On September 11, 2001, while thousands of people were trying to get away from the danger in lower Manhattan, my brother Stephen was heading straight toward it.His shift as a New York City firefighter was over and he was supposed to meet his brothers for a round of golf, but the moment he heard that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, he turned his truck around.
For Stephen, there was never really a choice—people needed help, and he was going to help them.My brother Stephen barely had time to think when news of a plane hitting the World Trade Center’s North Tower came across the scanner inside his black 1990 GMC Sierra 1500 pickup truck just after 8:46 a.m.on September 11, 2001.Perhaps that was fitting.
In the few seconds that Stephen had to consider whether to keep driving from Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighborhood—where his shift at FDNY Squad 1 had ended just sixteen minutes prior—toward Staten Island, where he was supposed to meet up with the rest of us Siller brothers and head down to central New Jersey and play golf, there was no decision to make.A major accident or attack had just occurred—and countless innocent people needed help.
The only direction for Stephen to drive was not away from the fire, but straight toward it.As golf balls rattled and his clubs whipped to the other side of the truck, Stephen quickly turned around on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, put his foot on the gas, and began racing in the direction of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, where he could drive under the river to lower Manhattan.He could see the thick smoke emanating from lower Manhattan as he tore down the BQE, wondering exactly what had happened and how fast he could get there.
Having known Stephen his entire life, I am certain that one question dominated his mind in those frantic yet simultaneously measured few minutes: How many lives can I help save?FRANK SILLER: 'I LOVE YOU, BROTHER': THE 9/11 LOSS THAT INSPIRED A MISSION OF SERVICEAt some point while driving as f...