thedrifter
09-25-06, 11:29 AM
In the footsteps of an uncommon hero
Annual tunnel run recalls sacrifice made by one man
Monday, September 25, 2006
By JAY PRICE
Anybody who hasn't gotten goosebumps lately, or felt the hair stand up on the back of their neck, ought to try ducking in behind a platoon of squared-away, cadence-counting, combat-booted Marines, and riding their sweaty shirt-tails on an early-morning run through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and a three-deep cordon of appreciative New Yorkers lining the streets of lower Manhattan.
Over there, where the Twin Towers once stood, even cops stopped directing traffic long enough to clap for the boys in desert camouflage, and there were plenty of leftover hoo-rahs for the civilians drafting in their wake.
Talk about second-hand applause.
The Marines from the 6th Communications Battalion were already in formation at the start of the fifth Firefighter Stephen Siller Tunnel-to-Towers Run when the truck from Squad One backed up alongside, Siller's name just one of a dozen painted lovingly on the side. One for each member of the squad who went to work Sept. 11, 2001, and never came back.
Behind them, the Manhattan skyline loomed above the tunnel entrance, a reminder that Siller could see the hell he was getting into that morning when he turned around from a golf date with his brothers, left his truck at the tunnel entrance, and started running with 80 pounds of equipment on his back.
"A story like that doesn't get old," Gunnery Sgt. Wharwood Kirts was saying, back from a tour of Fallujah and other Iraqi tourist spots.
Kirts is roughly the size of a small house, and like most soldiers who have seen combat, quick to say he's no hero, and that lots of guys have seen far worse. But he had his own ideas about this guy Siller, and all the others who ran toward danger that day.
"He was a firefighter 24/7, the way we're Marines," Kirts said. "When something happens, it doesn't matter if you're on duty or off duty, and your first thought isn't about your own safety.
"It's about doing what's right."
A STUNNING CROWD
All around him, and for as far as anybody could see, the service road to the tunnel was thick with firefighters, soldiers and Marines, members of the London Fire Brigade and West Point cadets, New Yorkers and citizens of the world; 15,000 of them, maybe more. We'll never know for sure, because volunteers couldn't give out race bibs fast enough to keep up with all the race-day entrants.
The Tunnel-to-Towers Run has grown since the day Siller's brothers and sisters first told city officials they'd like to hold a race to honor the heroes of Sept. 11, but it would mean closing down the Tunnel and parts of Lower Manhattan, and nobody blinked.
The only thing that hasn't changed is the reason they do it.
A few of the soldiers ran the fifth edition in helmets and body armor, and some of the firefighters ran in their bunker gear.
"That's what the other bloke wore," Vincent Archer, a London firefighter was saying, "the day when he did more than a bloke could do."
AN INSPIRING VET
Not everybody was traveling heavy. Navy SEAL Stephen Toboz, who lost a leg in Operation Anaconda, the first fierce firefight involving U.S. troops in Afghanistan, and was back in country nine months later, left a lot of people with two good legs in his wake.
The Marines sang cadence all the way, until they got to where the uniformed firemen lined the tunnel; 343 of them, one for each one who fell that Sept. 11.
When they'd finished the hard part of the run, the uphill on the Manhattan side of the tunnel, they circled back, running against the tide, to pick up their stragglers.
It was always two missing Marines, or four.
Never one.
Never an odd number, because if one Marine fell off the pace, another Marine fell back to stay with him, until the group picked both of them up.
"Nobody gets left behind," Gunny Kirts was saying when it was over.
They ran on, together, past the Emerald Society pipes and drums; past the cheerleaders from New Dorp High School and the band from St. Joseph by-the Sea, and the fireboats in the Hudson, running now to their own sing-song credo -- "We started together, we're gonna finish together" -- until they made the last turn onto West Street, where everybody could see the finish.
"Like a walk in the park," somebody said.
And compared to that other September morning, the one that brought them all together in Steve Siller's name, it was.
Ellie
Annual tunnel run recalls sacrifice made by one man
Monday, September 25, 2006
By JAY PRICE
Anybody who hasn't gotten goosebumps lately, or felt the hair stand up on the back of their neck, ought to try ducking in behind a platoon of squared-away, cadence-counting, combat-booted Marines, and riding their sweaty shirt-tails on an early-morning run through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and a three-deep cordon of appreciative New Yorkers lining the streets of lower Manhattan.
Over there, where the Twin Towers once stood, even cops stopped directing traffic long enough to clap for the boys in desert camouflage, and there were plenty of leftover hoo-rahs for the civilians drafting in their wake.
Talk about second-hand applause.
The Marines from the 6th Communications Battalion were already in formation at the start of the fifth Firefighter Stephen Siller Tunnel-to-Towers Run when the truck from Squad One backed up alongside, Siller's name just one of a dozen painted lovingly on the side. One for each member of the squad who went to work Sept. 11, 2001, and never came back.
Behind them, the Manhattan skyline loomed above the tunnel entrance, a reminder that Siller could see the hell he was getting into that morning when he turned around from a golf date with his brothers, left his truck at the tunnel entrance, and started running with 80 pounds of equipment on his back.
"A story like that doesn't get old," Gunnery Sgt. Wharwood Kirts was saying, back from a tour of Fallujah and other Iraqi tourist spots.
Kirts is roughly the size of a small house, and like most soldiers who have seen combat, quick to say he's no hero, and that lots of guys have seen far worse. But he had his own ideas about this guy Siller, and all the others who ran toward danger that day.
"He was a firefighter 24/7, the way we're Marines," Kirts said. "When something happens, it doesn't matter if you're on duty or off duty, and your first thought isn't about your own safety.
"It's about doing what's right."
A STUNNING CROWD
All around him, and for as far as anybody could see, the service road to the tunnel was thick with firefighters, soldiers and Marines, members of the London Fire Brigade and West Point cadets, New Yorkers and citizens of the world; 15,000 of them, maybe more. We'll never know for sure, because volunteers couldn't give out race bibs fast enough to keep up with all the race-day entrants.
The Tunnel-to-Towers Run has grown since the day Siller's brothers and sisters first told city officials they'd like to hold a race to honor the heroes of Sept. 11, but it would mean closing down the Tunnel and parts of Lower Manhattan, and nobody blinked.
The only thing that hasn't changed is the reason they do it.
A few of the soldiers ran the fifth edition in helmets and body armor, and some of the firefighters ran in their bunker gear.
"That's what the other bloke wore," Vincent Archer, a London firefighter was saying, "the day when he did more than a bloke could do."
AN INSPIRING VET
Not everybody was traveling heavy. Navy SEAL Stephen Toboz, who lost a leg in Operation Anaconda, the first fierce firefight involving U.S. troops in Afghanistan, and was back in country nine months later, left a lot of people with two good legs in his wake.
The Marines sang cadence all the way, until they got to where the uniformed firemen lined the tunnel; 343 of them, one for each one who fell that Sept. 11.
When they'd finished the hard part of the run, the uphill on the Manhattan side of the tunnel, they circled back, running against the tide, to pick up their stragglers.
It was always two missing Marines, or four.
Never one.
Never an odd number, because if one Marine fell off the pace, another Marine fell back to stay with him, until the group picked both of them up.
"Nobody gets left behind," Gunny Kirts was saying when it was over.
They ran on, together, past the Emerald Society pipes and drums; past the cheerleaders from New Dorp High School and the band from St. Joseph by-the Sea, and the fireboats in the Hudson, running now to their own sing-song credo -- "We started together, we're gonna finish together" -- until they made the last turn onto West Street, where everybody could see the finish.
"Like a walk in the park," somebody said.
And compared to that other September morning, the one that brought them all together in Steve Siller's name, it was.
Ellie