The Return to the Skies

By Capt. Jim Devaney, United

When we got to the airport the morning of September 14, it was chaos. We took off for Newark with a full airplane of passengers and deadheading crewmembers trying to get home. We must have been around 15 miles from Newark when the controller cleared us for a visual approach to Runway 4R. This was unusual enough in that even when Newark is quiet, they don’t clear you for a visual approach that far out.

Almost as an afterthought, the controller said, “Before you go, you have traffic at your 12 o’clock, four miles opposite direction, altitude indicates 400 feet above you.” I asked the controller, “What’s their type?” The controller responded, “I believe they’re F-15s.”

Within seconds, two F-15s flew directly overhead and then were right alongside us. I knew fighter jets were maneuverable, but I didn’t know they could do what I saw them do. The two F-15 Eagles stayed with us down to about 200 feet, staying between us and Manhattan—where at that moment President Bush was standing on a fire truck, bullhorn in hand, at Ground Zero. That was my welcome home on Friday, September 14, 2001.

By Capt. Dana Mettler, Endeavor Air

My airline was actually able to get up and flying on September 13. I was at home in Grand Rapids, Mich., but my flight case was at operations in Milwaukee, Wisc. The chief pilot deadheaded to Grand Rapids with my flight case so that we could operate a plane that had diverted here on its way back to Milwaukee. I then flew on from there as captain on the Dornier 328Jet, N357SK, Midwest Airlines Flight 2280 Milwaukee to Washington Dulles. My logbook entry from that day has a notation that reads, “Some very quiet airwaves.” Imagine our little airline flying before the rest of the industry started back on September 14; no wonder the radio frequencies were almost silent. I think the word quiet sums up the feeling of that day for me. Quiet—as in the hushed, reverential silences of a funeral. It felt to me as I contemplated this unique ‘quietness’ that I was trying to come to terms with a new reality.

Returning to Washington Dulles after the overnight, it was a different sight to see the military presence everywhere, with machine-gun-holding soldiers watching the comings and goings. Was this to be the new normal? It reminded me of the security seen in Europe at the time, maybe more so.

By Capt. Cathy Jacob, Delta

When flying resumed on September 14, chaos reigned. Planes had landed at the nearest available field, people had made their way by land, and I suspected pilots were needed. Though not scheduled to fly, I called scheduling to see if I could help. The response was emphatic.

“Can you get to an airport? Any airport?” the scheduler asked. I said that I could drive to Cincinnati. “Go!” he said. “We’ll have a flight for you when you get there.”

The plane was nearly empty, but we quickly took off bound for La Guardia. I will never forget the sight as we turned at the Verrazano–Narrows Bridge and flew up the Hudson River that bright, sunny day. The two towers were still billowing smoke.
I thought of the lives lost, the families left behind, and the profound effect that day had on all of us. I still couldn’t believe someone would do this to so many innocent people. I was dumbfounded, sad, and angry all at the same time.

By Capt. Vince Gualtieri, United

Late Thursday night, United called and said I would be flying one of first flights out on Friday, September 14: San Francisco–Chicago–Newark. They asked if I was okay with that, and I replied, “Yup. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

The radio was very quiet; air traffic controllers all offered condolences and wished us well—every last one of them. I switched aircraft to the B-757-200 in Chicago. Same type of flight: quiet.

But when we arrived in Newark and walked off the jetway, a group of employees had formed two lines and greeted us with flowers, balloons, and hugs. “Welcome Home.” It was very emotional—extremely high yet extremely low at the same time. I thought, “I’m almost home, but a lot of my friends and coworkers are gone.” I will never forget that.

After the greeting, I got on the employee bus, picked up my car, and began my drive home. I looked to my right and where the Twin Towers had been standing, reflecting in gold, on my ride to work Monday night, I saw a big void with thick smoke still billowing.

I turned on the radio and “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” was playing. “Time to pick up the pieces,” I thought.

By Capt. Scott Kinder, United

We diverted into Garden City, Kansas, on 9/11 while flying from Washington Dulles to Los Angeles, and Garden City was incredible. Their emergency response was first rate, with the high school gym made into an emergency operations center with the Red Cross and phones and computers for passengers to use. The mayor gave us the key to places like the country club and swimming pool, and businesses provided us free food.

When we left on September 14, we were met by flag-waving citizens lining the road and airport. Garden City airport was small, so when we left we had to work out the logistics with dispatch and the airport. This required the removal of taxiway signs as well as a pickup in front of us talking to us on the radio keeping us on the taxiway. We only had 30 or so passengers still flying with us; so with a max blast takeoff and light load, that B-757 took off like an F-15 in afterburners, with the tower thanking us for the air show takeoff.

The radios were eerily quiet, with just two to three jets on the frequency as we flew to Los Angeles. When we arrived, we were met by the chief pilot staff with American flags. For the worst event of my flying life, I got to witness the great American spirit with our crew, the passengers, law enforcement, and all the great people of Garden City.

By Capt. Jeffrey Hanson, FedEx Express

My story of flying on September 14 actually began on the evening of Thursday, September 13. We launched from Buffalo to Newark that evening. I don’t remember saying anything special to the crew; we were pretty silent and on edge the whole flight. It was a pretty clear night as we were vectored to Runway 4R at Newark. Off in the distance, you could see the lights of Ground Zero and smoke rising from the scene.

I remember a deep and strong sense of anger about the terrorists and grief for the crews and their families. This was against everything we had ever been told or trained for in a hijacking situation. We focused on the task at hand and getting on the ground safely, yet we couldn’t stop from looking to the northeast toward the scene. It was also eerie with the radio so quiet, especially at Newark. Only the FedEx inbounds were airborne. You could sense a difference in the controllers as well. They were on edge yet found comfort, I think, in their ability to once again do their job.

By Capt. Aqiq Khan, ExpressJet

I was a first officer on a Continental Express EMB 145. I was sad that day but had no fear, because I knew we would catch the culprit and it would never happen again. I still remember that there was a line of smoke coming from north to south where the World Trade Center used to be. Life has certainly changed since that day.

By F/O John Schramm, Delta

I flew the first flight of the day on September 14; we were one of the first flights out of Atlanta following the airspace shutdown. My wife was understandably nervous and called me prior to pushback. On board that day we had an armed U.S. air marshal, an armed Secret Service agent, and—sitting in first class—the actor Adam West. Yes, the original Batman from television. I told my wife that even if bad guys got past the armed federal agents, no way they would get by Batman. How could a flight be any safer?

By Capt. Steve Lynch, United

The planes were pretty empty when we got back to flying, and that was part of the grim process of rebuilding the national sense of self, which seemed to have been lost. The darkness of that loss was starting to make flying airplanes a pretty risky way to plan for the future.

Until I got to Portland, Oregon.

As we exited the new and unfamiliar security area, manned by what looked like Marine drill instructors, we rounded the corner near our departure gate and stopped in our tracks. All of us. With our jaws slack and our eyes wide, we all looked at a gate room overflowing with passengers.

I remember the confusion we all felt at that moment. Who were these people? What were they all doing here? We made our way to the podium, and as the crew boarded, I chatted with the agent. The look on my face must have been obvious; I was confused. After two days on the road with no signs of life, we were full.

The good people of Portland had decided that this day was an excellent day to fly to New York and spend a few days in a hotel, go shopping, and take in a show. When fear ruled the airwaves and news coverage, when doubt about our future security as a nation was rampant, and in the darkest moments of the airline and hotel business and the war zone that was Manhattan, the people of Portland, Oregon, decided that we would all come out of this better and stronger. Then they decided to show us how to do that.

By F/O Kirk Appell, Delta

I was a 727 first officer based in CVG, starting a scheduled four-day trip [on September 14, 2001]. Our flight was one of three that departed CVG on the initial spool up for departures. Destination: ATL. We had roughly 10 passengers. Everyone—crew and passengers—was a little edgy. My wife was nervous with basically the unknown that laid ahead. Our actual departure was about an hour late. After we flew to ATL, we flew to Houston for our scheduled layover.

That flight had 12 FBI agents reporting back to their office in Houston. While driving back from Virginia, they noticed flights coming into and out of ATL. They decided to fly rather than drive the rest of the way. The FBI agents were our only passengers. As you can imagine, we felt very safe on that flight, which was roughly 90–120 minutes behind schedule. Our whole four-day trip flew as scheduled—except all departures ran an hour or two behind schedule.

What did surprise me was that we had to go through security at each airport. We, the pilots and flight attendants, were delayed due to the long lines and heightened security. I was told later that if all airport employees were subjected to the security checks, the airport would not be able to function. This has since been changed—thank you to ALPA for KCM! 

By Capt. Steven Aue, Delta 

On September 13, 2001, I arrived at DFW from my airport hotel in uniform for a crew reposition flight. I counted at least 30 pilot and flight attendant uniforms waiting to begin boarding the MD-88 parked at the gate—yet Delta was going to cancel the flight because there were no pilots available to fly. I told our gate agent that I would fly this airplane out and to just find me a first officer. After 45 minutes of phone calls and coordinating, a local first officer was assigned, and we went onboard the jet to do our preflight checks.

During my briefing with the flight attendant, we had to think of a password to enter the cockpit. Since this was a new requirement, neither of us really knew what to do. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “It doesn’t matter.” I quickly considered everything that had happened over the past couple days and replied, “That’s a perfect password,” and that’s what we used.

Settling into the left seat was surreal. My world had forever changed, yet the normal operation had not. I shook off those feelings and looked at my first officer to begin the checklists. At 1600 local time that day, the only traffic moving at the airport was an American B-777 under tow, a Delta B-727 flying to ATL, and our flight to CVG. We took off, spoke to departure control ATC, and the controller told us to turn left, direct CVG. And with that, we were back in the air. 

By Capt. Erik Erdal, United

There had been an eerie vacuum since September 11, an unknown territory of hopelessness and disbelief. The Crew Desk called me for a trip to report on September 14, 2001—a B-777 nonstop from IAD to SFO. I wanted to, or at least I thought I needed to, get back in the cockpit with my fellow crewmembers, who I assumed were as lost as I was. I needed some normality, some help, and some sort of professional cohesiveness to move forward.

Entering the airport, and ultimately the cockpit that day, was something I will not forget. The experience was like stepping into something so familiar, yet so absurdly and uncomfortably comfortable. I was back, with my emotions in check, but strongly present. I felt like I belonged there, and to a small degree felt victorious in starting the process of healing surrounded by my colleagues, who felt like I did.

We were back in the saddle, somehow starting our long recovery from an event that will never be forgotten. 

By F/O Mark Naumowicz, United

I remember waking up on September 14, 2001, with sense of purpose: to help restart commercial flights in the United States. There were so many stranded passengers around the world after the attacks of 9/11, and I felt that it was my mission to help reconnect families. I left the house for my drive to work unsure of what to expect but confident that my flight would be safe. I reassured my wife that I would be home the next day and to not worry about my safety. “Things are going to be okay,” I told her as I left the house.

Flight Operations was like a beehive, with pilots discussing what to do in case of an attempted cockpit breach. Everyone seemed to have a different idea of what to do in case of another terrorist attack. As I walked to the gate from Flight Operations, I remember looking at passengers and thinking, “Could that be a potential terrorist?” I quickly realized that our passengers were thinking the same thing, and it was our responsibility as crewmembers to address their concerns.

The captain did a fantastic job reassuring the passengers during his PA announcement. My preflight was one of the most thorough ones I ever performed. I knew exactly where all the emergency equipment was located—especially the fire ax, which seemed like our only line of defense from a cockpit breach.

I felt like all our employees were performing at level-four standards. Everyone seemed to have a heightened state of awareness, and we all knew that things would never be the same. The attacks on 9/11 had drastically changed our lives, and we all knew there was no going back to the old way of doing business. 

By Capt. Bob Kruse, Delta

On Thursday, September 13, 2001, the passengers from our 9/11 flight were bused to Washington, D.C., and we were instructed to ferry the empty DC-10 to Detroit.

Entering U.S. airspace, all was eerily quiet. No radio chatter, no contrails, nothing. ATC told us we were among the first commercial aircraft allowed to fly in the United States. Parking at the old international terminal in Detroit, I called my boss and was happy to tell him, “One Douglas DC-10 returned to Northwest Airlines. We’re going home.” We later boarded a special section Northwest 757 and flew home to Minneapolis.

My feelings during the event? Shock, anger, and later resolve. I was so very proud of our entire crew, especially as they did everything that they could for our passengers. I mourn for those who died, and to this day pray for their families. We learned a lot of lessons that day (I know I did) and will make damn well sure that it never happens again.

By Capt. Mark Rogers, United

My father had taught me how to fly at 15 and had given me my initial checkout on the Airbus two years previously, so we were both looking forward to flying a four-day trip together on September 12, 2001. The trip was to be one of my last before beginning 777 training and was put together as a favor to my father.

But as we watched the tragic events of September 11 unfold, it was clear that we were not going to be going to work the next day.

In the days that followed, nothing seemed normal, and we were both filled with grief for the colleagues and passengers we had lost and anxiety over what would become of our airline and profession. Still, we knew we wanted to fly together, and after numerous phone calls, we were told that the last two days of our trip would operate. We would be flying on September 14. It was then that my mother called and asked me not to go; she said she didn’t want to lose both of us.

For me, the difference had been United 93—how the passengers had realized what was happening and had fought back to prevent a greater tragedy. Before there were any new security protocols or hardened doors, I knew that none of the crew or passengers would ever sit idly by and allow an attack to unfold. We would never be alone again.

As it turned out, we weren’t going to have many passengers to help on that first flight. The boarding area was eerily silent, and my father gave a personal briefing to the crew and handful of passengers about why we felt it was safe to fly. The anxiety on their faces was evident, but we were as reassuring and confident as we could be.

We pushed back and were the only airplane moving at the airport on that sunny afternoon in Denver. Each frequency on the way to Philadelphia was nearly silent. But we were finally doing something that felt normal. We were flying again. 

By Capt. Andrew Ball, Delta

On Thursday, September 13, 2001, Crew Scheduling called; they wanted me to fly that night. I was surprised to say the least, even more so when they told me that the first officer and I were the only two pilots in the entire company who were being allowed to fly. This was back in the days of Northwest Airlines, and I was flying RJs for Northwest Airlink Express I. Calling dispatch, I was surprised again to find that only my flight and an NWA DC-9 were being allowed to depart Memphis that night, with only 10–15 total flights in the entire country. My thoughts were that this was going to be a flight to remember.

Arriving at the airport, the place was devoid of passengers yet crawling with law enforcement. Only the bare minimum staff had been allowed to work our flight—one person in OPS, three rampers, and our three-man crew. The airport was as sterile as it would ever be. Otherwise everything was “normal,” and we departed for Chattanooga, Tenn.

It was a very dark moonless night and dead quiet. I asked the controller who else was in the air; he said we were the only ones on the radar for 500 nautical miles or more in any direction. At that moment I had a sudden feeling as if I was in the Steven King movie The Langoliers—in a different dimension of time. A short flight, nonetheless, it seemed to pass in slow motion; however, when we switched to Chattanooga Approach Control, things got real very fast. Approach asked us if we had been advised of our “situation.” No! He stated that they had been trying to get us notified, but we switched frequencies so frequently that we kept getting missed. There had been a specific bomb threat on our aircraft “N” number and the NWA DC-9 out of Memphis. The DC-9 apparently returned to the gate, but we were already airborne.

About 40 nautical miles from touchdown, our choice was simple. Thinking as rationally as I could, both the F/O and I walked around the aircraft. The plane was empty except for four bags of sand (200 pounds ballast) and the crew’s belongings. The interior had been thoroughly inspected multiple times and was empty. Regardless, we took all necessary precautions and landed without incident. Inspection again after landing revealed nothing. We walked through the equally void Chattanooga airport and went to the hotel.

Returning the next morning to operate the return flight to Memphis on September 14, we found approximately 12–15 passengers sitting in the gate area. I can only describe it as funeral-like. Everyone was on their best behavior and not saying a peep. We departed on a beautiful, clear, calm, blue-sky morning, a stark contrast to the night before. It truly felt like a new beginning. We heard only one other aircraft transmission en route, only the two of us on radar that morning. This time I felt like we were two cells that would slowly start multiplying until the skies would be full again. 

By Capt. David Beckler, Delta

I was a 737-200 captain at the time for Delta, and I flew one of the first flights into EWR on September 14, 2001. As we drove to downtown Manhattan to layover in the theatre district at the Milford Plaza, there was the heavy burden and weight of the emotional fog, along with the actual haze, smoke, and acrid debris that filled the air over Ground Zero and beyond. It was just one of those eerie, sad, surreal moments you never forget; the United States was so viciously attacked and so many innocents were killed.

After arriving at the hotel, I walked to Ground Zero to pay my respects to my fellow crewmembers, pilots, Americans, and the children who lost so much. As I approached the first secured and guarded barrier, I showed an NYPD officer my ID/badge and asked him if I could proceed to pay my respects. He allowed me to pass, and although I’m not sure how close I actually got to Ground Zero, I will never forget the stench of destruction, the very reduced visibility, the obscured glow of red lights, and the people just trying to live their lives again. It was truly a war zone and something I’ll never, ever, forget.

We lost so much that day! I feel a profound loss for the victims, their families, and friends, and an equal respect for first responders and others who tried to help them. I am grateful for those who have continued to fight for us and our country, before, now, and into the future. 9/11 must never be forgotten. It literally changed the entire world in which we live. 

By Capt. Michael Di Marco, JetBlue

We flew on September 13, 2001. It was a gray, overcast, fall day. What struck me was how quiet the radio was. We flew a reposition from Buffalo to Rochester in preparation for the next day’s resumption of scheduled service. Our chief pilot sent us an ACARS that we were the first airborne. I recall it was the last day we got to fly with the cockpit door open on a Part 91 flight. The TSA had yet to be born, and the FAA was still creating the new regulations for security.

The next day was mostly like any other, but the customers were quieter. I flew Rochester to JFK, and I suspect the uncertainty of what they were to find upon arrival weighed on them—as it did us. Approach took us nearly over what used to be the World Trade Center. It was an eerie sight as smoke was still wafting about, and you could see a glow of fires yet to be extinguished. 

By F/O Dan Swanson, United

I was contacted by Flight Scheduling on September 13, 2001, asking if I could fly an empty 767 with a captain and crew of flight attendants to Las Vegas the next day and return that evening with a load of our stranded passengers. I replied that I’d be happy to help get the train back on the tracks.

There was little in the preflight briefing that differed from a normal day. A couple of the flight attendants had concerns, and we discussed cockpit door protocols in detail. The door would remain shut for the entire flight coming back to ORD—no meals or drinks, no bathroom breaks. We also discussed what to do if someone approached the cockpit door.

The flight out was quiet—really quiet—with almost no calls on the radio. As we started the arrival procedure for LAS, I commented to the captain that there were F-15s above us in an orbit. The approach controllers were giving us a number of headings to follow off the arrival. We reasoned that this was to verify that we were actually in control of the aircraft.

The flight back was unremarkable. The surprise came on our landing at ORD. As the main gear touched, the cheers began. Wild cheering—like someone had just won a football game. We pulled into the gate, shut down the motors, ran the checklists, and shook hands. They hadn’t beaten us; we were back doing our jobs just days after the most horrific and defining moment in our flying careers. 

By Capt. Lee T. Harvey, JetBlue

Back in 2001, I was working for United. The morning of September 14, I spent about three hours on the phone talking to security agencies. I wanted an air marshal or two on my flight, but that didn’t happen. I found my first officer, and we headed up to the gate.

I asked the gate agent to make an announcement for everyone to gather in front of the podium. I climbed up on a seat and began the most important speech of my life. About 182 pairs of eyes were on me, and you could have heard a pin drop.

You could see fear on their faces; they were looking for reassurance and leadership. I reminded them that we were not alone up there—there was an army of supporters at United to back us up, along with the government, including law enforcement, security, and even military backup. I gave them some upbeat, encouraging words, and finished my little pep talk.

They broke into cheers. I noticed many of the women had tears running down their faces. It was a tremendous release of pent-up emotion, as if a big wave had come and washed away all the gloom. 

By Capt. Chris Campion, United

I flew DEN to BWI on September 14, 2001, to go home while I was running Initial Flight Officer Training. I knew I was about to furlough lots of folks I’d just brought on to UAL.

I don’t remember the first officer’s name, but I remember that we had briefed and had the jumpseat on the 737 up blocking the door the entire flight. We’d decided on a code word to use in the event of an attempted breach, so we were ready to handle any attacker.

I remember exactly what I said to the passengers and still have a visual of the fear on the faces I saw as I spoke to them: “Passenger misconduct of any kind is not going to be tolerated by your crew, and I sincerely doubt is going to be tolerated by your fellow passengers. Thanks for getting back into the air with us!”

By Capt. Gregg Matous, Delta

I was a Delta Air Lines first officer in 2001. As far as I know, we were the first flight to depart from Tampa after 9/11 and one of the first flights to arrive in Atlanta. We were proud that we were flying.

When we landed in Atlanta, I wished we had an American flag to hang out the window. As we taxied to our gate, a tug driver stopped, got off his tug, and saluted us as we taxied by. It was one of the proudest moments of my professional life!