"Everyone helps in some capacity. It's automatic."

It started out as a normal day for me. I live about three miles from the Pentagon, and I rode my bike to work, which turned out to be a good thing because the parking lot was such a mess later in the day. That morning, I attended a meeting in E Ring. An aide to the admiral rushed in and said, "Something's happening in New York, you've got to take a look!"

We turned on the television and saw the tower burning and began speculating about the air traffic control problem they must have had. The thought of a terrorist never entered our minds-at least it never entered mine. We resumed the meeting, but then the aide came back in.

"Holy hell!" he said. "It happened again-another plane!"

The admiral dismissed us and I walked back to my office, passing Third Corridor, Fourth Corridor, Fifth Corridor to my office in the Sixth. I called a buddy of mine, Bob Dolan-Captain Robert E. Dolan-whom I was planning to meet for coffee. We agreed to defer our meeting. I said to my guys, "Whatever this is, it's going to affect us pretty soon, let's clear the decks and start thinking what we might have to do." We sat back at our desks and then we heard this rumbling sound.

"Holy cow! Something is going on here!" someone said. We could feel it. I sent a quick e-mail to my mom, telling her I was OK. My brother works in midtown Manhattan, so I knew she was already worried about him. I didn't want her worrying about me, too. Then I got up and ran toward the crash.

If you know the Pentagon, you know that there are concentric rings, A through E, and that there's this breezeway between B and C rings-there, you look up and you see sky. But when I went outside between B and C, the sun was blocked out by billowing black smoke.

I immediately thought of Bob, because this looked to be right where his office was. I don't know if everyone has a friend like this, but they should. He was my roommate three of the four years I was at the Naval Academy. He was the best man at my wedding. He's the godfather to one of my children. The kind of guy, if he calls you at two in the morning and says, "I'm in Tierra del Fuego, come get me," you get on a plane and go.

I ran toward it. All I could see where my friend's office had been was smoke, flames, debris. The plane hit at an angle between the Third and Fourth Corridors. It went through E Ring, through D Ring, and some of the heavier pieces through C Ring.

People were just starting to arrive on the scene, while others were crawling out. Guys started grabbing fire extinguishers. On one hand, it was one of those surreal moments. On the other hand, it seemed like a drill you go through when training to fight a fire on a ship. Everyone helps in some capacity. It's automatic. It's so ingrained in your thought process to save your shipmates, save your ship. And my most vivid memory of that day is this sea of khaki-Navy uniforms-doing what we were trained to do: Fight the fire, find your shipmates.

My own thought was that this man I love, my closest friend in the world, was in there. Someone handed me a fire extinguisher. I went in this hole in the wall, and then backed out. I realized I had to take my shirt off-it's made of polyester-and I went back in wearing my T-shirt and with a discarded towel that I'd found and wetted, wrapped around my head.

I expended a couple of fire extinguishers. Now it's really getting smoky, and it's hot as hell. The wires are getting wet from the busted water main and are shorting out, sending sparks everywhere; stuff is falling from the ceiling. It's so smoky you can't see, and I'm crawling around, and suddenly I'm looking at a spot 20 or 30 feet away where my friend's desk should be.

I'm screaming his name, but he's not there. Then I'm yelling for anybody else who might be alive. And suddenly, what comes into focus looks like a body, a torso, with a head pinned against a computer monitor. I don't know the guy, but I think that maybe he's alive. I'm not seeing any movement, although I think I see his eyes move.

It's hard to describe how close and small this area I'm working in is. And stuff is popping-electrical sparks-and an increasing amount of flame, and I'm not making any progress getting him out. I know now that his name is Jarrell Henson, a retired Navy pilot who was working in the Pentagon as a civilian in the Interagency Support Branch. I don't want to leave there without him, but I'm a 44-year-old guy with a desk job and I need help.

I'm yelling for it when all of a sudden this guy comes in the hole next to me on his hands and knees. He's amazingly brave in the face of this stuff falling, the increasing amount of heat and this electrical equipment snapping angrily. Into that comes this guy I've never seen before. He crawls in another 8 to 10 feet past me and says, "Hey, I think he's alive!" He's yelling at Mr. Henson, trying to get him to respond. He says to him: "I'm a doctor, you're going to be OK, we're going to get you out of here!"

His name is Dave Tarantino-Lieutenant Commander David Tarantino. He's a pretty tall, lanky fellow, younger than me, stronger than me. He knows to get on his back with all this melting plastic, liquid metal falling on us-it burns the heck out of my arm and also gets on my back and shoulder-and he leg-presses this desk and mass of debris.

I help by pulling with my arms-if I was doing weight lifting, you'd call it a squat-and Jerry crawls out. It is heavy as hell, I don't know how Dave lifts it. Then when he's almost free, Jerry gets his foot caught in a computer cord.

"Get your ass out!" Dave says to him. "This thing's going to go, and I can't hold it!"

We get out of there and he falls down, and I fall on top of him. I get him on a stretcher in the center court where've they've set up a first-aid area. Then I go back up to Tarantino, this guy I've never met before. I see that he's just like me, that he's going to do whatever he can, whatever it takes that day, and I think-and I know this doesn't make sense now-that if he doesn't make it out of there and I do, I want to have some way to remember him.

So I walk up to him and look at his nametag, and just take it off his shirt. It comes right off. Then I go to where Jerry Henson is lying down and I say, "Remember this name: Tarantino."

Postscript: Thomas and Tarantino were awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Medal, an award given for heroism not involving actual conflict with the enemy. When asked about the fate of his friend, Capt. Robert Dolan, Thomas pauses a long time, then replies in a husky voice:

That's tough for me to talk about. I guess I'll try: We buried him at sea. Some FBI guy found his Naval Academy class ring. His wife has that now. He was truly my best friend. His family, and I-and everybody who ever knew him-miss him terribly.

I think about him every day. There wasn't a day for a long time that I didn't cry whenever I thought of him. The true heroes are the people, like Bob's wife, who pick up the pieces and carry on, raise their kids, keep his memory alive. He was a great naval officer, an even better man, father, husband, and friend.