The Foreign Service Journal, September 2004

“Save Those You Can” Another man said, “Careful how you dig. You have to have the stomach for it.” Still another said, “Just dig. Move the rubble. You see a body, you call out,” gesturing with his left hand as he spoke. “Let the professionals handle it.” One of the pick-and-hammer crew, a kid not half my age, looked at me in horror. “We are going in like this? No masks?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bag of cough drops. “Take some. Wait until you gag. Then put it in your mouth. They’ll have to last all night,” I said as I rationed them out. When they finally got us moving, the bullhorn had donned a white jumpsuit. He pulled us together shout- ing, “If you are drinking alcohol, go home! If you are on drugs, go home! If you have asthma, go home!” “I love this country!” a stringy welder at the head of the construction volunteers ferociously bellowed. “We’re not here for that,” the white jumpsuit shout- ed back. “We are here to save a child from under the rubble. We are here to save a woman who has been trapped.” Over the last few hours young people of college age had made their way to the staging area. The women were in skimpy attire. Many were covered with just enough material to make two bikinis. They were sent to the back of the search and rescue line. The boys with jeans hung around the steelcutters, eager for action. Finally we walked off to the trucks. The steelcutters were the first volunteer shift. The boys in the waiting area cheered us on, doubtless in hope of getting under way themselves. I talked to the first laborer I met. Shovel in hand he said, “It’s still burning. If you hear someone screaming, try to get him out. If he’s too deep under, ignore him. We’ve got to stop the fire from spreading first. We’ve got to save those we can. This is triage.” All order was lost when we embarked. I had read about the exuberance of young men going to war for the first time. Here it was. The boys could not restrain themselves. They broke ranks and ran for the donated trucks. They grabbed whatever was available, climbed on board, and rode into the holocaust. I had read descriptions of this phenomenon at the out- break of wars, but never thought I would see it. The husky guy and I picked up our gear and followed them in. It was dark when I quit. The city looked abandoned when I got to a working subway. I don’t know how far I walked to get there, but it must have been two miles. Intermittent sirens dotted the night. The absence of activity asserted itself, hanging in the air. The train back was nearly empty. Unlike the people of downtown, uptown stayed put. So I was a rare find when I returned. As I slumped in my subway seat, a British tourist asked how it was going. “I’ve had better days,” I replied. My old office doesn’t exist anymore, nor does the world as I knew it on Sept. 10, 2001. For me they both belong to a bygone era. Scorched earth divides us. In the three intervening years I have attended every Foreign Affairs Day held at Main State, stopping by the coatroom to inquire into the whereabouts of a tall woman, of advanced years, with a thick pair of glasses. If ever I find her, I will tell her that we still have an office in New York. F O C U S S E P T E M B E R 2 0 0 4 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 67 SERVING THOSE WHO SERVE AMERICA S I NCE 1 9 7 1 2004 represents our 34 th year helping to maintain America’s fleet of vehicles throughout the world. All of us at D & M consider it an honor to have worked with all of you through these years. We are aware of the importance of your official and private vehicles, forklifts, generators, tools and equipment. We look forward to continuing this service in a professional manner. We are here to help, just ask! Gary Vlahov www.dmauto.com (516) 822-6662; FAX: (516) 822-5020; E-mail: info@dmauto.com