Were you watching TV?
Did you stand there, slack-jawed, staring at the tape loop, seeing the tower explode again and again when the jet plowed
through?
Did you feel for those people, at their desks, drinking coffee, then caught in a hellfire so hot they just had to jump,
their neckties snapping like kite tails as they fell 84 floors? And the people in the street, their necks craned, their cheeks
wet, their hearts breaking; their Prada bags dropped as the first tower rumbled and they ran, panicked, like extras in a Godzilla
film?
John Shaw did. He stood in front of the set at Westmoreland County's 911 center. He saw the fireball, the smoke, the investment
bankers at the window. He heard the phone ring.
"We are being hijacked," the man on the other end said.
Whoa.
He sat down. The man on the line was crying, trying hard to hold himself together. He'd be dead in six minutes.
He talked fast. His name was Edward Felt. F-E-L-T. He was on United Airlines Flight 93. To San Francisco. He had locked
himself in the bathroom.
The plane had been hijacked turned an explosion white smoke.
"We're going down," he said. "We're going down."
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Val McClatchey heard the 757 roar over Indian Lake, three miles east of where it would crash. She had been watching the
"Today" show, with footage from New York, and now the Pentagon.
She looked out the window, above the red barns. She caught a glimpse of it, like light off a watch face. Then nothing,
and then a boom that nearly knocked her off the couch.
The lights went out. The phones, too.
She grabbed her camera. She stepped onto the front porch and shot one frame of the smoke cloud, a charcoal puff in a pure
blue sky.
That image — "End of Serenity," she called it — caught the essence of Somerset County that day. The barns,
the blue sky, the open slope of pasture — it's a postcard, except for that fat, black cloud, swelling like a smoke signal,
warning that something horrible has happened.
"I thought it was an accident," McClatchey says, a Time and a Newsweek and a Reader's Digest in the binder on the coffee
table, the pages with her photo marked with Post-Its. "I thought it was a small plane. I figured they were just trying to
get out of the air."
She didn't walk up that road, toward the hole in the tree line. She could hear the sirens; she knew it was bad. She didn't
need to see.
She went into the kitchen and put on barbecue for the rescue crews.
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