By Scott Longman
It’s been observed that there are really only two branches of military service. Those would be the Army and the Navy. The Air Force is a corporation. And the Marine Corps is a cult. Seldom has that last been on clearer display than on September 11, 2001.
Enter U.S.M.C. Staff Sgt. David Karnes.
Staff Sgt. Karnes spent 23 years in the Corps as a ground-pounder. He retired, and pursued a career as, of all unlikely things, an accountant. Part of his career was spent at the World Financial Center, adjacent to the Twin Towers, and he had spent time in the Towers themselves, so he knew that now-hallowed ground from a boots-on perspective. Not long before 9/11, he was transferred to his firm’s Connecticut office, which is where he was when the first plane hit.
He knew instantly and intuitively that it wasn’t an accident, but to reinforce that, his sister called him to say that the second tower had been hit. He stood up and told his supervisor: “You won’t be seeing me for a while,” and then quick-walked out to his 1979 911 Targa, fired up the flat six and went wide-fucking-open, stopping to pick up his uniform, get a fresh high-and-tight, and swing by his contingency locker—because, of course, he had a contingency locker—to secure his loadout.
And lastly, but as he would tell you, most importantly, he went to his church.
Running Towards the Sounds of Chaos
It says something about the man that the first words out of his pastor’s mouth were to the effect: “You’re going into it, aren’t you?” Staff Sgt. Karnes was and is a highly religious man. He asked his pastor and his fellow parishioners to pray that he be guided in his rescue efforts. He would later say that he thought he had a 90% chance of not coming back, but he “was at peace with that.”
When the vast majority of people were trying to leave NYC, he stormed into it at 135 mph. Electronic road signs all said all inbound routes were closed. He didn’t lift. Instead, he reached a checkpoint, where the Targa top really helped, because the police officer could, at a glance, see a fully decked-out Marine, so he waved him through. As Sgt. Karnes crossed the bridge, he could see that the Twin Towers were gone. His first thought was: What had it been like to be in those buildings?
Once roared in, he found a spot to stash the 911 under a bridge. He dismounted and donned his issue web gear, straightened his cover, and walked directly into one of the largest disasters in U.S. history.
The air was a poisoned miasma of soot and dust and smoke and despair. The streets were strewn with debris and an unfathomable amount of paper. Everything was coated in a layer of gray as though it had been hit with the spray blast from Hell. As he approached the next set of barricades, those manning them took one look and nodded him through. He had zero authority but he bluffed it straight out.
The FDNY had, with impending night, wisely called off search and rescue operations. Behind their line was an immense 16-acre hellscape, mounds of debris and rubble and beams, holes that could drop five stories, innumerable fires, everything highly unstable, and surrounded by still-standing buildings that might collapse at any time. Staff Sgt. Karnes walked up to a group of firemen, and asked them if there were any ongoing search and rescue operations at the epicenter. One soot-covered man looked at him: “No Marine, and if you go in there, you are going to die.” Staff Sgt. Karnes acknowledged them, and then walked past. As he would later describe it: “I was on a mission from God.”
Thank God Marines are Insane
At about this point, he ran into the only other man insane enough to do what he was about to go do, Jason Thomas. Sergeant Jason Thomas. Of the U.S.M.C. Of course.
As the sun set, they couldn’t see through the swirling wall of smoke, but for a few seconds, the view momentarily opened revealing both the sunset and the cataclysmic field that lay before them. They went.
Prior to the Corps, Staff Sgt. Karnes had worked in a steel mill. He knew steel’s properties; he knew how to walk on it. In some sense, he viewed it as the ultimate obstacle course. The pair made their way, balancing and bracing, teetering on the brink, sometimes choking, but they pressed into the demonic entropy. Did they yell “Rescue”? Did they bellow “Fire Department”? Of course not: what they hollered was “United States Marines!”
And two survivors heard them.
Two Port Authority Police Officers, out of a five man team, had survived. They had been crushed and trapped for more than 10 hours. Both men had severe injuries. Their names are Will Jimeno and John McLoughlin. They barely had enough reserves to make themselves audible. But they did. 2,977 died, but these two would not.
Staff Sgt. Karnes heard their muffled cries, and found them, about 25 feet down. He pulled out his cell phone and said a prayer, “I know that cell phones aren’t working in NYC right now, but please let this call go through.” He reached his wife on the second ring, and had her call NYPD Command Operations Center. Fifteen minutes later, a paramedic arrived. Then another prayer, please send somebody with a radio; five minutes later, two NYPD Emergency Service Unit officers, skilled in extricating people, arrived. While awaiting further rescue gear, the fire started getting intense near Will Jimeno’s feet. One ESU officer took a jacket off another deceased officer, and tried to beat out the flames, but that didn’t work. Someone said “abort, abort!” but Staff Sgt. Karnes said: “No. We’re not leaving.” Then an FDNY member showed up with a big fire extinguisher. Another FDNY member arrived with further extrication gear. That second fireman said: “I gotta cut this beam, but it may all come down on us.” Staff Sgt. Karnes replied: “Then cut it. If it goes, we all go together.” Twenty-two hours after the collapse, the two men were saved.
The story concludes with a wonderful piece of irony. The following morning, he left the wreckage, and went to visit the two officers at Bellevue Hospital. Staff Sgt. Karnes was understandably exhausted. He sure as hell wasn’t driving back to Connecticut, plus, he wanted to continue supporting the men he’d rescued. So he asked for a hospital bed to sleep in.
Where did the hospital put him?
In the psych ward.
The perfect place for Marines in general, and this one in particular.
