the afternoon when I had to run away from the third building collapse. By then, I'd had enough. I was terrified and lonely. It was difficult to find a phone that worked, and I hadn't seen a single Daily News reporter or photographer since 9:30 a.m. I wandered farther and farther away from the destruction and found some of my friends. I nearly broke down in tears with relief. I spent the next several hours in and out of a command post in a state insurance building that lacked power. Occasionally, the power would go out and the desk sergeant had one flashlight to light the cavernous marble lobby. Phone service was intermittent.

Exhausted, I just sat on a street corner and stared into the eerie darkness of smoke and night sky where the towers once stood. Finally, at 11 p.m., my editor said I could go home. I finally reached David's apartment around midnight. My shoes and clothes were ruined. My hair was a gray, stiff, Brillo pad, and my skin itched uncomfortably. My eyes were beet red from irritation.

Wednesday, today, my feet are swollen and ache, and it hurts to wear shoes. I have shinsplints. It hurts to walk. Loud noises frighten me: I look up to see if anything is falling or exploding. I arrived at work fighting back tears and then broke down when I began to read the paper. So far, I'm lucky. No one I know was badly hurt or killed. Nothing I have endured or my colleagues have endured compares to the victims, their families, and the rescuers.

My best wishes to you all.