The 'Other' Tragedy
The attack on the Pentagon left heroes, victims, survivors, Here's their story
Meanwhile, 57-year-old Craig Sincock, wearing civilian clothes, had run the 2 miles back to the Pentagon from his meeting. He pitched in, offering water to workers, carrying stretchers. But he had another motive: He wanted to be as close to the crash site as possible so he could look for Cheryle, his wife of nearly 25 years, the general's secretary. He stared at the windows, trying to remember where her office was. He stayed until 11 p.m., went home, showered, slept briefly, changed into his Army uniform, and returned at 4 a.m. to help out more. At 10 a.m., he got a call, saying she was missing.
Birdwell and nine others were transported to Washington Hospital Center. Doctors had never seen this many major burn patients at once. Some were critically ill. Dr. Jordan, 57, a good-natured dynamo who likes to rebuild old Harleys in his spare time, grabbed his partner, Dr. James Jeng: "We need to get the burned skin off so it doesn't form a tourniquet." The pair opened up operating rooms and bounced between them. They essentially shaved off burned skin. The doctors cut until they found live tissue, then covered it temporarily with donated skin.
Jordan knew they would quickly go through all the skin in the freezer, so he had a nurse call the skin bank at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center in Dallas. "Send us what you've got," was the urgent request. Planes weren't flying, so the medical center packed 70 square feet of skin on dry ice, stuck it in three Styrofoam coolers, and drove it up in a blue Chevy van. The two drivers broke speed limits, pausing only for bathroom breaks and tacos at drive-through windows. The skin arrived 23 hours and 12 minutes later. A Cincinnati skin bank came through with 30 more square feet in 12 hours. Another in Dayton delivered more skin to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base with the order: "As soon as you're flying again, get this to Washington Hospital Center." The donated skin stabilized the wounds until the doctors could graft the patients' own skin taken from the rare spots that weren't burned. Jordan and Jeng worked 12-to-16-hour days for three weeks. They traded off spending the night at the hospital, with Jordan sleeping on his office couch and Jeng curling up on an air mattress. Since September 11, they have done 112 surgeries on nine of the patients.
Jordan sees something different about his Pentagon patients from the literally 10,000 other burn patients he has treated in 23 years: their spirit. "They have a different mind-set: `I'm not going to let it beat me.' "
Cadaver skin. You can see that in Brian Birdwell, who mouthed the words "I love you" to his wife, Mel, when he opened his eyes for the first time September 13. That same day, President Bush visited the Fort Worth native. "Colonel Birdwell," the commander in chief said as he strode into the hospital room. With tears in his eyes, the president saluted the bandaged soldier, holding it until Birdwell slowly raised his burned arm as high as he could to return the salute. Birdwell, burned over 40 percent of his body, saw himself in the mirror recently--his forehead plastered with cadaver skin, the tips of his ears singed off, the delicate skin around his eyes stretched out. His sense of humor was intact. "I think I look pretty good for a guy who just got run over by a plane," he said, grinning.
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