fter American Airlines flight 77 slammed into the Pentagon, Staff Sgt. Christopher Braman sprinted three times into the black, burning building to look for survivors. He found a burned woman struggling so hard to breathe that she clapped her hands to be heard. He saw another woman whose clothes had been ripped off by the explosion's force. He saw a beam of light that turned out to be a man on fire.

• Photo essay

Braman saved a handful of people in those first horrifying minutes, but he didn't stop there. For the next few days, with Bengay shoved up his nose to block the smell of death, he recovered the bodies–or body parts–of 63 people. "I found them doing their jobs," he says. "I found someone with a phone melted to his head. People died with honor."

Normally, 33-year-old Braman works as the Army secretary's cook, winning raves for his mandarin chicken salad. But he's also a Special Operations guy, an airborne Ranger who's been to Iraq, Bosnia, and Turkey and who lives by the Ranger creed. "In the Rangers, you never leave a comrade behind," he says. Braman readily admits that before September 11, he was a typical Special Ops guy–cocky and macho. No more. "I was humbled," he says. And made stronger.

So, too, are the famous five-sided fortress and its people humbled yet stronger. The Pentagon was back in action immediately after the attack, but it is a place forever changed. Today, the pace is busy–there's a war to fight–but the attack that killed 184 is never far from people's thoughts. In the Pentagon's center courtyard, which staked a claim to the name "Ground Zero" during the Cold War years, lunchtime conversations pause and eyes turn anxiously upward when a plane passes overhead. Often, people will scan a room for exits. Sometimes, people imagine voices of lost friends.

There remains a dutiful focus on mission, but now people are more conscious of the need for time with family and friends. Some are reconnecting with their churches. One military man says he lets himself laugh more often. Some simply say they shake hands now very firmly and genuinely say, "Good to see you." Survivors cooked for grieving families, as well as organized kids' birthday parties, arranged for baby-sitting, and mowed the grass. The Pentagon sprawls over 29 acres–a dozen Home Depots could fit into each of its five wedges–but despite its vastness, the people here are closer.

Outside, the blackened gash is long gone. Instead, some 4,000 pieces of limestone–mined from the same southern Indiana vein that the Pentagon's original stone came from 60 years ago–have been placed on the building's facade. Inside, rebuilding is moving apace. Pentagon planners interviewed survivors about how to make the interior stronger, and the survivors even crawled on their hands and knees in the dark–an exercise that showed standard exit signs can't be seen in thick, black smoke. The result: New floor-level, glow-in-the-dark arrows point toward exits. Other improvements: more concrete-filled walls, extra stairways and corridors as exits, more pipes to carry water to sprinklers.

Some 2 million square feet of office space is being refurbished, including demolishing and rebuilding the 400,000 square feet where the plane hit, an area nearly as big as seven football fields. The rebuilding of the crash site has been dubbed the Phoenix project after the mythological bird rising from the ashes. A big digital countdown clock ticks toward Sept. 11, 2002, 9:38 a.m., when the Pentagon intends to have people working in the outermost ring again. The entire undertaking has occurred with remarkable speed–akin to the urgency with which the Pentagon originally was constructed during World War II in a swampy, tawdry Virginia neighborhood called Hell's Bottom. This time around, a three-year project has been compressed into a year. Crews worked nonstop, even outside under spotlights for 273 nights. The workers grumbled when the bosses forced them to take off a couple of days at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and on the Fourth of July. Not only has the pace been fast, but planners also have revised the cost downward from $740 million to about $501 million, perhaps a first for the Pentagon.

Rebuilding chief Lee Evey, 56, attributes the success to clear goals, teamwork, organized managers, and visionary leaders. He also points to workers' unusually high motivation. The building trades' traditional caste system dissolved. Skilled electricians, for instance, rushed to help laborers. "You heard people constantly saying, 'Let me help you,' " says Evey. "There was a community spirit everywhere." For Evey, who delayed his own retirement to finish the project, the greatest lesson is: "Americans can do anything, if we put our minds to it."

Perhaps no one epitomizes that sentiment as much as Brian Birdwell, the 40-year-old lieutenant colonel whose office was four windows from where the plane hit but whose life was spared because he had stepped out to the bathroom. He was consumed by fire and cried out: "Jesus, I'm coming to see you." He thought of his family and waited to die. Instead, he fell under a sprinkler and was left with serious burns over 40 percent of his body. He has had more than 25 operations. (The new skin for his fingers, elbows, forehead, and under his eyes is a shade or two lighter, as it came from his stomach.) He wears thick pressure gloves on his arms, which feel like thermal underwear in summer, and a black headband around his head to smooth the scars on his grafted forehead. The tips of his ears were singed off, and his body is covered with pink, bumpy scars. Progress is measured in achieving things the rest of us take for granted. Feeding himself. Going to the bathroom without help, which finally happened in early November.

Today, Birdwell is back at the Pentagon, working five days at week at a little cubicle with his Bible close by. His endurance is not so high, but he's engaged. One recent day, Birdwell was his old self, striding through the Pentagon–with a reporter trailing behind: "Am I walking too fast for you?" he asked with a grin. Birdwell's sense of humor has helped him through the ordeal. He looks at old photos of himself before the attack and laughs, "Gosh, I had huge ears." His sense of gratitude to God is even stronger. "There are times I say, 'Gosh, I wish I had ears. I wish I wasn't scarred,' " he says. "The scars are not pleasant. But they are a daily reminder of God's grace in my life. They help me appreciate what it means to be alive."

Not long after the attack, Birdwell was in so much pain that he mouthed the words to his wife, Mel: "I cannot continue to do this." She replied: "You have no choice." In his mind, he prayed: "Why didn't you take me that day, Lord? I wish you had taken me." Soon after that moment, Mel found a Bible that allows people to search for meaningful verses using a key word. She looked up the word suffering and found 1 Peter 5:10: "After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ will himself perfect, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." Says Birdwell: "That's what we have lived by ever since."

Birdwell thinks it will take years for him to forgive Osama bin Laden and his minions. "There will be a day at some point when I can forgive as long as I maintain Christ as my center of gravity," he says. He gets enraged when he sees photos of bin Laden, Mohamed Atta, or the 18 other hijackers, but he won't brood. Says Birdwell: "I will continue to live my life to the best of my ability–that is the best way for me to get to that point of forgiveness."

Not only is Birdwell mindful of simply being alive, but he also appreciates his family more. Married for 15 years, the Birdwells always have had a strong relationship. They were like a lot of couples–snapping from time to time, then apologizing. They still argue over whether to have pizza or burgers, about whether they can afford this or that. But now, they cherish time together. "I really think about how I say goodbye to her in the mornings," says Birdwell. He also has tried to relax his old drill sergeant style of fathering 13-year-old Matthew. "I am more conscious of how I come across to him," he says.

Since the attack, Birdwell has become something of a celebrity, a word he doesn't like. He does a lot of public speaking and has appeared on Nightline, The Oprah Winfrey Show, Fox News, and local television stations. "If people want to celebrate what the Lord has done in my life, I'll take that," he says. "I'm not interested in celebrity for the sake of notoriety. I'm still Brian." He isn't sure about his future–he may retire from the Army in five years after 23 years. He may become a university professor of military science. Perhaps he'll write a book. Perhaps he'll do more public speaking, possibly donating proceeds to burn patients. "My public speaking is the best contribution I can make both to my faith and to the Army," he says.

Craig Sincock, who does long-range Pentagon planning, is trying to figure out how to become a private person again. His 53-year-old wife, Cheryle, had been a two-star general's secretary who worked with Birdwell in Room 2E486. After her death, Sincock counseled other Pentagon families for weeks at the Family Assistance Center set up in a nearby hotel. He became a public advocate for them, creating a Web site for them. Now, he'd like to retreat from all that. "During the first four to six months, I needed it," he says. "It was my way of coping with grief."

Sincock has gone through many phases over the past year. At first, he was in denial. Then, he thought, "Now, what the hell will I do?" Gradually, that gave way to an acceptance. "I don't have to like this, but this is what happened," he thought. Weeks after the attack, he would wash the clothes and hear Cheryle admonish, "No colors with whites." Says Sincock: "I would feel her. Those points of remembering carried me through a number of difficult days."

Support from others helped. At a gathering of Pentagon families last February, a man asked: "Does anyone else not dream?" All of a sudden, Sincock realized he wasn't unique. Not long afterward, he had his first dream–of Cheryle's face, smiling at him. At that support meeting, a woman talked about how hard Sundays were. For Sincock, Saturdays were tough because he didn't have his "honey-dos," a list Cheryle would give him of things to do that day. "You are so alone," he says. "The loneliness can really hit."

Over the months, Sincock has come to understand: "Life goes on, but it's completely different." And that has given him "a chance to live again and love again." He met a woman who also has suffered a loss, and they comfort each other. "I found out I had a capacity to love again. It is entirely different than the 25 years with Cheryle," he says. "None of that goes away. But I don't have to be lonely. I can love again."

Sincock says other Pentagon family members want to go on with their lives but feel guilty. "There is a new life out here. Go live it. You don't need to feel guilty about being happy." He recently finished a doctorate in engineering management and is pleased with his new direction: "My direction is no longer focused on me or my mission. Now I get up and say, 'What can I do for someone else?' I take time to watch a baby smile. And in that, I see Cheryle. It's a happy thing. I have all those memories, and they are part of everyday living."

Mike Kurtz didn't lose his wife of 31 years, but Louise Kurtz was burned over nearly 70 percent of her body, the worst of the Pentagon patients. September 11 had been her second day as an accountant, working one floor below Birdwell and Cheryle Sincock. She was standing at a fax machine three windows from where the plane hit. She never saw the plane, but she heard it and could smell the jet fuel. Suddenly, everything was dark, smoky, and quiet. She climbed out a window, not realizing her hair had been burned off. "I was baked from the heat," she says of the 1,470-degree temperatures.

She has had to learn how to walk and talk again and has had more than 38 operations, which included plastic surgery on her face and the amputation of all her fingers. She leans on Mike, who does countless simple things for her, such as fastening her sandals, buttoning her blouse, helping her from a chair. He puts special tape under her eyes and above her lips to keep her scars from drooping. "My hands are extensions of her," he says. "I'm just happy she is here and alive." Says Louise: "I couldn't have made it without his support and love." Her ears were burned off, but she recently got new ones–made of silicone with painted veins and freckles–and Mike got her a nice pair of earrings.

Still, the loss of independence has been hard. She can't drive, though devices eventually may allow that. She can't hold a pen and paper. She can't grip ordinary items, such as a can. She can't blow her nose or get her glasses on or off. She has a Velcro-strap wristband that can be outfitted with a fork or spoon. Her husband tied rope loops to the handles of kitchen drawers so she can open them. "You take your fingers for granted," she says.

"Some days, I feel it's not worth it, the pain and the emotional things for the people around you," Louise Kurtz says. "Some days, I feel I should have died." Mike Kurtz says: "It hurts me to see her hurt." He is seething too because the Defense Department has stopped her benefits, notably contributions to her retirement plan, because she is on workers' compensation. "Why is my wife being punished?" he asks. A Defense spokesman says the Pentagon has tried to make sure the Kurtzes and other families get the benefits they are entitled to, but the law doesn't permit some benefits for civilians on workers' comp.

Louise Kurtz says she has more good days than bad days. "I can see goals–there are things now I couldn't do before," she says. Like brushing her teeth and holding a Q-tip with her stub of a thumb. Feeding and dressing herself. She is learning to use a voice-activated computer and hopes to work from home someday. Mostly, she just lives one day at a time. "You wonder why God could have let this happen," she says. "I just deal with it. Maybe I am able to handle it more than other people could. I don't look back or too far forward."

Sgt. Maj. Tony Rose is looking forward because looking backward is too painful. He worked in Room 2C643; the plane plowed into the Pentagon directly beneath him. Wetting his T-shirt so he could breathe, he made his way in the blackness to a fire door as it was closing. He used his voice as a beacon to help others out. He left the building but quickly ran back into the first floor to free those trapped, including seven sailors. Using a fire extinguisher to fight the flames, he went into the building five more times to look for survivors–and then for body parts. It's hard to erase what he saw. A child's hand. A foot ripped off above the ankle. And, oddly, eyeglasses without a scratch.

For about a month after the attack, he was depressed. "There were a couple of days I could have crawled in a hole and just disappeared," he says. As he has walked the Pentagon halls in recent months and seen colleagues alive, he has realized: "Slowly, time heals things." He has wrestled with why he was spared. "I believe there is something I am supposed to do on this Earth still." When he retires in a year, he is considering going to a Bible college to study counseling. He'd like to take his family to Alaska. He loves literature and history and has thought about teaching high school.

Rose is still edgy but finds he's able to shrug off many things. "I like to laugh more," he says. "I like to make sure my wife and I do the things she wants to do." Like shopping, even. Before, he was "all hustle and bustle and let's get it done. Now, I give myself permission to play a little more."

That is a liberating about-face for a man who has been a soldier for 30 years–and most likely not the only such transformation at the Pentagon. "I'm realizing things don't have to be as structured or disciplined as I'm used to," says Rose. "The better soldiers know the horrors of the absence of peace. Being in touch with who you really are makes you a better soldier–and a better person."