The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland

by Jim DeFede

stopped what they were doing so they could help. They placed their lives on hold for a group of strangers and asked for nothing in return. They affirmed the basic goodness of man at a time when it was easy to doubt such humanity still existed. If the terrorists had hoped their attacks would reveal the weaknesses in western society, the events in Gander proved its strength.

He doesn’t carry a gun, doesn’t like them, and as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t need one. Guns only make people nervous. A few years ago, the RCMP provided him with a bulletproof vest. There

had been some drug smuggling in the area, and since Fudge was making traffic stops, the Mounties were concerned he might inadvertently pull over a gun-toting smuggler on his way through town. Fudge wore it for two weeks, but took it off because it was so darn uncomfortable. He hasn’t worn it since.

Fudge and his wife, whom he refers to as “the War Department,”

O’Reilly kept it simple with just one instruction for his supervisors: “Let’s just get those planes on the ground, as soon as possible, without having any accidents.”

seventies, Gander had another distinction. It was the spot where hundreds of people every year defected from Eastern Europe and Cuba.

while it was being serviced, some of the passengers invariably would ask Canadian officials for asylum. For a time Gander was dubbed “defection heaven.”

On December 12, 1985, an Arrow Air charter flight crashed a half mile from the airport shortly after takeoff, killing everyone on board, including 248 members of the U.S. Army’s 101st Airborne Division.

The irony of the situation was not lost on O’Reilly. The very same planes that had rendered Gander’s airport largely obsolete were now going to be forced to seek shelter there.

“The lifeboat of the North Atlantic” is the way he always referred to Gander International.

the planes could land, but nobody would be allowed off.

“You have no idea,” the pilot argued. “We have

well-to-do people on board.”

Although the Wheatons thought nothing of leaving a stranger in their home, it was an act of faith Vitale desperately needed at that moment. Something to replace the pain he was feeling. A reassuring sign that the world wasn’t as stark as the music that was still echoing in his head. * * *

O’Brien and the other pharmacists had to call the hometown doctor or pharmacist so they would know the exact medication and dosage, and had a new prescription sent. During one stretch, O’Brien and his wife, Rhonda, worked forty-two hours straight, making calls to a dozen different countries.

In the first twenty-four hours, pharmacists in Gander filled more than a thousand prescriptions. All at no cost to the passengers.

Winnie couldn’t help but notice that she was the only black person in town.

“Excuse me,” the girl said. “Can I have your autograph?” Winnie was flabbergasted. “I’m really a nobody,” she replied. The child’s mother smiled and told her it didn’t matter. “You’re somebody to her,” she said. A little embarrassed, Winnie agreed, and the mother dug through her purse for a piece of paper. The child asked if she could touch Winnie’s hair.

The principal owner of the team is Mansour Ojjeh, a wealthy Saudi Arabian businessman.

“Yahoo, Osama bin Laden. Looks good on you.” Nobody

There was no hatred. No anger. No fear in Gander. Only the spirit of community. Here, everyone was equal, everyone was treated the same. Here, the basic humanity of man wasn’t just surviving but thriving. And Baldessarini understood that he was a witness to it and it was affecting him in ways he’d never imagined.

When the call came for them to leave Friday evening, a new problem surfaced. Three of the seventy-one passengers—Rabbi Sudak, Baila Hecht, and her daughter, Esther—could not travel on the Sabbath. From sundown Friday until sundown Saturday, their faith prevents them not only from traveling, but

There were 361 passengers aboard American Trans Air Flight 8733, and at least 90 of them were children.

The local supermarket donated a massive birthday cake—enough to feed four hundred people—while the teachers and students at the school tried to create a miniature Disney World of their own. They decorated the cafeteria with streamers and balloons, and three girls from the local high school volunteered to dress up in fairy-princess costumes.

Replacing Mickey Mouse and Goofy were Commander Gander and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Safety Bear, two costumed mascots who visit schools in the area telling kids to stay off crack and not to set fires. As their names imply, one is a giant bird and the other is a bear in a Mountie uniform. The kids seemed to love them.

the Screeching-In ceremony itself can be an elaborate affair in which the person being initiated stands before the chief Screecher, dressed in traditional Newfoundland fishing garb, which to outsiders can best be described as the yellow outfit worn by the fellow on a box of Gorton’s frozen fish sticks. The initiate is given a few Newfoundland delicacies to eat, such as “Newfie steak,” known elsewhere around the world as bologna. The person is even asked to

kiss a freshly caught cod as a sign of respect toward the importance of the fish in the economy of Newfoundland. This is followed by a series of questions the Screecher asks, in a heightened accent, which in turn is supposed to elicit a set response from the initiate.

Also making an appearance on Friday was the same rotting codfish he’d been using all week. Time was not kind to this fish and Lane had to hold the slimy cod

“This is a song by John Lennon,” Moroney said, without any other comments. As the music came up, he stepped to the microphone. Moroney’s fears were unfounded. He was in fine voice. More important, his tone, his styling, matched Lennon’s perfectly. Naturally, having a pretty liquored-up crowd didn’t hurt either. Standing off to one side of the room, Ferris watched as more and more people in the bar stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to Moroney. As he moved into the second verse of “Imagine,” the bar was largely silent, with all eyes on Moroney.

“A Hard Day’s Night” was appropriate to commemorate the thirty hours they’d all spent together on the plane. From there

they segued into “Eight Days a Week”—a prediction as to how long they would probably be stranded in Gambo. Ending on an optimistic note, they sang “We Can Work It Out.”

The Beatles, a Nigerian princess, and a ripe old cod. Ay, this would indeed be a night they would long remember.

The Newfoundlanders had provided a caring haven for hundreds of people at a moment when they were scared and far from home. They were made to feel safe and

Ralph was one of the last animals to leave. The Bonobo monkeys had flown back to Germany on Friday, the epileptic cat a day earlier. And the rest of the animals were slowly making their way home, too. After six days it was over. Nobody had asked Bonnie Harris or Linda Humby or Vi Tucker or

At that point the mayor did the only thing he could do. He thanked the provincial government for the generous offer, but told them the town had decided to cancel plans for the party. There was no need for a celebration. They did what they did for one reason only—it was the Newfie way.

They didn’t know each other but quickly found themselves spending all of their time together in Gambo, talking, drinking, and laughing. Both were divorced. He was an engineer from England. She lived in Texas. By the time they left Newfoundland they were already falling in love. They were married on September 7, 2002, and went to Newfoundland for their honeymoon.

“We got to experience such an outpouring of love and compassion,” Greg said. “It gave us an opportunity to have hope, whereas I think most other people were just in shock and fearful of what people are capable of. And we were able to see the good side of what people are capable of.” * * *