Ready to Help, But Turned Away

When Paul Sandella and his fellow New Haven firefighters streamed out of Grand Central Station, they were met by the smell of burning wreckage at Ground Zero miles away and given a hero’s welcome from grateful New Yorkers.

Sandella will never forget that smell—or the feeling that he didn’t get a chance to earn that welcome.

Battalion Chief Sandella was among several dozen New Haven firefighters who boarded a Metro-North train to New York City on Sept. 12, 2001, the morning after the terrorist attacks that destroyed the Twin Towers, taking nearly 3,000 lives and defining a new era of American history.

Hundreds of firefighters like him turned up in Manhattan that day, fueled by feelings of fire department fraternity and wanting somehow to help. Most were turned away.

Thanks to a case of mistaken identity, Sandella and four other New Haven firefighters made it to Ground Zero, only to find there was nothing they could do.

New Yorkers nonetheless showered them with applause, hugs, a free chicken dinner, even a limo ride back to Grand Central. To this day, Sandella recalls the experience with a complicated mixture of guilt, frustration, respect, and awe.

New Haven firefighter Jim Kelly, working then as an EMT, also ended up at the scene. He made it down on Sept. 11, less than two hours after the attacks. Although he delivered life support equipment, and helped transport four surgeons, Kelly was also frustrated to find he couldn’t help as he would have liked.

The memories of that day stayed with Sandella and Kelly Friday as they participated in a memorial dedication at 1 p.m. Friday at the New Haven fire department’s training academy. The somber event included remarks from a retired New York firefighter and the unveiling of a new memorial stone, dedicated to the memory of the firefighters who died on 9/11.

It was one of a series of events taking place this weekend as New Haven and the nation mark the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and seek to extract some meaning from their memories. While tales of dramatic escape and heroic rescue from that day are retold, firefighters like Sandella and Kelly offer a lesser-heard tale about how not everyone was able to turn good intentions into action, no matter how heartfelt.

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, then 40 years old, Sandella was home at his in-laws’ house in North Haven, where he lived in one room with his wife, two kids, two cats, and two dogs. His wife called from work. Turn the TV on, she said.

He turned it on, and was shocked to learn a plane had struck the Twin Towers. He called up his friend Captain Rick Rife, a fellow firefighter. They were talking on the phone when the second tower came down.

“We just watched 500 firemen die,” Sandella said into the receiver.

“You’re probably right,” Rife replied, Sandella recalled.

The actual number of firefighters who perished on 9/11 is 343. “It’s a well-known number” among firefighters, Sandella said. It turns up in tattoos firefighters bear to remember the losses and recognize their connection to those who died.

That feeling of brotherhood prompted the phone calls Sandella and other New Haven firefighters started making that evening. They were all saying the same thing: “Let’s go down and help.”

It wasn’t an organized movement. The official word from Fire Chief Michael Grant, who had been in touch with the New York fire department, was: Don’t go. You’re not needed.

“This was against our department’s wishes,” Sandella said. It was against his wife’s wishes as well, but he was determined to go, “just to feel that we made an attempt.” He said he’s still not sure if he went for New York firefighters or for himself.

He and about 45 other New Haven firefighters showed up at Union Station the next morning along with firefighters from surrounding towns. They boarded a 7 a.m. train to New York City in their full turn-out gear: helmets, boots, bunker pants, coats.

“I don’t recall seeing any civilians on the train,” he said. At each stop between New Haven and New York, more firefighters got on. “It was amazing to see everyone. They all had the same feelings we did.”

By the time the train reached Grand Central, it bore an army of firefighters. As they emerged from the train, people in the station burst into spontaneous applause.

The firefighter brigade had “no game plan” and “no leader,” Sandella said. But somehow New York cops were waiting. “How did they know we were coming?” Sandella still wonders.

With a megaphone, the cops directed them towards several buses parked outside.

“As soon as we get out of GCT [Grand Central Terminal], we smelled it,” Sandella recalled. It wasn’t the Class A house-fire smell he was accustomed to, the smell of burnt wood and paper. This was a “unique” odor. It smelled “industrial,” like “plastic and grease,” Sandella said.

“I can’t believe I’m smelling this from that far away,” Sandella recalled thinking. The World Trade Center was some three and a half miles away. “I knew the distance,” said Sandella, who worked for Metro-North at Grand Central for a year in the ‘80s.

When the smell hit him, so did a wave of energy.

“The adrenaline started rolling, because we’re going into the unknown,” Sandella said.

Everyone felt it. The bus full of firefighters was like “a football team ready to go into action.”

Unfortunately, for most, the action didn’t happen.

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