Wall of Heroes

Adam Rand always wanted to be a firefighter. When he graduated from high school, he joined the volunteer fire department in his Bellmore, N.Y., neighborhood. Even after Mr. Rand, 30, became a member of the New York City Fire Department in 1995, he continued to volunteer in Bellmore. For Mr. Rand, fighting fires was a calling. He reveled in the camaraderie and in learning new techniques that he could teach to younger firefighters. Mr. Rand's specialty was rescue. On Sept. 11, he joined his fellow members of Squad 288 from Maspeth, Queens, at 2 World Trade Center. He was trying to evacuate people when the building collapsed. "If he had to die, he died doing something he loved," his mother, Mary Ann Rand, said. Mrs. Rand said that in addition to his devotion to firefighting, her son lived a life of full appreciation for other activities, like skiing, fishing, hunting and preparing for his forthcoming wedding. At the firehouse in Bellmore, Mr. Rand will be remembered for his legendary Halloween costumes. He once arrived at the annual party wearing a red wood box. Mr. Rand had cut out a square hole on the back of the box so that his face could be seen. He was supposed to be the missing child on the back of a milk carton.

When Wendy Feinberg recalls meeting Alan D. Feinberg over 21 years ago, she remembers not only the man, but also his car — a sharp Datsun 240-Z. From that encounter in the parking lot of a Sheepshead Bay diner came marriage, children and a life for Mr. Feinberg as both a firefighter and a Mr. Mom. Unbeknownst to his wife, Alan Feinberg, who worked at the time as a salesman of buttons and boys' clothes in the garment district, secretly wanted to be a firefighter. Four years into the marriage, that is what he became. To compensate for a cut in salary, Mr. Feinberg took advantage of the flexible hours of firefighting to remain home with Tara and Michael, while Wendy took the 6:05 a.m. into the city to work as a broker at Cantor Fitzgerald, a job she left in 1996. His children remember Firefighter Feinberg, 48, making breakfast, putting them on the school bus and being the "class dad" who chaperoned school field trips and coached baseball and soccer. As his children got older, Firefighter Feinberg, who was the battalion chief aide at Engine Company 54 in Manhattan, took on a second job that built on his love of fancy cars: he became a transporter of new cars to the automotive press, which would then write about them. Just recently, he was thrilled to have dropped off a PT Cruiser and a red 2002 Corvette. "He would have loved that new Thunderbird if he had seen it," his wife said. "He was doing what he wanted to do," she added. "He was very happy. Everyone should have had such a happy life. He was the little boy who never grew up."

“He always wanted more action," said Patricia Tarasiewicz, describing her husband of 24 years, Firefighter Allan Tarasiewicz. So it is no surprise that he reported for work on Sept. 11, the day the couple had planned to leave for a scuba diving vacation in Mexico. Mr. Tarasiewicz, 45, became a firefighter at 33, already having traveled widely and honed many skills. A Staten Island native, he met Patricia while stationed in Italy with the Marines. He went on to work as a sheet metal worker in California, a coal miner in Colorado. The New York Fire Department, Mrs. Tarasiewicz said, was his ultimate goal, or nearly so, since he kept volunteering for more challenging duty. His last assignment, with Rescue Company 5 on Staten Island, came after he used his free time to learn advanced scuba skills. There was also his work at home, a weathered, 100-year-old house that he and Patricia, a flight attendant, bought years ago to be close to the firehouse, a block away. By Sept. 11, he had rewired the place and remodeled the kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. His fellow firefighters have pitched in to finish the job.

Andre and Zackary Fletcher were the only African-American twins in the Fire Department. Both rushed to the World Trade Center; Andre Fletcher never returned. "We both have Type A-plus personalities," said Zackary Fletcher, who works at Engine Company 4 in Manhattan. "Anything that reeks of excitement, adventure and danger. That was us." Andre Fletcher, 37, was a member of Rescue Company 5 in Staten Island. The son of Jamaican immigrants, Andre Fletcher attended the Bronx High School of Science, but later transferred to Brooklyn Technical High School to be near his brother and to play on the sports teams, which Bronx Science did not have. In 1994, both brothers joined the Fire Department. When he learned that the department had no baseball team, Andre Fletcher organized one. On the department football team, both played the same positions: wide receiver and defensive back. Today, Zackary Fletcher is watching out for Andre's son, Blair, 12. He also talks of dreams, now dashed, that the two brothers had of modeling in tandem for TV commercials. The two had located an agent and were planning a trip to California to sell themselves. Zackary Fletcher said his parents, Lunsford and Monica, were having a hard time, but it was especially difficult for him: "I miss him more than anyone else."

He was a tremendous pile of a man, 6 foot 2 and heavyset. His flannel shirt was tucked in, clarifying his dimension, as he flailed wildly about the dance floor of the bar in Queens. Andrew Brunn was celebrating his 23rd birthday that night years ago. Sigalit Cohen watched him all evening; she had a thing for flannel. His uninhibited dancing sometimes frightened the girls away, but "Sigal actually stuck in there and danced with him," said Patrick Sullivan, a friend. She got his number and soon made a husband of Mr. Brunn, an intensely private man. He did not bother to tell his buddies in the Air National Guard of his computer studies or even of his marriage. He made little mention of his move to the Fire Department from the Police Department. But after Sigalit danced with him, Mr. Brunn opened his life to her, revealing his passion for the ocean and for lighthouses, for movies that seemed to reflect their own story. They worked through the clashes between his Catholicism and her Judaism. Mr. Brunn, a devoted surfer, even persuaded Sigalit, who nearly drowned as a child, to join him on a flimsy board. "He said, `I'll be there with you; I'll hold you if you fall,' so I trusted him," Mrs. Brunn said. "And he did."

A 2,000-pound boulder behind a middle school soccer field on Long Island reads: "In memory of a hero, a husband, a father, a coach, a board member and a friend."It was dedicated to Lt. Andrew Desperito, 43, of the New York Fire Department, who coached neighborhood children at a nearby soccer club. Bellport High School seniors who were on the varsity soccer team are eligible to receive scholarship awards in his name. Lieutenant Desperito, who lived in East Patchogue, also coached the soccer teams of his two sons, Anthony and David. He was known around the house for his cooking. "Do you know how to make Dad's Chicken McGuinness?" his wife, Laura Desperito, said their sons and daughter, Nicole, ask. The dish is named for McGuinness Boulevard in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where he used to be stationed. "I tell them that he knew all the recipes by heart," Mrs. Desperito said. The couple would have celebrated their 20th anniversary on Sept. 25, 2002. "He was such a romantic," Mrs. Desperito said. "He proposed to me on Rockaway Beach, where we always used to take long walks on the jetties. He didn't let me open the box near the water because he was afraid it would fall in the water." During his final hours, Lieutenant Desperito escorted a woman to safety from the north tower of the World Trade Center, and then ran back inside to search for others.

Andrew A. Fredericks felt strongly about the best way to blast a stream of water at a fire. They called him Andy Nozzles. In training videos, speeches around the country, trade magazine articles -- even on the couch in his home -- Mr. Fredericks preached the gospel of the solid stream of water aimed hard at the source of the blaze. "He was so proud that his son could tell apart the different nozzles," said Diane Feldman, the managing editor of Fire Engineering, a trade magazine. It is not an academic debate. Mr. Fredericks believed that fog nozzles, which disperse water widely, were dangerous because the steam that they produced would burn firefighters who moved close to put out flames. Solid-bore -- those were the kind that Andy Nozzles liked. His wife, Michelle Fredericks, said that her husband relished the chance to pass on the knowledge he had gained fighting fires for 20 years, 16 of them with the New York City Fire Department, with Squad 18. "It was his passion, next to me of course," Mrs. Fredericks said. "He had a passion for teaching."

It was Hurricane Gloria in 1985 that led Andrew B. Jordan into the firefighting life. With the power out, a neighbor in West Islip, on Long Island, lighted a kerosene lamp that wound up igniting the house. Mr. Jordan thought to back the neighbor's car out of the garage, so there wouldn't be an even bigger catastrophe, then led a disabled woman to safety. He became a New York City firefighter in 1994 and was assigned to Ladder Company 132 in Brooklyn, nicknamed "The Eye of the Storm." Every day was a joy, despite his two-and-a-half-hour commute. "He loved the firehouse and all the guys that worked there," said his mother, Ellen. He loved even the unromantic parts of the job, like fire inspections, said his father, Thomas, because he saw them as one more way to save lives. A father of four, he was keenly aware of the risks he faced. When the ladder truck pulled up at a burning building, he was often the first one raised high into the air to battle the flames. "Andrew was going into the bucket at one fire, and this guy said to him, 'Thank God it's you and not me,'" his mother recalled. "Andrew said, 'Thank God it's me and not you.'"

The sun seemed to shine on Angel Juarbe, a firefighter with Ladder 12 in Chelsea. He was an animal lover, with eight formerly stray dogs, who visited Tanzania to see lions and zebras, then left just two days before the bombing of the United States Embassy in 1998. Single and handsome, he was one of 12 New York firefighters chosen to pose for the calendar "Firehouse Hunks 2002." A week before the Sept. 11 tragedy, Mr. Juarbe was the winner in an eight-part game show on the Fox network in which 10 contestants, chosen from 3,000 applicants, competed to solve a fake murder. The show was called "Murder in Small Town X," and Mr. Juarbe tracked down the killer. He won a Jeep and $250,000. He kept the secret from his family until Sept. 4, when the final show was broadcast. After the terror attacks, the show's entire cast visited his family. His mother, Miriam, recalled what his friends said. "If only I could live one day of your life, even an hour." She added, "Most of them are married, you know."

Anthony Jovic videotaped his sons, Matthew and Peter, at every swimming meet they entered. He went to their practices. And he took them along when he and his wife, Cynthia, went on a cruise in the Caribbean. And whenever he came home from work, the boys would rush up to him and say, "What did you do? Did you fight any fires?" He was a 39-year-old lieutenant, studying for October's captain's exam. Though on the rolls at Ladder Company 34 in Washington Heights, he was assigned on Sept. 11 to Engine Company 279 in Red Hook in Brooklyn, and was among the first men to arrive at the World Trade Center. At Ladder Company 34, Capt. Arthur DePew recalled, Lieutenant Jovic is also noted for a kind of remembrance that predates videotape -- the brass plaques in firehouses that honor men who died in the line of duty. He did research on some who had never been remembered, like Eugene J. Caffrey, who died in 1921. As for the boys, Mrs. Jovic still takes them regularly to swimming and meets, but she says, "Their hearts aren't in it."

Anthony Rodriguez was a probie and he loved it. "There wasn't a day he didn't come in through the door without saying `I have the best job in the world,' " said his mother, Brunilda Rodriguez. At 36, Mr. Rodriguez was one of the oldest probies, or probationary firefighters, in his class at the Fire Academy. He had already spent a full decade in the Navy as a radioman first class, and several years on top of that as an elevator mechanic and independent contractor. Becoming a fireman was a dream realized, an exciting way to help people and provide a steady income to support his wife, Evelyn, and their growing family, which included children from a previous marriage, a son and a baby due in mid-September. In the months before his formal graduation, Mr. Rodriguez was assigned to Engine Company 279 in Brooklyn. He was on his way home to Staten Island when the first plane struck the trade center. He called to tell everyone not to worry. When the second building was hit, he called again and said he was going back. "That's what he enjoyed doing," his mother said. "That made Anthony happy." Mr. Rodriguez's daughter, Morgan Antoinette, was born on Sept. 14, while the search for her father was still going on. At graduation ceremonies on Nov. 1, Mr. Rodriguez was posthumously made a firefighter. Firefighter Rodriguez's empty chair was one of six draped in mourning bunting that day.

Arthur T. Barry had an irrepressible joie de vivre. He drove his motorcycle on a 10,000- mile trip diagonally through Canada to Fairbanks, Alaska, and returned traveling across the country. That was just one example. Mr. Barry, 35, a lifelong resident of Westerleigh, in Staten Island, spent his youth zipping across the country on road trips, said his mother, Audriene Barry. Mr. Barry's zest for life was apparent in his work, she said. He was in the business of saving lives as a New York City firefighter for seven years. Before becoming a firefighter, he had worked as an elevator mechanic and a machine-tool technician. He was a member of Ladder Company 15 near the South Street Seaport, and his colleagues frequently relied on him to repair elevators during high-rise fires. "He truly loved the Fire Department," Mrs. Barry said. Firefighting was in his blood. His father, Bertrand, retired as a fireboat pilot after 20 years on the job, Mrs. Barry said. For a time, Bertrand Barry patrolled the waters of New York Harbor in the shadow of the World Trade Center.

On one arm, Benjamin Suarez had a tattoo of his wife's name, Sally. On the other was a tattoo of a dragon entwined with the emblem of the New York Fire Department. They spoke of his two great loves. Sally Suarez said her husband, 35, was about to end a 24-hour shift with Ladder Company 21, at 38th Street, when he called to tell her he would be late getting back to their home in Brooklyn because "I have to help the people." It was the last she heard of him. Mrs. Suarez spends her days remembering how open and generous he was. "Everybody loved him," she said. "There was not one place we would go that people didn't know him. I loved that." Because she worked six days a week and his schedule was more flexible, he tended to accompany their three children to school events like plays or football games. "Sometimes he would take the whole company with him," she recalled. And he was romantic with his wife of eight years, reminding her of anniversaries that she sometimes forgot. He wanted to buy a house, but because she was so picky, they had spent two years looking, she said. "He told me, `I could live in a cardboard box, but I have to make sure you have the house you want.' "

Captain America. That's what Tina Bilcher called her husband, Brian, a firefighter at Squad Company 1 in Brooklyn. Firefighter Bilcher, 37, was a lot like the patriotic comic book superhero: calm, reasonable, good-looking and quick to the rescue of anyone who needed help. Car stuck on the side of the road? There was Firefighter Bilcher. Feeling sick? Like a flash, Firefighter Bilcher was at your bedside. The man liked his adrenaline rushes, said his wife. "He once jumped off a lighthouse into the ocean," said Mrs. Bilcher. He even got her to jump with him. She says now that she did it for love -- "I wanted to impress him." A strapping 6 feet, 240 pounds, Firefighter Bilcher was working part-time as a bouncer at Coaches Cafe in Staten Island six years ago when Tina, two weeks shy of 21, showed up. He refused to let her in. He told her to come back in two weeks. She did. They talked. They were married June 4, 2000, in Staten Island. The wedding pictures show the twin towers in the background. Grant James Bilcher was born Aug. 29. The couple named him Grant because he was a grant from God. "Brian always wanted a boy," his wife said.

Brian Cannizzaro would burst into a room, eyes twinkling, and you would not believe what had just happened to him. "There was always some Herculean effort that had gone awry," said Charles Cannizzaro, a brother. "There was always something to get the ball rolling." Once, it was the story of how Mr. Cannizzaro, a firefighter at Ladder Company 101 in Red Hook, Brooklyn, had earned the nickname Rat Boy by leaping into a Dumpster to put out a fire, then leaping right back out when a furry creature scampered into his protective clothing. And then there was the tale of heroism from his second job, as a security officer at the "Ricki Lake" show, when he had broken up a fight between two guests and then found himself encircled by autograph-seeking audience members. Obsessed with the movie "Gladiator," Mr. Cannizzaro, 30, wanted to name his son after its hero, Maximus . His wife, Jacqueline, considered it, but the baby was named Christopher.

The truly brave person is the one who knows the real risks in a situation, but still moves forward to save people, to fight a good battle or to remedy an intolerable situation. The attacks against America on September 11, 2001, revealed the true superheroes among us — those New York firefighters who pushed themselves past those second thoughts, those all-too-human hesitations, and sacrificed themselves in the hopes of saving others. Lt. Brian G. Ahearn was one of those superheroes.Lt. Ahearn grew up within the Irish Catholic community in Huntington, New York, out on Long Island. He got a good grounding in Catholicism (and, I bet, an excellent education) when he attended St. Hugh of Lincoln School. I think he must already then have been a good person, since his classmates remember him fondly. One woman who attended St. Hugh with him said that “He was perhaps one of the nicest boys in our class.” This was not a unique opinion. Another woman used virtually the same words to describe the young Lt. Ahearn: “I remember Brian being such a nice boy.“I don’t think anyone who knew Brian Ahearn was surprised when he decided to become a firefighter. After all, his father was former Ladder 42 Lieutenant Edward Ahearn. Somewhere along the line, whether before or after he chose his career, Lt. Ahearn married Deborah. Given how close his ties were to his childhood community, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she wasn’t his high school sweetheart. As the years went by, they had two children: Christopher and Lauren.

There is no telling how many New Yorkers are walking around because Capt. Brian Hickey became a New York City firefighter. He commanded Rescue Company 4, which rushes to every major fire in Queens, not to fight flames, but to save trapped civilians and firefighters. It has always been among the department's most dangerous jobs. Two of his men were killed in Astoria on Father's Day, and another died with him at 2 World Trade Center on Sept. 11. Yet the 47-year-old captain, who had suffered burns and other injuries many times on the job, never dwelled on the dangers. Instead, he spoke with pride of the brotherhood (women included) of firefighters. "It means they are ready to lay down their lives for one another," his wife, Donna, said. "They all knew it. It was something unspoken among them." He was also a volunteer firefighter in Bethpage, N.Y., where he grew up, married his high school sweetheart and had four children: Danny, Dennis, Jaclyn and Kevin. In 1992, Captain Hickey and his only brother, Raymond, created "Brothers in Battle," a 45-minute video documentary about firefighting. It is still used in training. In 1993, Raymond died of cancer. "Brian was at his side for 11 months," Mrs. Hickey recalled. "I've never seen such love and compassion."

Brian was a very compassionate person. He was a wonderful father and husband. He had many interests and had great panache and style. His most important charity was the MS Society. A short time before his death Brian was on a fishing trip with the MS Society; he is pictured right in front of the twin towers. He had time for everyone. He was always there for his father who died seven months before our own beautiful Brian was killed. They are now together in the Palm of His Hand.

When he was 18 months old, Brian E. Sweeney wore his father's fire hat in a family picture. His parents said it probably wasn't much longer before he decided to follow his father and join the New York Fire Department. "I don't remember it ever being a question," said his mother, Mary Ann. Some 20 years later, he began going to work with his father, Edward, who was a commander at Engine Company 301 in Hollis, Queens, until he retired in 1993. "He really seemed to enjoy it," Edward Sweeney said. "He asked a lot of the right questions. He was very interested in the job." Two years after his father retired, Brian Sweeney took a job in Connecticut with the Waterbury Fire Department, and began training. But Firefighter Sweeney, of Merrick, N.Y., left that job when he learned that he had been accepted into the New York Fire Department. For the next six years, he worked at four fire companies in three boroughs and started a romance with Melissa Price, also of Merrick. During those years he studied the specialty of rescue, and on Aug. 1, 2001, he was assigned to Rescue Company 1 in West Midtown Manhattan. He was 29, one of the company's youngest firefighters. "It was a dream come true for him," Mrs. Sweeney said. "He loved rescue work. The more dangerous, the more exciting, the more challenging — that's what he loved to do." Last Sept. 11 was his day off, but Firefighter Sweeney worked overtime at his former firehouse in Maspeth, Queens.

You could learn something about Bruce Gary from the way he coached a Little League team. Season after season he created good teams by focusing not on the all- stars but on the children other coaches would stick in right field and forget about. "Every year there would be the really good kids, and some kids who weren't so good," said Thomas Gary, his son. "But he worked more with those kids, and by the end of the season the team would be more equal." Mr. Gary, 51, was a firefighter with Engine 40, a part-time plumber and since his divorce a decade ago a full-time parent to his three children: Richard, Jessica and Thomas. Somehow he found time to be vice president of the Little League in Bellmore, N.Y., coaching his sons and their friends. Always encouraging, never losing his temper. "He would help boost kids' self-esteem," his daughter said. "He wanted to give everyone a chance."

Calixto Anaya Jr.'s wife, Marie, remembers the New York City firefighter everyone knew as Charlie as "very attentive to the little things that keep love alive," whether it was taking days off for activities with their three children or showing up with flowers when she did not expect them. "Charlie always wanted to do things the right way," Mrs. Anaya said. When they were married in 1990 in a simple civil service, Mr. Anaya insisted that they begin saving for the big church wedding her parents could not afford. Six months later, they marched down the aisle of St. Rita's Roman Catholic Church in Brooklyn. Mr. Anaya, a former Marine who re- enlisted when the Persian Gulf War broke out in 1991, believed true patriotism meant flying the American flag, not only in front of their home in Suffern, N.Y., but also wherever the family came to rest on camping trips or jaunts to the beach. Mr. Anaya, 35, loved the Yankees in baseball and the Giants in football with similar exuberance. He preserved the hole he punched in his basement ceiling while celebrating the Yankees' World Series victory over the Mets last year.

When Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead died in 1995, Carl Asaro was devastated. A self-proclaimed Deadhead, Mr. Asaro held a memorial service and barbecue in honor of Mr. Garcia in his backyard, complete with 50 guests, candles and the band's T-shirts hung along the side of the deck. When his wife and six children realized that Mr. Asaro, a 39-year-old firefighter at the Ninth Battalion in Manhattan, was not coming home to Middletown, N.Y., they decorated his memorial service with some of the band's paraphernalia: T-shirts, Christmas ornaments, pictures. Songs like "Touch of Gray" and "Friend of the Devil" were played. It was a fitting tribute, they said, to his love for music. Mr. Asaro played the piano, the guitar and the piccolo. A firefighter since 1987, Mr. Asaro also enjoyed playing one on television. He was an extra in several movies including "15 Minutes," "The Siege" and "Frequency." He played a paramedic on "The Sopranos," "Law and Order" and "Third Watch." He dreamed of having a speaking part. "He always said one day he might go to Hollywood and be famous," said Heloiza Asaro, his wife. "And I said, `Yes, you go to Hollywood and leave me here with all the kids.' He said no, I would be his agent."

Sometimes, Carl J. Bedigian did not seem real to the woman who had been his wife for less than a year. A firefighter with Engine 214 in Brooklyn, he once donated his bone marrow to a 4-year-old boy in Europe he had never met, Michele Bedigian said. He had a "magical" smile, and "a beautiful way of making people comfortable around him," she said. "Sometimes I think he's an angel. Sometimes I think he wasn't really a person." In 1998, Mr. Bedigian fell ill with a rare condition that paralyzed him, but he defied the odds and walked again within weeks out of the sheer power of his will, Mrs. Bedigian said. The experience made the couple live every day as if it were their last. They traveled, they planned a family. And Mr. Bedigian, 35, stayed committed to the Fire Department and had "a constant ambition to do more to help people," she said. Mr. Bedigian was buried Nov. 5. "That was Carl's calling," his widow said of his life as a fireman. "As painful as it is, I'm incredibly proud of him."

His wife's cousins called him "O. B. Carl," as in Overboard Carl. Wander through the pale yellow Colonial in Staten Island that Carl E. Molinaro built for his family, and you will understand why. "We have remote-control doorknobs, elegant ceiling fans," said his wife, Donna. "He wanted to do everything good and fancy." Firefighter Molinaro, 32, a carpenter and cabinetmaker before he joined the Fire Department three years ago (he worked in Ladder Company 2 in Manhattan), finished building a dream house in Tottenville for himself and his wife at the beginning of August last year. But the Molinaros waited a few weeks so they could move in as a family: Carl, Donna, Sabrina, and Thomas. "Family hug," Firefighter Molinaro would call during those blissful couple of weeks, and in an instant, his wife, their infant and Daddy's little sweetheart (Sabrina, that is) would be in the kitchen, locked in a group embrace. Eight months old, the youngest Molinaro already has his father's rounded shoulders and big blue eyes. He also has his father's name — after Sept. 11, baby Thomas was renamed Carl.

They met when they were 10, two kids from the same Brooklyn neighborhood. They married at 20 and in 23 years rarely left each other's side. "He was my best friend," said Christine Bini of her husband, Carl, who was 43. So it was completely in keeping with routine that Mr. Bini telephoned his wife the morning of Sept. 11 at about 8:40 a.m. while she was en route from the couple's home in Staten Island to her job in Brooklyn just to check in and say hello. Minutes later he called again. "He told me about the plane," Mrs. Bini said. "He said he was going. I told him to be careful." Carl Bini had been a firefighter for 18 years. Retirement was only two years away, and he and his wife had been looking forward to it very much. So were their daughters, Stephanie and Desiree. That Tuesday was to have been a day off for Firefighter Bini. He and a friend were meeting to discuss a business project for after retirement. Upon hearing the news of the attack, he and the friend, also a firefighter, went to the trade center. "If I could have tied him down, he would have bitten through the ropes to go," Mrs. Bini said.

At a friend's housewarming back in 1993, Cecilia Lillo paged through a wedding album and spotted a familiar face in the group pictures. Years earlier, back in high school, Carlos Lillo had been a gymnast and a baseball player, the handsome older boy who dated a girl in her homeroom. Now he was a paramedic in Queens and she was working for the Port Authority at the World Trade Center. They resisted being set up, until a party on New Year's Eve of 1997. They talked in a cafe until 7 the next morning. They bought a house together in Babylon in 1999. She finished her degree at Baruch. He worked extra shifts on private ambulances to save for a new fence and a pool. In April, they married. She is 35; he was 37. Even after being together four years, he had kept her e-mail valentines. "He was very romantic. We had our candlelight dinners at home, we used to act silly," Ms. Lillo said. "He wanted us to go to Disney World. I said, `Let's wait until we have kids.' " They had an appointment with a fertility doctor for this week. On the morning of Sept. 11, Ms. Lillo escaped from her office in 1 World Trade Center, just as the building collapsed. "Then I saw an article in Newsweek, and his picture was there," she said. "He was helping someone."

Last year at Christmastime, Deputy Chief Charles L. Kasper of the Fire Department's Special Operations Command went out and bought a set of trains. They were not for his 425-person division, which races to the scene whenever there is a major catastrophe and already owns a huge collection of red-painted fire trucks, fireboats and other exciting toys for grown-ups. No, they were for his grandson, but when the chief linked the track pieces into a circle and sent the locomotive huffing and whistling around it, Dylan, then only 7 months old, was too young to appreciate the spectacle. Never mind, thought Chief Kasper. There's always next year. On Sept. 11, the 54-year-old veteran of dozens of rescues was having a day off when he heard about the World Trade Center attacks. He scrambled into a spare fire engine parked near his home in Staten Island and sped to the towers. He had a motto: "Drive it like it's stolen," recalled Jim Ellson, a retired captain. Recently Chief Kasper's wife, Laureen, and their children unpacked the trains, set them up the same way he had and watched while Dylan reacted with delight. "We say that he's playing with Granddaddy," who was "always on duty for his family," Mrs. Kasper said. "And we know that Charlie's circle will always encircle us."

When he left Staten Island to attend Brown University, Chuck Margiotta told classmates that he would return to New York to become a fireman. He did just that, serving 15 years in Harlem and then the last 4 with Ladder 85 in Staten Island. He also became a substitute teacher. A private investigator. A coach of his children's soccer and basketball teams. And he was a member of the Screen Actors Guild, winning small roles in the movies "Frequency" and "Hannibal." "He was usually the guy who got shot," said Steve Gallira, a friend since childhood. "Nobody knows when the guy slept. We don't think he did." Early on Sept. 11, Mr. Margiotta, 44, was returning to Staten Island after filling in for another firefighter in Brooklyn. Once he heard the news of the attacks, he turned around, caught a ride with Rescue 5 near the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and headed for the towers. That was Chuck: all drive. Always doing the unexpected. Like becoming tight end for his high school football team when he could hardly catch a pass. Like saying unabashedly in the company of other men how he had done the right thing by marrying his wife, Norma. Mr. Gallira said, "I felt all this work he did, Chuck believed it was his obligation to life, to fill it up."

Charles R. Mendez was a reed of a boy who grew up to be a "good sized" man with a heart to match, said his mother, Doris Mendez. When Mr. Mendez's father died, he was a tremendous help to his mother, even though he was only 21. Mr. Mendez was a firefighter with Ladder Company 7 in Manhattan. His last job was at the World Trade Center. He was 38. "He was sort of quiet but well-liked all over," Mrs. Mendez said. "He wanted to be a policeman, first. Then he was working for a bank but when the Fire Department called him, that was his glory. He loved that job." Firefighter Mendez's wife, Kelli, said her husband so enjoyed his job that there were many mornings he rose early to leave home in Floral Park, on Long Island, to get to work. When he was not working, he renovated their old house, she said. He learned how to be handy by reading books. "He was always doing something," she said. "We had a million friends and we were always out doing something. We probably vacationed five times a year. I have no regrets -- we never canceled, we never said we can't go, we just did it. "He was just a wonderful, wonderful person. If I'd known five years ago this would happen, I still would have married him. He was it. He was my best friend."

When you are smack in the middle of a family of nine children, you could, understandably, have a rough time getting attention. Or, you could not. Charles Garbarini's siblings would clear the coffee table so he could leap up and entertain them. He even had his sister Janet fooled into thinking that if she washed the family's dinner dishes while he just sat and talked to her, she had it good. "Nobody gets out of more work than I do!" Charley Garbarini, 44, would shout, even as a Fire Department lieutenant. By her own admission, Andrea DeGeorge, whom Lieutenant Garbarini married after a decade-long engagement, was the source of his best material. Parodying her New Age-like interests, he wrote a monologue about a woman much like her who tells her husband that their new house in Westchester requires "a $10,000 deck so I can meditate and keep in touch with my lack of needs." A softie at heart for all his wisecracking, Lieutenant Garbarini would march Dylan and Philip into their Pleasantville, N.Y., home bearing flowers from the A.&P. for their mother. He was a proud if sardonic professional. His business card read: "Firefighter Charley Garbarini. You light 'em, we fight 'em."

Graduates of the Bronx High School of Science generally do not enlist in the Marines, but Christian Regenhard, 28, resisted easy categorization. He was determined, said his mother, Sally Regenhard, to follow his father into the elite branch of the armed forces, despite a 146 IQ and an array of artistic talents. Mrs. Regenhard "practically had a nervous breakdown" when Christian announced his intentions, a week before his 19th birthday. But his military accomplishments, and the medals to prove it, are now among her proudest memories. After his discharge, Mr. Regenhard spent a year at San Francisco State University, studying art and trying writing. But he continued with the daring pursuits he had learned in the Marines: rock-climbing, scuba diving, running marathons, traveling — and disappointing a parade of women. "He was a babe magnet," Mrs. Regenhard said. "He spoke the language of love." In January, Mr. Regenhard, the son of a retired police detective, again chose the adventurous route and joined the Fire Department. The long shifts on duty alternated with extra days off and time to pursue his art and his climbing. Mr. Regenhard was still a "proby" on Sept. 11, assigned to Ladder Company 131 in Red Hook, Brooklyn, which shares a firehouse with Engine Company 279. He was covering for someone in the engine company that morning, his mother said.

Christopher J. Blackwell liked life on the edge. "He was interested in anything that was dangerous," his mother, Frances Allen, said. "He was born with no sense of fear. When he was little he would swim underwater before he would swim on top of it. My other three children were a lot easier." A fireman for 20 years, he was assigned to Rescue Company 3 in the South Bronx. He was a specialist in collapsed buildings, and gave lectures on the topic to firefighters across the country. Like many of his colleagues, he had a genetic connection to his profession: his uncle had been a captain in the New York Fire Department. His father and a grandfather were both policemen. When he was not on the job, Firefighter Blackwell, 42, devoted his time to his wife, Jane, and their three children, Alexandra, Ryan, and Samantha. "He didn't care where we were going or what we were doing," Mrs. Blackwell said. "When he wasn't working, he wanted to spend time with the family." He had a high-risk job, but Firefighter Blackwell "wasn't reckless," his wife said. He loved doing what he did. His mother added, "He lived and died with purpose."

Some people live life out loud. Christopher Mozzillo lived life out louder. How to Stop Your Mom and Sister From Fighting at the Dinner Table: Take a fork, pretend to ram it in your forehead and shout, "You're driving me nuts!" Or bang your head against the wall, whimpering, "Help me, help me!" How to Get Your Girlfriend out of the Ocean for Lunch: Roll her, soaking wet, up the sand, laughing as you yell, "Chicken cutlet here!" (Escort her to the showers, please.) Cook only masterpieces. Ski only black diamond trails. Drink till someone else passes out first. Be president of your fraternity at St. John's, a king of the bar scene at the Jersey Shore, the best at trivia because you have a photographic memory. Take the firefighter's exam at 18 and wait impatiently all those years, working as an environmental scientist, until you are called — finally! — at 25. Be so upbeat that, at 27, you think you know what the future holds: husband, father, upstate homeowner, lieutenant, captain, chief. Love being in the fraternity known as Engine Company 55 in Manhattan's Little Italy so much that you come home to Staten Island boasting, "Today the captain let me hold the knob of the hose!"

He was the rocking firefighter. When Christopher Pickford was a toddler, his mother remembered, he sang merrily along to a song on "Sesame Street" about a fireman. That became his goal: to grow up to be a firefighter. But he was captivated by music, too. "I've got baby pictures of him with a guitar," said his mother, Linda Pickford. So he fought fires during the day and played rock music at night. And he always found time for his girlfriend of 11 years, Amy Whalley. Firefighter Pickford, 32, who lived in Queens and was in Engine Company 201, had his own band, called Ten Degree Lean. He was the lead guitarist and wrote most of the music. An earlier band was called Riboflavin and the Vitamin D's. At his funeral, a special tribute CD was distributed to mourners that contained songs from both of his groups, as well as several songs written by Ten Degree Lean in his honor. Also on the CD are four messages from Firefighter Pickford that the lead singer of the band had saved on his answering machine. The first one was to give the big news that he had met the requirements and was finally going to become a firefighter.

Like his buddies, Christopher Santora played stickball and basketball growing up in Long Island City. Unlike them, he rooted not for the Mets or the Yankees but for the Toronto Blue Jays. He thrived on holding different opinions — "He would always argue," said his father, Al Santora. And he traded friendly putdowns, as Richard Grech, his oldest friend, remembered. "If you said something stupid, he was all over you." The other thing he loved was being a firefighter, following his father, a retired deputy chief. After he graduated from Queens College, he was a substitute teacher. But he turned down a permanent job at Junior High School 10. His hard training helped him earn a perfect score on the Fire Department's physical exam, to go with the 100 on the written test. He joined the department in February. Just after 9 a.m. on Sept. 11 his father took a call from Engine Company 54, saying he should come back to work. But even though his shift had just ended, Firefighter Santora, 23, had already jumped back on his truck and set off for the World Trade Center.

Christopher and Dolores Sullivan were high school sweethearts, and he gave her a happy ending with a modern twist. She got a prince who was never too tired to play with their sons, Sean and Brian, or to prepare her lunch for work. Mr. Sullivan, 39, was a firefighter at Ladder 11 and Engine 214 in Brooklyn. "The main thing about him was that he was an excellent father," Mrs. Sullivan said. "He'd come home after working 24 hours and they would want to play and he played. He took them hiking and camping. He also did everything at home, from cooking to cleaning. We were a real team." "The kids didn't have their Dad long, but they got a lot from him," Mrs. Sullivan said. Jim Sullivan, Christopher's father, said his son "had a heart of gold but no one pushed him around," which made him perfect for firefighting. "Chris loved his job so much. We really respected the men he worked with." Firefighter Sullivan also loved nature. He planted a pumpkin for the first time this year, and it grew. The family used it to make pumpkin bread at Thanksgiving.

Dana Hannon lived to hunt. While his family knew he would always be there for them, they knew better than to ask favors on the first day of hunting seasons for deer, ducks and geese. So it is no surprise that he knew how to track down a quarry. Maybe that explains why he waited until he got to the top of the Sydney Harbor Bridge in Australia to propose to Allison Dansen. He smuggled the ring on a string around his neck. They were to be married next fall. Dana Hannon, 29, wanted to be a firefighter for almost as long as he wanted to hunt. After high school, he worked as a carpenter to support himself while he served as a volunteer firefighter in his hometown, Wyckoff, N.J., where he rose to the rank of captain. He got his first paying job as a firefighter in Bridgeport, Conn., where he was awarded the medal of valor for a rescue. Seven years after taking the exam, he joined the Fire Department of New York. He was with Engine Company 26. "He was the best brother anybody could ask for," said his sister, Kyle. "Just the right mix of friend and tormentor."

Daniel Brethel, captain of Ladder 24 on West 31st Street in Manhattan, had had some close calls: His neck and ears had been burned when he was holding his helmet over an injured firefighter who was lying on the street; once he had required a skin graft. Arriving at the World Trade Center after both jets had hit, he shouted a warning to his men: "Guys, be very careful, because firemen are going to die today." He had been off duty at 9 a.m. His wife, Carol, hearing about the attack at their home in Farmingdale, hoped he was already on the train and knew nothing about it. On Tuesday night, they came to the house and told her they had found his body. Captain Brethel, 43, had grabbed one of his men as a building started to collapse. They dived under a firetruck. Both were crushed. On Wednesday, Ms. Brethel went to her husband's firehouse to empty Captain Brethel's locker. Theirs is a large, close family. In April, all the brothers and sisters and their children, 19 Brethels, went to Disney World, waiting until it was close to closing time so they could ride Thunder Mountain together. This week, at least a dozen Brethels, including Captain Brethel's children accompanied his wife to the firehouse. While Ms. Brethel closed the locker room door behind her, the firefighters told stories about their captain and the children had a chance to see the people stopping by and the flowers they had left. And that was good, said Mr. Brethel's sister, Loretta.

Daniel Edward Harlin looked forward to the start of deer-hunting season all year long. But when he and his friends finally arrived in the Catskill woods in November, he always offered up the best spots to someone else. "He was a very unselfish guy," said Charles Foulds, who grew up with him and had hunted with him every year since they were both teenagers. "He never took the best for himself." A quiet man with a contagious laugh, Firefighter Harlin, 41, had worked with Ladder Company 2, Battalion 8 on East 51st Street for more than a decade. But he loved the outdoors so much that he and his wife moved to rural Putnam County 10 years ago, settling in Kent, before having their three children. "He looked forward to taking the boys hunting when they got old enough," said his wife, Deborah. This year his friends held their annual deer-hunting gathering in a Catskill cabin without him for the first time. "There wasn't a dry eye in the house," Mr. Foulds said.

Daniel F. Libretti, 43, firefighter, FDNY, Rescue 2. A 19-year FDNY veteran, Libretti had been with Rescue 2 since 1999. Libretti was also a graduate of the New York Restaurant School and an assistant pastry chef at the top-rated French restaurant La Caravelle. Off duty, he worked as a private contractor and enjoying making wine at home.

Daniel O'Callaghan, 42, was a dedicated firefighter who was assigned to Ladder 4 in Manhattan. He was promoted to Captain on 9/10/01. Dan and 14 other firefighters from Ladder 4/Engine 54/Battalion 9 gave their lives helping others on 9/11/01. He was recovered with his men in the South Tower in March for which I am so grateful. Danny was a loving, caring husband and a devoted Daddy to our two children. He adored his Pumpkin, Rhiannon Rose, and his Little Buddy, Connor Daniel. Danny, words cannot express how much we love and miss you, but we know you will always watch over us. You are truly our HERO. Our thoughts and prayers are with all the fallen firefighters and their families. Thank you to everyone who has been so kind to me and my family and for all the rescue workers. I could never thank you enough. Rhonda, Rhiannon Rose, and Connor Daniel O'Callaghan

Daniel Suhr was the recipient of many nicknames. Captain America was one. Whenever he went out with friends, he would point to exit doors and tell them where to meet him if anything happened. "He kept everyone safe," said his wife, Nancy. A firefighter, Daniel was rushing to the trade center when someone tumbled out of the sky and on top of him. "The other firefighters stayed with him because they wouldn't leave him behind," his wife said. "Because they didn't go in, he saved their lives." Daniel, 37, loved his job at Engine Company 216. His father was a firefighter and his brother is one. He grew up in Brooklyn, where he was the captain of both the baseball and football teams at James Madison High School. He and his wife began dating when they were in grammar school. Their home is in Rockaway Park, Queens. Even though he was considered this big, brave firefighter, he could get fairly mushy over his 2-year-old daughter, Briana. He was terrified when she did things like run toward him too fast. "He loved her more than life itself," Nancy said.

The memorial for Dave Fontana was scheduled for Oct. 17, which would have been his 38th birthday. He died at the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, on his eighth wedding anniversary. Mr. Fontana was a firefighter with the elite Squad 1 unit, stationed in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where he lived with his wife, Marian and son, Aidan. Neighbors were shocked by the news that 12 men from the small firehouse on Union Street had died, but they took his loss especially hard. Dave Fontana was a man's man. He volunteered his time for the Boy Scouts. He read to children. He worked tirelessly to find the names of firefighters who had fallen in World War II so that dedication plaques could be hung in the firehouses where they had served. A trained sculptor, Mr. Fontana was known for the elaborate Halloween costumes he and his son wore in the annual neighborhood parade. "You know Dave Fontana?" Aidan asked the other day. "I love Dave Fontana."

When Margaret Arce opened up her son's apartment in Stuyvesant Town, she found remnants of his generosity, letters to Santa Claus from poor children. David Arce, a firefighter, would answer them by delivering wished-for toys, year after year. "He has always been like that, always bringing home stray cats, stray dogs, stray kids," she said. "Growing up, it was the same thing; he was always bringing someone home to me who needed a meal, or who needed a coat." On Sept. 11, he jumped on the fire truck, Engine Company 33, on Great Jones Street, even though his shift had ended. She described her son, 36, as a bit of a fatalist. "He always had this belief that destiny was waiting there," she said. Firefighter Arce, whose nickname was Buddha, was an enthusiastic fan of Joseph Campbell and would have long discussions at the firehouse about the writer's research into myth and religion. "I think what resonated was the overall belief that in the bottom line, everybody's religion is the same," she said. "Everybody is the same. It just comes down to one being. No matter who you are and what you are, we're all underneath the same sky."

“I love you, take care of yourself." That was how David Halderman always ended his telephone conversations with his mother. And this year his mother, Geraldine Halderman, had come to rely more than ever on hearing those words, uttered from her serious, shy and loving son, who she said would have been "embarrassed by all the fuss that's been made over him" since he was killed on Sept. 11. He was a firefighter with Squad 18 in Manhattan, a nine-year veteran. Firefighter Halderman's father, who was also a firefighter, died last August, six days after his son's 40th birthday. The younger firefighter spent his summer vacation accompanying his mother to the hospital, and he called her every night to check on her. A belated birthday celebration -- nothing fancy, because Firefighter Halderman did not "like to be in the forefront," his mother said -- was still being planned when he perished.

Whenever the alarm rang at the Ladder Company 20 firehouse on Lafayette Street, David J. LaForge — a big, quiet fireman with a thick mustache — always headed for the same spot: the driver's seat. Foot to the floor, corners taken with finesse, he would get everybody to the scene in no time flat. "He was like Dale Earnhardt," said Bobby Barrett, who steered the back of the company's ladder truck while Firefighter LaForge handled the front. It was a talent that began when he was very young, pedaling a miniature fire engine around his family's home in Staten Island, and that accelerated when he got a job crisscrossing the country for North American Van Lines in one of their 18-wheel rigs. So naturally he wanted to become a driver — in Fire Department parlance, the chauffeur — when he joined the department 24 years ago. "He liked to go fast," said his sister, Jane A. Schwerd, adding that off duty, his chariot was a black Pontiac Firebird Firehawk with a stick shift. "He would sit there and study maps of the city so he would know the way to go." No one else in their family had been a firefighter, but the life seemed to suit her brother, who was 50 years old and lived in Staten Island. He was forever helping neighbors, an elderly uncle and others. "He was the one who everybody called upon," she said. "And he always answered the call."

If you knew David P. DeRubbio -- "Crazy Dave" or "Crazy Uncle Dave" to his family -- you knew about the jokes and you knew about the milk. The fifth of seven children, Mr. DeRubbio, a Brooklyn firefighter, was famous in the family for his countless ways of getting around the household rule against profanity and for the zany nicknames he gave out. "Dave was an experience," said Angela Tiberi, his younger sister, who contended with being nicknamed, "Witchie Poo." He doted on his daughter Jessica, 12. He nicknamed her "Pestica." To avoid using one profanity at home, Mr.DeRubbio would say, "What the H-E- double hockey sticks is going on?" Callers who encountered him at the other end of the line would typically find themselves being serenaded. Mr. DeRubbio, 38, was such a milk hound that their mother joked about buying a family cow just to meet the demand, his sister said. To the delight of his friends and family, none of this stopped after Mr. DeRubbio, who joined the Fire Department in 1998 and was assigned to Engine Company 226, became an adult. "I know he's up there," Ms. Tiberi said. "And he's got everyone rolling."

David Martin Weiss, a New York City firefighter, was built like a fireplug. He stood 5-foot-9 and weighed 225 pounds. He was all muscle, with biceps as big as the thigh of a medium-build woman. He was bulldozer strong. He looked as tough as he sounded. His head was shaved and his body was covered in tattoos. He drove Harleys. He was an ironworker before he became a firefighter 13 years ago. He blended both experiences to become a member of the Fire Department's elite force. He joined Rescue Company 1 in Times Square about six years ago after receiving a medal for a rescue attempt: a man's car careered off Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive and plunged into the East River. Mr. Weiss, off duty, stopped his car, climbed down the iron trestles of the elevated highway and jumped into the river to rescue the driver, whose heart had given out. "He just jumped, knowing that he was the person's only hope," said Thor Johannessen, a firefighter. Mr. Weiss, 41, of Maybrook, N.Y., had a mean sense of humor. "If he saw a thread, he knew how to pull it to unravel the whole shirt," said Joel Kanasky, another firefighter. "He was the king of that."

Anyone could see that it was a strange combination of jobs, fighting fires and interior decorating. But not David T. Wooley. Captain of Ladder Company 4 in Midtown Manhattan, he also put up wallpaper on the side, turning it into a family affair that included his son, brother and cousin. "He did that because my mother was always asking him to decorate around the house," said his son, David Jr. "He changed the wallpaper so often, and he was so good at it, that he decided to make it his second career. He did it since 1985 or 1986." Sure, hanging wallpaper did not quite pack the rush of running into a blaze. But in Captain Wooley's crew was his brother Burt (another firefighter), his cousin Jeff and his son. "It was time we spent together, and it was almost like not working," David Wooley Jr. said. As they beautified houses, Captain Wooley, 53, would tune in to a politically conservative radio station. Then his son would switch the dial to a liberal station. That was how it went between the two of them -- listen to politics, debate about it, laugh over it. Captain Wooley's son made fun of him when he took a job putting up wallpaper in the Westchester home of Bill and Hillary Clinton. Meeting them did not change the captain's political leanings. But Captain Wooley was what his son called a "people person," and he told his son afterward that the Clintons were "nice and personable."

Dennis Germain, 33, a firefighter with Ladder Company 2, spent his working hours in the canyons of Midtown Manhattan and his free time on the slopes. He was a ski instructor at Sterling Forest, near Tuxedo, N.Y., where he trained high school racing teams. He skied the Rockies on department trips. And he was indispensable at the annual downhill race at Hunter Mountain, which pits firehouses against one another. Teams of five people grab hold of a 50-foot fire hose and spread out across the trail. The goal is to ski together without letting go, falling, or otherwise messing up. No, they are not allowed to use ski poles. Yes, there are other skiers sharing the snow. Depending on the firefighters' finesse, the spectacle can be either mildly funny or completely hilarious. "The hoses in many cases would cross and guys would go head over heels down the mountain," Lt. Neil Skow said. But not Firefighter Germain: "Dennis was always one of the better skiers we had." His other specialty at Ladder 2 was starting enormous debates in the fire house kitchen with politically incorrect statements he was sure would set people off. As the argument heated up, he would slip away. "He loved what he did," said his brother Brian, a firefighter in Harlem.

The race seemed more important than ever. For 18 years, on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Dennis Cross competed in the Turkey Trot, a 5- kilometer race held in Flushing Meadows, Queens, where firefighters ran for charity. Now he would be absent. His wife, JoAnn, used to operate a fitness studio and induced him to run with her. But once the children arrived, she stopped running. Yet she felt an unshakable need to have a Cross in the Turkey Trot to honor her husband, a battalion chief of Battalion 57 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. So she concluded she would be that Cross. And she would recruit additional firefighters to run, too, in honor of all the firefighters lost in the attack. Chief Cross, 60, known as Captain Fearless, lived with his wife in Islip Terrace, N.Y. His favorite saying was, "Take care of the men and the men will take care of you." Mrs. Cross was going to take care of his memory. She vowed she would finish this race and then begin an annual memorial run for her husband the next April, the anniversary of the day they met. For nine weeks, she trained, building up endurance. Race day came. She ran, as did her four children. She finished in 29 minutes. "I thought I was going to do it in 45 minutes," she said. "I was proud of myself."

For 29 years, Dennis and Kathleen Devlin were man and wife, parents to four children. In a house on a small hill in upstate New York, they watched sunsets and laid plans to grow old together. But Dennis Devlin, a battalion chief for the New York City Fire Department, is gone now, leaving Mrs. Devlin to try and hold on to their bond. So, Chief. Devlin's hobbies have become her hobbies. Every morning, she's out on a three mile run, a habit she never cared for when her husband was alive, but one she hopes now will prepare her for a coming race that she is planning in his honor. "I can hear him sometimes telling me not to get tired, pushing me," she said. It is also because of her husband that no day passes without Mrs. Devlin thumbing through one of the 23 photo albums Chief Devlin labored over, for decades, meticulously labeling and dating each photograph. (The last photo he ever entered, taken three months before Sept. 11, 2001 was one of him in a helicopter flying over Lower Manhattan, staring at the World Trade Center.) "We complained about him taking so many pictures, everywhere we went," she said. "But having those albums now is such a joy. We all look at them and think how blessed we are that he took the time and that we were a happy family."

Dennis M. Carey loved to cook. The family has every issue of Bon Appetit magazine going back 15 years, said his wife, Jean, "and you couldn't improvise with the ingredients. He had to use exactly what the recipe called for." And he worked hard as a New York City firefighter. He joined the Fire Department almost two decades ago, and seven years ago began working with Hazardous Materials Company 1 in Maspeth, Queens. Mr. Carey's body was found, along with those of 15 of his colleagues, at the World Trade Center on Oct. 2. When he was not on the job, Mr. Carey, 51, loved to travel with his wife and their two children, Nicole, and Dennis Jr. "We lived," Jean Carey said a day after his funeral. "A lot of people who pass on, they say about them that they lived two lives. We lived three. We've done everything with our children, traveled from Maine to Florida, went camping, went to every amusement park you can think of." She continued: "I'm with him since I'm 17. He was a pleaser. He spoiled me. He did for me. We had a great life. I'm so grateful to have it."

There wasn't much that Dennis P. McHugh, 34, couldn't do. He ran the New York City Marathon, played Gaelic football, married the beautiful Una Hinchcliffe and became the proud father of Chloe, 5, and Sophie and Joseph, who both turned 1 last week. When he became a firefighter with Ladder Company 13 three years ago, "he was about as perfect as you can get," said his friend Chris Gainer, who graduated from the Fire Academy with him and, in longstanding firehouse tradition, became "the bad probie" while Mr. McHugh was "the good probie." On summer mornings at the family place in Montauk, Mr. McHugh's brothers-in-law would wake up and rush to the window, "to see if he'd done all the chores," said Rob Hinchcliffe. "By the time we'd woken up at 11 o'clock, this guy had already painted the house and mowed the lawn. It was an ongoing joke. Dennis always made us look bad as sons." For the twins' birthday, Mrs. McHugh asked everyone in the family to write down their memories of her husband. She has created a Web site, www.nyfdwidows.net, listing information about books and other ways to cope with loss, as another tribute to him. "He was always so optimistic," she said. "He always saw the glass as half full."

“The first time I met him, I told people I had met a man that was 10 feet tall," Maria Barreto said about her fiancé, Lt. Dennis Mojica, who was 5 feet 11 inches tall. She carefully outlines the story of his life: his mother died when he was a year old. He graduated from the competitive Aviation High School, and served in the Navy for 6 years and in the Fire Department for 29. "It was his dream, it was his life, it was his first love," she said of firefighting. "I admired him even more because he knew what he was here for in this life. He really knew." Lieutenant Mojica, 50, proposed five days before Christmas 2000, at Ms. Barreto favorite restaurant, Gino's in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, with a ring hidden inside a walnut shell on a tortoni covered with fresh raspberries and powdered sugar. "For an old guy, I'm still trying to be romantic," she remembers him saying. The couple enjoyed bicycling and skiing together on days off, sometimes with his daughter from a previous relationship. "He was always trying to extend it, one more hour, one more day," Ms. Barreto said. "Both of us appreciated so much having each other."

Maybe you saw his face inside the firetruck racing through Midtown streets. Or maybe you saw him marching in his blue uniform in the St. Patrick's Day Parade. You'd remember that he was tall and broad-shouldered, with what Neil Skow, his lieutenant at Ladder Company 2, called "that fine Irish smile that he had." And then you'd know a little bit about Dennis M. Mulligan, 32. He loved practical jokes but was also a loyal brother and son, a pal to his nieces and nephews, who called him "Superman." He liked to tell his sister, Patricia, that he was fireproof, though he once scorched his fingers on someone's birthday candles. He would visit the sick, including one woman who was severely depressed. "He would go to her hospital bed every day, and he wouldn't leave until she laughed," his sister said. Off duty on the morning of Sept. 11, he jumped on the ladder truck to help. Another firefighter remembered seeing him with a couple of other men from Ladder Company 2, escorting frightened workers from the lobby of 1 World Trade Center. He still had "that Mugsy smile," the firefighter said, which seemed to reassure them.

Just six weeks out of the Fire Academy, O'Berg had left a job as a certified accountant at Ernst and Young to become a firefighter. His father was a lieutenant and 30-veteran of the FDNY. A graduate in accounting from the State University of New York-Geneseo, O'Berg was known for having the talent to do anything. He had found his true calling as a firefighter with the FDNY. He had been married for less than a year.

Scauso flew as a commercial pilot before joining the FDNY. Spirited, passionate, and generous, Scauso would go to any length to help family and friends. He once spent a month repairing his sister’s car so she could drive back and forth to college and he went to great lengths to rescue injured animals. Above all else, Scauso was devoted to his wife and his four children.

Fighting fires was not just a job to Assistant Chief Donald J. Burns but his passion, one that rubbed off on many of his colleagues within the New York Fire Department. Burns, who remains missing since the Sept. 11 attacks on the World Trade Center, was memorialized during a Mass in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where he was hailed as an "exceptional" leader within the department. A 39-year veteran of the department, Burns, 61, rose from firefighter to citywide borough commander, a job that required him to be at all major incidents in the city during his 24- hour shifts. During his career, Burns' ability to learn from his mistakes and use them to improve firefighting skills was apparent to most of his colleagues, who respected him as a brilliant tactician and strategist."Anything you ever wanted to know about the Fire Department, he would have the answer," said Deputy Asst. Chief Albert Turi after yesterday's Mass. "If you could be half as good a chief as he was you'd still be a good chief."In talking about Burns at the service, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani and Fire Commissioner Thomas Von Essen used words like "hero" and "patriot" to describe Burns."His experience was unparalleled," Von Essen said.In front of the cathedral, a large American flag was hung from a fire truck over the heads of several hundred uniformed firefighters lined up along Fifth Avenue. Burns' family led the procession into and out of the cathedral, to the sound of solemn music played by the Fire Department's bagpipe band. Burns, who lived in Nissequogue, is survived by his wife, Betty, and three children, Laurie,Michael, and Patrick.He began his career in 1962 in Brooklyn and rose through the ranks in various positions until 1997, when he became a citywide tour commander."When you were with him, you feel there's no fire you couldn't conquer," said 51st Battalion Chief Howard Carlson, based in Richmond Hill. "He was exceptional." --Bryan Virasami (Newsday)

The post office people in Pine Bush, N.Y., knew Donald Regan well. Every Saturday, he mailed parcels to the two of his four children who did not live nearby. He took requests: an old pair of baseball cleats; the spaghetti sauce he and his wife made and canned; money. Sometimes just a letter. He had always kept close tabs on his family. "If there were four sporting events at one time, he would be there for an inning of each game," said his son Shane. Donald Regan was a firefighter from Rescue Company 3, a 17-year veteran who knew every tool and was considered fearless by his squad mates. His sleep was so deep that he had to fall asleep in the firehouse kitchen so the alarm would wake him, and he was famous for drifting off in the most contorted positions. "He was the consummate blue-collar person," Shane Regan said. "He worked until he couldn't work any more. He made sure everybody else was taken care of." For his drive to work, his son added, he would buy clunkers with at least 100,000 miles. "My dad was famous for having nasty cars. He called them classics." But with his brood out of the house, he had bought himself a 2001 Chrysler Sebring, and he washed it as if that were his paying job. "He finally broke down and said, `Now I'm going to do something for myself.' "

Elizabeth, Rachel and Katie Miller miss their daddy. They miss sitting on Daddy's lap -- all three -- and watching the movie "Ghostbusters." They miss Daddy lying in bed to keep them warm. They miss Daddy hanging them outside of windows by ropes during the family "fire drills," making small baskets under their hips. They wonder who will put the lights on the chimney now. Their daddy, Douglas C. Miller, 34, was a firefighter in Rescue Company 5 of Staten Island. He and their mother, Laurie, met when he was 15, she 16. He visited relatives over the summer in Mill Rift, Pa., where Laurie grew up. When he returned home to Long Island, he sent her audio tapes of his voice, telling her he missed her. "We were young, and we were in love," said Laurie. They married seven years later. Now in the bedroom, she hangs a 20-by-15-inch picture of him, in uniform. "I am trying to be strong for the girls," she said. A local council member has volunteered to climb their three-story house to put the lights on the chimney.

Sometimes Douglas Oelschlager's consuming twin loves — his family and fighting fires — conflicted. "I used to tell him all the time to get your priorities straight," said his wife of 13 years, Suzanne. It wasn't easy. Firefighter Oelschlager, 36, had been a volunteer fireman on Long Island for nearly two decades before joining the New York Fire Department in 2000. Over time, he learned how to balance things. "He would try to make my life easier so he could go to his meetings," Ms. Oelschlager said. He gave their daughters, Kayla and Brittany, baths and cooked dinner before his wife got home from work so he could slip away from their house in St. James, on Long Island, to Fire Department meetings at night. He slipped away from work sometimes, too, taking his family out on the water in their 32-foot motorboat, Island Hopper, which they took to the Hamptons, the Connecticut coast and even as far as Cape Cod, with Ms. Oelschlager the first mate. During one of their favorite vacations, they moored the boat on the New Jersey side of New York Harbor so they could soak up the view of the Manhattan skyline. Since Sept. 11, 2001 Ms. Oelschlager has become captain of the boat and Kayla and Brittany have become the first mates.

His name was Durrell V. Pearsall Jr., but everyone called him Bronko. At 6 feet 2, 285 pounds, Firefighter Pearsall could bench press 455 pounds as easily, said someone who witnessed the feat, as if "it was nothing." "As soon as he walked into a room, everyone noticed," said Liam Flaherty, a fellow firefighter at Rescue Squad 4 in Queens. But while his facade was fierce, Firefighter Flaherty said, his smile "could warm a room right up." Firefighter Pearsall had played offensive tackle for C. W. Post during college. He slimmed down to 230 pounds to take the firefighter's test but put the weight back on after he joined the department in 1993. He played tackle for the Fire Department's football team. "Bronko had just unbelievable power and strength," said John Szczech, a firefighter who roomed with Firefighter Pearsall in Hempstead, N.Y. He was fiercely proud of his Irish heritage. He played snare drum in the department's Emerald Society Pipes and Drums, and the band's logo was tattooed on his calf. On his upper right arm — big as a billboard, some said — he had tattoed his family crest, pierced with the legend Death Before Shame in Gaelic. "And he certainly lived up to that," Firefighter Szczech said.

Lynda Mari was painting her porch during the fall when she was approached by a construction worker with an extension cord. "Hello, I'm Eddie," he said. "You mind if I borrow your power?" Eddie D'Atri was a handsome, muscular fellow. "I told him, `You can borrow anything you want," Ms. Mari said. She asked him if he was a fireman. "I just felt it," she said. "Something just told me." He told her no, he was just a working man, but she didn't believe it. Her brother is a fireman, and something deep inside her made her fearful of falling in love with a guy like that. But she did. They were engaged in June. Mr. D'Atri was 38. He studied nursing and was a lieutenant at Squad 1 in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He was crowned Mr. Staten Island in 1987. Sadly, steel is stronger than muscle, and Mr. D'Atri leaves behind a broken heart.

Years ago, Battalion Chief Edward F. Geraghty was put in charge of the Fire Department's training school on Randalls Island. On his first day, he gave the new recruits a pep talk, telling them what he expected. After he was done, he turned around to find the school's instructors staring strangely at him. "What did I do wrong?" he asked. One replied, "You're not supposed to be nice, you're supposed to scare the hell out of them." That would have been difficult for Chief Geraghty, said his wife, Mary. "I was married to Eddie for 17 years and I saw him in a bad mood twice." Even when her father became terminally ill and had to move in with them, when they found out their middle son, James, had juvenile diabetes and when they had a fire in their house that displaced them for several weeks, he kept an optimistic outlook and his sense of humor. She said, "He would always say, 'Life doesn't get any better than this.'" Chief Geraghty, 45, oversaw five firehouses on Manhattan's West Side, all of which responded to the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. Mrs. Geraghty used to go downstairs every morning and find her husband already reading and studying. "His talent was his mind," she said. Now, when she rises, she sits at the bottom of the stairs as the sun comes up with a picture of him and tells him, "Good morning."

Edward Day did not just extinguish fires. He extinguished grouchiness. At Engine Company 28 and Ladder 11 on the Lower East Side, where Mr. Day, 45, was a firefighter, he kept a sharp eye out for grumpy colleagues. They got the Day treatment: smiley face stickers slapped on their helmets. Whenever he stayed at his mother's house in Newport, R.I., he would make the bed when he was ready to leave and then drop a dollar on it with a note, "For the maid." His mother liked to give what she called the last Christmas party of the year, held well into January. Mr. Day had a ritual at the parties: he collected all the bottle caps from exhausted beer bottles and deposited them throughout the house in her plants. His wife, Bridgitte, was a fervent Clint Eastwood fan, so he would sign his cards to her, "Clint Eastwood." "He was always ready to make you laugh," said Tim Day, his brother, "whether he knew you for 20 years or 20 minutes."

Edward Rall's grandfather, a couple of his uncles and a couple of his cousins were firefighters, and Edward Rall always wanted to be one, too. "It was worth it. He absolutely loved what he was doing," said his wife, Darlene. He was "very, very proud" of having belonged to Rescue 2 for six and a half years, she said. Firefighter Rall, 44, worked a second job to support his three sons, until they were old enough to go to school, she said. "When he wasn't working, most of the time we spent with the kids," she said. "Two of my sons play baseball, and he spent a lot of time coaching them." And he frequently attended the marching band competitions of their other son. They did not travel much, aside from road trips to Amish country and Virginia, as summers were devoted to baseball. Mr. Rall installed a nice screen porch on the side of their house in Holbrook, on Long Island, and he liked camping with his cousins on the North Shore, where they would set up a 20-by-30-foot party tent. "He was certainly in charge of first aid, I can tell you that," she said. She remembers him with a cigar and a Coors Light, sitting out on his porch, barbecuing with friends. "It was a very simple life."

Teddy, as he was known to his family and friends, was a firefighter for three years and worked at Engine 230 in Brooklyn. He was a devoted husband, father, son, brother and friend. He was always involved in sports whether it be by playing softball or golf, watching football or coaching baseball and basketball in our community. He was an avid baseball fan, especially with the Yankees, and loved collecting baseball cards and other sports memorabilia.

Here are some ways that a short man got by: Firefighter Eric Allen was diligent, determined and headstrong. He was so tough, so capable, that it would never occur to people to look down on him, a 5-foot-5 tower of gym-rat power. He knew how to size up potential trouble quickly and dodge it adroitly. Once, while driving cross-country with his buddy Joe Ruggiero, the two walked into a bar on the Texas-Oklahoma border and, in the blinding daylight, saw half a dozen oversized cowboys playing dominoes. "Drinks for everyone on us!" Firefighter Allen shouted, buying a barful of friends. The short guy cast a long shadow: Firefighter Allen, 44, was a ubiquitous, modest Mr. Fixit for friends and the elderly in his neighborhood, Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. His motto was "Do the right thing," which for him meant taking extra courses to be eligible for the hazardous rescue duties of Squad 18 in Manhattan. He was a sweetie with a crust, a shy man who loved acting. As he drove on jaunts to the country with his wife, Angelica (whom he nicknamed Schnauzer) and their daughter, Kathleen (whom he nicknamed Mouse) he would make up songs about how much he loved them, yelping happily.

What Taube and Barbara Olsen recall about their son was his ability to see things not as they were, but as they could be. They said their boy, Eric Taube Olsen, had a passion for finding the beauty in an old car that might seem little more than a busted-up clunker. They said he enjoyed whittling away the hours with a block of wood and turning it into something more. They say he loved working in stained glass, and the way it could change the color of light. Firefighter Olsen, 41, a firefighter with Ladder Company 15, had a particular fondness for collecting Cadillacs from the 1940's. In all, he had acquired 11 vehicles, including one old fire engine. On the morning of Sept. 11, Firefighter Olsen and a buddy, Arthur T. Barry, another off-duty firefighter, were planning on tinkering with one of the cars. Instead, they rushed off to the World Trade Center.

“He was no saint!" said Eugene Whelan's mother, Joan, her laughter bubbling up. "Yeah, he could be a giant pain!" her husband, Alfred, added, chuckling about the ninth of their 10 children. But examples eluded them. While Firefighter Whelan, 31, undoubtedly jettisoned saint eligibility at some Rockaway pub or Grateful Dead concert — a captain called him "the king of fun" — he was still terrific. He kept extra winter jackets in his Jeep in case he spotted a shivering homeless person. He was a persistent serial hugger, spreading those burly embraces known as "Eugene hugs." He was a Mr. Fix-it and human Velcro to kids. In Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, the neighborhood served by Engine Company 230, children would arrive at the firehouse with broken bicycles for Firefighter Whelan to make whole. During a school visit, he asked why one child was left in the bus. The child was paralyzed, a teacher replied. Mr. Whelan carried the child to the fire truck. "He understood what life was really about," said his father, "so we feel pretty good about him."

When both of his daughters-in-law became pregnant in the spring of 1999, Faustino Apostol took a rooting interest. "I was due a month after," said Jennifer Apostol, the wife of Mr. Apostol's younger son, Christopher, "but Faust said he had his money on me." Mr. Apostol, 55, was the chief aide in Battalion 2 of the Fire Department, with 28 years on the force; he joked that he would quit only when the job stopped being fun. For the last 33 years, he had been married to his high school girlfriend. When they heard about the attacks on the World Trade Center, his family knew that he would be in the middle of the action. "That's how he was," Ms. Apostol said. "When my son was born, the hospital wouldn't even let my mother in. Faust made up a story to sneak in. I couldn't believe he was there. But he'd do anything for you. You didn't have to ask. My neighbors used to ask us, 'Where'd you find a baby sitter who also mowed the lawn?' "

Francis Esposito was a rookie firefighter with a passion for playing pool with his brothers and father, taking his boat out for a spin and riding his meticulously-kept midnight-blue Harley-Davidson with the fringe and saddlebags, said his cousin Catherine McKeever.Before joining the Fire Department, he was a taper, putting up wallboard, and excelled at that job, she said. Firefighter Esposito, 32, of Tottenville, Staten Island, went by Frankie, and his older brother decided to name his first child that. It didn't matter that his first child was a girl. "She loves it," said Ms. McKeever, who knows young Frankie idolized her uncle. "She loved him so much. The name just fits her," she said.She remembers family gatherings when she and her cousins were younger. "Frankie would be like a little rascal, always in the midst of trouble with his brothers," said Ms. McKeever, who lost another cousin, Lt. Michael Esposito, at the trade center. "Wherever there was trouble, they were there." She remembers them throwing clothes out the window, and throwing their little brother down the laundry chute."They grew up, but they never changed," she said. "They were too much; they were all comedians."

“It was hard to dislike Frank, but he sure could get on your nerves," chuckled his brother-in- law, Michael Courtien. "He was always trying to do the right thing. But he was no diplomat." An example, perhaps burnished by memory: union delegates are about to vote on a proposal, considered a done deal. Predictably, Firefighter Frank Palombo's hand shoots up. Unpredictably, he announces his support. Buzz, buzz. The proposal fails: If Frank says yes, let's rethink, because disagreement is normal for Frank. There was no arrow straighter than Mr. Palombo, 46, of Ladder Company 105 in Brooklyn. His moral outlook was shaped by studying for the priesthood; his degree in philosophy; the Roman Catholic prayer group with whom he worshiped twice a week; his wife, Jean, and their eight sons and two daughters, ages 1 to 15. Mrs. Palombo would look down the dinner table and catch him weeping. "I'm so fortunate to have all these children," he would say. Mr. Palombo, who joined the department in 1979, believed God would provide. Since his death, Brooklyn neighbors who never said hello stop by and towns in far-away states send gifts. The family is well, reports Mr. Courtien. They believe that God is providing and that good is flowing from the tragedy. As a point of view it was quite Frank-like.

Even when he came home bone-tired from fighting fires and running a family video business, Frank J. Bonomo mustered the energy to fashion a putting green alongside his ranch-style house in Port Jefferson, N.Y. For four months, he worked with childlike enthusiasm, laying sod, pouring sand and sinking cups. He finished last July. "It was the only thing in our house that he did on his own without hiring anyone to help," said his wife, Margarite. Frank Bonomo, 42, a New York City firefighter for 17 years, cherished the time he spent with his wife and their children, Joseph and Juliana. He spent his entire career at Engine Company 230 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. His friends at the firehouse remember his great sense of humor. "He was a devoted family man," said Ted DiPasquale, a neighbor and a colleague of Firefighter Bonomo for 12 years. "I have two daughters, and Frank used to joke that I had to do a special thing to have a son. He never got around to telling me what that was."

Frank Callahan, 50, was living his dream. As a boy and a young man he had wanted to be a firefighter. In 1970, when he met Angie Lang, the woman who would become his wife, at a party at a volunteer firehouse in Breezy Point, Queens, he had not yet attained that dream. "He was on the list," Mrs. Callahan recalled, referring to the men and women who had passed the written and physical tests to be firefighters and were waiting for the call. It came a few years after they met. Mr. Callahan was appointed in September 1973. "That job was all he ever wanted," Mrs. Callahan recalled. "That was the best thing that ever happened to him." In the years that followed, the couple had four children: Harry, Nora, Peter, and Rose. Mr. Callahan was promoted to captain in 1997 and months later was transferred to Ladder Company 35 on the Upper West Side, but the family did not have any big parties. "He wasn't big on celebrations," Mrs. Callahan said. A quiet man, Mr. Callahan liked to read about the Civil War or World War II. "He'd rather sit and be home," said Mrs. Callahan, an eighth-grade math teacher in Middletown, N.Y. As the children grew, Mr. Callahan taught them how to ride bicycles and play basketball. But Mrs. Callahan's most cherished memory was when her husband and Harry, then not older than 5, worked together on the exterior of their house in Breezy Point, with Harry helping his father with the hammering. "He was his little helper; wherever Dad went, he went," Mrs. Callahan recalled. "He was very good with his kids that way."

Over dinner, Fred Scheffold, chief of the 12th Battalion in Harlem, liked to laugh about fighting fires. Like the time he fell off a fire escape or the time he rescued the skinny man and left the fat one for his partner. "He never told us the bad stuff," said Kim Scheffold, his daughter. "He loved going into fires and rescuing people and he loved his men." At home in Piermont, in Rockland County, Chief Scheffold skied, golfed, ran marathons and read everything. He also sculpted logs with a chainsaw, painted furniture in crazy- quilt colors and taught his three daughters to reach high and not give up. His shift had just ended when the station alarm rang Tuesday morning but he jumped into the truck with the others. At 1 World Trade Center, he pushed through crowds to the staircase, intending to climb to the top. The building rumbled. "Doesn't sound good," he said to a friend. But he kept on pushing forward.

Fred Ill Jr. was a skinny kid from the Bronx, and he made up for it by being better than you. A captain in the New York Fire Department, he gained fame two years ago for saving the life of a man who was pushed onto the subway tracks. The duty of a firefighter ends right about there, but simple lifesaving was not enough for Captain Ill. He later stayed nearby as the man learned to walk on artificial legs, and he helped to find scholarships for the man's children. He put in extra effort as a father of three, a baseball and basketball coach, a reservist in the Army Corps of Engineers and, of course, a firehouse leader. "Everything he did, he did it over the top," said Chris Flatley, a firefighter at Ladder Company 2 in Manhattan. The men there, on East 51st Street, say that Captain Ill, 49, was the first captain to dedicate himself to the house. The firefighters could not resist occasionally pulling pranks on such a man. Once they watched as Captain Ill called in a report of a suspicious package, though they knew he was looking at a newly installed sculpture.

In his 19 years at the Fire Department, Firefighter Gary P. Geidel received seven citations for valor. His wife, Mathilda, knew nothing about them. Her husband was that way. He left his work at the firehouse. He lived life at home. Later, she learned that one citation was for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. What she does know is that he wanted to buy a white farmhouse on three acres of land in Greenville, N.Y., where they would move after his retirement. At 44, he was just a couple of weeks shy of 20 years in the department, so he worked overtime on Sept. 11 to build up his pension. Firefighter Geidel, who came from a long line of firefighters, was a member of the elite Rescue Company 1 in Midtown Manhattan. Her husband showered her with cards and love letters before and after their marriage. She gave birth to Mathilda seven years ago through in vitro fertilization after a long struggle to have children. She will raise the children at the farmhouse that she just bought.

Gary Box was a funny man, a big kid, a roughhouser who liked laughter and pranks. When he came to the Squad 1 firehouse in Park Slope, Brooklyn, last year, he convinced everyone there that his previous profession had been that of a barber for a funeral home. The men believed him, and in his tenure, Mr. Box, 37, managed to brutalize the coiffures of every man in the house. "If you wanted a crew cut, he gave you a Mohawk," said his friend, Steve Iola. Eventually Mr. Box got good with the scissors and the men bought him a barber chair. But his humor had a limit. When the men made cracks about their wives, all Mr. Box would say was: "What can I say, man? I love her." Her name is Kathleen; their children are Dalton and Bridget. "As the other firemen make their way up to the Pearly Gates," said Lt. Dennis Farrell, "Gary Box will be there dumping buckets of water on their heads."

Big and loud, Geoffrey E. Guja always made sure that life was fun for everyone around him. He built tiki huts for parties at the beach and took his golden retriever, Simba, with him to the bars. He even kept a yellow-feather chicken costume in the closet that he donned for special occasions, like his daughter's sweet 16 party. It always got laughs. Lieutenant Guja, 47, was a New York City firefighter for 15 years, and lived with his wife, Debbie, and two daughters, Jamie and Kelly, in Lindenhurst, N.Y. He surfed every summer at Gilgo Beach, and was so popular there that he was called the mayor. At his funeral, his wife arranged for a flower replica of his chicken costume to be laid on his grave. "There's nobody else like him," she said. "The world is going to be very quiet and boring without him."

Life blew hot and cold for George C. Cain, in that he made his living fighting fires but spent much of his time on cold snowy mountains, skiing. "I have pictures of him, and you'd think he could reach up and touch heaven," said his mother, Rosemary Cain. "He could ski like the wind." Adrienne Bartolini confirmed Firefighter Cain's skiing ability. They became friends in Telluride, CO, where the future firefighter worked for five years as a carpenter in the warm months and skied in the cold. He loved the mogul runs, and had no problem with one of the resort's toughest runs, Kant-Mak-M. "He used to just rip down that," Ms. Bartolini said. Then he got the call to join the New York Fire Department, and they spent six weeks driving to New York in her Volkswagen van in 1994. Firefighter Cain, 35, joined Ladder Company 7 in Manhattan and lived in Patterson, N.Y., though he grew up in Massapequa. He was in terrific shape, and ran the New York Marathon in 1999. His mates at Ladder 7, who called him the Dude, recalled he could always beat them running up the stairs.

His nickname at Ladder Company 2 in Manhattan was Holy Man, more respectful than many in the rough-and-tumble world of a firehouse. The 33-year-old firefighter, one of 10 from the company who raced to duty at 9:09 a.m. on Sept. 11 and never returned, was known for his faith. Mr. DiPasquale, an imposing 6-foot-5, was an elder at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses in the Mariners Harbor neighborhood, and shared his thoughts on religion and hope with his colleagues. He was a man who "practiced what he preached," said his father-in-law, Michael Mattei. "What he said, he meant." Mr. DiPasquale and his wife celebrated their ninth wedding anniversary in Cape May, N.J., just days before the attack. "A perfect weekend," Mrs. DiPasquale said. The couple have a daughter, Georgia Rose.

Since Sept. 11, scores of well wishers have packed the small Staten Island home of Gerard Barbara, assistant chief of the New York Fire Department. Mr. Barbara's wife and two children recognize many of the faces, but not all of them. In an odd twist, they end up consoling some of the visitors, who appear lost. Many just want to hang on to any memory of the chief, who was widely respected and loved for his humanitarian spirit, said his wife, Joanne. "People I've never seen before are saying, `You don't understand, I loved your dad,' " said a son, Paul. "I say, I do understand, he was my dad!' " Mr. Barbara, 53, a 31-year veteran of the Fire Department, was one of the city's highest-ranking supervisors. He was walking toward the lobby of the second trade center tower when the building collapsed. Paul said that when he and his sister, Caren, were growing up, they had no idea that their father was an important member of the Fire Department, because he was just a dad who was wild about the Yankees. Caren said: "If the terrorists think they have won, they haven't. This whole thing just drove my dad deeper into our hearts. He died doing one of the things he liked best, trying to save people."

“Why don't we drive down to Florida," Gerald Atwood suggested on the spur of the moment last spring. "You're crazy," said his wife, Barbara Swat- Atwood; not with a 2-year-old boy and a baby daughter in tow. But he talked her into it, and they were off. For if Mr. Atwood, 38, a firefighter with Ladder Company 21 in Manhattan, loved anything as much as fixing up their house in Marine Park, Brooklyn, his wife said, it was getting out and "seeing new things, meeting new people." In Florida, those new people included a retired New York firefighter working there as a bartender; Mr. Atwood reveled in talking to him and "finding a common bond." Her husband had "an infectious laugh," she said, and regularly dressed up as the firehouse Santa Claus. And while a lot of firefighters had second jobs, "he was able to work it out without that," because his time at home was so precious. "He always said that if money wasn't an object he'd have 20 kids," she said. "His daughter was just becoming Daddy's little girl."

Gerard P. Dewan was not a New Yorker, and he would have told you that. He was a Bostonian, the son of a firefighter, who in turn was the son of a firefighter. But there were no jobs going in the Boston Fire Department, and so he took the southbound bus and began his career in New York five years ago. Gerry Dewan, 35, just wanted to be a firefighter, said his friend and landlord, Sean Cummins, also a firefighter. He was one of the first rescuers to enter the twin towers. Along with 11 others from Ladder Company 3/Battalion 6 in Lower Manhattan, he never made it out. He is the first member of his family to die in the line of duty, Mr. Cummins said. He was not married, but had always planned to have children and move home to Boston. In the meantime, he found a family in the Cummins household in Rockaway Park, Queens, where he rented a basement apartment. Two nights before the calamity, he was helping write the names of the Cummins children on their crayons for the first day of school. "He finally found a home with us," Mr. Cummins said.

Gerard Duffy, 53, of Manorville, was part of the city fire department's Ladder 21 in Manhattan. He is believed to have died after the collapse of the south tower.Before Duffy joined the fire department, he had worked in a bank, said his niece, Theresa Neider of Yaphank. When he learned he was joining the FDNY, "he ripped off the tie and ran out and said 'this is it. This is my calling,'" she said. Duffy, who was single, was a mentor to many of the rookies in the fire department, she said. He was also generous about swapping shifts with firemen who had kids. "That was his other family," she said. He was the "cool uncle," she said. "He was very easygoing, very generous and fun to be around." He loved to fish from Montauk to Jones Beach with his brother, Neider's father, and traveled all over the country going to Indy car races with his other brother. Neider, now nearing 40, recalled vacations in Vermont skiing with Duffy when she and her husband were in their late 20s. "At the time we couldn't believe it," she said. "Here he was zooming down the slopes. We couldn't believe the shape he was in." Losing him has brought the family closer together, said Neider, the mother of 3-year-old twins. "It has made us treasure every minute," she said. "Every single morning when you leave the house you don't know if you are coming home . . . It's no fault of other people but the family members who lost someone have really stayed in that moment." "These people were heroes," she added. "They showed us we have to press on."

There is a decent chance that Gerard Jean Baptiste had dog biscuits in his pockets when he died. A New York firefighter, he routinely carried treats to give to the pets that walked past Ladder 9 in SoHo. That helped start conversations with the children — or the women — that the dogs towed with them. The abundance of beautiful women was one reason Firefighter Baptiste loved New York, and especially his job site. "Being American, he thought New York was the most beautiful city in the world," said Delphine Leymarie, his girlfriend. On his fifth birthday, March 11, 1971, he flew to the United States from his native Santo Domingo. As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude, "he said, `Now we're in America,' " recalled his mother, Gladys Rodriguez. Mr. Baptiste studied one thing after another to get ahead in life. He tried graphic arts and computers, he joined the New York National Guard, and he was working to became an officer in the Fire Department. After postings in the Bronx and Brooklyn, he finally seemed happy with the place where he worked. And then there were the dog biscuits. "I always found crumbs in his pockets," Ms. Leymarie said.

Gerard T. Nevins lived a life of sweet contradictions. His primary job was fighting fires. But when he was not pulling people from burning buildings, he was tending to his small farm in the backyard of his house in Campbell Hall, N.Y. "It was a way he could totally disconnect from all the madness of Manhattan," his brother Stephen Nevins said. "He would just make his way through the community every day as if he was just a farmer." In his neighborhood, people recognized Firefighter Nevins, 46, as the man who raised pigs, goats and chickens and sold fresh eggs. He was also known as a doting father to Daniel, and Andrew. Among the men at Rescue 1 in Midtown Manhattan, Firefighter Nevins was a keeper of traditional values. He was an 18-year veteran of the department who vehemently opposed ordering take-out food because he thought that cooking together helped to cement the brothers' bond. To his wife Marie, Firefighter Nevins was simply a devoted husband, whom she fell in love with at first sight in 1979. "It was just one of those things where he looked at me, and I melted and that was it," she said. "It was that way for the next 20 years."

Gerard P. Schrang's fantasy from an early age was to say the words "I'm on the job" as a New York City firefighter, according to his wife, Denise Schrang. A few years after high school he made the fantasy come true. He went on his last job, with Rescue Company 3 in the Bronx, at age 45 on Sept. 11. "We were happy," Mrs. Schrang said. "His life was to save and help other people. "He was a simple guy. He loved his family. His idea of a good life was stability, a roof over our head, no fighting," she said of her husband of 25 years, the father of Jacqueline and Brian Patrick. "On May 10 of 2000, we bought our dream house in upstate New York. We had started the second phase of life." Mrs. Schrang said she could not bear the thought of going to the house without her husband, an avid hunter and fisherman. "If I give that up, I give up on him and the kids," she said. "We promised each other we would live to be 90. He only made half of that." Jim Rocchio, a friend, remembers the time that the two of them gave Mrs. Schrang a fit by literally taking the roof off the Schrang home in Holbrook, on Long Island, in a home improvement venture. Firefighter Schrang was quiet and generous, Mr. Rocchio said. "Here he is, a paid fireman, and he comes out here to help out his community as a volunteer firefighter. He was a good father and a real good friend."

Lieutenant Glenn Perry began his career with the New York City Fire Department in 1990 after working for the New York City Police Department for eight years. He spent his first five years in Engine 282/Ladder 148 in Brooklyn. Shortly after, Glenn and his family moved from Staten Island to Orange County. He then transferred to Engine 84/Ladder 34 in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan where he spent four years. In August of 1999 Glenn was promoted to lieutenant. He taught at the fire academy for a year. Glenn was assigned to Ladder 25 for the last few months preceding September 11th. Glenn’s personal interests included golf, cooking, and reading, but more importantly spending time with his family. One of his personal achievements was completing the New York City Marathon in 1991. Glenn is survived by his wife Peggy, and his three children-Glenn, Meaghan, and Caitlin.

Fire Lt. Glenn Wilkinson had just ordered his company, Brooklyn's Engine 238, out of the lobby of the crumbling World Trade Center's Tower Two when he took a roll call and discovered someone was missing. "He gave a mayday and he ordered his company to move to a safe location and he returned to the building," Wilkinson's widow, Margaret, recalled. "And he didn't make it back." The body of the 46-year-old Bayport resident and father of three - a 14-year veteran of the New York City Fire Department - was recovered ending a day of uncertainty for Margaret, whose first fears watching the news on television that morning were only for other victims and for the horrors her husband would have to bring home with him. "My thoughts were, 'They are from Brooklyn, they can't possibly be in the midst of it,'" standing in a house full of family and neighbors who had come to bring food and run errands and keep the three Wilkinson children from thinking too much about what had just happened to their family. Margaret Mackey Wilkinson, a teacher's assistant in special education at Blue Point Avenue Elementary School, worked all day and came home to an answering machine with 16 messages on it. "I skipped and skipped and skipped through them hoping to hear his voice," she said. There were no messages from him. But there will be plenty of memories of bike rides and basketball and father-daughter dances to comfort Wilkinson's children, Kelsie, Craig, and Kevin, as they grow. Wilkinson jogged regularly and the boys had recently started to join him on his runs, his wife recalled. When he came home at night, he'd be summoned to the bedroom of straight-A student Kelsie and be on the rug helping her work out math problems. "He was very, very loving," Margaret said. "The thing he loved best in life was being a dad."

Where to begin with Greg Buck? Perhaps with wood. He was an accomplished woodworker. For a number of years, he had a custom cabinetry and furniture business with his father, and they restored a couple of homes, including the Victorian that his parents live in in Staten Island. He was also a classical pianist, and he played the organ at the weddings of friends. He went part of the way through cooking school and was quite proficient at the stove. He completed nursing school (where he met his wife, Catherine Morrison-Buck) and was thus a registered nurse, though he never practiced. Finally, he was a firefighter with Engine Company 201 in Brooklyn. "He was the most talented guy I've ever seen in my life," his wife said. "He just amazed me." He was quiet about his multiple talents. It took awhile before his colleagues at the firehouse learned of his cooking skills and showed him to the kitchen. They began calling him the Silent Chef. Firefighter Buck, 37, kept a woodworking shop in an old hotel he restored on Staten Island. He and his wife had planned to start a business selling antiques he restored and the new furniture he made. They were also in the process of buying a home on Staten Island. Mrs. Morrison-Buck closed on it a few weeks after 9/11. Firefighter Buck was going to restore it. "Now it's my job," she said.

Everybody ran to the stairs," recalled Gregory Warnock, a 20-year-old broker trainee who worked on the 39th floor of the north tower of the World Trade Center. "We started making our way down, landing by landing." At the 18th floor, "there was an older fireman one floor below me. He gave me a smile. He was huffing and puffing, laughing to himself, making a joke about his age." The 44-year-old lieutenant accepted Mr. Warnock's offer to help carry gear up about 25 flights of stairs, and he jokingly asked if the broker trainee was a firefighter. Told that Mr. Warnock was a broker, "he said, `you stay doing that, it's better money.' " "People were coming down, saying people were trapped on the 72nd floor. He said to me, `Go down, you did a great job.' " Before Mr. Warnock left, he asked the firefighter's name. "He was like, `Gregg Atlas,' and he bent down and flexed like Atlas the bodybuilder."

Gregory Saucedo was marching in the St. Patrick's Day Parade when he came across some men he knew. "He said, 'This guy's a great guy, this guy's a great guy, this guy I just don't like,'" said Dave Simoes, a childhood friend and fellow firefighter. Firefighter Saucedo, who happened to be the self-proclaimed bench-press champ of the Ladder Company 5 stationhouse in SoHo, was not much of a diplomat. But "he was much the same way in telling you that he did like you and what he did like about you," Firefighter Simoes said. After losing both his parents, Firefighter Saucedo drew strength from ties to his three older brothers. On his muscular arm he displayed a tattoo of a gnarly oak tree with four outsized branches, and in his life he displayed absolute candor. Strength and devotion are cousins, and Firefighter Saucedo was the kind of guy who would jog with a hangover. Now his brothers collect scraps of information about the time Firefighter Saucedo spent inside the World Trade Center, documenting the way that cultivated strength was put to its final use. "The last 90 minutes of his life were extremely important," said Christopher Saucedo. "The family is wrapped up in that moment of terrible sadness and tremendous pride." At least, he said, there is "nobody wondering, 'How did Greg feel about me?'"

There was the time that Gregory R. Sikorsky decided to take his youngest brother, Perry, up in a four-seater Cessna. But after they got up at 6 a.m., after they had driven an hour to the airport, the plane's battery turned out to be dead. So he drove his truck onto the runway and jump-started the plane. Then they took off. Below them was Spring Valley, N.Y., where they and two other brothers had grown up, where their parents lived, where Gregory Sikorsky, 34, was raising a 3-year- old son with his wife, Marie. "I've never seen Rockland County from the air before," his brother said. "He showed me our parent's house and the garage. He even let me fly the plane. It really was amazing." Gregory Sikorsky. Licensed pilot. Firefighter with Squad 41 in the South Bronx. Ex-Marine. Harley Davidson rider. Skydiver. Skier. Automobile mechanic. Licensed tractor-trailer driver. He took his youngest brother with him on many of his adventures, sometimes for company, sometimes for competition. After Firefighter Sikorsky finished a year at auto- body school in Colorado, the two drove back to New York together in a Chevy Blazer. They took their first skydiving trip together. And they recently rode in a Harley Davidson rally from New York to a drive-in diner in New Jersey.

As a student at C.W. Post on Long Island, Gregory Stajk dreamed of becoming a major league pitcher. He went further than most, landing a couple of tryouts, but did not make a team. Instead, Mr. Stajk, 46, the nephew of a firefighter, fulfilled another boyhood ambition, and would have celebrated his 20th anniversary with the Fire Department of New York in 2002. "He used to say, `I could retire but Mom, I love my job,'"said his mother, Marge Stajk. A bachelor, Mr. Stajk had an oceanfront condo in Long Beach, on Long Island, and often went cycling and running on the Boardwalk. He was also a trivia buff and a caricaturist. "There are not a lot of people in this world who have as many passions as my brother," said a sister, Jean Somerville. Mr. Stajk, who was called Bro around the firehouse, always worked on holidays, his family said, so that firefighters with children could have the day off. And unlike many single people, Mr. Stajk did not mind cooking for himself, his mother said. On Sept. 10, she could tell from a receipt lying on his kitchen counter, he made himself a beef stew. Enough for the next night's meal was in the refrigerator.

Harvey Harrell Jr., 49, was a fire lieutenant, hazardous waste responder and rescue diver who inspired his younger brother Stephen to become a firefighter. Both brothers perished trying to save others trapped in the World Trade Center. During his 22 years with the FDNY, Harrell was involved with many major emergency operations. He was among those who responded to the World Trade Center bombing in 1993. In 1996, when TWA Flight 800 crashed off Long Island, he was called away from vacation to work as a rescue diver. On Sept. 11, Harrell was supposed to be in a fire department training class. His wife, Rachel, doesn’t know how he found out about the World Trade Center emergency, but she believes he made his way to the station and jumped on the truck before it left the firehouse. Harrell was the father of two daughters, Marissa and Elyse. He and his wife would have celebrated their 18th wedding anniversary on Sept. 18.

Of his three jobs, Hector Tirado Jr. liked firefighting work the best. A former emergency medical technician, he was lured to the New York Fire Department less than two years ago by the excitement and the opportunity to help people, said his uncle, Robert Tirado. The divorced father of five children, Mr. Tirado, 30, also worked as a waiter and, occasionally, as a model. His latest shoot was posing in casual clothes for a Latino firefighters calendar. His uncle said, "I'd walk on the street with him in the summer and the girls would give him their number." Mr. Tirado, who lived in the Bronx and was a member of Engine 23 in Manhattan, did not shy away from the attention, but was blase about it, his uncle said. His main focus was to support his children -- a 7-year-old daughter and four boys, ages 11, 10, 6 and 5 -- who lived in Ohio with their mother. Mr. Tirado visited them every month, and they spent summers with him in the city. "As long as it's legitimate and I make money for my children," he told his uncle about the modeling, "I don't care."

With one exception, Henry Miller Jr., 51, made his way through life slowly, meticulously. He took maddeningly long to finish anything — woodworking, roofs, stories. His Massapequa, N.Y., garage was a testament to the potential of broken objects, the dream of a thousand somedays when he would get around to fixing them. (Enduring mystery: just how old was that slice of pie found under the scuba gear and fishing tackle?) Yes, he took his time. Spent 28 years at the job. Countless hours giving pep talks to a woman who lived on the street; she would later credit him with her decision to get off welfare, find work, start a bank account. He was 45 before he married. And like all his projects, this one glowed: "I dunno, fellas," Mr. Miller would say to holdout bachelors, "marital bliss, it's the way to go!" He was a steady, gentle man, slow to anger, who covered his wife Diane and her children with a mantle of security. He understood the value of time and unwavering persistence: he beat back bladder cancer and smoke inhalation, too. What's the exceptional rush? Only to a fire: Henry Miller drove the truck for Ladder Company 105 in Brooklyn.

Neighbors of Ladder 35 on Amsterdam Avenue and 66th Street in Manhattan grew to count on seeing the Paul Bunyanesque figure in the firehouse doorway with his baseball cap, bushy mustache and always, a friendly smile. They did not know him by name, but just as the one who would hoist their would-be firefighter toddlers into the rig, or lean down and with his oversized hands help adjust the handlebars of a bicycle. To his colleagues, Jim Giberson was the one who organized and cooked for all their annual parties over the last 20 years. But as much as Mr. Giberson, 43, seemed so comfortable in that traditionally all-male environment, it was a different story at home. He told his wife Susan when they became engaged that he wanted three daughters, and she obliged. The only reason he ever missed firefighter events was to go to his daughters' swim meets, no matter how far, where he cheered them on as they became champions, or as he liked to say, future Olympic contenders. "I used to kid him, "You'll never be able to get into the bathroom with all those women,' " said Mike Kutula, a fellow firefighter. "But he was happy with his three girls."

Capt. James Amato, a member of Squad 1 in Brooklyn, loved putting out fires. No sitting around the firehouse for him; he wanted to be in the middle of the action, wherever it was. After years as a firefighter in one of the busier ladder companies, he applied for the elite rescue division, so he would always be one of the first people responding to a crisis. "He liked to be one of the guys who made a difference," said his brother, Lee Amato, a firefighter from Cooper City, Fla. "He liked to get off the piece and run in with the men. He was a fireman's fireman." The brothers spent vacations together, sometimes in Florida and sometimes on the ski slopes. Lee Amato, the elder of the two, called his brother "my dearest friend." Captain Amato, a father of four who lived in Ronkonkoma, N.Y., and was a college wrestler, had close calls throughout his life. As a toddler, he barely survived a bout of spinal meningitis. Once he told his men to file out of a burning building while they waited for a hose line to be set up. A few seconds after they got out, there was an explosion. "He was laughing about it," said his brother. "He said, `Timing is everything.' "

James Gray, a firefighter for the New York Fire Department, was working overtime the morning of Sept. 11 and called home to wish his two daughters a good day at school. "He loved his job as much as he loved us. That was his passion," said his wife, Jean Marie. The former city bus driver had no qualms about leaving his job when he got the FDNY call in October 1996, she said. "He was excited," his wife said. "He wanted the action."

As a boy, James Pappageorge was afraid of doctors. But he spent much of his adult life learning about medicine and saving people as an emergency medical technician, then a paramedic and, finally, a firefighter. "He was always carrying books, and he was always enrolled in some sort of course," said Gina Pinos, his fiancé. Not that Firefighter Pappageorge was the bookish type. His 6-foot-1 bodybuilder's physique by itself drew attention. Then there was his hair flowing locks that earned him the nickname Fabio before it was shorn for enrollment at the Fire Department academy. If that were not enough, there was a souped-up white Mustang, with flashing lights and an ambulance siren, "everything but the gurney," Ms. Pinos said. It was not just for show. In the back, Firefighter Pappageorge, 29, carried a full medical kit, just in case. He decided to join the Fire Department, said his sister, Helen Pappageorge, because its schedule would leave him free time to be a paramedic. Firefighter Pappageorge and Ms. Pinos were saving for a September 2002 wedding.

James R. Coyle wanted to be Luke Skywalker. But because of certain difficulties in pursuing that career path, he decided to do what he thought was the next best thing, which was fighting fires. Sure, there was no flying across galaxies or rescuing princesses, but joining the New York Fire Department had its own rewards. Both of his grandfathers were New York firefighters. Firefighter Coyle joined the department's cadet program while studying at Brooklyn College. He was 22 when he graduated as valedictorian of that program on a wet June day about four years ago. For the next three years, he worked as an emergency medical technician. He delivered a baby in the back of an ambulance. He ducked bullets in crime-ridden neighborhoods. Last December, he completed training in the fire academy and joined Ladder Company 3 in the East Village. One grandfather gave the firefighter his old fire hat. The last glimpse his mother, Regina Coyle, had of Firefighter Coyle was on her television set on Sept. 11, when a local television station was doing a morning show on cooking in the firehouse. He had just finished a night shift, she said, and he was there to eat meal before heading off to Chicago on vacation.

Among the firemen sifting debris at ground zero is a battalion chief, James Riches, who is searching for his son and namesake, known to his family as Little Jimmy. Jimmy Riches, who would have turned 30 on Sept. 12, is the oldest of four brothers in a family in which uniformed service is a way of life. He served seven years in the Police Department before joining the Fire Department two years ago. Rita Riches, Big Jimmy's wife and Little Jimmy's mother, does not bemoan her fate. Her second son, Timothy, is a police officer who expects to join the Fire Department. Her third, Danny, a college sophomore, placed high on the police exam, which boys like these routinely take as teenagers. Her fourth, Thomas, is a junior at Xavier High School. Jimmy Riches was a basketball star in high school and college, a gregarious bartender on his nights off. He drove a Mercedes convertible, had a share in a beach house on the Jersey Shore. And he had a way with women. A parade of girlfriends have paid condolence calls, Mrs. Riches said, each wearing a firehouse T-shirt from Jimmy. "They all think they're the only one that has one," she said. "I'm dying the whole visit, hoping another one doesn't show up at the same time."

His wife's beloved stepfather, clinging to life in the burn center at New York Hospital, made Jeffrey Giordano promise to become a firefighter. And so he spent 14 years at Ladder Company 3 in the East Village, where he was decorated for bravery last spring after rescuing a woman from a burning apartment. Firefighter Giordano, 45, also became a devoted friend of the burn center, where adults and children go to heal and where his wife, Marie, worked. He took ice cream to the children there, and endlessly raised money for the New York Firefighters Burn Center Foundation, which buys equipment and contributed $700,000 this year. On weekends, Firefighter Giordano loaded his van with T-shirts to sell at firefighting conferences, often taking his children — Victoria, Nick, and Alexandra, — with him. That was for the foundation, too. He and his wife met when he was 15 and she was 13. "I miss his arms around me," Mrs. Giordano said. "I thought we would grow old together." The hospital opened a children's playroom in the burn center. It was named for Firefighter Giordano, who sped to the World Trade Center in the battalion chief's car on Sept. 11, even though it was his day off.

Jeffrey J. Olsen, who was 31, grew up beside Kingfisher Pond on Staten Island, where he loved to fish but always released his catch, usually with a kiss. He scanned the sky for hawks and delighted in a full moon. He was Carol Olsen's sixth child, the baby of the family, and when he was 4 she enrolled in nursing school and took him with her every day. Driving home, they'd watch the sunsets. "He had the gift of peace," she said. People were attracted to him, like ducks to water, though in elementary school, "some of his teachers were unaware of the genuine talent that sat before them," recalled his sister, Cynthia Dinkins. "One young teacher was brought to tears as she recommended therapy." (He had been performing authentic-sounding bird calls in the back of the room.) He married, became the father of two children and stepfather of one, and joined the Fire Department in 1998. He was a member of Engine Company 10, across the street from the World Trade Center, and was decorated for bravery. "When someone is in the worst time of their life, the most dire straits, and then they look up and see a face and know they are going to be O.K." said his brother Neil, "well, he loved being that face."

In the 1980's, Jeff Palazzo was a Brooklyn disco king who liked the cruising scene and obsessing over his Chevy Malibu. At a dance benefit at Bishop Ford High School in 1987, the disco king fell for a self-described "rock head" from Marine Park named Lisa Vissalo. They married three years later. The disco king tamed the rock head. He traded in his cruising cars for Bronco trucks outfitted with car seats for daughters Nicole and Samantha. He bought a fixer-upper home in New Dorp, in Staten Island. He packed up his family on weekends off and took them camping and scuba diving. Jeff Palazzo, 33, joined the Fire Department in 1996. He spent eight years with the Coast Guard and matured into a disciplined student who was studying for the fire lieutenant and the Coast Guard chief exams. Sept. 15 was the Palazzos' wedding anniversary. "I'm glad we started young because if we'd waited we would have lost out on a lot of good years together." Mrs. Palazzo said.

Let's make one thing clear: Firefighter Jeffrey Stark did the chest- thumping things, too. He went hunting and fly fishing, he golfed and did carpentry — some activities with distinction, others with good humor. Relatively new to the department, and with two older brothers already there, he had some catching up to do, so he was always trying to hone his skills. Fires made him nervous but what he really dreaded, he told his girlfriend, was making mistakes in front of the other firefighters at Engine Company 230 in Brooklyn. Tough-guy credentials established. Because another truth about Firefighter Stark was that he must have dropped down here from Boyfriend Heaven. Consider: he drove his girlfriend, Katharine Suarez, home every night from law school; took her food when she was studying; dropped off her laundry and picked it up; made three trips to the paint store without complaining when she changed her mind about the kitchen color; went out at 4 a.m. on a New Year's Eve looking for Band Aids for her nasty cut; researched recipes to entice her to eat her broccoli. He was 30, he looked after his widowed mother, Rosemary, in Staten Island, and he had a quiet, unassuming way about him. And a startling, melodic, high-pitched laugh.

Jeffrey Walz and his wife were told they could not have a child, so when they had Bradley, he was something of a miracle to them. Mr. Walz doted on the boy, and made sure he did something special with his son every Thursday, his day off from Ladder 9, Engine 33 -- the zoo, a museum, a baseball game, an afternoon in the park. Mr. Walz, 37, grew up in Staten Island and lived in Tuckahoe, N.Y. He was the son of a fireman, and it was as a fireman that he met his wife, Rani. She was at a Halloween party in the East Village that was so good that the Fire Department was called, and when Mr. Walz arrived and saw her in costume, they posed for a photo together, naturally. "I was dressed as a Dalmatian," she said. She sent it to him, with her number. Bradley, the family's "little linebacker," has begun to resemble his father in small ways. He's big, like his father, and to his mother's frustration, he has picked up her husband's habit of separating his peanut butter sandwiches from his jelly sandwiches -- never together. And Bradley has suddenly become interested in his father's profession. "Not until any of this happened," Ms. Walz said, "has my son showed any interest in fire trucks."

After a 1981 stint in Beirut with the United States Marines, John Chipura wanted to serve the city of his birth by becoming a New York City policeman, and rose through the ranks for more than a decade to the rank of detective. But Mr. Chipura yearned for the camaraderie of the firehouse; his brother, Gerard, was a fireman, as their father, Anthony, had been. In August, 1998, Mr. Chipura achieved his dream. Thus it was that on Tuesday, after the terrorist attack, suiting up with Ladder Company 105 on Dean Street in Brooklyn, that John phoned his fiance Gina DeFalco, to ask if she had any news of his sister Nancy, who worked in the World Trade Center. "There wasn't any news," said Ms. DeFalco, "but later, when I heard that Nancy was safe, I called John to tell him. But his ladder company had already left." John and the five other firefighters in the truck have not been heard from since. Gerard Chipura, who survived, waits along with Ms. DeFalco, who refuses to give up hope; she and Mr. Chipura planned to marry on Oct. 27. "The only good thing," she said, "is that he is with the guys he worked with, and loved."

The main thing about John," said Raffaella Crisci, his wife, "he was a family man." Actually, Mr. Crisci, a lieutenant who worked 23 years for the New York Fire Department, had two families: Mrs. Crisci and their three sons in Holbrook, on Long Island, and Hazardous Materials Company 1 in Maspeth, Queens. He was equally at home in both places. At each he fixed dinners of barbecued shrimp and ribs, built cupboards and shelves, and organized the paperwork. He loved firefighting and was a rescue specialist and teacher. His shift was over on Sept. 11 when the alarm rang, Mrs. Crisci said, but "he automatically jumped in, wearing civilian clothes." Off duty, "he liked being home with me and the kids," she said. He found plenty to do, watching his sons play hockey, nailing siding and sketching plans for a little pond. "We didn't take fancy vacations," she said. "We just liked sitting in the backyard, swinging on the swing, drinking coffee. We had 30 years together. I want 30 more."

April Ginley knew she had a rare husband. If she was at work, Lt. John F. Ginley, a firefighter, managed the household, taking the dog to the vet or the children to the doctor. "He was a very involved parent, as far as even putting the kids on the school bus and braiding my daughter's hair," she said. He helped out in the classroom when his daughter, Taylor and son, Connor were younger, and he dressed up as a goblin in the gym for Halloween. One of five boys born within seven years, (four became firefighters) Lieutenant Ginley, 37, served as a mediator at times, but also perfected the stealth practical joke. "Some of the stuff he did I probably still to this day didn't know that he did it," said his brother Capt. Bob Ginley. They were one grade apart in school, but ran track together, served in the National Guard together, joined the Fire Department together, studied for their lieutenant and captain exams together, and vacationed together. John Ginley's reserve was part of what drew his wife to him when they met. "He was not a person that was looking for recognition," she said. "He was always the quiet one in the background."

John J. Giordano was the quiet guy in the back who didn't say much, but had a strong presence, felt in his family and his community. A love of music and environmental studies were in his life that was devoted to his wife and children. The 47-year-old Newburgh, N.Y., resident and Staten Island native was writing his master's thesis in environmental science at Bard College. It was an interest that had motivated him to transfer to the Haz Mat (Hazardous Material) 1 Special Operations Battalion, Engine 37 Battalion II, 3rd Division. "He enjoyed the science behind the job, analyzing so you knew the material to use to fight the fire before you got to the fire," said his wife, Roxann. It was a specialty that brought him to the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. A man who always had two or three jobs going, the father of three's plans included teaching in high school or college when he finished his master's degree and retired from the Fire Department. In the meantime he was his wife's "right hand," helping run their nursery school and day care business which served 100 children. Raised in Grant City, he graduated from St. Christopher's Elementary School, Grant City, and in 1970 from St. Peter's High School. In the early 1960s he lived in the Clifton/Stapleton area. He began his college studies at the College of Staten Island and continued them at Brooklyn College, where he received a bachelor of science in geology. His first assignment was with the former Engine 17 in lower Manhattan. When the house closed in 1990, he was assigned to Engine 37 in Harlem. In January of 2000, he was moved to the Haz Mat Battalion.

John Heffernan was a man with many sides. One moment, he was in a firefighter's uniform, rushing into burning buildings to save lives at the risk of his own. In the next, he was on stage in a black T-shirt and jeans, playing rhythm guitar in a punk rock band, the Bullys, that he helped found. In another, he was a devoted husband to his wife, Lori, and a devoted father to his 9-year-old daughter, Samantha. A crew sifting through the wreckage at ground zero discovered John Heffernan's body on Oct. 2, his wife's 31st birthday, Deirdre Heffernan said.

Afew months after the terrorist attack, Maureen Fanning realized that her 14-year-old son, Sean, was still staring out the window looking for his father to walk up the driveway. So she bought a new minivan to break the association brought on by the car Sean's father used to drive. Still, Sean, who is autistic, didn't seem to understand that his father wasn't coming home. "I showed him pictures of his father and the towers on fire," Mrs. Fanning recalled, her voice barely audible. "This is smoke," she told him. "Bad smoke. Daddy got hurt." Sean screamed and hurled his body about. Explaining to her younger son, Patrick, 5, about his father's death has been just as hard. Patrick, who is also autistic, has never spoken. One day, a firefighter friend came to their house in West Hempstead, N.Y., wearing a jacket similar to Patrick's father's and the boy began to cry inconsolably. John J. Fanning, 54, also had three children from a previous marriage, Ryan, Jeremy and Jacqueline. A member of the New York Fire Department since 1969, and the chief of the Hazardous Materials Unit, he saved lives for a living. He had a plan for what he'd do with the lottery jackpot if he won. "We'd buy a group home and you'd run it," he told his wife. His family hopes to open the first Jack Fanning House for autistic youths next year, financed by donations they received after Sept. 11.

If it was 6 a.m. and Metallica was blasting from the basement of Engine Company 214 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, it meant that John J. Florio was down there pumping iron. Mr. Florio, 33, was an athlete, built like a box of bricks, the kind of man who made starting halfback the first year he tried out for the Fire Department football team. He was the metalhead of his Brooklyn firehouse, an electric presence in a place that was already called "The Nuthouse." "He would have been in charge of the mosh pit if we had one," said Roddy Richards, a colleague and a friend. Mr. Richards said one of Mr. Florio's oldest buddies once stopped by the firehouse and joked that Mr. Florio had been an A- student in the fourth grade -- until the teacher moved the smart girl away from him. But John J. Florio cared about other things, like his wife, Shari, and his children, Michael and Kylie. Then there was his beloved Metallica. The night that the men of Engine 214 found Mr. Florio's body, someone called to say, turn on the radio. They did and they caught the opening riff of a Metallica song. Mr. Richards knew it was a message. "We were all like, `O.K., John.' "

It was one of those moments that suggest some firefighters are born with a hat and jacket with their name, on a hook somewhere, just waiting. John Daniel Marshall, known as Dan, was not a firefighter, not quite yet, that Sunday evening driving home from a shore weekend, a fire extinguisher in his Ford pickup. Here's how his sister, Doreen Rowland, tells it: He leaves Ocean Beach, N.J., about 5:30, says goodbye to his wife, Lori, and daughter, Paige — his son, John, would come along a year later — and a few dozen friends. Had to be ready for work on Monday. Halfway home to Congers, N.Y., a car has run off the Garden State Parkway, burning. An elderly couple inside needs help. A half-hour later, Ms. Rowland finds herself inching through the traffic jam, and look: there's a strapping guy, very handsome, very familiar, waving cars to move on. He's put out the flames, helped the couple to safety. "Keep going," he's yelling. "I got it under control. Everything's fine." A tall blond angel with green eyes, she recalled, it was just Dan, in command. A few months later, he joined the New York Fire Department. He worked at Ladder Company 27 in the Bronx, near where his father had been a police officer, and by last September, at age 35, did rotating duty at Engine Company 23 in Manhattan.

John K. McAvoy, 47, firefighter, FDNY, Ladder 3. McAvoy, a 24-year veteran with the FDNY, was the kind of man who, when he saw a burning building, would run in to rescue the people and then go back in for their pets. An excellent skater, he coached hockey on Staten Island, where he lived, and was known as an extraordinary cook.

Michael Collins skied and snowboarded down mountains all over the world. He went rock climbing in Japan. He rode a mountain bike, hard, on the back roads of Hawaii. Oh, and he had lived with diabetes since childhood, injecting himself with insulin three times a day. "We would be on lift lines, and he would be checking his blood, and if he needed a shot, he would give it to himself right there," said Nina Collins, his sister-in-law. Mr. Collins, 38, a manager with eSpeed who lived in Montclair, N.J., was even a little cavalier about his disease when he was younger, going out with the guys for beers, eating junk food. But all that changed 11 years ago, when he met his wife, Lissa, in Lake Placid, N.Y. "He wanted to be healthy for her," said Rich Collins, his older brother. "These two were soulmates." Diabetes or not, Lissa and Michael Collins meant to grow old together. "He would say, 'Maybe I'll be around when they cure this thing,'" she said. "We had to just keep faith." Now, she is grateful for the time they had. "I was the luckiest girl, that I could spend 11 years with him. Everyone says that I was the best thing for him, but he was the best thing for me. He was more my life support than I was his."

John Moran was a Fire Department battalion chief and his cousin Joseph Crowley was a congressman. But when they united their voices that last Saturday afternoon, at the block party in the Rockaways -- well, "The Star of the County Down" never sounded sweeter. At 42, Chief Moran was a kayaking, tin- whistle-playing firefighter with a law degree. But he never put himself before others. When his wife, Kim, was working out of town, he fed, bathed and smothered with love their two children -- Ryan, and Dylan4 -- all the while ensuring that Peggy Moran, his mother who lived above him, never went wanting. "When I saw his car outside, back home from work, that was a comfort to me," his mother said. People may never forget the taunt that Michael Moran, John's younger brother and fellow firefighter, delivered to Osama bin Laden during a nationally televised concert in October, a taunt so profane and yet so eloquent, full of Irish anger and grief. But Kim Moran will remember the late afternoon of Sunday, Sept. 9, the day after the block party and two days before the disaster that swallowed him. Trudging up from the beach came her beaming husband, pulling his sons on that wheeled contraption he had built for his kayak. His wife grabbed a camera and caught it: John Moran in his glory.

John P. Napolitano won enough awards, medals and citations from the New York Fire Department and the Lakeland Fire District in Ronkonkoma, N.Y., where he lived, to fill a box. And a box is where he kept them. "He didn't have to wear medals on his chest," said his father, John. "I really admired him, not for what he did for a living, but for how he lived his life." Lieutenant Napolitano — he was promoted posthumously — was a fireman's fireman. He showed up as an experienced rookie in 1991, having started as a junior volunteer with the Lakeland district when he was 17. He eventually became chief and commissioner there. Robert Galione worked with Lieutenant Napolitano at Rescue 2 in Brooklyn, following him into some tough fires. "He'd go into a fire that was roaring so loud we couldn't hear anything," Firefighter Galione said. "I was right behind him humping the hose, so I know he never took a step back." Firefighting was his life's work, but not his life. "What did he do outside the firehouse?" said his father. "That's the easiest question to answer. Being with his wife and kids. Period. End of story." To please his two little girls, Elizabeth and Emma Rose, Lieutenant Napolitano, 33, would do almost anything. The image that sticks in the mind of his wife, Anne, is of him trying to fly a kite on a windless day to make the girls smile. They did.

On holidays, John P. Bergin wasn't just the turkey carver. He prepared the entire turkey. "He was good old Martha Stewart with the cheesecloth," his wife, Madeline, said. "We're going to starve without him." Mr. Bergin, 39, honed his cooking while working as a firefighter, first with the No. 6 truck in Manhattan and more recently with Rescue Company 5. At home on Staten Island he took up other domestic chores. He changed diapers for three children and coached their teams. With his co-workers' help, he put a swimming pool in the backyard; beside it stood a beer tap, his prized possession. Most recently, he and a partner had bought a local bar, the Grand City Tavern. On Sept. 11, renovations were two weeks away from completion. "They did everything together," Mrs. Bergin said of her husband and the other firefighters. Now, she and 10 other wives of men from his firehouse who were lost in the attack are carrying on the tradition, albeit more somberly. "We just started counseling together," she said. "We've become very close. How the guys shared a bond — now we share a bond."

One balmy night in the fall of 2000, an off-duty battalion chief, John Paolillo, stood outside an apartment fire on the Upper East Side when a police officer told everyone to clear the sidewalk. A reporter waited for Chief Paolillo, who was in street clothes, to flash his badge at the officer. But the chief just moved away. He could be like that. Or not. When he was made captain of Engine 53 in East Harlem, he arrived at the firehouse with a few ideas on how things should run. The men gave him a nickname: Mussolini. But Chief Paolillo was a person big enough to realize that an officer didn't need a heavy hand. The nickname was shortened: The Moose. His theory on junior firefighters was that they should keep their mouths shut until they had enough years on the job to know a thing or two. He basked in company pride. Once a new firefighter stopped by Engine 53 before his first day and hopped on the rig when they got a call. "So, how'd you get assigned to 53?" Chief Paolillo asked over the blaring siren. The new kid replied that, actually, it hadn't been his first choice. The driver slammed on the brakes. "Get out," Chief Paolillo said. The chief was impatient to save lives, and, at age 51, kept himself in top shape to do so. He took firefighting manuals on vacation and read them on the beach. He ran marathons. His younger brother, Joe, recalled once stopping by a firehouse with him to see a friend. A young firefighter they didn't know opened the door and greeted them curtly. Joe Paolillo waited for his brother to show his badge. But Chief Paolillo didn't.

It is 1991. The young woman is in-line skating in Central Park on a lovely July day. The police officer is standing on duty outside the park's Summerstage, where Marshall Crenshaw is playing. She stops to chat. He asks what she is doing that night. She mentions a bar. That is how love began between Sandra Endres and John P. Burnside so many years ago. "He walked in the door, and I said that was it," Mrs. Burnside said. "We were like two old souls. It was absolutely meant to be." He was a police officer for only three years, while he waited for assignment to his other true love, the Fire Department. There, Firefighter Burnside was known as mistake-free. "When you checked in the morning and you knew John was working, it was going to be a good day," said George Kozlowski, a fellow firefighter at Ladder Company 20 on Lafayette Street. The Burnsides lived a honeymoon life in Manhattan, vacationing often in the Caribbean and on the slopes. Recently, they started having thoughts of a more settled life. "But just when you think you're going to get serious, buy a home and have kids, it gets taken away," Mrs. Burnside said. " I'm never going to get that back, and it stinks." Her husband left Ladder Company 20 even before the alarm sounded, and died in the collapse of 1 World Trade Center. Firefighter Burnside was raised in the tightknit Irish-American world of Inwood. He had an irrational love for the Minnesota Vikings, wrote poetry and played the guitar, often in the firehouse. He was so good that another firefighter once thought his rendition of a Led Zeppelin tune was coming out of a radio and went inside to turn it up.

There was John Fischer, the firefighter, and John Fischer, the father. John Fischer, the master of Buffalo wings, and John Fischer, the chop-buster who once called his friend Teddy McVey's nose "a two-car garage." John Fischer, the Little League umpire known for his fairness, and John Fischer, the history buff who remembered the details of Gettysburg and Gallipoli as if he had been there himself. At Ladder Company 13 and Ladder Company 20, the two Manhattan firehouses where he spent most of his career, he was respected for his wit and his willingness to hang out in the kitchen, even after he became an officer. "He took care of the guys," said Mike Toal, a firefighter at Ladder Company 20, where Lieutenant Fischer, 46, was assigned for the past years. His wife, Jean, remembers that when they were dating, the heavens would invariably open up. But there was a Friday one September when they met in the city. "Come on, let's have dinner," he said, as he finished his shift. She had just had her hair cut; the children were back in Staten Island. "We went to a little Mexican restaurant, and walked all around by N.Y.U.," Mrs. Fischer said. The lights glowed, all downtown hummed, and it did not rain.

When the Santores traveled, a few things always accompanied them: candles and two Champagne glasses wrapped in a towel. The candles were store-bought; the glasses were a relic. They were the same glasses John A. Santore and Frances Scarselli used to drink to their happiness the night he asked her to marry him. Mr. Santore asked the waiter if he could keep them. Both the candles and the glasses were necessary tools for Mr. Santore, a firefighter with Ladder Company 5 on Staten Island, the father of two girls and a romantic. "He would set the table with the candles and the flowers and the wine and then cook for us," Mrs. Santore said. "We are three girls in the home, so he would always spoil us." On weekend mornings, Mr. Santore would run to a deli to buy coffee and croissants for the family so they would not have to cook. During the week, he would often surprise his wife with a bunch of wildflowers. When someone mentioned the need for a maritime museum on Staten Island to honor John Noble, a famed local artist, Mr. Santore, 49, formed what he called the Noble Crew to build it, his wife said. "He was wonderful with his hands," she said. `There was nothing he couldn't do."

John was a firefighter who loved his job. He was the most loving husband any wife could ask for. He was the proud father of three beautiful boys. He loved watching sports and working with his hands. He was always willing to lend a hand to anyone who asked. He will always be loved and extremely missed by all who knew him. He was also the best son any parents could ask for and a wonderful brother.

On Father's Day, as Helen Tierney heard the news that three firefighters in Queens had been killed on the job, her heart broke. For the men who died, she cried. For her son John Patrick Tierney, 27, a probationary firefighter training in Queens at the time, she rejoiced that he had had that day off. "He always said, `Don't worry, Ma. Everything will be fine.' And it was." So, on Sept. 11, when his unit, Ladder Company 9 in Manhattan, was called to the World Trade Center, she clung once again to her youngest son's words. Her prayer was that he had headed home to Staten Island that morning. But Mr. Tierney had hopped a fire truck so crowded that he was forced to sit in a colleague's lap. "The other guys told him he didn't have to come," Mrs. Tierney said. "But from the first day he went to probie school, he worked hard, he really wanted to be part of the Fire Department." And he was, for six weeks.

For the first half-dozen years after he lurched through college, John Tipping 2nd was still deciding what he wanted out of a career. But he always knew what he wanted out of a weekend: biking and skiing. Especially skiing. The four Tipping children — John was the third, and the only boy — were half-grown when their father, John, bought a cabin at Lake Placid. As one February vacation followed another, the son outgrew the father's intermediate slopes and moved to expert runs. Years ago, Mr. Tipping found the career he wanted. At the suggestion of his father, a retired firefighter, he joined the New York Fire Department and was assigned to Engine Company 54, Ladder Company 4. "He matured as a person when he was in the Fire Department," his father said. Firefighter Tipping, 33, also moved from skis to a snowboard. Last winter he enticed his father, who had lost the skiing bug, to join him in Vermont. Two John Tippings, the younger mastering his snowboard, the older getting the rust out of his turns, were back on the intermediate runs. "I got my enthusiasm back," the father said. On Thanksgiving, the Tipping family lit a candle for their son, brother, uncle and cousin. And the older John Tipping made plans to buy new skis.

Maybe there was something in the water. For some reason, perhaps a dozen men who came of age during the 1970's and 80's in Deer Park, N.Y., developed an appetite for civic duty. They became New York City police officers and firefighters in their professional lives, and volunteer firefighters with Engine Company No. 2 in Deer Park in their personal ones. They called it the Deer Park Connection, and Firefighter John Vigiano and Detective Joseph Vigiano, two of the tightest brothers you could ever find, were among the best-liked and most accomplished members. Both followed the unwritten manual on growing up right in Deer Park, said their father, John Vigiano, a retired captain in the New York City Fire Department. They were active in sports. They became Eagle Scouts. They hatched pranks that were wicked in their creativity but gentle in their impact. "They never embarrassed me," said Captain Vigiano. "They were good fathers, good husbands and they were good men. John Vigiano, at 36, was older by two years, though his brother never let him forget that he was also four inches shorter and maybe 30 pounds lighter, too. John was the quieter of the two, and spent as much time as possible with his two young daughters, his father said. He was a terrific hockey player (and rabid Rangers fan) and he would occasionally rent out an entire rink for his family, his brother's family and a few other friends. Joseph Vigiano, who was known as Joey, loved to mug for the cameras and played lacrosse on the Police Department team, said his wife, Kathy, a fellow police officer. On the job, he was commended for his bravery: he survived being shot on three different occasions. At home, he taught his two boys how to build derby cars of pine. Eventually, he was going to do the same with his youngest son, now 6 months old. For now, the Vigianos are collecting anecdotes and tributes from friends and relatives on a new Web site, www.vigiano.com. Here, presumably, is one of the last stories: On the Sunday before Sept. 11, Kathy Vigiano returned home after the first game of the season in her soccer league, bruised and tired. She was prepared to make dinner, but instead, she saw that her husband had fixed prime rib, Caesar salad, mashed potatoes, and broccoli with cheese — while watching their baby, too. All this from a guy who had previously insisted that he only knew how to make spaghetti sauce.

John P. Williamson was not a casual golfer. He signed up for golf lessons, practiced in his yard and even made a player of his son, Marc. The pair routinely disappeared for hours on a golf course. "He was just so focused," said his wife, Mary. "He was able to do anything." Battalion Chief Williamson, 46, showed the same dedication to his job and family. In his 23 years with the New York Fire Department, he rose through the ranks to become chief of Battalion 6 in Lower Manhattan. And at home in Warwick, N.Y., he designed and built a wood-and-glass house for his family. He made the furniture, too. Chief Williamson later added a basketball court for his daughter, Jessica, and rearranged his schedule so that he could attend all her school games. He kept lunch dates with his mother, Lucy, even when he was busy. "He was a true Renaissance man," his wife said. "We got a lot of work out of him in the winter when there was too much frost on the ground to play golf."

Jonathan R. Hohmann knew there were risks as a firefighter, but he also had faith that if anything were to happen to him he would be with God. That thought has been a source of comfort to his wife, Rosemarie, since her husband died, along with about 18 of his comrades, responding to the call to the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. In his 13 years with the fire department, the 48-year-old Staten Island native moved up the ranks until he eventually joined Hazardous Materials Co. 1 in Queens. Although he left for work each morning at 5 a.m., he remained devoted to his church, his wife and his sons. When he wasn’t working, he spent time with his sons, bowling with Matthew, or watching Gregory play basketball. The Sunday before the attack, the Hohmann family, with their dog, Scooter, spent the day in Wolfe's Pond Park, a memory his wife said she will cherish.

Take a walk out to the Saddle Rock Bridge over Udalls Pond in Great Neck, on Long Island, and you will see the Manhattan skyline, forever altered by a terrorist attack. Look down from the vista toward the railing of the span and you will see a North High School Blazers hockey jersey, No. 16. The jersey belonged to Jonathan L. Ielpi, 29, a New York City firefighter from Great Neck who was among the first to reach the twin towers. Mr. Ielpi's sister, Melissa, put it there just 24 hours after the disaster. It is still tacked to the railing, among flowers and candles. "Jonathan loved playing hockey, but he gave it up when he joined the Fire Department," Ms. Ielpi said. "He was just very nervous that he'd hurt himself and wouldn't be able to do his job." That was Jonathan Ielpi -- more concerned about others than he was about himself. He not only worked for Squad 288 in Queens; he also served as the chief of the Volunteer Vigilant Fire Department in his hometown. If you cannot find Saddle Rock Bridge or Udalls Pond, just head over to Great Neck's skating rink. There, from the rafters, hangs an enormous banner emblazoned with Mr. Ielpi's name and jersey number, which the Blazers recently retired.

Whenever Firefighter Jose A. Guadalupe saw a cluster of young boys hanging in the shadows of his housing complex, Rochedale Village in Jamaica, Queens, he would leap into his spiel about the importance of school, said his mother, Rowena Guadalupe. "He loved to mentor," Mrs. Guadalupe said. "He told my neighbor, Jamal, not to hang out in front of the buildings. He would say, `Go home and study.' " He encouraged others, too. In his honor, neighbors placed a miniature fire truck and an American flag at the base of a tree outside his apartment building, she said. "Everyone has told me that it will not be removed until the digging at ground zero is over. After that, they plan to have a plaque made for the outside of the building." While Mr. Guadalupe, 37, cut a large figure at six feet and about 200 pounds, he was quiet. He kept to himself, preferring to build model cars, ski, play basketball, sketch and ride his mountain bike. He was an avid reader, enjoying everything from "The Adventures of Marco Polo" to physics, said Lt. Louis Robinson, who attended the fire academy with Mr. Guadalupe. They also worked together at Engine Company 54 in Manhattan. Mr. Guadalupe had recently taken up the guitar. He was captivated by Jimi Hendrix. "The Long Watch" and "Stone Free" were just two of the Hendrix hits that left him spellbound.

Joseph Agnello was a firefighter with Ladder Company 118 in Brooklyn Heights with a 36th birthday coming up in October, 2001. But he was not a man who was defined by his job; he was a guy who loved his kids, his dogs, his life. "People on my block didn't know my husband was a fireman," said his wife, Vinnie Carla Agnello. "He never need to talk about himself or the job. He wasn't the type of person who needed attention." Mr. Agnello loved to spend time with Chelsea and Durante, the boxers he and his wife doted on before their sons Salvatore and Vincent came along. "Those dogs have been all over the country with us," Mrs. Agnello said. But he was also into boogie boarding with his wife in the summer, skiing and snowboarding with a small group of friends in the winter. "We spent some time together on the slopes," said Anthony Carbone, a firefighter who met Mr. Agnello at Ladder Company 118 eight years ago. "He turned into a pretty good skier, but then he felt it was time to move on to snowboarding. He was a quiet, very confident and very determined guy."

He would not have wanted it any other way. Joseph J. Angelini Sr. and his son, Joseph Jr., were firefighters, and neither survived the twin towers' collapse. "If he had lived and his son had died, I don't think he would have survived," said Alfred Benjamin, a firefighter at Rescue Company 1 in Manhattan who was partnered with Mr. Angelini for the last six months. The elder Mr. Angelini, 63, was the most veteran firefighter in the city, with 40 years on the job. He was tough and "rode the back step" like everyone else. His 38-year-old son, who worked on Ladder Company 4 on 48th Street, was on the job for seven years. "If you mentioned retirement to Joey, it was like punching him," Mr. Benjamin said. Joseph Jr. was proud of his father's reputation and tried to copy him any way he could, said Joseph Jr.'s wife, Donna. And they never gave up their tools. "Think about climbing 20 stories with bunker gear, ropes, hooks, halogens and other different types of tools and somebody wants to borrow a tool -- no way," Mr. Benjamin said. "You ask them what they need done and you do it for them. You carried that tool all the way up there, so you're going to use it. If they thought they were going to need a tool, they should have carried it up. Joey Sr. always said carry your own weight. He always carried his." Joseph Jr. applied to the department 11 years ago. He got called seven years ago. "It was the proudest day for my father-in-law. It was a great opportunity," said Donna Angelini. "His father was a firefighter and he wanted to be one, too." Mr. Angelini, who had four children, taught Joseph Jr. carpentry. Often they worked on projects together, including a rocking horse. Joseph Jr., who had three children, had started building a dollhouse for one of his daughters. Unfinished, it is sitting on his workbench.

He would not have wanted it any other way. Joseph J. Angelini Sr. and his son, Joseph Jr., were firefighters, and neither survived the twin towers' collapse. "If he had lived and his son had died, I don't think he would have survived," said Alfred Benjamin, a firefighter at Rescue Company 1 in Manhattan who was partnered with Mr. Angelini for the last six months. The elder Mr. Angelini, 63, was the most veteran firefighter in the city, with 40 years on the job. He was tough and "rode the back step" like everyone else. His 38-year-old son, who worked on Ladder Company 4 on 48th Street, was on the job for seven years. "If you mentioned retirement to Joey, it was like punching him," Mr. Benjamin said. Joseph Jr. was proud of his father's reputation and tried to copy him any way he could, said Joseph Jr.'s wife, Donna. And they never gave up their tools. "Think about climbing 20 stories with bunker gear, ropes, hooks, halogens and other different types of tools and somebody wants to borrow a tool -- no way," Mr. Benjamin said. "You ask them what they need done and you do it for them. You carried that tool all the way up there, so you're going to use it. If they thought they were going to need a tool, they should have carried it up. Joey Sr. always said carry your own weight. He always carried his." Joseph Jr. applied to the department 11 years ago. He got called seven years ago. "It was the proudest day for my father-in-law. It was a great opportunity," said Donna Angelini. "His father was a firefighter and he wanted to be one, too." Mr. Angelini, who had four children, taught Joseph Jr. carpentry. Often they worked on projects together, including a rocking horse. Joseph Jr., who had three children, had started building a dollhouse for one of his daughters. Unfinished, it is sitting on his workbench.

Joseph D. Farrelly met Stacey Goldberg when she was 17 years old. It was love at first sight for Captain Farrelly, then 21. But he waited nearly a month before he asked her out on a date. "He wouldn't ask me out until after my birthday" when she would turn 18, said Mrs. Farrelly, who married Captain Farrelly two and a half years later. "That's the kind of guy he was." Captain Farrelly turned out to be the kind of chivalrous husband who always opened doors, washed the dishes after dinner and started his wife's car to make sure it was warm when she got inside. A 22-year veteran of the New York City Fire Department, Captain Farrelly, of Engine Company 4, also left Mrs. Farrelly love notes nearly every day, on her pillow or in her car. "Joe made it a point to make her happy," said Marge Neefus, a longtime friend of the couple. "I used to tease her all the time and call her the queen. He treated her that way. He dedicated his life to making her happy." Though the couple would eventually have a family of their own, for 10 years they served as foster parents to crack-addicted babies. Captain Farrelly, who was 47 when he died, always took the night shift.

Around the firehouse, they called him Joe Knows. The chief of Battalion 48 in Brooklyn, Joseph Grzelak had been fighting fires for 28 years and memorizing trivia for even longer. During slow shifts he could be found at his computer, researching everything from home repair to bowling strategies. He was a history buff who read two newspapers a day, breezed through crossword puzzles and answered all manner of arcane questions for friends and colleagues (hence the nickname). "We encouraged him to try out for 'Jeopardy,'" Chief Grzelak's wife, Joanne, said. "He'd watch it, and most of the time he was right on the money." Chief Grzelak, 52, had a mathematical mind that benefited the men he supervised. "He was very rational about fighting fires," Mrs. Grzelak said. "When the younger guys would ask him how to approach a certain situation, he always came up with the best advice." When he raced to the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, Chief Grzelak took a binder full of research he had compiled over the years about fighting high-rise fires. It was found, Mrs. Grzelak said, in his crushed car.

Some firefighters so crave the thrill of the job that they dread retirement. Lt. Joseph P. Gullickson was not among them. He treasured the camaraderie at Ladder Company 101 in Red Hook, Brooklyn, and welcomed the challenges of the work, ascending to the rank of lieutenant at age 31 and, until Sept. 11, studying for the captain's test. But Lieutenant Gullickson, 37, was concerned about his safety, particularly now that Amanda and Isabel were in the picture. Lately, he had been increasingly devoted to the lawn sprinkler company that he and his brother Ralph inherited from their father. When the company finished a major project at the American Museum of Natural History last year, Lieutenant Gullickson was elated. At home in Staten Island, he would nestle into the blue satin Daddy Chair with the gold polka dots, cuddling with the girls and devouring American history books. After dinner, the lieutenant and his wife, Naoemi, who shared his love of "The Honeymooners" and Barry White and had caught his fever for Frank Sinatra, would seat the girls in strollers and amble through the neighborhood.

Joseph Patrick Henry never played professional baseball, but there were plenty of people who thought he did. And some of them have his autograph. By all accounts, Mr. Henry, a firefighter, who at 25, had worked only 11 months for the department, bore a striking resemblance to the pitcher David Cone. So much so that often people would whisper "Is that David Cone?" and ask for his autograph. A fervent baseball player and Yankee fan, Mr. Henry could not help but oblige a few of those requests, said his mother, Alice Henry. When his mother was cooking dinner, Mr. Henry would go out onto the terrace and shout, "Mom's cooking my favorite stew!" so loudly that Mrs. Henry would jokingly threaten to call the police. (This continued even after he moved into his own apartment in the same building, in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, his mother said.) One of six children in a family of many firefighters -- his grandfather, father, uncle and two brothers -- Mr. Henry could be the frivolous one. "He was usually the first to arrive at a party and the last one to leave," said his longtime girlfriend, Julia Corrales. "He always said, `We're young, we should enjoy these days.' "

Long before he understood the dangers, Joe Hunter was love-struck by the sights and sounds of firefighting, the shiny red trucks with their bright lights and whirring sirens. The trucks from the South Hempstead Fire Department, whose firehouse was at the end of his block, could not pass his house without him racing behind on his Big Wheel. At age 8, Mr. Hunter would coax friends into mock rescue drills, using the family's water hose and a ladder. "He was just a kid," said Teresa Labo, his sister. "But whenever it came to anything about firefighting, he was always oh so serious. It was like he was destined." So by the time he was old enough to go off to college, to Hofstra, Mr. Hunter, 32, was no longer just dreaming of fighting fires. He had become a volunteer with the very department that fueled his passion. It was a feat that meant as much to him as the day in 1996 when he graduated from the New York City Fire Department's academy. His family, though proud, never stopped worrying. "God bless you," his mother would say on days when he rushed off to be with his squad, 288 in Maspeth, Queens. Hoping to comfort her, Mr. Hunter would always pause long enough to say: "Mom, don't worry about me. If anything ever happens, just know I loved the job."

Joseph Leavey had a crush on skyscrapers. He could stand for hours outside a high-rise and marvel at it. He always wanted to become a firefighter, but he became an engineer in the construction industry because of his affection for buildings. Then he became a firefighter. His favorite spot was Battery Park City. His favorite buildings: the World Trade Center. It was his habit to take his family to Lower Manhattan, so he could soak in the dimensions of the trade center. He took endless pictures of the buildings, sometimes lying flat on his back. As a lieutenant with Ladder 15 in the South Street Seaport, Mr. Leavey, 45, was one of the first firefighters to reach the trade center on Sept. 11. He lived in Pelham, N.Y., with his wife, Carole, a son, Brian and a daughter, Caitlin. A stepdaughter, Kerri who lives in Manhattan. "Joe was a real people person," Carole Leavey said. "There wasn't a person in Pelham Joe didn't know." For the family Christmas card, he often tried to get a family portrait set somewhere amid New York's skyscrapers. No one forgot the time he hustled them to the top of the Citicorp building so he could shoot them with the New York skyline in the background. "I swear it must have been 20 degrees below zero," said his stepdaughter. "The winds were like 100 miles an hour." It turned out the picture was overexposed. So Mr. Leavey substituted a photo of the family in front of the New York Stock Exchange.

There was always a project under way when Joseph Maffeo, T.J. Beinert and Robert Melloy got together. Which was pretty much always. As teenagers, the friends spent a summer cruising Staten Island in a Cadillac they made into a convertible by sawing off the roof. Mr. Maffeo was the handyman. "He always had the right nut or the right bolt," Mr. Beinert said. As a firefighter, Mr. Maffeo, 30, was called Joey Pockets because he sewed so many onto his bunker gear to make room for gadgets. He carried a black duffel bag with rope, gloves, water and a can of tuna. Just in case. That is why his wife, Linda, kept hoping, even after many other missing firefighter's wives had given up on any hope that their husbands would survive. "Joey's got his tuna and water," Mrs. Maffeo had said. "Joey's probably rationing it out," the wife of another firefighter at Ladder Co. 101 in Red Hook, Brooklyn, had added. The Maffeos son Christopher Joseph, met while she was working as a bank teller. He asked her out. She agreed. "I wouldn't usually do that," Mrs. Maffeo said. "You know when you can look at someone and tell they're a sweetheart?"

You probably think you know Firefighter Joseph E. Maloney. Son of a cop; grandson of a fireman; married forever to Kathy, the pretty, tough- talking nurse; father of Joe and Megan. Sure, you know Mr. Maloney, 45, of Farmingville, N.Y. He is the tall, dark and handsome type who keeps the muscles pumped and the prankster side buffed. Every firehouse has one -- or a dozen -- like him. He's driving the Ladder Company 3 truck in Manhattan, spots a yuppie couple sipping lattes outdoors, and blaaatt! he smacks that horn, rattling them and their cups. And he's wearing a "borrowed" chief's uniform, baby powder graying his hair, haranguing a quivering probie (new firefighter). You know him? Not at all. Meet Mr. Maloney, who never mentioned fear or death, who cared more about being a hero dad than a hero firefighter, although he was both. Recently, Mrs. Maloney was going through paperwork -- he was fastidiously organized -- and found a note, stuck between the kids' birth certificates, dated 1995. "Honey, if I die and if on the F.D.N.Y.," he wrote, "you will fare O.K." Tax instructions followed, and an admonition to a giddy shopper: "Don't spend a lot of money." It concludes: "I love you, Joseph and Megan. Sorry I had to leave you so early. Your father and husband, Joseph E. Maloney."

Joseph Marchbanks Jr. was a Battalion Chief in a Harlem firehouse, but he preferred to be called a firefighter. A 22-year veteran, Chief Marchbanks garnered four promotions by the time he died at age 47, but "he wasn't one to brag," said his wife, Teresa. Still, Chief Marchbanks had a lot to brag about. A Bronx native, he qualified for the police force and the fire department in the same week, chose the latter, never looked back. "He loved his job," said his friend (and stickball teammate) Frank McDonagh. Chief Marchbanks was justifiably proud of his daughter Lauren's softball team, which he helped coach to a championship in Nanuet, N.Y., where the former city boy lived with his wife and children, Lauren and Ryan. At the firehouse, he organized study groups to help others pass tests for promotions. "He taught without you realizing you were learning," said his friend and colleague, Lieutenant Kevin Guy. Now Lieutenant Guy would like to do the bragging for him, more than willing to relate more stories about his friend. "Anything for Joe, anything," he said.

Staten Island firefighter Joseph A. Mascali, 44, was a family man. He enjoyed playing golf with his son, Christopher, attending father-daughter dances at his daughter, Jennifer’s, school and camping with his daughter, Katie [Katelyn]. In addition to working at Rescue 5 in Staten Island, Mascali was the co-owner of Tower East Construction with Carl Bini, also a member of Rescue 5 lost on Sept. 11. Surviving, in addition to his wife and children, are his parents, Arnold and Cathy Mascali; two brothers, John and Arnold, and two sisters, Cathy Mascali and Donna Russo.

Joseph J. Ogren and his brother Lance were always close. Tall and athletic, Joseph, who was called Jay, and Lance earned swimming scholarships to St. John's University. They both ran the New York City Marathon -- twice. They both loved music and played guitar. And they rented a house in Staten Island and lived upstairs-downstairs from each other. "We knew each other inside and out," said Lance Ogren. The youngest of five children, the two brothers enjoyed each other's company, sometimes a little too much. Their mother, Dorothy Ogren, said that when they visited their siblings and nieces and nephews, the siblings sometimes said the brothers "were too wild for their children." In 1992, the brothers took the exam to become firefighters and both scored well. Even so, it was four years before there was an opening for Lance Ogren. Jay Ogren had to wait another two years. Once he joined the Fire Department, Jay Ogren was assigned to Ladder Company 3, one block south of Union Square, where he was working on Sept. 11. Lance was off-duty that day. Mrs. Ogren was surprised by their career choice. "Of my children, I never expected them to go into the Fire Department," she said. But once Lance Ogren became a firefighter, it was likely that Jay Ogren would, too. After all, they were twins.

He was a charm king, that Joe Rivelli. Confident and comfortable in his own skin, quick with a withering quip, faster still to a fire, the first to volunteer his fists to defend his buddy Tony Portela in a Houlihan's scuffle and, for years, the kind of magnet that too many women tried in vain to stick to. He had a restless intelligence: taught himself to build computers, started on a stockbroker's license, stayed glued to the History Channel on days off from Ladder 25 in Manhattan, was closing in on a pilot's license. So who knew, when Firefighter Rivelli finally married at 39, that he was secretly a sentimentalist, waiting to be discovered? Always close to his parents and three siblings, he now left sweetie-pie notes for his wife, Cheryl, under the pillow, and would call her at their home in Upper Manhattan after big fires, even at 3 a.m., just to hear her voice. Her children from a first marriage, Phylicia and Christopher, whom he introduced as his daughter and son, would find his notes in their school lunch bags. At 44, he was still Joe — still sarcastic, still blunt. Only now, he was openly grateful.

Joseph P. Spor Jr. followed in his father's footsteps from the day he was born, which happened to be his father's birthday. Like his father, he became a firefighter in the Bronx. Like his father, he also worked as a contractor, skilled enough to raise the roof on his Cape Cod house in Somers, N.Y. And in August, Firefighter Spor, 35, was assigned to the same company, Rescue 3 in the Bronx, where his father had worked. "He was ecstatic," said his wife, Colleen. "He was practicing every night on ropes to get all the different knots he'd be tested on." Before joining the Fire Department in 1994, Firefighter Spor had an office job in Manhattan. But as the youngest of six children, and the only boy, the pull of his father's boots was irresistible. "He was never all that cut out for a suit and tie," said Michael Griffin, a close friend. When he wasn't at the firehouse, Firefighter Spor usually strapped on his tool belt. His neighbor Michael Hurson was building a deck in his backyard when they first met. "He came nosing down the driveway and said, `Show me what you're doing,' " Mr. Hurson said. "Then he brought over his own lunch bucket and helped me finish." Firefighter Spor never got to complete the remodeling of his own house. His Fire Department colleagues took care of the siding. And his father finished the deck.

Karl Joseph was a probie, a probationary firefighter, at Engine Company 207 in downtown Brooklyn after joining the department in October 2000. The senior guys played pranks on him -- a throwback to high school days -- but he took it well. "When you're a probie, you really can't respond back to the veterans," said Michael Beehler, a firefighter who went through the fire academy with Mr. Joseph and worked with him at 207. "Karl had a way of shrugging off the ribbing. He had a great smile and a great laugh," Mr. Beehler said. "As far as the job, he was top-notch." Mr. Joseph would have turned 26 on Nov 5th, 2001. He was a native of Haiti. His parents fled the chaotic country with their nine children to stake their claim in America, said Lucy Bouciquot, a family friend. "He liked Haiti," she said, "but America was his home."

Keith Glascoe was a big man — roughly 6-foot-4, 270 pounds — but maybe the biggest thing about him was his heart. "He was the sort who would stop and pick up a hurt animal in the street, take it to a doctor and pay for it," said his father, Benjamin Glascoe. Given his size, football was inevitable. He started playing organized ball when he was 8 and twice made it to the New York Jets training camp. The second time, he was injured, but he played for a year in Italy, and learned to speak excellent Italian. Back in New York, he caught the acting bug. Soon, there he was doing commercials and appearing on "One Life to Live," "Law and Order" and "100 Centre Street." He also had a part in the TV movie "Assault on Devil's Island," but the best of all was playing Benny in the movie "The Professional." He married Veronica Squef, and he yearned for a more regular job. His kindly nature meshed perfectly with the Fire Department, and he joined Ladder Company 21. Naturally, he played on the department's football team. Firefighter Glascoe, 38, lived in Brooklyn with his wife and their two children, Nolan and Owen. Off duty, he continued to go to casting calls. But his sons had discovered modeling, and so Firefighter Glascoe had a new role escorting them to their own auditions.

Keithroy Maynard was black. He was also a firefighter. Those two things meant everything to him, said his twin brother, Kevin. "People do look to you," he said. "You're like a role model in a sense, especially in the black community where there aren't many black firefighters." The New York Fire Department has been criticized for its lack of diversity. Firefighter Maynard was one of those determined to change that. After becoming a firefighter in 1999 at age 28, he joined the Vulcan Society, a group of black firefighters. Mr. Maynard visited predominantly black neighborhoods to encourage others to take the Fire Department test. He worked with the Vulcan Society to train applicants to pass the department's physical exam. He was part of Engine 33 in the East Village, but he wanted to get posted to a firehouse in his home neighborhood of East Flatbush, Brooklyn, so that children there could know the life of a firefighter, his brother said. Mr. Maynard was recruited by his father, a New York firefighter of 36 years. His father drove him to the fire academy at 5 a.m. on the first day of classes. Months after Mr. Maynard graduated, his father died, his final dream fulfilled. Mr. Maynard's dress uniform and spare work jacket now sit in his mother's house. His nametags are on them. His brother said the only person who will be able to fill them is Mr. Maynard's 6-year-old son, Keithroy Jr., another firefighter in the making.

Raised by his mother and grandmother, Kenneth Kumpel, 42, spent much of his adulthood filling in the gaps left by an absentee father. He was a self- taught handyman and craftsman around the house; an endlessly patient, delighted father of Gregory and Carl, a buddy who sought, through work, the camaraderie of other guys, first as a New York City police officer and then, more happily, as a firefighter. Because firefighters can have a few days off between shifts, Firefighter Kumpel, a steady, warm presence, had time for his sons. He cooked, cleaned, coached, volunteered and endlessly fixed up their house in Cornwall, N.Y., perfecting his stained-glass windows, tiling and floors. That was his castle, his home. But the firehouse — Ladder Company 25 on Manhattan's Upper West Side — was Firefighter Kumpel's home away from home. He would fix up the firehouse, too. Oh boy, would he. Why is that bed slowly sinking to the floor when a firefighter flops on it? Someone propped it on empty soda cans! Who switched the handles and hinges on the refrigerator door? Smeared peanut butter on the phone receiver? "The Fire Department definitely helped complete him," said Nancy Kumpel, his wife of 18 years.

Kenny Marino was a Mets fan and a Seattle Mariners fan, but his all- time favorite ballplayer was Ken Griffey Jr. So Katrina Marino, his wife, e-mailed the Cincinnati Reds wondering if Griffey could hit a home run for her husband because he would be "looking down with a big grin." On Sept. 25, Griffey, in his second at-bat against Philadelphia, obliged Mrs. Marino. He said it would always stand out as one of the most memorable he had hit. The bat was later given to Mrs. Marino and her two children, Kristin and Tyler. Firefighter Marino, 40, was with Rescue 1 in Manhattan. His family happened to visit him at the firehouse the morning of Sept. 11, shortly before the summons to the trade center. Firefighter Marino whispered into Kristin's ear, "If you are a good girl, when I get home I will get you a prize -- a Wizard of Oz prize." A couple of weeks ago, Mrs. Marino found the prizes, a Dorothy doll for Kristin and a Scarecrow for Tyler. And there was a Fireman Santa Claus ornament for Mrs. Marino. She mentioned those treasured final prizes at the memorial service for him on Long Island. As Rescue 1 led the mourners out, the organist played "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." The members of Rescue 1 had to smile. They knew that was so Kenny.

From an early age, Kenny Phelan looked out for other people. He took the children in the neighborhood no one else wanted to coach and turned them into a basketball team. "He said, `Well, now these kids have somewhere to play,' " said his younger brother, Lenard. When the two of them became police officers in Manhattan, Kenny would drive by to see how Lenny, on foot patrol, was doing. Their father, a retired firefighter, was proud when his sons joined the Fire Department. Kenny Phelan, who was 41, asked for his father's old firehouse, Engine Company 217 in Brooklyn, when he was promoted to lieutenant. Off duty, he led his four children — Kimberly, Erin, Danny and Kenny — on family outings to Walt Disney World and taught them sports. Now one of his sons plays third base and is known as "the Vacuum." Nothing gets past him. Lieutenant Phelan and his wife, Patty, met as teenagers. Neither of them ever dated anyone else, and he was never without his wedding ring, which she still hopes will turn up. For their first date, he asked her to a Mets game. On the way there, she lost a contact lens. An old lady came out of her house, found it, and invited them in for Cokes. They made it to the game, and the Mets won. "I guess I won, too," Mrs. Phelan said. "People looked at us and it was always Kenny and Patty. I hope my children will have that, and I hope whoever didn't have that will have it in the future, because life is empty without it."

She met him at Smithtown High School when they were 15. Sweethearts through their awkward teens. Marriage and children. He became an iron worker and then a New York City firefighter. She waited at home while he hunted deer, rode horses and took their four children on camping trips. She rooted for him when he played softball with his firefighter buddies. A truck from Kenneth T. Watson's Engine Co. 214 in Bedford-Stuyvesant dropped him off at the corner of Liberty and Church streets, near the south tower, at 9:38 a.m. on Sept. 11. They found his body after seven weeks and held his funeral Nov. 9."I still don't believe any of this is true," said his wife, Susan Watson, 39, of Smithtown. "I've never been alone for a day since I was 15." Watson, 39, worked eight years as an iron worker after graduating high school, building skyscrapers in New York City as he waited for a slot to open up so he could become a firefighter like his father. He was happy among the rank-and-file. He didn't want to hassle with the paperwork that comes with moving up in the profession. Watson liked the outdoors, the fresh air, camping with his firehouse friends and all their kids. He and four other firefighters took a trip to the Catskills in August. "He really did enjoy the down and dirty part of [camping]," his wife said. Three of those campers are gone now, lost at the World Trade Center.

It's a slow day in superhero land. So Kevin Dowdell docks the fireboat, and, dressed in firefighter regalia, clumps over to the Mercantile Exchange. He waves proudly from the visitors' window to his teenage sons on the floor, wearing ties for their summer jobs. Patrick! James! Then the job calls. So Lieutenant Dowdell of Rescue Company 4, Queens — trained to use roof ropes and scuba gear, to handle hazardous materials, wiggle into confined spaces — sprints into action, with a relaxed head and a racing heart. He loves rescue work so much he chooses not to try for captain, so he won't be transferred. "Rather be a happy lieutenant," he tells RoseEllen, his wife of 21 years. He has a bravery medal and 20 citation bars. To support the family, the happy lieutenant, 46, works days off, sanding floors. When his boys start playing bagpipes and snare, he practices with them, whomping a bass. More time with the boys, plus he gets to march in the parade, wearing his kilt. Only one thing about RoseEllen's best friend drives her nuts: first to a fire, last to a social event. "You don't know what would have happened if we left on time," retorts the happy lieutenant, a born talker. "We could have gotten into an accident!"

His friends called it "the Bracken bounce." It was an expression they coined the day on the golf course when he hit a ball into the trees and it miraculously ricocheted back onto the fairway. But it was not just on the golf course that Kevin Bracken, a firefighter with Engine Company 40 on Amsterdam Avenue and 66th Street, was known as a lucky guy. It was every time he looked for a parking spot on a busy street; or the day, two years ago, his car flipped over in a traffic accident and he escaped without a scratch. His wife, Jennifer Liang, would say Mr. Bracken, 37, made his own luck. "He was the most optimistic person I ever encountered," she said. "He was never unhappy. Never without a smile on his face. Whatever situation he was in, he made the best of it." Ms. Liang, who met her husband 11 years ago on the Long Island Rail Road, said that his credo was to live life to the fullest, "to seize the moment and make everything of that moment." He enjoyed being a firefighter, Ms. Liang said. But it was not fighting fires that appealed to him. It was the comradeship at the firehouse. "He was a real people person," she said. An avid sports fan, who coached the softball team from his local bar, Mr. Bracken never would say "goodbye" to his friends. His parting words were always a kind of shorthand for how he believed you should live your life: "Drive fast. Take chances," he would say. She added: "If somebody would have told him this would happen, he would have been, `Me? Are you kidding?' "

All the kids knew. If their bike was broken — a flat tire, a loose chain — then all they had to do was take it to the firehouse and see Kevin M. O'Rourke. He would dig his tool kit out of his locker, where the other firefighters had taped up a sign saying "Kevin's Bike Shop," and he'd fix it. And while the kids were there, he invariably taught them fire safety. He would unroll a rug and demonstrate how to do the stop, drop and roll technique for when one's clothes caught fire. Firefighter O'Rourke, 44, lived with his wife, Maryann, and their daughters, Corinne and Jamie in Hewlett, N.Y. Each year, his family and his wife's family would converge for a ski trip and a golf outing. He also was a regular in the annual firefighter ski races at Hunter Mountain. There would be five-man teams, and they would be in their jackets and helmets and have to cling to a fire hose and swoop down the mountain. There were innumerable teams, but one year Firefighter O'Rourke's came in fifth, and it made him very proud.

To the casual acquaintance, Kevin Pfeifer had a manner -- a quiet, thoughtful demeanor -- that seemed of a piece with all the philosophy courses he took at Marist College. His gift for abstractions, though, was far exceeded by his taste for the concrete. And adventure. He learned to fly, and logged 400 hours of flying time. He learned to sail, and loved to bring his friends out to race the tankers around Sandy Hook or his nieces and nephews out on Jamaica Bay. He loved to drive, and managed to sneak onto the secure grounds at Kennedy Airport, where he sped along a runway. Mr. Pfeifer, 42, shouted with his life, not with his mouth. Growing up in Middle Village, in Queens, and spending many summer days in Breezy Point, he developed a close circle of friends who ate at Beefsteak Charlie's and joined him for his capers on the ground, at sea, in the air. He knew that fun was where you made it: he organized a legendary bash at an abandoned missile silo near Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. In Mr. Pfeifer's work as a city paramedic and later as a fire lieutenant, he had a knack for quietly bringing out the best in people, his brother Joseph said. Joseph Pfeifer was among the first battalion chiefs at the trade center on Sept. 11. He spotted his brother coming in with Engine Company 33, and the two Pfeifers exchanged a quick word, and then glances as they parted.

Doreen Noone met plenty of eligible firefighters — they frequented her father's bar in Bellmore, on Long Island — but she always hesitated to get involved with one. The job just seemed too risky. Kevin Prior changed her mind. "He was very determined," said Ms. Noone, Firefighter Prior's fiancée. "He thought he was invincible all the time. He said, `Don't worry about me; I'm always coming home.' " Firefighter Prior, 28, who worked at Squad 252 in Brooklyn, was always determined to be a firefighter, even during the two years he spent as a New York City police officer. He took the job only because he thought it would help him move up the firefighters' list, Ms. Noone said. He stayed busy at the volunteer fire department in Bellmore, where he lived. Firefighter Prior's cheerful hardheadedness surfaced again in 2001 atop a mountain in Ireland, the couple's ancestral home. They both wanted to take a rock from the peak back to New York, but each claimed to have found the perfect one. So they wound up taking both. When Firefighter Prior died in the World Trade Center, Ms. Noone was glad they had two rocks. She kept one and put the other in his coffin. A few months after Firefighter Prior's death, Ms. Noone visited a psychic who somehow divined that Ms. Noone had had Kevin's name tattooed on her back after he died. "He said Kevin saw it, and he was honored by it," she said.

As a child, Kevin Reilly was happy-go-lucky and industrious, and if he ever took a shortcut, his mother put a stop to it. In grade school, he was assigned a book report on "Robinson Crusoe." His mother, Joan, asked if she could see it. She found it suspiciously skimpy, and said, "Well, what about Friday?" And he said, "No, Mom, the report is due tomorrow, Thursday." "I think the only thing he read was the jacket," she said, laughing. His father, George, had been a firefighter, and though Kevin first worked as a hydrogeologist, he ended up following his father's career. He was assigned to Ladder Company 40 in Harlem, where his father worked for many years, but was on rotation to Engine Company 207 in Brooklyn. Known for his generosity, Firefighter Reilly was the first to buy a round of drinks and always wanted to pick up the check when he went to a restaurant for dinner with friends. In July, at 28, he married his high school girlfriend, Jennifer Mulderrig. They lived in Manhattan. In their first year of college, he told her that he was going to become a firefighter, she was going to become a teacher and they were going to marry. She laughed at how he had it all figured out, especially since she had no particular interest in becoming a teacher. But that's how it turned out.

Firefighter Kevin Smith spent almost 20 years preparing for Sept. 11. When he called his wife, Jerri, that morning, his voice trembled with excitement, not fear. "He was saying, `All my work during all those years and now here it is,' " Mrs. Smith said. In the early 1980's, Firefighter Smith, 47, became a charter member of the Fire Department's hazardous materials unit. Then, after the first trade center bombing, in 1993, he was detailed to the mayor's Office of Emergency Management. He took on the most dangerous aspect of a most dangerous occupation because that was the kind of thing he had always done. "He just had this desire to serve," said his sister Catherine. "And he loved being in a uniform." He was a Boy Scout. Then a marine. He joined the volunteer fire department in Mastic, on Long Island, where he lived, and there met Mrs. Smith, an ambulance volunteer. When they married, both brought children, eight in all, from earlier marriages. Each one inherited the same steely notion of service. One now is a sailor. One a marine. Two daughters are taking the police exam. And one son, Brian, who was a Fire Department emergency medical service officer on 9/11, was there, and survived, when the towers fell on his father. "Sometimes, in my own self-pity, I sit and say, `How much can one family give?' " Mrs. Smith said. She said she had been tempted to tell the world to leave them alone. But then she thinks of Firefighter Smith, so quietly devoted to family and work. "And there comes the pride," she said, "of knowing we are all still following him."

Fire may have provided Lt. Kevin Donnelly of Ladder Company 3 with his livelihood, but what he loved was water. Born under the hot July sun, he got a job as a lifeguard at the town pool in Wantagh, while still a teenager on Long Island, said his mother, Cecilia. As an adult, he found any excuse to head for the water, even when some other task beckoned. "He kept a bathing suit, a towel and goggles in his car at all times, just in case," said his longtime companion, Mary Coughlin, "and in the summer, he'd add two beach chairs, a towel and a bathing suit for me." The two of them might be driving along, on their way to Home Depot or some other store to run errands. And Lieutenant Donnelly, 43, would turn to her, and say: "You know what? We can do this another time. Let's go to the beach." He was not persnickety about his beaches, though he preferred those on the ocean. He was hoping to become a lifeguard again, on some Long Island strand. North Shore, South Shore. "He wouldn't have cared what beach he ended up on," Ms. Coughlin said, "as long as it was on the sand and near the water."

As a battalion chief in the New York Fire Department, Larry Stack's job was to ensure the safety of firefighters. Sometimes, that meant visiting fires as they burned. "He would go and be the second set of eyes for the firemen," said his older son, Michael. On Sept. 11, Chief Stack was preparing a report about a fire on June 17, 2001, that killed three firefighters in Queens, a fire that became known as the Father's Day Fire. When he heard about the trade center attack, he rushed to the scene in a department car. Chief Stack, 58, married Teri Bisch in 1967. She said the most important thing in his life was his family, but there was still room in his heart for more. "The second love of his life," she said, "was working for the Fire Department." At parties or around the kitchen table at home in Lake Ronkonkoma, N.Y., father and elder son would tell stories about fires they had fought. Chief Stack always hoped that his younger son, Brian Stack would join the department. "The day that would have made him happiest would have been the day Brian contributed his stories as well," Mrs. Stack said. Brian Stack was sworn in as a firefighter in January 2002.

It can be surprising what latent talents fathers discover when they want to make their kids happy. Last Christmas, Lawrence Veling found he had a knack for drawing characters from the Nickelodeon show "Blue's Clues." He had never sketched or doodled, and couldn't draw anything else. But for his 2-year-old son Kevin, he could churn out remarkable likenesses of Blue, Mr. Salt, Mrs. Pepper, Slippery Soap and Tickety Tock in rapid succession as Kevin cried "More!" Even the neighbors were impressed when they saw Mr. Veling's chalk drawings on the sidewalk. Mr. Veling, 44, worked two jobs -- one as a fireman with Engine 235 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, and one as a high school custodian in Manhattan -- so his scarce time at home was devoted to his three children, Ryan, Cynthia and Kevin. He colored in coloring books. He played Junior Monopoly. He went to school in his full uniform for fire safety week. "I knew my kids would grow up to be great adults because they had a great father," said Dianne Veling, his wife. Mrs. Veling says her own sketches of Blue's Clues characters are inconsistent. "A couple of times I was impressed with myself, but I forgot how I did it."

Given his two bachelor's degrees, Lawrence Joseph Virgilio did not have to be a firefighter. He had a physical therapy degree from New York University, and found great satisfaction in rehabilitating cardiac and pulmonary patients. And as part of his minor in dance at Queens College, he had trained in classical ballet and performed in community theater. But he loved responding to crises as an advanced rescue specialist at Squad 18 in Manhattan, and he loved the firehouse camaraderie. After 13 years as a firefighter, he had just been given the honor of training to become a member of the elite Fire Department team that travels to other cities in times of disaster. And so, when Mr. Virgilio, 38, called his girlfriend of six years, Abigail Francis, from his firetruck on the morning of the attack, "he knew the situation was dire, because he had always been worried about a terrorist attack in the city," she said. All seven men on his truck that perished, including Mr. Virgilio, had been recovered. "He told me he loved me," Ms. Francis said. "That message was a great gift."

It did not take Lee S. Fehling's mother long to know that she had a character on her hands. "You know when the doctor slaps you on the back and the baby cries?" said his mother, Joan Bischoff. "Lee came out laughing." Mr. Fehling, 28, relished a good telephone prank, calling his mother, an insurance investigator, and claiming to be an investigation subject, or impersonating a Nassau County official to inform a friend that her garage violated zoning restrictions. "He wasn't ever a fan of dull moments," said his younger brother, Thomas. This was particularly problematic for those who played bagpipes with Mr. Fehling in the American Legion band in Wantagh, on Long Island, where he lived. (Just try playing the pipes while cracking up.) Mr. Fehling, a firefighter with Engine Company 235 in Brooklyn, could always make his wife, Danielle, smile, but he could never fool her. "I could tell a mile away if he was up to something," she said. He adored his daughter Kaitlin. But his stepsister-in-law Jennifer Bischoff thinks she knows the real reason he was pleased that the second little Fehling would also be a girl. (Megan was born Oct. 18, 2001) "He was afraid a little boy would be just like him," she said, chuckling. "And he wouldn't be able to handle it."

Leon Smith Jr.'s boots just might be impossible to fill. He wore the only size 15's in the Fire Department, said his mother, Irene, and he had to have them specially made, once he had attained his dream of joining the department. Mr. Smith, 48, was the chauffeur — the driver — for Ladder Company 118 in Brooklyn Heights. "He would wash his rig every single day, and when he went off duty, he'd say, `Listen, my baby better be clean.' " Mrs. Smith said. "He called that his girlfriend." An only child, Mr. Smith showed his compassionate side when he was just 7 or 8. His mother often took him to the zoo or a play, but just before departure time the doorbell would ring, and a few neighborhood children would be waiting to come along. They never got to go anywhere, he explained. "He'd say, `Oh, Mama, please let them come,' " she said. "I always made sure I had extra money and extra food." Mr. Smith, who had three daughters, was known for fixing the cars of his brothers in the firehouse, and those of their wives or girlfriends, even if the repairs came after a 24-hour shift. "I can just see you up there in heaven, with St. Peter's car on the lift, telling him it will only be a couple more minutes," a friend, Paul Geoghegan, wrote on a Web site in his memory.

Leonard Ragaglia made a mean breakfast. Long ago, his 11 brothers and sisters were swapping chores for a meal of crispy bacon and eggs — sunny side up, with unbroken, dead-center yolks. Later, he fixed his special omelets for Donna, his wife; Anthony and Lennie, his sons; and the other firefighters at Engine Company 54 in Midtown Manhattan. They were vast, wobbly things with bacon, onions, cheese, potatoes and tomatoes, said Maureen Ragaglia, his mother. His father, Leonard Sr., was a firefighter, and the younger Leonard, 36, had always planned to be one, too. He commuted from Staten Island, where he was surrounded by relatives. Like his siblings, he and his family were constantly in and out of his mother's house, where he would toss footballs and pitch whiffle balls to his sons and nephews and nieces. "He was Mr. Mom," said Linda Taccetta, an older sister. "He wasn't just a father at work. He was with his sons all the time, took them to all their sports and watched pro games with them. "He was faithful to the teams he liked," Mrs. Taccetta said. "The Mets. The Dallas Cowboys. The Islanders. I'd tell him, `You're true to the wrong teams.' Even when we were little, he was that way. He'd argue about who was better — King Kong or Godzilla. And he'd pick Godzilla."

It would not be accurate to say that Lincoln Quappé attended every one of his son's baseball and soccer matches; his job as a firefighter with Rescue 2 in Brooklyn required him to work all hours. But he never missed a game, thanks to the Quappé Broadcasting Service, otherwise known as his wife, Jane. "If I was at a game and Lincoln was working, I would call and give him the play by play," she said. And when Mr. Quappé, 38, was at home, in Sayville on Long Island, he was all kid- business — "a true sit-down-on-the-floor- play-G.I.-Joes-play-Barbies-build-Legos- 100-percent kind of dad," Ms. Quappé said. On weekends, taking care of the children, a son and daughter, often meant nature trips on the boat Mr. Quappé's stepfather kept behind his house in Brookhaven and pointing out the herons and egrets and osprey nestled in the reeds or soaring overhead. Mr. Quappé, who, like his father, was also a volunteer firefighter in his town, showed the same devotion to his job as to his family. "Being a firefighter defined him," Ms. Quappé said. "It was his blood. It was his life. I've said to many people that if he had to die at such a young age, this is how he would have wanted to go."

Louis Arena loved being a firefighter, and one of the ways he showed it was this: He would return to his Staten Island home from Ladder Company 5 and tell his wife, Wanda, "Smell my head." Mrs. Arena, was crazy about the way her husband smelled, especially after a fire. She would rub his hair and breathe the smell of smoke and sweat from his pores. The two had been friends since grade school, and married for the last six years, yet this was one of the rare times she had her husband to herself. "I used to be so jealous" of the other firefighters, she said. "I'd tease him, 'You love them more than me.'" The couple had two children, Nina and Joseph. They dreamed of retiring to Key West, sleeping on the beach and listening to Jimmy Buffett. Over the summer, she bought him tickets to a Jimmy Buffett concert in November. Now Mrs. Arena is left with the unused tickets, and with the shirt he wore their last day together, on a trip to a Long Island beach. She has not washed the shirt, she said. She lost her husband, who was 32, but she cannot part with the last traces of his scent.

After they took the captain's test, Lts. Robert Dimperio and Louis Modafferi compared notes. Lieutenant Dimperio knew he'd aced it; Lieutenant Modafferi knew he'd done badly. Results: Lieutenant Dimperio missed it by a point. Lieutenant Modafferi was among the top 10 scorers in the Fire Department. Captain Modafferi, 45, who was awaiting assignment as a battalion chief, was so modest that many people had no idea about his accomplishments — although they knew all about those of Christine, Michael and Joseph. The captain led Staten Island's Rescue 5, an elite company that saves people from a horrendous array of precarious situations. Captain Modafferi also worked on a federal rescue team, racing to aid victims in plane crashes and Caribbean hurricanes. To make extra money, he fixed dents in cars. As a boss, he was good-humored and fair-minded. If he was teaching you something, he acted as if you knew it already and he was just reminding you of some details. He was a man of many loyalties: married to Joanne and the job for about 20 years; played softball with childhood friends, three of whom worked with him at Rescue 5. Rarely rattled, when he got home he relieved job stress fervently but safely: he vacuumed.

Manny DelValle Jr. was an organized man — he had to be to find time for his extensive family and all of his interests. "Manny was a don't- leave-for-tomorrow- what-you-can-do-today guy," said his mother, Gricel Zayas-Moyer, of Brookline, Mass. At home in the Bronx, Mr. DelValle took advanced classes in salsa dancing. He loved Latin music but listened to everything. "Rap," said his brother Pete Moyer. "And R&B ," added his sister Grace Nolly. "Old school," said his father, Manuel Del Valle, to be specific. Mr. DelValle, who graduated from the University of Maryland, was also an accomplished moguls skier and roller skater, a traveler, a lover of war movies and, his family says, a lady's man. He also got Engine Company No. 5, where he was assigned, to participate in the Puerto Rican Day Parade. He was the one in the family who always sent a card and gift to siblings, half-siblings and cousins. He helped his stepfather get organized, too. "All of a sudden, my husband was remembering all this stuff, and he told me `Manny organized my Palm Pilot,' " Mrs. Zayas-Moyer said.

If you missed the muscle-bound guy with six tattoos, smirk tucked under his mustache, roaring around on a Harley-Davidson , Manny Mo — as Manuel Mojica Jr. was known — had one more way to announce himself. Without using his fingers, he could whistle so forcefully that he never had to ring his fiancée's apartment buzzer. One blast, and Anna Vecchione on the sixth floor knew he was waiting. So did people blocks away. After they married, moved to Bellmore, N.Y., and became the parents of Stephanie and little Manny, that whistle reverberated across Little League fields, where he coached with his firefighting buddy and fellow Yankee fan, Bernard Floody. Manny Mo was a confident, low-key guy with a big heart, a king of the backyard barbecue, Firefighter Floody said. Perhaps because Firefighter Mojica, 37, was the middle child between his sisters Vinia and Letty, he was a natural peacemaker. So when Squad Company 18 of Manhattan, a rescue unit, went to a call, he calmed the frightened. To calm his frightened wife, he never spoke of the harrowing fires. But even a Harley man with a screeching whistle had a comforting ritual: After a shift, no matter the hour, Manny Mo always had a bedtime snack of milk and cookies.

Screaming sirens. Thick coats with broad yellow stripes. Strong arms, sharp eyes, stoic indifference to danger. A winter's day. Evergreen needles trapped in a wisp of snow. Skies cleared by cold, and a vista open to all possibility, all hope. At his core, Mark Whitford, 31, was a New York City fireman. And tempting though it is to let that description stand for the man, those who knew him said it should be noted that he also was a man who sought solace in the outdoors. "If he had a bed of grass under his feet and a bit of sky above his head, he was happy," said his wife, Rene. Firefighter Whitford, a captain in the Army Reserve, drove a rig at Engine Company 23. It was his life's dream. "When you hear of a guy born to be a fireman, that was Mark," said his brother Dennis. Firefighter Whitford moved closer to the trails at Bear Mountain. His favorite spot was the lookout atop the mountain known as Anthony's Nose. He and Ms. Whitford hiked up in February. "It was very cold," she recalled. "It just felt peaceful there. The world was shut out. We were together, and we didn't have to worry about anything."

The bumblebee caught her eye. It was Halloween, 1982, and Martin DeMeo, dressed as a bee, was buzzing around a friend's Halloween party until he saw Joan, the future Mrs. DeMeo, who, you could say, was stung at first sight. She had dressed as "Joan," she said, because she had come straight from work. Nonetheless, her outfit was a success. And she thought Mr. DeMeo, who friends called Marty, was "pretty funny." She learned that the jovial bumblebee was in love with nature, and he introduced her to the joys of camping and hiking and long vacations next to the sea. After his wife, his two children, Kristen and Nicholas and the great outdoors, what Mr. DeMeo, who was 47 and a New York City firefighter, liked most was baseball. "He would have been very happy right now," Mrs. DeMeo said Saturday, referring to the Yankees' successful fight to get into the World Series. "I'm really hoping they do it for us this year. It would have meant a lot to Marty, and we need it really bad."

If Martin Egan Jr. had a notion to do something, he went for it. On a whim, the fire department captain tried bungee jumping. Then sky diving. He ran the New York City Marathon in 2000. When he saw a near- century-old colonial-style house next to a pond in Great Kills, Staten Island, he decided he would buy it, completely gut it and put it back together again. The only issue was that Captain Egan, 36, had no construction experience. Undeterred, he studied how-to books and magazines to learn to rebuild the structure's interior. "He wasn't afraid to try new things," said his wife, Diane. "He did a beautiful job, and I'll live here forever." Captain Egan was also the first of his childhood friends from Midland Beach, Staten Island, to join the New York City Fire Department. His two younger brothers also became firefighters. "He showed us the way," said John Mahon, a firefighter and longtime friend. "We saw how much he loved the job and what it did for him. The rest of us said we've got to get this job." Martin Egan was promoted to captain in Division 15 not long before Sept. 11. On the 11th, he was on administrative duty when he decided to answer the call for help at the World Trade Center.

There are men who are handy around the house, and then there was Martin McWilliams. At age 4, he grabbed a screwdriver from his father's toolbox -- correctly choosing a Phillips head -- and dismantled the neighbors' storm door. When he grew up, there was no stopping him from tiling kitchens, installing new windows and siding, or putting up wallpaper. "He could do just about everything," said his mother, Mary, said. "He was always ready to help." Mr. McWilliams, 35, a firefighter with Engine Company 22 on the Upper East Side, had many other talents. He knew his way around cars and left behind several, including a 1963 Mustang, at his mother's house in Kings Park, N.Y. He was a fine skier and an accomplished cook, whose chicken francese was a family favorite. But there was one skill Mr. McWilliams lacked. "He could appreciate a joke, but he could never tell one," said his younger sister, Lynn McWilliams. "He would always mess up the punch line." Toward the end of Mr. McWilliams's life, he became a father for the first time. The baby, Sara, was six months old. "I'm in love with her," he used to tell his family.

On a March afternoon two years ago, Matthew E. Barnes climbed to the top of a 100-foot aerial ladder to rescue 6-week- old twins from a furious blaze on the Upper West Side. The ladder swayed in the crisp breeze as Matthew Barnes took Isabella and Jacob Kalodner from the hands of their distraught mother, Linda. Mr. Barnes, who was honored at City Hall for the rescue, said at the ceremony that he had tried to convince Mrs. Kalodner to wait for firefighters to reach them from inside the building. "She advised me she wasn't going to do that," he said. "I figured if she's willing to pass her baby out a 10th-story window, I should take it." Mrs. Kalodner told him: "You treated our children like they were your own. There's nothing I can say but thanks." The compassion was easy. Mr. Barnes, 37, of Monroe, N.Y., loved children, said Sean O'Brien, a friend and fellow firefighter from Ladder Company 25. Mr. Barnes and his wife, Susan, had three boys of their own, Matthew Jr., Jesse and Thomas. He loved to take them fishing. "Sue always had a project for Matt to do around the house, but somehow Matt would manage to slip out and go fishing with the boys instead," Mr. O'Brien said. "But the projects around the house always got done. They were proud of their home."

Matthew Garvey's life, "It was a life dedicated to the service of the people of America," said his friend, Rick Helton, who served with him in the Marine Corps. Matthew Garvey enlisted in 1981 at the age of 18. In his 10-year career, he would make sergeant and become a squad leader in 2nd Anglico, an elite scout team that went into hostile territory ahead of ground troops. He served in Beirut and in operations Desert Storm and Desert Shield. Mr. Garvey, 37, joined the Fire Department in 1995 and earned his way into the elite Squad 1 unit based in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He was recently accepted to law school, was an active Marine reservist, studied Kung Fu, played guitar, took photographs, climbed to the summit of Mount Rainier and was a rescue instructor for the Fire Department. Books on his nightstand included: Don Quixote, War and Peace, The Iliad, Moby Dick. "No one word can describe him," said his friend and stationhouse mate Gerald Smyth. There are three: New York firefighter.

He did not particularly like Christmas. Too commercial. Hated his birthday. Too much attention. He watched the History Channel. He knew instinctively how to trim back a plant, and his first crop of grapes was so bountiful that he and his wife, Melissa, thought that next year they would try to make wine. He took his children backpacking in the Adirondacks. His family lived in the same house in West Islip, N.Y., in which he had grown up. But that accumulation of low-key details does not translate into Matt Rogan, quiet, retiring guy. A firefighter like his father and brother before him, Mr. Rogan, 37, had a sneaky sense of humor. Once, after he had minor surgery on his chest, he told his nieces and nephews that he had had a third nipple removed. When he ate dates covered in nuts, he claimed that they came from the cat's litter box. With the children no longer babies, the couple were planning a more luxurious future. When he retired, he dreamed, they would ride motorcycles across the country. "He wasn't sentimental; I was the sentimental one," said Mrs. Rogan. "He always said if he won the Lotto, he would sell the house in a second and move upstate."

In the 22 months since his birth, Michael Quinn has learned to enjoy many things, but moments with his grandfather Matthew Ryan were highlights. The two played ball. They walked. They collaborated in the gloriously messy business of washing cars, outside the Ryan home in Seaford, N.Y. Mr. Ryan's wife, Margaret, said Matthew "would take the hose, squirt it all around, squirt the car, squirt Grandpa. Mostly he just got himself soaked." Matthew Ryan, 54, loved all things Irish and all things family. He also loved to listen to the disc jockey Vin Scelsa play classic rock on the "Idiot's Delight" show on radio, and loved playing or watching hockey. Matthew Ryan's 28-year career took him from Engine Company 280 in Brooklyn, to Engine Company 43 in the Bronx, where he was a lieutenant, back to to Engine Company 280 as captain and then to Manhattan in September 2000 as a battalion chief. In the heat of a fire, he would whisper calming instructions in younger firefighters' ears, Mrs. Ryan said. "They always felt more confident when Matty was on duty." On Saturday evenings, many members of Engine 280 still listen to "Idiot's Delight."

He was off duty the morning of Sept. 11, but Michael Boyle, a firefighter with Engine Company 33 in Manhattan, jumped on the truck anyway when the alarms sounded. "He cared a lot about the Fire Department," said his younger sister, Jeanne Boyle. "He was very simple in his ideas, but complex in his actions. And he could endure pain like no one I've ever known. "I would ask him," Ms. Boyle remembered, " How do you run a marathon?' And he would say, `Just get up every day and run.' " That's what Mr. Boyle did. He was a "no excuses" kind of guy, Ms. Boyle said. A formidable athlete, Mr. Boyle, who was 37 and also worked for the firefighters' union, clearly had a soft side for his sister. She said he was protective, but from afar. Two years ago, they both ran in the Long Island Marathon, where Mr. Boyle, who lived in Westbury, N.Y., found her in the crowd and advised her to slow her pace for her own good. Then he disappeared. He finished at 3 hours 15 minutes. "But I could see him reading this saying: `That wasn't my good time! Tell them my good time!' " Ms. Boyle said; his good time, she said, was 3 hours 1 minute. "His goal was to break three hours in the city marathon this year. And he probably would have done it."

Aday after Michael Cammarata died in the attack on the World Trade Center, his brother, Joseph, went through his things looking for a birth certificate. On the top drawer of Michael's night table, Joseph found a letter -- the kind of letter that a brother never wants to read. It was a what-to-do list in case something happened to him. No. 1 on the list: "Take care of Jenna," referring to his girlfriend of seven years. No. 2: "Don't mourn me. This is the career I chose." Michael Cammarata, 22, was a firefighter with Ladder Company 11 in Manhattan. He died on the ninth week of a 14-week training program. He lived with his parents in Huguenot, Staten Island. No. 3: "Make my spirit live on." No. 4: "Remember I love you all and will be waiting for you upstairs." From the time he was 7, Michael Cammarata wanted to be a firefighter. He was fascinated by fire engines and trucks. In his fireman's test, which he took with his brother, Michael got a perfect score; Joseph did not. "They wanted to be together," his mother, Linda Cammarata said of her two sons. "Thank God they didn't." Joseph, 24, is a police officer. On Jan. 14, 2002 he joined the Fire Department.

Jack Clarke may have been a New York City police officer, but from the very beginning his youngest son, Michael, had this affinity for firefighting. "When he was young, he just loved to sit in the engines at the fire house," said Michael Clarke's father, who remembers giving his son that bright red firetruck he pedaled around in. And so, even though he became a top student at Wagner College and a star on the hockey team, it was not a surprise to his father when Michael Clarke joined the Fire Department three years ago. Firefighter Clarke, 27, was delighted several months ago to be transferred from Staten Island to Engine 8 and Ladder 2 on East 51st Street in Manhattan, "because there was much more action in Manhattan," his father said. Sept. 11 was a scheduled day off; Firefighter Clarke went to work because he had switched days with another firefighter. Now, at Wagner College, they have retired Michael Clarke's hockey number — 34. His father misses those regular phone calls from him, the ones that came to mean so much more after Jack Clarke's wife, Eileen died. "He'd call every day," the father recalls. "And he'd say, `Hi, Pop. How you doing?'

There was no getting around the basketball. That was a given, right from the start. When Charlene Kirk met her husband-to-be, Michael C. Fiore, in 1976, he was playing in a half-dozen leagues. He had games six or seven days a week, putting points on the board. About the only way to see a lot of him, she recognized, was to watch him shoot and pull down rebounds. Figuring she was at the games anyway, she became the scorekeeper. They married and he became a firefighter, eventually joining Rescue Company 5 in Staten Island. They had three children — Jessica, Cristen, Michael Jr., — and settled into a home there. But there was always the basketball. Firefighter Fiore continued to play on multiple teams, including the Fire Department's esteemed All-Star Team, which traveled to other states and countries. Known as reserved and compassionate, a good listener and a good friend, Firefighter Fiore, 46, became something else on the court. "He was a very quiet guy, but not when he played basketball," Mrs. Fiore said. "The guys said you didn't want to meet up with him under the boards." He always carved out time for his children. It didn't hurt that he was able to coach their basketball teams.

Michael D. D'Auria was considered a fabulous chef by other noteworthy cooks among the firefighters of Engine Company 40 and Ladder Company 35. "One of the guys told us that whenever they saw Michael's name on the board, they knew they were going to eat good that night," said his mother, Nancy Marra. She remembers fielding an urgent phone message for him from the firehouse one night, the caller in search of a recipe for one of his sauces. Firefighter D'Auria, 25, was one of nine firefighters on his mother's side of the family, and had trained as a chef. He was known, too, for his tattoos, which included St. Michael the archangel, St. Anthony and the Serenity Prayer surrounded by cherubs. Mrs. Marra recalls a long conversation her son had with his sister, Christina Rinaldi, in April 2001. "He told her that when he dies, it's going to be in a big way, and it's going to change the world. Michael had become very spiritual in the last two years, and he read a lot of books. I really down deep feel he just had a feeling about it." After earning 100 percent on the Fire Department's written and physical tests, Mr. D'Auria had been on the job nine weeks. The World Trade Center was his second fire.

When Michael Edward Roberts was just 4, his father took him to a firehouse and sat him on a rig parked there. That's all it took. From that moment on, life was a countdown to the Fire Academy. He took time to get a degree in psychology from the State University of New York at Buffalo, but "he knew without a doubt what he was going to do," said his father, Thomas Roberts, a retired New York City fire captain. "He'd say the only decision he needed to make was whether to grow up, or become a firefighter." Finally, in February 1998, Michael Edward Roberts was formally admitted to the academy. He ended up at Ladder Company 35 near Lincoln Center. "He was so happy," said his sister, Lisa. Firefighter Roberts continued to live in Pearl River, N.Y., where he grew up and where he mastered tournament darts for a local team. In the firehouse he listened to other people so intently that he came to be known as "the psychologist." At his memorial service in November, Firefighter Roberts's family finally met the family of another Michael Edward Roberts, a firefighter with Engine Company 214 in Brooklyn. They exchanged greetings and politely commiserated about the confusion caused by their identical names and backgrounds, both 31, both sons of firefighters. Then the families brought together by grief went their separate ways, one to Breezy Point, one to Pearl River. And Captain Roberts brought back his son's badge and put it in a frame in the living room. It is badge No. 13392.

His birth certificate said Michael Emmett Brennan, but everyone knew him as Mikey B. And if there was fun to be had, he would find it. Growing up in a large Irish family in Queens, Mikey Brennan, 27, would delight in throwing a bucket of cold water on his brother Brian when he was in the shower. When his brother retaliated by smearing Vaseline in his hair, he could see the humor just as easily. "He looked like the Fonz for about three weeks," Mr. Brennan recalled. And he could keep a secret. "I found out about all these little pranks after the fact," said his mother, Eileen Walsh. "And I said, `That's my Mike?' " As a child he was fascinated with police officers and firefighters; his favorite television show was "CHiPs." So it was no surprise to his family when he left college in 1995 to become a firefighter. "He had a passion for it," Ms. Walsh said, adding that he was continually working to improve his skills. He answered the call on Sept. 11 with Ladder Company 4. "I've never been in a fire," Mr. Brennan said, "but if I were, I would want Mikey to bring me out." Yet his hard work never took the twinkle out of the eye of Mikey Brennan, an avid snowboarder and surfer who lived in Woodside, Queens. About a year ago at a family gathering, Ms. Walsh said, one of her daughters was talking about body piercing. "Oh, please, don't get your tongue pierced," Ms. Walsh pleaded. With that, everyone started laughing as Mikey Brennan stuck out his tongue to show off his brand-new stud. "While living," Mr. Brennan said, "he lived."

“My Mel," her voice quivered. "Oh my Mel. He was a regular guy. But he was so much more than that." Those are the words of a woman asked to describe the man she made a life and two children with. His name was Michael Esposito. He was 41 and a lieutenant at the elite fire and rescue company Squad 1, stationed in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Her name is Denise. The children are Andrew and Michael. "When you say regular guy that's an inside joke," she said. "What it means is that he just helped people and asked for nothing in return." Lieutenant Esposito checked the soundness of neighbors' roofs. He shoveled the old people's snow. And when the old neighbors heard of his passing, they came to ask in a sad, friendly way, "Denise, who will shovel our snow now?" The boys at the firehouse nicknamed him Mel, a term for an average guy taken from a Rodney Dangerfield movie. "Mel," said a friend, Firefighter Phil Solimeo. "Best fireman in the whole house. A leader of men. He led you into flames and you knew you were coming out. "Mel was a regular guy."

In a family of 10 children like the Lynches -- this one Democrat, that one Republican, some of them independents -- disagreements happen. And at family dinners, Michael, the seventh oldest, was peacemaker. He would don a silly hat, utter a one-liner, and "they would just realize we shouldn't take ourselves too seriously," said his father, Jack. Michael Lynch, 31, was a firefighter with Ladder Company 32 in the Bronx, and diffused the tension there too. Every time a Federal Express truck drove by station, he would yell, "WILSON!" and run after it like Tom Hanks in "Cast Away." Out on call, he would scream at his friend Bill Owens from the back of the truck, "O-WEN!" — as the horrible mother does to Danny Devito in "Throw Momma From the Train." In November, Firefighter Lynch was scheduled to marry Stephanie Luccioni. But the Lynch family has a news video of Michael and firefighters from Engine Company 40, where he was on rotation on Sept. 11, responding to the World Trade Center attack. In it, Michael Lynch's face is somber. It was about 9:44 a.m. The men were rushing down a stairwell in 4 World Trade Center, and heading underground toward the south tower.

On his days off, Lt. Michael F. Lynch, a firefighter at Ladder Company 4 in Manhattan, loved to play with toy dinosaurs with his elder son, Michael. They would line them up by type and take them for "far walks" — a game in which the dinosaurs foraged for food and water. "He was an unbelievable dad," said his wife, Denise. She said he would come home from a 24-hour shift and see their other son, John Ryan, known as Jack, and say how "shocked he was at how much Jack had grown." His nieces and nephews called Lieutenant Lynch, 33, who was 6 feet 5 inches and 230 pounds, Big Mike. The firefighters in Ladder 4 called him Prancer, a nickname given him the night he thought he heard a bell and started jumping around the firehouse looking for it. Mrs. Lynch called him "drop-dead gorgeous." Lieutenant Lynch was last seen on Sept. 11 helping people trapped in an elevator in the lobby of 2 World Trade Center. Mrs. Lynch hopes to meet someone from that elevator because she is certain that its occupants survived. She said, "Those people were in good hands with my husband."

Kiersten Edda Haub, 17 months old, said "Dada" for the first time on Sept. 11. She seemed to sense the tension in the living room as her mother, Erika Haub, and some friends gathered in front of the television. They did not expect "Dada" — Michael H. Haub, 34, a New York City firefighter — to come back home. As she called out to her father, the little girl pointed at his picture. "I was like, `Oh, my God, she has never said that before,' " Mrs. Haub recalled. Kiersten, who was 15 months old at the time, has been calling out to him ever since. It is not surprising: he was a dedicated father, who had a 4-year-old son, Michael Andreas. As much as Mr. Haub gave to his family, he also gave to the job. He was a member of Ladder Company 4 in Midtown, one of the busiest in the city. Being an only child, he enjoyed the camaraderie of the firehouse. "He liked helping people," his wife said. "He was happy to be at such a busy house because he really wanted to be working all the time."

Michael K. Healey used to clean the bathroom at home. He was married for 20 years to Theresa Healey, with whom he had three children and who said that he cleaned everything from the bathroom to the bedroom to the kitchen without putting up a fuss. He even did the laundry. Mr. Healey, a lieutenant in the Fire Department, did not mind cleaning on the job, either. (An aside: Firefighters clean the station house bathroom on a rotating basis.) When Firefighter Healey became a lieutenant four years ago, he stopped changing bedsheets and washing dishes. Officers become so burdened with paperwork that officials discourage them from doing household chores. "It took him a while to get used to the new rules," Mrs. Healey said. "The guys do a lot of bonding while doing their work." Lieutenant Healey, 43, was an 18-year veteran of the Fire Department and a member of Rescue Squad 41 in the South Bronx.

He Looked Forward To Work Every Day. Ever since he was a little boy, Michael Elferis wanted to be a firefighter. "He liked to watch the engines go by on the street," said Mary Elferis, his mother. Three years ago, Michael's wish came true when he joined Engine Co. 22 on Manhattan's upper east side. He was a New York City police officer for two years before deciding to become a firefighter. He always looked forward to going to work every day, said his mother. "Even when he was off he'd go into the firehouse," she said. Elferis was raised in College Point and attended John Jay College. An avid sports buff and a devout Yankees fan, Elferis is survived by two brothers, one of whom is a New York City police officer, and two sisters.

When Michael Cawley was 3, some firefighters drove past and yelled: "Hey, Michael Cawley! How are you?" "Mom didn't know these guys," said Brendan, 27, his younger brother. "But they all knew Michael." By the time he could walk, Michael Cawley wanted to be a firefighter. "Wouldn't it be cool to play major-league baseball?" Brendan once asked. "Rather be a fireman," Michael answered. Mr. Cawley, 30, scored 100 percent on the Fire Department exam and was assigned to Ladder Company 136 in Elmhurst, Queens. He was "a walking billboard for the Fire Department," said his younger brother. He had drawers of F.D.N.Y. T-shirts and rarely wore anything else. He was furious when he was off duty during a big fire. "I could see how happy he was," said Brendan Cawley, who is studying for the Fire Department tests. "They're buddies, hanging out talking about fires, baseball -- not sitting in an office preparing for a meeting. When someone goes to a fire, they all go with him."

Michael Vernon Kiefer, 25, firefighter, FDNY, Ladder 132. Kiefer, who became an FDNY probationary firefighter in December 2000, had previously worked as an FDNY paramedic for a year and a half. He studied in the fire-cadet program at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. He also served as a volunteer firefighter in Freeport, N.Y., and with Hempstead’s South Side Ladder Company.

Michael L. Bocchino kept a scrapbook of all the fires he fought and the people he helped rescue in his 22 years as a fireman. The first entry dealt with a Harlem apartment fire in June 1980 -- when he was 24 -- in which two firemen plunged to their deaths. The book's last chapter will be about the World Trade Center, his last fire. As family members compile material for it, his uncle, Leo Piro, a retired fireman, reminds people that his nephew's career started and ended with a disaster. For the last 12 years, Mr. Bocchino, 45, worked as a chief's aide in Battalion 48 in Brooklyn, helping deploy units at fires. He was devoted to his elderly parents, Michael and Lucy, with whom he lived, and his work, family members said. During a memorial Mass on Oct. 13, his brother Tom talked of the scrapbook, and the people Mr. Bocchino had saved since 1979. And he lamented the sudden end of his career. "We may never get to meet anyone he might have rescued on Sept. 11."

Even as a child, Michael J. Lyons hung out at a firehouse in his South Yonkers neighborhood. He always thought firefighting was the best job to have. At 32, Mr. Lyons had grown up to be a firefighter himself with Squad 41 in the Bronx, and before that, with Engine Company 44 on the Upper East Side. But Mr. Lyons was good not only at putting out fires. A graduate of Manhattan College, he worked as an engineer on the side to make extra money. His other jobs included fixing roofs, driving a hot-dog truck and taking counter orders at the Yonkers deli where he met his future wife, Elaine (she was a waitress there). "He was always working," she said. "There would be spans of two days when I wouldn't see him." Mr. Lyons had started slowing down, though, after his daughter Caitlyn was born 17 months ago on his birthday. He never had the chance to meet his second daughter, Mary, who was born last month and named after his late mother. Mrs. Lyons gave the baby the middle name Michael.

Michael Montesi loved being a firefighter, and was extremely proud to be a member of the elite Rescue Company 1. He was always pondering the issues that the unit faced. He created a small air pack that could be strapped onto a trapped person's face. The packs are still carried in the Rescue 1 Truck. He was the Daily News Hero of the Month in August 1999. He rescued a man in the Hudson River. He groped around in the black water until he was able to pull the man to safety, even though he was not wearing his air tank. It was a great feeling for him. He loved to scuba dive, but with three kids, he devoted his time to family.

Michael D. Mullan honored his father by following him into the military, he honored his mother by following her into nursing, and he honored himself by becoming a firefighter, his brother, Patrick, said in a eulogy. Sometimes Firefighter Mullan combined his vocations, like when he told a young boy named Steve who had a 106-degree fever that if he let him put in an I.V., he would get a trip to the firehouse. Steve has a picture of himself with Firefighter Mullan, 34, who worked at Ladder Company 12 in Manhattan's Chelsea section, next to the fire pole. "Michael loved to play the piano," said his mother, Theresa. "He played the piano like Jerry Lee Lewis, and when he got up, the piano went into cardiac arrest." A captain in the Army Reserve, he was planning to become a nurse practitioner. He lived with his parents in Bayside, Queens, and had a girlfriend. "I know what his goals were, but what would he have attained and achieved?" Mrs. Mullan said. "Would he have married, and been a father? We'll never know."

Lt. Michael N. Fodor, his friends were convinced, had seen every "Jeopardy!" episode before it was on television. "He always knew the answers," said Deborah Fodor, his wife of 28 years. "He had a passion for learning" and a vast collection of antique history books, as well as original copies of the newspapers reporting the attack on Pearl Harbor and the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Fifteen years ago, the family moved to Warwick, N.Y., because Lieutenant Fodor wanted his children — Michael, Andrew and Ashley — to grow up in a small town. Lieutenant Fodor, 53, of Tower Ladder Company 21 in Manhattan, was still all firefighter, and although the trip to Manhattan could take three hours, he was on the job on time when the call came from the World Trade Center. Holidays were Lieutenant Fodor's favorite time of year, his wife said, and, like many firefighters, he loved to cook. After he was promoted to lieutenant 17 years ago, though, he saved the cooking and especially his pièce de résistance, prime ribs and Yorkshire pudding, just for the family.

On the job, Michael J. Otten was a dedicated, third-generation firefighter. He joined Ladder Company 35, near Lincoln Center, when he was 26, and spent nearly 16 years there. The maiden name of his wife, Marion, was Otten, an odd coincidence that made them a team right away, she says. "We'd go food shopping together and he would want to push the cart, and I would want to push the cart," she said. "He was not afraid of cooking or cleaning or fixing anything or trying anything new." Newborn babies didn't faze him; neither did fixing a broken washing machine or putting a new wing on the house. "He was in a very comfortable place in his life," Mrs. Otten said. "We were happy with what we had." That included a four-year-old tradition: inviting the firehouse to a summer barbecue at their house in East Islip, N.Y. The menu always went beyond hot dogs and burgers, since Firefighter Otten watched cooking programs. Recently, the three Otten boys asked their mother if she planned to have "that fireman barbecue" again. And yesterday, with everyone pitching in, she did.

If it moved, he was on it. If it was water, he was in it. Michael Thomas Quilty, 42, flew a plane, owned a boat and rode his bike from his home on Staten Island to Ladder House 11 in Lower Manhattan, where he was a lieutenant in the Fire Department. On Sept. 5, Lieutenant Quilty celebrated his 20th anniversary with the Fire Department. Most of his career was spent at Engine 282 and Ladder 148 in Brooklyn. A year ago, he moved to Ladder 11. "There's a picture of him in uniform there," but not in his gear like the rest of the firefighters, said his wife, Susan. "He wasn't there long enough to have a new picture." The Quiltys met 23 years ago. "He was a lifeguard at my pool," Mrs. Quilty said. "My mother said, "Go out to the pool. There's a cute lifeguard there.'" The sports didn't end there. The Quiltys had a boat for waterskiing and fishing. They kayaked in the ocean. This summer, Mr. Quilty took their son, Daniel, to learn to scuba dive, and for eight years he coached the soccer team that his daughter, Kerry, played on. Now the girls on the team have his initials on their jerseys.

Michael Paul Ragusa was not a mountain climber, a sculptor, a scholar. He was not anything like that, his loved ones say. Being a fireman was enough for him. "He did things to make others happy," said his fiancée, Jennifer Trapani. "That's how he made himself happy." Mike Ragusa, 29, joined the Fire Department nearly two years ago. He was assigned to Engine Company 250, but was working at Engine Company 279 on Sept. 11. He was single-minded, said his sister, Christine Saladeen. "If we all lined up outside the World Trade Center and yelled, `Mikey stop!,' he still would have ran in." When word of Firefighter Ragusa's disappearance percolated through his neighborhood of Bergen Beach, Brooklyn, dozens of people camped out on his parents' lawn, on their patio furniture and on their living room floor. Strangers who did not know his name came by with fruit baskets to tell of how he helped fix their fences or change their tires. He may not have been a sculptor, but he was a plumber, and if a friend's pipe burst at midnight, he was there. He may not have been a scholar, but he was a good man. His friends had a saying about him — W.W.M.D.: What Would Mikey Do?

6611. That was the number of Firefighter Robert Roberts's badge. When he left the job, the badge was assigned to his brother, John. When Firefighter John Roberts left the job, No. 6611 was passed on again, this time to John Roberts's son, Michael Edward. No. 6611 was a Roberts family heirloom by then, but Michael Edward Roberts had a habit of misplacing things. So his mother, Veronica, urged him to think about putting the badge in a vault and getting "one of those fake ones" for everyday use. She need not have worried. In nearly four years as a firefighter, Michael Edward Roberts never lost track of that badge. He was as conscientious a recruit as Lt. Michael Bell, an officer of Engine Company 214 in Brooklyn, had ever seen. Although Firefighter Roberts had transferred there only in March, Lieutenant Bell said, "We could tell he was going to be a star." Being a fireman was the center of his life, but Firefighter Roberts, 31, was more than that, said his uncle, Assistant Police Chief Joseph Fox. "He had a way of popping into and out of people's lives," Chief Fox said. At times it seemed he was in two places at once because there was another firefighter — same name, same age, same background. The only time their families met was at their funerals. Firefighter Roberts routinely volunteered to work holidays for colleagues at the firehouse who had families. And he watched out for his younger sister, Karen, always pushing her to finish college. And she did.

If storybooks are written about the lives lived before Sept. 11, "Michael and Theresa" will make a good one. Lt. Michael Russo, 44, was a good-looking man assigned to the elite Squad 1 unit in Park Slope, Brooklyn. His wife, Theresa, is a nurse. Their child, Michael Jr., was born on the same day as his father. "A fireman and a nurse, it sounds like a big joke," she said. "But I understood his life and he understood mine." When asked to think back on their life together, Mrs. Russo talked about the time they sang together in the rain. The sails they took together on their little sailboat in the Long Island Sound. The motorcycle rides along the North Shore when the sun shone in their faces and they were happy and knew God had given them something wonderful. "I remember crab cakes and Corona beer and laughing and talking about the future and how good life was," she said. When she visited the wreckage of the World Trade Center for the first time. She looked at the smoldering pile and thought about what he once told her: "Don't worry, I'll always come home." "Even the day after, I thought he would," she explained. "I looked at the pile and I knew he was home."

Michael Carlo loved sailing, his family, friends, and the ocean — not necessarily in that order. He was scheduled to travel to the British Virgin Islands on Sept. 12 to be certified a sailing captain. Mr. Carlo, 34, a firefighter, had even moved to Long Beach, N.Y., to be closer to the ocean. Firefighter Carlo was a founding member of the Fire Department's volleyball team, and traveled to Sweden a few years ago to compete in the Police and Fire Olympics. When the New Yorkers arrived, they were told that no substitutions were allowed. "Michael volunteered to sit out and have some of the bigger guys play," Mr. Carlo's brother Robert recalled. "But we decided we were going to play the way we wanted to play." The firefighters forfeited all their games in order to substitute players. Michael Carlo was a gentleman in his personal life, too. A sought-after bachelor, he had many girlfriends, and always remained friendly with them — and their mothers — after a breakup. At his house after Sept. 11, his family found some words by Mark Twain on a Post-it above the desk: "Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones that you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

Over at the Ladder 3 firehouse, none of the coffee cups have handles. It's one of the many legacies of Michael Carroll, 39, who spent 16 years there. The other firefighters are not sure why he started snapping off the handles, but just like his other habits, it could not be stopped. He also cut a hole in the wall between the ladder company's dormitory and a room reserved for the aide who drives the local battalion chief around. Late at night, if the ladder company answered an alarm and the aide stayed in bed, Firefighter Carroll would reach through the hole, open a dresser drawer and slam it, just to let the aide know they had returned. "He was an incredible teacher for the younger firemen," said Pat Murphy, whose idea of torture was speaking to school groups touring the firehouse — until Firefighter Carroll helped him. Michael Carroll drove the truck to the fires, coached his son, Brendan, in baseball and doted on his wife, Nancy, and daughter, Olivia. He was "great, great and great," said his friend Gerard Brenkert. During the blizzard of 1996, he was heading uptown from New York Hospital after his father had surgery there. "On every other corner, there was a poor soul looking for a cab," said Nancy Amigron, his sister. One by one, Firefighter Carroll picked up the snow-covered New Yorkers and drove them home. "We were so relieved about my father that we would have driven anybody to California," said Mrs. Amigron, who is planning to send some new coffee cups — without handles — to Ladder 3.

When Lt. Michael Warchola was a child in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, his grandmother brought British tabloid newspapers into the house. Paging through the tales of three-headed babies and ichthyological anthropomorphism, he developed a passion for reading and a flair for the bizarre. He parlayed his appetite for books into a teaching certificate, and he joined the New York Fire Department in 1977, after five years on the waiting list. "It was dangerous, but it was a good job," said his father, Michael Warchola. It also helped pay for his trips to the strange and historical sites he read about. As he neared retirement, Lieutenant Warchola, 51, who was divorced, devoted more time to tending his garden at his home in Middle Village, Queens, where he made elaborate drawings of Venus flytraps, but he kept a Godzilla poster on his wall. The attack of Sept. 11 spread his name around the world, as it did those of many other victims. One who noticed the name was Prime Minister Mikulas Dzurinda of Slovakia, and when he came to run in the New York Marathon, he sought out Lieutenant Warchola's older brother Denis, who was only vaguely aware of the family's central European ancestry. Mr. Dzurinda took home a picture of Lieutenant Warchola and held it aloft during a television appearance. "Everybody in the country saw my brother's picture," Denis Warchola said. The brother, a retired firefighter himself, had a chance for the most intimate of farewells. After his brother was dead, "I got to put my hands on my brother's arm."

She was standing on the Brooklyn Bridge when the first tower fell. Everyone around her was madly dialing cellphones with no success. Suddenly, her own phone started ringing. "It was my older brother," recalled Patricia Gambino, who had just escaped from the 72nd floor of the south tower. "He said: `Thank God. You're all right, and Michael is on vacation.'" Little did either of them realize that at that precise moment their younger brother, Michael T. Weinberg, 34 — the stunningly handsome baby of the family, a part-time model who had played minor league baseball for the Detroit Tigers organization and was now a firefighter — had just arrived at the World Trade Center. As the first tower collapsed, he had taken cover under a fire truck. His was among the first bodies found. His car was eventually found by the side of the highway, where he had apparently abandoned it to hitch a ride with an emergency rescue vehicle. "He loved to help people," his sister said.

The Rev. Mychal Judge never shut his door at the Midtown Franciscan friary, literally or emotionally. Anybody with the slightest need for the contents inside — be it a warm jacket or his attentive ear — was welcome. Not that Father Judge was often in. As chaplain to the New York Fire Department, Father Judge, 68, could be found joking or comforting firefighters or driving hellbent to emergencies. When a boatload of Chinese refugees were shipwrecked in the Rockaways, he was one of the first there, "handing out blankets and coffee and telling them jokes," said Peter Johnson, a friend. "They didn't know English, but he was doing pantomime and they were laughing." He had "movie-star looks and a tremendous ability to speak and sing," said Mr. Johnson. "And that was tempered by his absolute consistent devotion to being a priest." He wore his friar's robes to soup kitchens, to Gracie Mansion, to the White House, to countless baptisms and funerals. He had no use — none — for physical things, said Steven McDonald, the police officer paralyzed by a gunshot who accompanied Father Judge on peace trips to Belfast. Give the father a cashmere sweater, he said, and it would wind up on the back of a homeless person. Go to him with a troubled soul and he would listen intently for as long as it took. He went where he was needed. On Sept. 11, he faced the inferno with the firefighters.

Neil Leavy was very familiar with the World Trade Center. For a number of years in the 1990's he traded commodities, first oil, later gold, on the futures exchanges there. But Neil Leavy, 34, had a firefighting heritage. His uncle was a firefighter. So was his godfather, who was a captain. Two of his cousins were too. "He always wanted to be a firefighter," his cousin Michael Leavy said. And so he became one, working at Engine Company 217 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. When he was not on the job, Firefighter Leavy could often be found in the basement of his parents' house in Bayonne, N.J., pumping iron. When he was not there, he worked part time as a bartender at Memories, a Staten Island tavern. "He was a workout maniac," his brother Mark said. "He was a strong, strong guy." Firefighter Leavy, who was single, had agreed to be best man at his brother's wedding the following year. The ceremony was scheduled for Oct. 4, a year to the day after Neil Leavy was buried. There was no best man. "I look at that day with mixed emotions," Mark Leavy said. "It's the day I start a new life, but the day he was laid to rest."

Since 1979, when Nick Chiofalo started dating Jerry Nardello's sister, the two men have been fast friends. And after Chiofalo married Joan Nardello in 1981, they never bothered saying "in-law" when they called each other brother.Chiofalo, 39, a firefighter in Bedford-Stuyvesant and a fire chief in Selden, responded with his Brooklyn unit, Engine Co. 235, to the World Trade Center attack Sept. 11. He was last seen going into Tower Two to help evacuate people. His engine company, except for the driver, was lost. Joan Chiofalo said her husband was her "best friend." "I've known him since high school," she said. "We talked all the time." Their son, Nicholas Chiofalo Jr., was 13 in 2001.The way Chiofalo got the job was typical of his personality, Nardello said. After an explosion at the fireworks company 16 years ago, in which several employees were killed, Chiofalo wrote a letter of condolence. Company officials met and hired him, Nardello said."If he was going to go, this is the way he wanted to go," Nardello said. "He loved being a fireman. He loved saving lives. And this is what he did."Joan Chiofalo said she wasn't surprised her husband rushed into the building to help. "When he called me that morning and said he was going I knew he wasn't coming back," she said. "When that building came crushing down, so did the rest of my life.

He loved karate and he was good at it. His karate teacher, Dr. Gene Isola, speaks in awe about one of Nicholas Rossomando's feats: he put a six- inch pile of wood on two cinder blocks and then smashed the pile with his fist. "He hit it so hard that he also broke the cinder blocks on one side," Dr. Isola said. "We have it on film. The guy was built like a steel tank." That feat, Dr. Isola said, exemplified the gusto that was Nicholas Rossomando. He loved working as a firefighter. He loved to cook -- for his girlfriend, for his parents, for his buddies at Rescue Company 5. He loved carpentry; as a volunteer he built 80 percent of the interior of the karate school. "He had an overwhelming enthusiasm about life, not just 100 percent, but 1,000 percent," Dr. Isola said. "From the way he smiled and hugged you, to the way he made a meal, to the way he did martial arts, it was done with enthusiasm and passion. There was no halfway with Nicky." "At the karate school," Dr. Isola continued, "everyone had nicknames. There was Crazy Eye Joe, Jazzy Jeff, but Nicky's nickname was Nicky Love."

Orio Joseph Palmer, 45, a 20-year veteran of the New York Fire Department, was the battalion chief of Engine Company 3 and Ladder 12 in Chelsea. He lived in Valley Stream, N.Y., with his wife, Debbie, and their three children, Dana, Keith, and Alyssa. Dana wrote a letter to him in her journal. Here are excerpts: "Dear Dad, "A friend gave me the idea of writing to you. She said it might help. Oh, how I wish you could write back, or I could hear your voice again, or see you — even if it's just a quick glimpse. I hate knowing that you're really not coming home this time, and all I remember about when I saw you last was that I was doing my homework when I got up and kissed you goodbye. I didn't know it would be forever, though. "When I was listening to all your favorite music the other day, I thought I would feel sad and I'd miss you. But instead, I felt closer to you, and it was quite comforting because there's not one time that I can remember when you didn't have the radio on. You were the music man. "Always know that you're my hero. I could never compare any man to you because that would be unfair to him. For, like Keith said, you're one of a kind — the very best there is out there. "My birthday is coming up, but I'm sure you already knew that. It won't be the same without you, and I'm not really looking forward to it. I feel that way about a lot of things, though. I would do anything to have you back. "Love always, Dana"

After Pleasant Plains resident and firefighter Patrick D. Byrne injured his foot battling a fire in Brooklyn, his mother asked him to try to be more careful on the job. It's one thing if you're struggling to save a life, she told him. "But when you're just trying to save a building . . ." Her voice trailed off. On Sept. 11, Mr. Byrne and his colleagues at Ladder Co. 101, Brooklyn, saved countless lives when they responded to the alarm at the World Trade Center. Now Mr. Byrne is one of hundreds of firefighters lost that day. Most of those who knew Mr. Byrne say he was a hard worker, a great athlete and a talented handyman who was also very private. Born in Tottenville, he moved to Huguenot with his family as an infant. The family settled in Pleasant Plains in 1966, where he spent the remainder of his life. Rather than pursue a career that would keep him in an office, Mr. Byrne started his own roofing company in the mid-1980s. He worked from his home, and expanded his business to include carpentry, tile and concrete work. "I think you could drive all over Staten Island and see his roofs, windows, decks and sidewalks," said his mother."He was an excellent firefighter who knew his job," said Thomas Giordano, Mr. Byrne's captain at Ladder 101. "He was always the first one to help the other guys."Mr. Byrne also distinguished himself as a "bucketeer," soaking the newest firefighter in the house with a bucket of water poured down from the roof. "He was 'king of the bucketeers'," said Capt. Giordano. "He was excellent at it. He was the best at it. He wouldn't miss his target."

Yes, Capt. Patrick J. Brown was a firefighting hero. But oh, there was so much more. "Everything he tackled, he gave 300 percent," said Sharon Watts; onetime fiancé, ever a good friend; whether firefighting, music or yoga. He squeezed a baby grand into his apartment, and once puzzled a piano teacher who had arrived looking for "Little Patty Brown." He loved Broadway shows, saying that in another life he might have been a choreographer. Ms. Watts recalled fondly that when she and Captain Brown, 48, a Vietnam veteran, started dating, he asked her to go with him to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Lower Manhattan. "We saw flowers that had been knocked over, and we set them up again." When he worked in Harlem, he bicycled from his Stuyvesant Town apartment to 149th Street, but at Ladder Company 3 on 13th Street, she said, "he could run to his firehouse and take his yoga mat with him." He was "a deeply spiritual man," said a friend, James Remar, "but he was far too humble to advertise that." It was hard to pull him out of the city, said his sister, Carolyn Negron, who lives on Long Island. "He had to be around that action. My father used to say, `If our house is on fire, he ain't coming.' " Captain Brown sometimes called himself a "grumpy old man," Ms. Watts said, so for his 47th birthday, she hand-painted a cereal bowl for him that said "To Pat: FDNY's Bravest and Grumpiest." He never married. "He had felt so much loss," she said. "He didn't want anyone close to him to feel the pain of losing someone."

Here's Patrick Lyons as a kindergartner, walking up the street in North Massapequa, N.Y., ringing doorbells and singing Christmas carols to make a little money. And here he is again, flinging off his clothes to streak past the babysitter after his older brothers promised him a dollar if he'd do it. And here he is, age 34, getting up at 3 a.m. to go fishing, selling everything he catches except for the crabs he steams and leaves on his mother's kitchen table as a gift. "I would see crab footprints on my stove, and I would know that he had been there," said Pat Lyons, who called her youngest son "my little entrepreneur". He became a firefighter like his father, a retired lieutenant, and loved his work at Squad 252 in Brooklyn. He took books with him on his honeymoon in 1997 so he could study for the lieutenant's exam. As a backup, he started a limousine business that grew magically from one car to six. All the while he is cheering for the Miami Dolphins and loving football in all its forms. He plays quarterback for the fire department team and flag football for Suffolk County. Here he is watching Monday Night Football at home in South Setauket while he and his wife, Irene, get the nursery ready for the baby they're expecting. The phone rings and it's the fire department, asking if he can work overtime the next day, Sept. 11. On Oct. 7, Patrick Mate Lyons came into the world, with his father's eyes and eyebrows and a squeal that his mother calls "this little dolphin noise." He has a sunny nature that she credits to his father, too. "I really think my husband is making this baby a happy baby for me," she said. "He taught me so many things about life. He loved having fun."

For Long Islander Patrick J. O'Keefe, life focused mainly on three things: his family, his job as a New York City firefighter and his dream - of retiring and sailing his boat to exciting destinations. O'Keefe, 44, of Oakdale, was a member of the fire department's elite Rescue Co. No. 1, based on West 43rd Street. Along with the dreams of all the other victims of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, his own ended in a stairwell between the 20th and 40th floors of Tower One, said his daughter, Jennifer. "His truck was parked under the north tower," she said, adding that his remains were discovered about a week after the attacks. A student at the University of Maryland in College Park, Jennifer O'Keefe said her father had been a firefighter for more than 20 years. "He was very proud he worked for the fire department," she said. O'Keefe grew up in Lynbrook and graduated from its high school, where he was on the track team. "His motto was, 'Work to live, don't live to work,'" recalled his wife, Karen. But his perilous occupation somewhat contradicted his motto. His wife recalled that her husband "worked hard and played hard," and was a "typical smiling Irishman." She described him as an "awesome" father and a kind and considerate person. Because of their often heroic jobs, she referred to her husband and all firefighters as "a special breed of cat." The couple, who had been married for 22 years, owned a 22-foot sailboat, but O'Keefe's lifelong wish was to have a larger vessel. "His dream was to retire on a sailboat and cruise the islands," she said.

You knew that Patrick Waters was on duty if there was a phenomenal amount of coffee brewing in the firehouse kitchen. Captain Waters, who would have been 45 years old today, always seemed to have a cup of the stuff in his hand. He was what firemen call "a good fireman," graceful under pressure, passionate about the job and everything it entails -- from battling flames to filing reports (his were always spelled correctly). In 1998, he was on duty at Ladder Company 106 in Queens when the India Street pier collapsed, hurling eight people into the turbulent East River. There was no time to don protective gear; Captain Waters, whose father, Patrick, taught him to swim at the Jersey shore, jumped in and kept a woman afloat until she could be hauled in safely. "That was a great day," remembered Lt. Mike Kenney, a friend, who still has a picture of Captain Waters, soaked and freezing. "Eight people went home to their families that day." Off duty, Captain Waters coached his sons in basketball and hockey and ran their school PTA. On Sept. 11, he was at the Fire Department's medical office, having a routine physical with four firefighters from his hazardous-materials unit, when they heard about the attack. They ran out the door and over the Brooklyn Bridge to the trade center. "I've never met anybody who loved going to work as much as he did," said his wife, Janice. The coffee was only part of it.

Several years before he became a firefighter, Paul Gill was walking down the street in Astoria, Queens, when a woman started screaming in a burning building. Smoke poured from the window as the woman clutched a baby and cried for help. With no firefighter in sight and everyone else standing around, Mr. Gill climbed the fire escape, took the baby in his arms and led the woman to safety. He was a carpenter at the time, but the incident firmed his desire to join the Fire Department, which he did in 1999. While his family worried about his safety, he assured them that fighting fires was no more dangerous than carpentry jobs that put him on steel beams 50 stories up in the sky. "He didn't have a fear," said his father, John. Mr. Gill, 34, managed to blend his two careers, continuing to take carpentry jobs to help pay the medical bills of his two sons, Aaron, who had received a kidney transplant seven years earlier, and Joshua, who suffers from juvenile osteoporosis. "He was both a dad and a big brother to his kids," said Michelle Evans, his sister. "He was patient with Aaron and helped Joshua with sports." He was also artistic. Though he never took a drawing class, he became adept at complicated line drawings and geometric designs, even toying with the idea of becoming a tattoo artist. His best-known artwork is a big Maltese cross he designed for the front of his fire station, Engine 54 in Manhattan. Right now, it is covered in flowers.

Paul Keating went to a carpet store for something to put on his floor for $100, but the rug that caught his eye cost $119. As the salesman launched into a pitch about why it could not leave the store for $100 Mr. Keating grabbed the tag."See, it says right there," Mr. Keating said. Then he said, as if reading aloud: "Go ahead. One hundred dollars."The salesman laughed; Mr. Keating got his bargain.That kind of scene was repeated often in Paul Keating's 38 years. He could annoy, persuade or reassure with his for one-liners."Very few people had the gift of giving you a relentless amount of ribbing while making you laugh," said Jeffrey Borab, a friend. Mr. Keating tried jobs as plumber's assistant and surveyor before joining the New York Fire Department six years ago.Because he played down his heroic exploits and won friends with his wit, many people recall his charm before his sacrifice. He was off duty on the morning of Sept. 11.

Lt. Paul Martini had his cherished mottoes, and he stuck to them. One was, "Don't sweat the small things." He was always saying that, whenever anyone got frazzled over something minor. His other favorite was, "If it's not broken, don't fix it." Take going to the dentist. He didn't abide by the notion of visiting the dentist every six months. If he didn't have a toothache, why bother: "If it's not broken, don't fix it." Then again, he was pretty fastidious about his teeth. "I swear he would spend an hour in the bathroom," said his wife, Lisa. "I'd say, 'When are you going to be done?' " Lieutenant Martini, 37, was with Engine Company 201, and lived with his wife and daughter, Lindsay, in Staten Island. He liked to call people "mook," which was his euphemism for "idiot." If someone messed up, he would say, "Oh, you're such a mook." Except many people didn't know what he meant. Once, sitting around the firehouse, the talk turned to another firefighter going through a tough divorce. Asked what he thought, Lieutenant Martini said: "Oh, Lisa and I have it all figured out. We would split everything 50-50. Lisa would get the inside of the house, and I would get the outside."

Paul Beyer wanted a house. A house with a chimney. In Tottenville, Staten Island, the place where he and his wife were born and raised. So for two years, he laid the foundations for his dream: he got the necessary permits to tear down his mother-in-law's 100-year-old house, he got the blueprints from an architect, and he meticulously planned and designed every room of the two-family house that would one day be a home for him and his wife and their two boys and even his mother-in-law. Last summer, he began to build. He had completed about 60 percent of the house when he died at the trade center. He was 37, a firefighter, a Scout leader, the father of two teenagers, Michael Paul, and Shawn Patrick, and, for 15 years, the husband of Arlene Beyer. For about a week, Mrs. Beyer contemplated not finishing the house. "It was heartbreaking," Mrs. Beyer, 40, said. "I couldn't even go there." Then she decided to go ahead. "We knew we had to finish the dream," she said. Scores of firefighters, all friends and colleagues of her husband's from Engine Company 6, are helping her. In the chimney, one of the firemen will carve a Maltese Cross, the symbol for firefighters.

In every firehouse in New York, somebody like Paul T. Mitchell takes the probies under his wing, nurturing them and giving them just enough grief to make sure they can endure. In Fort Greene, Brooklyn, at the Tillary Street firehouse, Big Daddy Mitchell taught everything: how to jump in when trouble calls, what to grab when you hear seven bells — the code sending Ladder 110 on a run. Lieutenant Mitchell, 46, was someone the first-year probationers looked up to. Senior man on the truck, on the back step as a fireman, in the front seat after his promotion to lieutenant. He would go in with the inside team: the guys who cut through doors, looking for people needing help. That's the kind of guy they remember on Tillary Street: husband of Maureen; a sports fan of daughter Jennifer, or Christine, was competing; holder of three citations for valor. But on Sept. 11, the truck rolled without him. Off duty, he had stopped by for coffee around 8 a.m. When seven bells rang and the truck left, he soon realized it was trouble, the worst. Without thinking, he grabbed somebody else's bunker pants, black coat with the yellow stripes, boots, helmet. And he was rolling, too.

Paul Pansini loved the excitement of being a firefighter in downtown Manhattan, but his days off meant a great deal, too. Firefighter Pansini, 36, took his son, Paul Jack, and his twin daughters, Anna and Claire, everywhere when he was not working. "He was brave enough to even take them to the store," his wife, Janice, recalled. Since Sept. 11, the family has, in turn, felt his presence everywhere. "I feel him definitely in my house," Mrs. Pansini said. The family lives in his childhood home in Tottenville in Staten Island. When they moved there in November 1994, the couple almost tore the century-old house down. Now she is glad they did not. In Tottenville, they are surrounded by family members who keep his presence strong, including his sister, Loretta Halpert. Lake George was Firefighter Pansini's favorite spot in the world. This summer, as Mrs. Pansini packed for their annual vacation to the lake, Claire asked if they were going to meet Daddy there. "I'm blown away by how much they remember him," Mrs. Pansini said. "I don't think he knew how much he meant to so many people. He was a very comical person. The love of my life. People keep coming up to me and saying, `I miss him so much.' "

Paul Ruback, a 50-year- old firefighter at Ladder Company 25, was nearing retirement without much of a plan. He had started to dabble in home inspection, but mostly he spent time with his 2-year-old son, also named Paul. "Wherever he went, the baby was with him," said Debbie Macielag, the boy's mother. Firefighter Ruback had adopted several other children earlier in life, with his estranged wife, Lynne. Firefighter Ruback's friends remember him as quiet and nonconfrontational. "He just wanted some peace and tranquillity," said Brian Englander, a fellow firefighter. Firefighter Ruback died as a hero, facing down a deadly fire because it was his job, but when adversity arose in his personal life, Firefighter Englander said, "he would rather just turn and walk away."

After watching his number creep up the list of new hires for 20 years, Paul Tegtmeier finally got the call 18 months ago to become a New York City firefighter, at the age of 40. He quit his job as a field technician at Verizon and picked up his crisp uniform. "He met the age cutoff, from the time that he applied," said his wife, Catherine. , "His was the last class taken off that list. Firefighting was something he wanted to do since he was a toddler and he only wanted to do it in New York City." Mr. Tegtmeier, 41, a father of two, was on his way to Ladder Company 46 in the Bronx when the first plane struck 1 World Trade Center. Fire officials say that he likely reached the firehouse in time to join his colleagues as they rushed toward the twin towers, Mrs. Tegtmeier said. He loved firefighting, and was volunteer for more than 20 years at the Roosevelt, N.Y., Fire Department, where he met his wife, also a volunteer firefighter. His son, Aric, lives very much in his parents' image. A couple of days after the collapse, Aric pulled on his firefighting helmet, coat and boots and fought invisible fires on the front lawn with firefighters who came to mourn the loss of his dad.

When he was 5 years old, Peter Alexander Bielfeld had a tooth extracted. "Afterward, Peter was so upset," his father, Ernest, recalled. "It really hurt. So I took him to a toy store and said, 'You can have anything you want.' Peter went right for the fire trucks. He picked out a big red shiny one. He had that truck for years, maybe until he was 12 or 13. All he wanted to be was a fireman."

On 9/11/01, Bielfeld was seeing the FDNY doctor at the medical office in FDNY Headquarters across the bridge in Brooklyn at the time of the attacks. He was consulting with the doctor regarding a minor medical injury. When the planes struck the towers, he knew the severity of the operation. With out hesitation, he responded. FF Bielfeld's gear was in his Bronx firehouse, so he stopped by the nearest house (Engine 10/Ladder 10 across from the WTC) to borrow some spare gear. Before he left the firehouse, he left his personal belongings behind along with this note. FF Bielfeld knew what he was going into, but he went anyway.

We will never know exactly how many people are alive today because of FF Bielfeld's dedication. Never forget. Heaven gained some angels that day.

A librarian in the elementary school that Peter Brennan once attended found his name on a card in a library book and gave it to his wife, Erica. The book? "I Want to Be a Fireman." Mr. Brennan joined the Lakeland Volunteer Fire Department at 16, served for years as a volunteer, most recently in Hauppauge, and six years ago finally became a New York City firefighter. It was his dream, even while he was a New York City police officer for several years. (Walking a beat in Queens, he rescued an elderly couple from an apartment fire.) More recently, he stopped at a fire in Ronkonkoma and — in street clothes — saved three trapped volunteer firefighters. On Sept. 11, Mr. Brennan, who would have been 31 today, came off vacation to fill in for a colleague in Rescue 4, an elite unit that specializes in saving lives. "He died doing what he loved at probably the greatest fire he'd ever been to," said his wife, Erica Brennan, who is expecting their second child. "I can see him on the truck being excited on the way."

They called him Pete the Painter. Pete Carroll was really a firefighter, but he painted apartments to make ends meet. He walked into ToniAnn's life eight years ago and laid two coats of beige paint. He had 19 years in the Fire Department. One more, and they were off to retire in California. They depended on each other, but last January, Ms. Carroll came to depend on him in very profound ways. She fell ill with a neurological disorder with no cure. It is a rapid, ravaging affliction that attacks the soft tissues. Mr. Carroll, 42, started to cook for his wife. He carried her to bed. Sometimes he washed her back. This summer, on the hottest day of the year, he came home to Staten Island from the Squad 1 firehouse in Brooklyn to see her in the backyard, frozen in a chair in the blazing sun. He saw that and wept. "I had a beautiful fireman to rescue me," Ms. Carroll said. "Now I don't want to move at all." In a contorted way, Mr. Carroll's wife is one of the lucky survivors. She has his ashes and his wedding band.

The thing about Peter J. Ganci was, he didn't flaunt it. He was just a regular guy living with his family on Long Island, so at peace with himself that if you asked him what he did for a living, he would just say, "I'm a fireman in the city." "He would never say that he was the highest-ranking uniformed officer in the department," said Fire Marshal Steven Mosiello, his longtime friend and executive assistant. Most of the time, Pete Ganci, who was 54, was that regular guy down the street who happened to be a decorated hero and boss: the guy who loved to laugh, golf, go clamming in Great South Bay. On Deputy Fire Commissioner Lynn Tierney's desk is a photograph of him in formal uniform — five stars on his collar and all — and a pink headband that says "Happy Birthday." The photograph's meaning is simple, she said: "He was man enough to wear a pink headband that said `Happy Birthday.'" Then there were those times when Pete Ganci was Chief Ganci, as on that last morning. In the eerie calm between the collapse of the two towers, Deputy Fire Commissioner Michael Regan recalled, "Pete Ganci directed every civilian and every firefighter to go north. He went south."

Peter L. Freund was a firefighter and a stargazer. He built an observatory, a 10-by-10-foot wooden cube, in his backyard in Westtown, N.Y., and would look at the stars through a telescope mounted on a piece of sewer pipe. In the summer his wife, Robin, would often join him. "But there were some winter nights when I'd sit inside with my woolens on," Mrs. Freund said, laughing. "I'd say, `Take a picture of it, show me later.' " When her husband wanted to see a major eclipse, she was worried, though: one of the trees in the yard was directly in front of the eclipse. "I thought I was going to lose a pine tree," she said. But Mr. Freund spared it. Mr. Freund, 45, a lieutenant with Engine Company 55 in Little Italy, "always followed his own interests," said Arne Francis, a high school classmate. He recalled that Mr. Freund took up windsurfing in the early 1980's before it was popular. He would vanish for hours at a time, Mr. Francis said. "I'd go, `Pete, where the hell were you?' He'd say, `I was out by Buoy 20.' And I'd say, `Pete, there are ocean liners and tankers that go by there. Be careful,' " Mr. Francis said. "What he was into, he just put his whole soul into."

A neighboring volunteer fire company called the one in Roslyn, N.Y., for help on Thanksgiving 2000. A rescue specialist was needed to extricate a young man from a wrecked car. The company, and the driver, were lucky. Two rescue specialists, Peter and Thomas Langone, arrived and cut him loose. In their time off, Firefighter Peter Langone and Police Officer Thomas Langone were leaders at the Roslyn Rescue Fire Company, training other volunteers in the skills they learned at work. Peter Langone, 41, a driver with Engine Company 252 in Bushwick, Brooklyn, a specialty unit, was the "elder statesman" at the firehouse, according to Firefighter James O'Connor. He drove the truck and showed rookies the ropes, speaking bluntly at times. "He never beat around the bush," Firefighter O'Connor said. His wife, Terri, and his daughters Nikki, and Karli, were often seen around the firehouse, and they took weekend trips to the country. They were planning a family trip to Disney World this winter. He also liked to hunt, and in good years that meant venison stew in the firehouse. Thomas Langone, 39, of Emergency Squad 10 in Brooklyn, went to Oklahoma City in 1995 to help with recovery efforts after the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. "His entire day went at a million miles an hour," a fellow officer said. "He didn't wait to be called." He also taught firefighting techniques for Nassau County, and was working toward a bachelor's degree from Empire State College's distance learning program so he could teach when he retired from the department. With his wife, JoAnn; his daughter, Caitlin, and his son, Brian, Thomas Langone took a trip to Rhode Island last summer, touring mansions and enjoying the cliff walk in Newport. Their jobs brought the brothers together. In 1990, the Roslyn volunteers went to the scene of the Avianca crash in Oyster Bay. In 1993, working for New York City, the brothers went to the World Trade Center bombing. On Sept. 11, they arrived separately not long before the twin towers collapsed.

Lt. Peter C. Martin had plenty of interests. He liked to watch Nascar races, "glued to the TV," said his friend, Lt. Peter Lund. He also kept track of how many fires he had been to, perhaps inspired by a book, "20,000 Alarms," that was lying around the Rescue 2 firehouse in Brooklyn. And once a month, he would take out the antique rifles he collected, put on a cowboy hat and take aim at the buffalo silhouettes set up on a field in the Hamptons with other members of the local Single Action Shooting Society. There he was known as "Sidewinder Pete," a true aficionado to whom the group dedicated a memorial shoot last month. But mostly, Mr. Martin, 43, cared about being a father to his three boys. His own father had died when he was 11 months old. "As much as he loved the Fire Department, his first love was ours," said his wife, Alice. "He would race home from work so he could put the boys to bed. He'd sing to them, and tell them stories. He had a whole routine." Now Mrs. Martin is taking care of things on her own. "I get a lot of strength from Peter," she said. "I can almost hear him saying to me, `Everything's O.K.' "

When Gigi Vega attended the funerals of Harry Ford and Brian Fahey, members of Rescue Company 4 who died in a Father's Day explosion in Astoria, Queens, she was deeply touched. Her boyfriend, Peter A. Nelson, also a member of Rescue 4, had been scheduled to work on Father's Day, and had the day off only because he had worked overtime the week before. It could have been him. "So I asked him, `Will you marry me, Peter?' " she said. Mr. Nelson had asked for her hand numerous times before, but she had demurred. They were married Aug. 22. Gigi was already pregnant with the couple's first child when she proposed, and Mr. Nelson, 42, was a gleeful expectant father. "He talked to my belly every day. `I love you, Lyndsi. Treat Mommy well today,' he would say. I had a very rough pregnancy." On the night of Sept. 10, Rescue 4 called Mr. Nelson, who lived in Huntington Station, N.Y., to work overtime the next day, his day off. Lyndsi was born three hours after her father's memorial service ended on Oct. 5. More than 20 days later, the rescuers found Mr. Nelson's body, and Lyndsi saw her father for the first time at his funeral.

Regan Grice-Vega was pregnant and was on the way to the doctor for a checkup with her husband, Peter Vega, when they spotted a car stalled on the side of the road. In it was a woman who had been rushing to the hospital to see her husband, who had had a heart attack. Mr. Vega pushed her car to a safe spot and then drove her to the hospital. "We were late for our appointment, as usual, but that is the kind of person Peter was," Mrs. Grice-Vega said. "If he was cleaning out our gutter, he would clean the neighbor's, too." Mr. Vega, 36, a firefighter who was a member of Ladder Company 118 in Brooklyn Heights, called his wife just before he left for the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. They had been married five years. She was a fervent Knicks fan, and he proposed to her at Madison Square Garden with a message on the big screen at half-time. On Nov. 10, she returned to the Garden for the first time since Sept. 11, for a Knicks game against Golden State. Her father-in- law got her two seats on the floor, and she took her twin brother. "When I went with Peter, we were always up," Mrs. Grice- Vega said. "My father-in-law was on a mission to make sure I had a good night." "It was bittersweet," she added. "It was fun -- but hard."

Abasement room in Lt. Philip S. Petti's home in Staten Island was filled with so much sports equipment that it looked like a locker room, complete with a treasured photo of him posing as a pro hockey player. An 18-year veteran of the Fire Department, Lieutenant Petti did play on a department hockey team — his mother, Catherine, said he joined the team "before he actually knew how to ice skate." Though he did eventually learn how to skate — his daughter, Lauren, now 16, taught him — he never really learned how to play well. "I saw him play, and you know, he needed work," said his nephew Tim Schlittner. "As much as he loved it, he definitely needed some work." But if Lieutenant Petti, 43, was anything less than content with his hockey skills, it did not stop him. "He had a wonderful disposition," his mother said. "He accepted whatever life handed him. His favorite expression was, `That's what it is; deal with it.' " Besides, he was too busy to look for accolades. He continued to coach his church's soccer and baseball teams long after his daughter and his son, Philip, outgrew their cleats. He had to plan for his sister Jacqueline Butt's annual Halloween party — one year he and his wife, Eileen, went as the Blues Brothers — and practice the Ed Norton-Ralph Kramden routine he had going with his brother Thomas, also a firefighter. Their sister Adrian Foran said: "Hugs and humor. When you think of Phil, that's what you think of."

Raymond M. Downey was the battalion chief in charge of special operations in the New York City Fire Department. Here's his son, Chuck, a fire lieutenant: "Dad joined the Fire Department on April 7, 1962. Coming on in the 60's, they went to a lot of fires. The war years, they termed it. In 1995 he was assigned to Special Operations Command, SOC is the acronym, as chief of rescue operations. . . . "He was on the Gilmore Commission to fight domestic terrorism. No one's going to see it all, but I don't think anyone thought of the World Trade Center. . . . "When the south tower went down, there was a lot of Maydays. He survived. A lot of the top brass did. These are all guys with 30- plus years. They went back in. There were two young firemen, he told them, not in the nicest language, to get out of here." Here's Chief Downey's daughter, Marie Tortorici: "Mommy, Rosalie, is Italian. Daddy's Irish. He would have been 64 on Sept. 19. He's very spiritual. He was in Oklahoma City after the bombing. Gov. Keating gave him a set of rosary beads. He wore them every day. Well, they broke, and he kept them in his pocket. He had them with him, because they're not home. . . . "When I was a little girl, he was working three jobs to support the family, and he was always too busy to come to the school to do fire prevention week. Last year, when my daughter was in first grade, he went to the school for fire prevention week. I don't know. It's so sad, everything. But a good thing came out of this. My sister, my father called her the baby, we just found out she's pregnant. So she felt like it was a blessing from my father."

Raymond Meisenheimer had the new patio penciled in, down to individual flowers and the Jacuzzi. He was supposed to retire in November, his 20th anniversary with the New York City Fire Department, and he and his wife, Joanne, and their daughters, Lauren, and Kaitlynn, were supposed to move from West Babylon, N.Y., to Holtsville. "We found the house of our dreams and were getting it built," Mrs. Meisenheimer said. "He got to see up to the spackling. We spent our mornings out here; we'd have breakfast at the house. We had a lot of plans. Unfortunately it didn't work out. But he's here, I know that. I know that." Mr. Meisenheimer planned to finish the basement. "It was going to be the He-Man Woman-Haters Club, because he had all girls," his wife said. "He always called me Queenie, that was his nickname, and of course he was the king," Mrs. Meisenheimer said. The girls played along. "He'd say, `Who's the king?' and they'd say, `Oh you are, Daddy!' That's just the way he was." All four were involved in choosing cabinets and tiles for the new house. "Right now my girls want to follow through with everything he wanted," she said. "We are going to finish the basement and patio, finish it the way he wanted."

In 1981, Ray Murphy bought a Reader's Digest book on home improvement. By 1993, he was buying a fixer-upper to turn into his wife's dream home. "When we saw the house in 1993, my kids and I were like, `Ray, this house is horrible,' " recalled his wife, Linda Murphy. "He said, `No, it will be beautiful.' And it is." "Anything he latched on to he devoured intellectually or physically," said his brother Edward J. Murphy. "He didn't take to school as well as anybody else but he grew up to be the brightest person I ever met." While he loved carpentry, his skills also helped him absorb the significant pay cut he took when he quit being a Perrier salesman and became a New York City firefighter. He rose to the rank of lieutenant. "We used to kid, `If you ever won the lottery, would you quit the Fire Department?' " his wife said. "He'd say, `Oh, no.' He loved it." But for Firefighter Murphy, 46, and the father of two, it wasn't just about helping others while on the job, his brother said: "If anybody needed help, there he was in his truck, his ladder and tools in the back."

Raymond R. York spent nearly two decades fighting blazes and loving the New York Fire Department when a shoulder injury 18 months ago forced him into light duty. But he found a second calling, teaching children about fire safety at the Fire Zone at Rockefeller Center. There, he was "Fireman Ray" to the youngsters whom he captivated. But on Tuesday, he learned of the World Trade Center attack from a television crew that was doing a story on the Fire Zone, jumped onto a nearby fire truck and headed downtown. After traffic held him up, he hitched a ride on an ambulance and reached the Fire Department's command post at the trade center. "We're so proud and we just want everybody to know what a great guy Ray was," his wife, Joan, said. "Everybody's saying, `He's a hero, he's a hero.' He always was my hero. Now the world knows he's a hero." She described her husband as a man in love with life, a man who insisted on flying the flag. "He was a Little League coach, he was a scout leader, when it came to his kids, he was there for everything," she said. That included building an ice skating rink in the backyard of their Valley Stream, N.Y., home when his son, one of four children, wanted to learn how to skate.

Jones Beach may not be the center of the universe, but it was the heart of Virginia and Ricardo Quinn's all-too-brief life together. They met there on a steamy, summer-in-the-city day in 1988 when he put his blanket on the sand near hers. Both were recently divorced and watching their little boys, who took to each other as quickly as did their parents. "Ric was playing with his son and I noticed him," Mrs. Quinn said. "I was checking him out." They married just over a year later and kept coming back to Jones Beach. Their favorite spot was Field Six, where Mr. Quinn, 40, made life-size sand sculptures that drew crowds. "He used to make nudes," Mrs. Quinn said, "but they were very, very tasteful." After serving in the Coast Guard as a young man, he held a few different jobs before finding his real calling as a paramedic with the Fire Department's Battalion 57 in Brooklyn. His partner, Joe Sanders, said he had a gentle way with people. Paramedic Quinn was promoted to lieutenant after Sept. 11. In late January, Mrs. Quinn left their home in Bayside, Queens, and boarded a Coast Guard cutter that took her three miles off Jones Beach. There, following Lieutenant Quinn's wishes, she spread his ashes on the waters he loved. Then the cutter returned to port. "It was a long, quiet ride back," Paramedic Sanders said.

Summer after summer, Richie Allen stood watch along the beaches of the Rockaways, keeping swimmers out of danger. He had his share of ocean rescues, and then there was the one he pulled off on dry land, after a couple of people dug a giant hole in the sand that then collapsed around them. When he was not in the tall lifeguard's chair himself, he was never very far away. He'd create a hammock by tying a sheet to the supports beneath the chair and rest there awhile, enjoying the breeze blowing and the gulls calling and the pace of one more nice warm day. He was the much-adored oldest of six children, and his siblings trailed him into lifeguarding. "Growing up in Rockaway, if you can swim, then that's the best job to have," said Judy Aiken, one of his sisters. He got other jobs — substitute teacher, sanitation worker — before the Fire Department called him to work in May of last year, when he was 31. He spent seven weeks with Engine Company 4 in Lower Manhattan, and then moved to Ladder Company 15 in the same firehouse. On Sept. 11, he rode with the engine company to the World Trade Center, even though he was off duty after having worked all night.The Sunday before, he and his mother, father, sisters and brothers had all spent the day together on the beach. And they realized that their lifeguard had become a firefighter. "He said how much he absolutely loved the job," said his mother, Gail. "It was part of his breathing, almost. He was saying he couldn't wait for his first fire."

Richard John Kelly Jr., 50, of Graniteville, is among the firefighters from Ladder 11, Manhattan, who failed to return home after responding to an alarm at the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. Three others missing from Ladder 11 -- Edward (Eddie) Day Jr., Michael Cammarata and Lt. Michael Quilty -- also lived on Staten Island. Having just celebrated his 24th year with the city Fire Department, Mr. Kelly was the senior member of Ladder 11. "Receiving his 20-year ring from the officers and members of Engine 28 & Ladder 11 was one of the proudest moments of his life," said his wife, the former Carolyn Voto. Fun-loving, carefree, gentle and kind, his free spirit was always on display, particularly when he played the "boom bah" -- an odd musical contraption that resembles a pogo stick with cymbals, a cow bell and various other percussive instruments attached. He played the boom bah at firehouse functions, weddings, dances and bar mitzvahs. Born in Stapleton, Mr. Kelly moved to Port Richmond as a child. He and his wife settled in Graniteville in 1970. "Ricky enjoyed life more than anyone I ever knew," said his wife. "His goals were not grand, but rather pure and simple. All he asked for was to wake up each day and enjoy it to the max." His antics included marching in the St. Patrick's Day parades on Staten Island and in Manhattan sporting a pair of fake "Billy Bob teeth," which made people on the sidelines laugh. "He always made everyone feel comfortable and loved," said Mrs. Kelly. "Whether you were a commissioner, the president, a loved one or a homeless person on the street, it didn't matter to Ricky. He would treat you with the same kindness and dignity. Ricky would always say that we could have fun in a paper bag."

Richard T. Muldowney, Jr., 40, firefighter, FDNY, Ladder 7. As a child, Muldowney and his friends would fight mock blazes. At 18, Muldowney joined the Freeport Volunteer Fire Department Company, and, nine years later, the FDNY. Outside the firehouse, he was a spectacular carpenter and could build almost anything. He was also a Long Island bayman who enjoyed fishing, crabbing and clamming. Richie adored his entire family. He always knew he wanted to be a firefighter and was the best at his job.

Richard Prunty's world revolved around two families. There was his family in Sayville, on Long Island, and there was the Second Battalion of the New York City Fire Department. Mr. Prunty, the battalion chief, would explain to his wife, Susan, that his life depended on his firefighters. They depended on him, too. When he received promotions, his firefighters did not want him to move on. "It truly was a brotherhood," she said. Mr. Prunty was heading into 1 World Trade Center with his firefighters, but his wife thinks he probably had tried to call them out because he was so conscious of their safety. At 57, he was a tall, unassuming man, never the type to dominate a conversation or even brag. But when he did have something to say, his soft-spoken words were usually the strongest and most effective that could be said. Despite his sometimes gruff exterior, his family knew he was a teddy bear. He was protective of his two children, Lisa, and Christopher. His daughter recalls her father's visit when she became so ill at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire that she couldn't finish classes during final exams. He stayed for one week, sleeping on the floor. "I almost didn't graduate and that put me through it," she said.

Richard Bruce Van Hine, known to all as Bruce, had been a firefighter for 12 years, most recently with Squad 41 in the South Bronx. The father of Meghan, and Emily, he was one of six men lost from the squad on Sept. 11. Firefighter Van Hine, 48, had always wanted to be a firefighter, said Ann, his wife. "He was on the list to be a firefighter for seven years," she said. "I am a firm believer in following your dreams, so I encouraged him." But Firefighter Van Hine also loved the outdoors. Even though he took only day hikes, he had completed the New Jersey, New York and Connecticut legs of the Appalachian Trail. A prized memory, Mrs. Van Hine said, was of a five-week camping trip the family took four years ago that included the Badlands of South Dakota, the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone National Park and the Rocky Mountains.

When firefighter Robert Cordice disappeared on Sept. 11, so did the dreams of dozens of bachelorettes. Firefighter Cordice, 28, was a handsome, hulking man, a lover of good drink, beautiful women and fast motorcycles. He was to be a pinup boy, making the cut for the 2002 Fire Department Hunks calendar. "The picture is of him downtown on the Wall Street bull with his shirt off, wearing his bunker pants and suspenders and boots," said his longtime friend John Deliso. Like so many other firefighters, he wanted to be in the thick of the smoke. He was stationed at Engine Company 152 in Staten Island, and decided that he wanted to work somewhere more busy and daring. He transferred to the elite Squad 1 unit in Brooklyn. He had been there only two weeks. He was also a New York City police officer for three years before joining the Fire Department, stationed at the 13th Precinct in Manhattan. "No matter what he was doing, he craved the action," Mr. Deliso said.

Three brothers two firefighters and a police officer went to ground zero on Wednesday, Sept. 12, to search for the fourth: Robert Curatolo, a firefighter and the baby of the family, married only three weeks. They had a pretty good idea where he was, because rescuers had already found the helmet of the lieutenant he had been with. Rescuers had also, it turned out, found Mr. Curatolo's body, under a firetruck. The brothers were told it would be better if someone else made the ID. Quiet Robert, funny Robert, Robert who ironed his clothes and worked two jobs. "He was the cautious one, I was the wild one; I still can't believe this happened," said Billy Curatolo, a firefighter with Engine 243 in Brooklyn. Robert Curatolo, who lived in Staten Island, was off duty when the towers were hit, one of the guys whose shift ended at 9 a.m. He hitched a ride to the scene with a 19th Precinct car. After the first building collapsed he was seen dragging a man with two broken legs to safety, then in an eerie photo snapped by another firefighter heading back to the second building. That is the last image his brothers have of him. "We always have birthday parties for the nieces and the nephews and he was always late and always since he was a teenager he would arrive saying, `Hello, my fans!" said brother Anthony, the cop. "He was always late to everything," said his brother Billy. "Except the World Trade Center. He gets there on time."

If nicknames are a measure of affection, Robert Evans inspired plenty. "To me he was Rob, to Mom he was Bob and to the rest of the world he was Bobby," said his sister, Jeanne Evans, who lived near her brother in Franklin Square, on Long Island. Firefighter Evans, 36, was also known as Jerry Lewis around the Engine Company 33 firehouse in Manhattan, a reference to his practical jokes and big heart. He often called his sister when he got home from work to say he was O.K., but once, catching her asleep, he decided to call back every 15 minutes. (To avoid retaliation, he then turned off his phone.) "He was very, very protective, especially of me and my mom," his sister said. "I remember when he went sky diving, he didn't tell me about it. He comes over one day and says, 'Check out this tape.' I look at the TV and it's him sky diving. I said, 'Why would you go without me?' He says, 'There's only two of us, so only one can go at a time.'"

"Bobby Hamilton's whole career was in the South Bronx. He's the classic city fireman," said longtime friend and South Bronx resident Marty Rogers. "Bobby kept the door (to the firehouse) open, and his heart was always open."Rogers said Hamilton, 43, cut an impressive figure. He stood over 6 feet and was a strapping 230 pounds. Always ready with a bright smile, the square-jawed Hamilton would watch the block from a chair in front of the Squad 41 firehouse, a special operations unit on E. 150th St., said Rogers. Hamilton was one of six firefighters from the elite outfit that perished during the terrorist attacks. In between fires, Hamilton would fill the tires of bicycles belonging to local kids or place a sprinkler cap on a fire hydrant to cool them off on a hot summer day. On Thanksgiving Day, he was known as the "yam man" over at Immaculate Conception Church in the South Bronx. "Bobby would cook yams for over 400 people," said Rogers, referring to a dinner for senior citizens and the homeless. "That was his job. The yams were good. It would be piping hot on 25 trays."Hamilton grew up on Forest Ave. in Ridgewood, Queens, and married his high school sweetheart, Elizabeth, from Christ the King. As a giant 50-foot flag fluttered in the wind, Hamilton was given a final salute with a helicopter fly-by before his coffin was lowered into a grave at nearby St. Mary's Cemetery.

To know Robert Foti, 43, meet his children: Alycia, Robert Jr., and James. Robert Jr. walked down a snowy mountain — twice — to retrieve a stranger's snowboard. When Alycia was 11, she spent the holidays with her stepmother's family and cheerfully helped out in the kitchen. James, little James, is obsessed with the twin towers that claimed his father's life. For a while Engine 16 and Ladder 7 displayed a snapshot of James and his father that was hard to forget. The "Santa Claus picture," Firefighter Foti's wife, Mary Grace, calls it. She saw them in the bathtub with soapsuds beards like Santas. She ran to get the camera. "You can't take our picture," Firefighter Foti protested, laughing. He was chewing a cigar and had his arm around James. "But it's so cute," Mrs. Foti said, snapping the picture. Now James says, "My daddy died in the twin towers," to everyone he meets. "He was always stopping to help someone or doing the dishes," Mrs. Foti said. "He would go on all the field trips with the mothers. It was his nature to help others, which explains why he became a fireman."

Jennifer Eppolito has dozens of reasons to call her father, Robert Crawford, great: He would stand outside Brooklyn churches in all kinds of weather, selling raffle tickets to benefit St. Rose's Home, a cancer hospital. When he was honored for his work, he would not want to be in any photographs. He told her, when she was little, "It's more important to listen to what people are saying than it is always to talk." He was a firefighter for 32 1/2 years. "You could ask him about anything, like how does a refrigerator work, and he would be able to sit there and put it into pieces you would understand," she said. When Mrs. Eppolito's daughter, Alexandra, was born, Mr. Crawford took flowers in a vase with the Virgin Mary on it. He taught Alexandra her address by the time she was 2. He called her Poo Poo, and at 62, played Barbies with her. "To describe my father as great, that's not even a good enough word," Mrs. Eppolito said. "I was lucky for him to be my father. There is no other man that, in my eyes, could stand up to him."

Robert C. King Jr. was married on a Saturday and had to be back at the Fire Academy nine days later. On their honeymoon, the couple read academy manuals and practiced tying emergency knots. "For the nine years he was on the job, he always came home happy," Theresa King said. Firefighter King, 36, was an avid woodworker. His company, Engine 33 in the East Village, eats off a trestle table he made that seats more than 20. Expanding the wood shop in the firehouse basement, he made a table for the watch room, and cabinets for some firefighter friends who had helped him work on his house in Bellerose Terrace, on Long Island. At home, there were the bunk beds for his two boys, and paneling and more cabinets. Theresa King's favorite piece is a waist-high oak Quaker table for her vestibule. His sister Joann DeTommaso's favorite is a wooden dump truck he made for her son. His mother, Audrey, loves a jewelry box he fashioned. And Adirondack chairs, big and child-size. His children are Thomas, Elizabeth, and Stephen.

Robert T. Lane was a man whose size might have been intimidating were it not for his magnetic smile. Name a sport, and this towering firefighter played it, but his favorite hobby was cooking. "He'd go to restaurants and try to duplicate their food back at the firehouse," said his mother, Janet Lane. Mr. Lane started work at Engine Company 55 three years ago this month. That was fitting, because November was the month his parents married and the month he and his sister were born. This November, on their anniversary, the Lanes dined at Trattoria Romana, a restaurant near their Staten Island home. They ordered shrimp fra diavolo over linguine -- their son's favorite dish. They paid the check with a gift certificate he had given them. Mr. Lane would have turned 29 on Nov. 29, 2001 and his family planned to take a cake, lighted with candles, to the site of the World Trade Center on that day. But they learned that their son's body might have been among a group retrieved from the rubble, something that will take weeks to confirm. So now they will have their cake at home, his mother said, "and hope he isn't down under there anymore."

Robert Linnane was a horrible dresser. With the ridiculous bright red shorts that he jogged in while training to join the Fire Department and the mismatched get-ups that he called evening wear, he was a walking affront to the eyes. "We would have to make him go inside and change," said Al Belfiore, a friend. This shortcoming was tolerated by Firefighter Linnane's friends all over the world because of his cheerful, easygoing and tolerant personality. An enthusiastic traveler, he had worked for Delta Air Lines for nearly a decade before becoming a firefighter. He took every opportunity to fly off and meet new people, and he often had a pass to bring one of his New York friends along. "It was a life that people liked hearing stories about," said his brother Vincent. It was a life that ended at 33 as a New York firefighter — he had passed the daunting physical tests and joined the department after his 30th birthday. His body was identified by the Grateful Dead tattoo on his ankle. His favorite song, a Dead standard titled "Sugaree," says: I'll meet you at the Jubilee if that Jubilee don't come Maybe I'll meet you on the run.

Robert Dismas McMahon, 35, firefighter, FDNY, Ladder 20. A nine-year FDNY veteran, McMahon was working toward a bachelor's degree in fine arts. McMahon was a photographer, golfer, carpenter, landscape painter, and chef. His recipe for lasagna, which his firehouse often enjoyed, was printed in a GQ magazine article on 'guy food.' McMahon also volunteered at a camp for sick kids, where he met his wife, the mother of his two children.

Robert William McPadden, 30, firefighter, FDNY, Engine 23. McPadden was continuing his family's proud tradition of public service when he joined the FDNY. His father had served the department for almost 40 years, and his brother and sister are both police officers. While he waited for an opening in the FDNY, he earned a graduate degree in criminal justice and played a lot of Jeopardy. He and his wife had just bought a home in Pearl River so they could be closer to family and friends.

Bob served his country in the U.S. Navy aboard the USS Boston in Vietnam. He received the National Defense Service Medal; Vietnam Service Medal with three Bronze Stars, Vietnam Campaign Medal and a Combat Action Ribbon. Bob had a 24-year career with Ladder Co. 25 and a 20-year career with St. Vincent’s Hospital in Harrison, NY, serving as their safety and security supervisor. In 1997, Bob graduated with high honors, summa cum laude, from John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City at the same time celebrating his 50th birthday. Bob loved his family, his Ladder 25 family, and was always in the service of others. He was a loving and dedicated husband and stepfather to Peter and Roseann, and a good friend. He will always be remembered for his love of life, compassionate heart, witty sense of humor, his infectious laugh, and his beautiful smile and the twinkle in his eyes.

His wife used to tease Robert Nagel that he never watched any television channel below the number 13. He could not stand commercials, and therefore commercial television. Instead, he watched black-and-white movies on cable (though the spread of commercials to cable did not please him), and he was faithful to the History Channel, no matter what was on it. His wife, Janet, has not been able to bring herself to watch that channel since Sept. 11. Lt. Nagel, a member of Engine Company 58, lived in Manhattan with his wife and their daughter, Bridget. The other thing that captivated him was science-fiction; hundreds of science-fiction books were spread around the house. He was the type of person who let people know what was on his mind. He was blunt. He was opinionated. "He didn't like things to be bottled up," Mrs. Nagel said. He could discourse at considerable length on almost any subject. It was not unknown for his monologues to well exceed the listening patience of his friends. When he sensed a distinct waning of interest, he would quickly inject the phrase, "and furthermore," and then stop talking. It became his little joke. Sometimes, someone would say something and he would interject, "and furthermore," and then immediately clam up. Those who knew him just chuckled, and so did he.

"At the firehouse they called him Little Man," Robert Parro's brother John said. "Because he was kind of the smallest guy there, but when he got on the fire truck, they said he grew like six inches." He was born to be a firefighter, his mother, Virginia Parro, recalled. A firefighter, and a helper. On his days off, he worked as a handyman, and his friends and neighbors benefited from his expertise. "He'd be the first person there to help you," said John Daly of Levittown, N.Y., who grew up there with Mr. Parro. "Anything to do in the house, sheetrocking a room, something with plumbing, all you had to do was call and he was there." Mr. Parro, and Mr. Daly were part of a group of about 10 couples in Levittown who would travel together. It started with the guys camping or hunting together, then later everyone went to Acapulco or the Bahamas. The group even joined Mr. Daly on his honeymoon. Once children arrived -- Mr. Parro leaves a wife, Karen, and a son, John, -- the gang began going up to Lake George. "It's going to be tough this year," Mr. Daly said. "We want to go. We want to still do that."

When Robert Regan first met Donna Wells, he was 21 and she was 15. He was tall, dark-haired, and "had the most beautiful blue-green eyes that you ever wanted to see," she remembered. She was having trouble with geometry, and he helped her with her homework. They started dating. "It was a big scandal back then," she said. But Mr. Regan was the quietly determined sort and a friend of Donna's older sister, so her parents eventually gave their permission for them to go out. They married, and Mr. Regan became a civil engineer. But when Caitlin, their daughter, was born, Mr. Regan quit his job to join the Fire Department so he could have more flexible hours and spend more time with the baby. Four years later, Brendan was born. "He was Mr. Mom," Mrs. Regan said of her husband's delight in his children. Lieutenant Regan, 48, was a member of Engine Company 205, Ladder Company 118 in Brooklyn Heights, and when word came of the World Trade Center attack, he and his fellow firefighters sped to the scene. "There was never a day that went by that we didn't know what we had," Mrs. Regan said. "We told our kids not everybody gets to be as happy as we are."

When the Spear family had not heard from "Robbie," as they called 30-year-old Robert W. Spear Jr., a firefighter, by late afternoon on Sept. 11, they began to worry. He was always in constant contact with his wife and mother, sometimes having rushed cellphone conversations from the back of a speeding fire truck. The family's thoughts had been centered on Timothy A. Haviland, Firefighter Spear's brother-in-law, whose office on the 96th floor in tower one of the trade center they saw burning on television. "I didn't think my son was there," said Irene Spear DeSantis, Firefighter Spear's mother. "But of course he would have been there. This is a man who took a sizable pay cut to join the Fire Department. Anything he did, he did 150 percent." Firefighter Spear took the entrance test for the Fire Department almost 10 years ago, but it was not hiring at the time, his mother said, so he climbed the ranks in other occupations instead. When the department finally did call, there was no hesitation. "And he loved it," his mother said of his job with Engine Company 26 in the South Bronx. "He loved the camaraderie."

Nancy Wallace remembers Robert, her husband of 21 years, for his wacky sense of humor and the way he took every little car breakdown in stride. And there were many. "We put three engines in it, and two trannies," she said of the family's Jeep Wagoneer. "Half the time we didn't make it to where we were going." She remembers him trudging through the snow to buy baby aspirin when the family was stuck in a snowstorm in the early 1980's. And she remembered how after those babies had turned into teenagers, the whole family — their four children and a nephew — slept in the broken-down Wagoneer on the highway because nearby hotels were full. Lieutenant Wallace, 43, followed his father into firefighting, and was known for pointing at the sky above Engine 205 in Brooklyn Heights, just to get people to look up, too. "My family used to tease him," Mrs. Wallace recalled, "and he'd say, `No, I'm going off to fight fires and save the people of New York.' "We'd say, `Oh, get outta here,' and he'd say, `I'm going to go fight fires and save the people of New York.' "

Ronny Kerwin was the fun parent, according to his wife, Dianne. "He was the spontaneous one," she said. It was not unusual for him to suggest a drive to Robert Moses State Park to see the deer, to take the family bowling on the spur of the moment or to plan a trip to Disney World. His wife doesn't know how those moments will happen now that Kerwin is gone, and she thinks her three children wonder who will plan those family outings. "I guess that's the way I'll grow," she said. A lieutenant in Fire Squad 288 in Maspeth, Kerwin, 42, of Levittown, is missing in the terrorist attacks. Kerwin, who was a member of the New York City Fire Department for 20 years, had been chief of the Levittown Volunteer Fire Department for the past eight years and a member for 16 years. Married for 16 years, the Kerwins have three children, Ryan, Keith, and Colleen. His wife said she was blessed with a happy and healthy marriage, and she couldn't have asked for a better husband or more harmony. "We made every decision together, even the most simple decision," she said. "That's why it's so hard now."Kerwin had Hofstra University basketball season tickets and would often take his wife and children to see the games. When he was off from work, he would spend time fixing their home or at sports fields rooting his kids on. "We had a lot of quality time together," she said. Throughout their marriage, his wife said, Kerwin never brought the very real risks of his job as a firefighter home with him. "I knew there were dangers, but he sheltered me from that," she said. "You don't want to spend your life thinking, 'Is he coming home?'"

Ronald Bucca was nicknamed "the Flying Fireman" in 1986 after he fell spectacularly from a tenement fire escape, spun around a cable strung through the backyard and lived to tell the tale. And that was just one of his moments. His specialty was rescuing mankind from smoke and flames, but he did not mind scorching certain people with his wit. His colleagues collected "Ron-isms." An example: "This one is as sharp as a basketball." He designed hats for other firemen with details that they found hilarious (but unfortunately, that were not printable). A firefighter for 23 years, the last nine as a fire marshal, he was also a nurse and a reservist in the United States Army's Special Forces. Mr. Bucca trained as an antiterrorist intelligence expert, and when the planes hit the towers on Sept. 11, he called his wife, Eve, and said he was heading to the scene. "He knew it was a terrorist attack," Mrs. Bucca said. "He had been expecting something like that for a very long time." Before that day, his final investigation had involved a young woman who set her former boyfriend's letters on fire and left them to burn in a toilet. He counseled her as a father might. "No guy is worth getting this upset over; don't be too concerned about this guy," he told her, said Keith O'Mara, his partner. "There are a lot of fish in the sea. And if this should ever happen again, think about buying yourself a paper shredder."

One of the most difficult times in Ronnie E. Gies's life came in 2008, when his family's home in Merrick, on Long Island, burned down. It was not so much the destruction that upset Firefighter Gies, 43, of Squad 288 in Maspeth, Queens, but the fact that he was suddenly the recipient of favors and good will from neighbors, instead of being the benefactor. "It was very difficult for him to be receiving and not giving," said his wife, Carol. "Someone would call at 3 in the morning because their toilet was clogged, and Ronnie was there." Luckily, Firefighter Gies was also a carpenter. With a little help, in six months he built the family a new home, with a basement big enough to serve as hang-out headquarters for his sons, Thomas, Ronnie, Robert, and their friends. A couple of years before, Firefighter Gies took the lieutenant's test, after studying for hours at the dining room table. Mrs. Gies was told her husband had been pegged for a promotion on Sept. 10. "It meant a lot to him to be promoted," Mrs. Gies said. "He never knew."

He may have been earning a fireman's salary, but Ronnie Lee Henderson planned all along to turn that into more. He pared money from his paycheck and put it into bonds and mutual funds. In the quiet hours at the Engine Company 279 firehouse in Red Hook, he could be found reading books with titles like "How to Make Money Buying and Selling Houses." "I'd say to him, `What are you doing? You're a fireman, you know what we get paid,' " said a friend, Gary Kakeh. The father of four children, Mr. Henderson also helped raise his five younger siblings. His advice to all of them was consistent: stay in school, save your money. He figured out travel routes that enabled him to avoid paying bridge and tunnel tolls, and would stand in line for hours to get the store specials, said his sister, Sharon. As a teenager, he got a job in a Frito-Lay factory and got to bring home the extra potato chips. Naturally, he shared them with the rest of his family. "And he'd charge us a nickel," she added. "He was always telling us he was going to be a millionaire," Ms. Henderson said. "He was a millionaire, by his heart."

He would start in at 10 in the morning, pestering the men of Engine Company 74 on the Upper West Side for a chance to rule the kitchen for a day. "How 'bout I make some fat boys tonight?" Ruben Correa would say, promising steak-and-cheese hoagies that would make them cry for more. The other firemen say that when they sat down to eat, Firefighter Correa, 44, always watched them dig in before taking his first bite, making sure they liked what he had cooked. The only place that the big former marine liked more than his firehouse was his home. He scrimped and saved and even sold his car to come up with enough money to move his wife, Susan, and their three girls into their own house in Staten Island two years ago. It made for a long commute to the Upper West Side, but it meant the girls could leave their bicycles in the driveway. After years of unmerciful badgering by his colleagues, Firefighter Correa agreed a few years ago to become catcher for the firehouse's softball team. He was called Yogi, and like the Yankee great, he saw the game as "90 percent mental, the other half physical." He had an arm like a wrecking ball, powerful yet unpredictable. But he played like a marine, with guts and grit. "Ruben's greatest fault," said Daniel Murphy, a fellow firefighter who has been the Correa family's liaison with the Fire Department since Sept. 11, "was that he never learned to take the first pitch."

Here is one thing that says a lot about Salvatore B. Calabro: He wore a tattoo of a cross and roses on his right forearm, with the inscription, "In memory of Mom 11-30-89." His mother, Connie, struggled to raise him and his two brothers on her own; he never forgot. Mr. Calabro made his mother proud, a good boy from Bath Beach, Brooklyn, who wore a firefighters' uniform for 14 years, said his father-in-law, Francis Carillo, a retired New York City police officer. Mr. Calabro, 38, built a solid middle class life for his wife, Francene, and two sons, Daniel, and Alexander James. Another thing that spoke to his essence: He was a good son-in-law. It had nothing to do with toeing the line because he married one of two daughters of a police officer. He was just that way, Mr. Carillo said. "When I met him, I had guarded feelings," said Mr. Carillo. "He was marrying my baby daughter. But as I got to know him, all of that went away. He became the son I never had. "He was a gentle person, but he had the heart and courage of a lion," Mr. Carillo said.

Samuel Oitice, 45, firefighter, FDNY, Ladder 4. A life-long Peekskill resident, Oitice worked there as a policeman before joining the FDNY. He was also a member of the Peekskill Volunteer Fire Department. A devoted father of two children, Oitice was active in the local schools. He gave fire safety talks and founded a roller hockey team for teenagers. The Peekskill school district has established a scholarship fund in Oitice's name.

Scott Michael Kopytko, age 32, attended St. John's University where he received a Bachelor of Science, was a member of the honor society, and was one semester away from completing his Master's in Finance. He worked as a Commodities Broker in the World Trade Center and in November 1998 he realized his dream of becoming a New York City Firefighter. He immediately began preparing for the FDNY Lieutenant's exam that he approached with great zeal as he felt the FDNY was his true calling and his lifelong career. His interests varied from world history to the arts, science to pop culture, finance to Ford Mustangs. He loved sports and participated in many--basketball, handball, playing pool, darts and golf to name a few. His quick wit, sense of humor, love of family, friends and his dedication to his job and all the new brothers he had found made him a very special man.

When Scott A. Larsen finished a shift at the firehouse — "He was very good with the tools; he fit right into the place," said Brian Cleary, his friend from Ladder Company 163 — off he'd go in pursuit of more activity, usually with his three children. He outfitted them with Rollerblades, and got them onto their bicycles on summer days. He could spend an entire day at the beach, then fix dinner on the grill. During the midwinter school break, he packed everyone into the car and drove from their home in Glendale, Queens, to Disney World, stopping to spend the night in North Carolina, to buy sparklers in South Carolina, to sample as many Dairy Queens as possible below the Mason-Dixon line. It meant 12 hours of driving at a stretch, but he loved it. On arrival, Firefighter Larsen, who was 35, headed for Space Mountain, where he usually rode solo. "He'd try to convince the kids to go on it," said his wife, Carolann. "Once he bribed them with a stuffed animal. They came off scared like anything." The children are Marisa, Brenda, and Scott. On Sept. 13, their little brother was born. Mrs. Larsen named him August, a name she and her husband had chosen.

Like many adults who are still children at heart, Scott M. Davidson loved Christmas. In fact, his friends in Staten Island called him Christmas Boy. One year he drove up to Perry Seridge's apartment with Christmas tree lights strung around his car, all lighted up. When cautioned that wiring lights to the car battery could be unsafe, he held up a finger and began rummaging through the pile of sweaty basketball clothes in his back seat. After a few minutes, Firefighter Davidson, 33, a member of Ladder Company 118 in Brooklyn Heights, found what he was looking for: a fire extinguisher. Triumphantly, he proclaimed, "I got it covered." Firefighter Davidson was also a bartender; the father of Peter, and Casey, a substitute teacher at Intermediate School 49 near his home in Brooklyn, and an unabashed patriot long before the World Trade Center fire that he died fighting on Sept. 11. "He loved all things American," Mr. Seridge said. "I used to think it was kind of rare, really, especially for a young guy who had never been in a war. Looking at it now, it was nice. He'd be really happy now that everyone would have flags out."

Inside the Ladder Company 20 firehouse, Sean S. Hanley yells: "Mike Hopkins, house phone!" Firefighter Hopkins picks up the receiver and says hello. There's no one on the line, but a big glop of shaving cream, concealed in the earpiece, now covers the side of his head. Through it, he can hear Sean Hanley laughing. At the annual "Tough Man" boxing match between the Police Department and the Fire Department, Firefighter Hanley, summoned to the ring at the last minute, jabs his way to victory. And here's a parade of beautiful women passing the firehouse. They all know Firefighter Hanley, 35. His colleagues complain about having to wait for his leftovers. Hammering together an improved house-watch area, he just laughs. He was Patricia and Gerald Hanley's third son, a New Yorker, and a fearless fireman in a family thick with them. His father, brother and one grandfather all retired from the department; his other grandfather was killed on the job before his probie year was out. On her 60th birthday, Firefighter Hanley's mother got a bouquet of 60 roses from him. And when his brother Gerry mentioned not long ago that his child-care arrangements had fallen through, he said he'd help. It didn't matter that at the time he was sitting in a plane on the runway, about to take off for a vacation in Las Vegas. "Sean got off the plane and said he would watch the kids," his mother said. Las Vegas, he figured, could wait.

Sean Patrick Tallon, 26, was a reservist in the United States Marine Corps, a former emergency medical technician and a probationary firefighter with Ladder Company 10 just a few weeks away from the end of his training. He was tough, but he always wondered whether he measured up. "That's the way he was," said his older sister, Rosaleen DaRos. "He always thought everybody else was capable, but he was just as capable." Take the button accordion that Mr. Tallon loved to play. He would bring out his instrument and play Irish favorites for relatives at family gatherings, with his sister on the piano accordion. But he rarely played for friends; some of them didn't even know he could play an instrument. When he left for work from his home in Yonkers on Sept. 11, headed for the fire station that was among the first to respond to the trade center attack, he seemed in a buoyant mood. His probationary period was almost over and a new challenge lay ahead. "He wanted to find Mrs. Right," Mrs. DaRos said. "That is what he said was his next mission. He said his probie year was almost finished and he wanted to start with the rest of his life. Everything was just all ready. He had just blossomed."

It was Sunday afternoon, Sept. 9, and the game was scoreless with just minutes left to play. Suddenly Sergio Villanueva sped down the field, whacked the ball with his foot, and goal! The Fire Department won, 1-0. A native of Argentina, Firefighter Villanueva, 33, loved soccer. Tanya Villanueva, his fiancée, used to have to put on a special hat with bells dangling from it, as well as a jersey from an Argentine team, and run through the house shouting, "Goal!" when an important match was on television. "He was a huge soccer fan," she said. He also enjoyed a fine cigar and knew his red wines, and around Ladder Company 132 in Brooklyn, he made a name for himself in the kitchen. While "firehouse cuisine" can be an oxymoron, when it was Firefighter Villanueva's turn at the stove, his company feasted on pasta, chicken and other Italian dishes. As a child, he had learned to cook at his father's restaurant, Piccolo San Marino in Bayside, and remembered the recipes (along with the words to all of Barry Manilow's songs) all his life. Before becoming a firefighter, he spent eight years as a police officer, battling robbers and drug dealers. One of his partners in the Bronx precinct where he started out thought of him as the consummate transplanted New Yorker. "He loved New York, loved his country, loved Queens," said Lt. Rick Miller, "and he would go hoarse for three days after an Argentine soccer game."

Shawn E. Powell was the firefighter with the light touch. Whether working at Engine Company 207 in downtown Brooklyn, at home in Crown Heights, or camping with his 5- year-old son, Joshua, he had a way of lifting spirits. "If there wasn't any fun going on, he would find a way," said Matthew Dwyer, a fellow firefighter. "With Shawn, the glass was half full, never half empty." Firefighter Powell, 32, brought unusual skills to the Fire Department. An artist and woodcarver, he had built props and volunteered at several New York City theaters, including the Apollo Theater, and studied architecture at New York Technical College. At Engine Company 207 — where the slogan is "The House of Misfit Toys" because of the company's specialized, somewhat bizarre-looking fire-fighting equipment — Mr. Powell made the point in comic relief with a poster that includes a square- wheeled fire engine. Firefighter Powell and his wife, Jean, who had been teenage sweethearts in Brooklyn, married in 1989 and moved immediately to Germany, where he served four years in the Army. Firefighter Powell's passion had been camping with Joshua. On several trips to lakes and state parks in New Jersey, he was teaching the boy to make a campfire and put up a tent and had planned another father-son outing soon after Sept. 11.

Her joke about Firefighter Stanley Smagala was that he was a good wife, said his wife, Dena Smagala. He cooked. He cleaned. He was handy. He was looking forward to having a family. Firefighter Smagala's first child was born on Jan. 11, four months to the day he died at the World Trade Center as part of the team from Engine Company 226 in Brooklyn. He was 36. "He loved kids and wanted a big family," Mrs. Smagala said. "He was very much looking forward to this baby." Her husband's best qualities, his sense of humor and ease with people, were on display when he came to speak about fire safety to the fourth-grade class she taught on Seaford, on Long Island. "He'd act like a little kid," she said. "He had a big heart for children." Michael Mason, a firefighter at Engine Company 226, said: "He was a real sweetheart, Stan. He was a good fireman. He cared about people and wasn't afraid to do the job." Firefighter Mason recalled that Firefighter Smagala, a big golfer and softball player, had a reputation as a Ping-Pong player. "He'd always joke around, even at the worst of times," Firefighter Mason said. "I understand that he was laughing that day, on the way to the Towers. He was a real good guy."

Stephen E. Belson, 51, had different nicknames from different stages of his life. At Rockaway Beach, where he worked after college as a lifeguard, he was known as Bells. But at the fire station on West 31st Street in Manhattan where he spent most of his career as a firefighter, he was given the title "Mr. Ladder 24." "He was our ambassador, so to speak," said John Montani, another firefighter in Ladder Company 24. Firefighter Belson attended all the functions, was always available for holiday duty and could back a fire engine into a station in five seconds flat. His last job was as a driver for one of the battalion chiefs, Orio J. Palmer. Both rushed to the World Trade Center on Sept. 11; neither returned. Before he joined the department, Firefighter Belson was something of a beach bum, a surfer, a devotee of the Grateful Dead and Hot Tuna, or as one friend said, a free spirit. Then, one day, he and his lifeguard buddies decided to get real jobs. "We took the Fire Department tests on a lark, and found a calling," said John Maguire. Firefighter Belson who grew up in Flushing, Queens, moved to Rockaway Beach, bought a house and fit right into the tightknit community of firefighters and police officers. Unlike many of his neighbors, he wasn't Irish or Roman Catholic. But that made no difference. "While he was Jewish, he was considered one of them," said his mother, Madeline Brandstadter. "They even named a beach after him: Bells's Beach."

Ask any one of his many friends and they'll say with certainty that the fire lieutenant who was killed on Sept. 11 was there in spirit at the inaugural Stephen "Hangdown" Harrell Memorial Jam yesterday--and loving every minute. A talented singer, songwriter and musician, "He would be the first guy to step up and play for a benefit like we're doing for him today," said Kevin Kelly, a friend and fellow firefighter. Kelly, along with Harrell's friends Jim Steinhilber, Mike King and Dennis Barnes, organized the event, held to benefit the Elsasser Fund, Firefighters Transport Foundation and the Holly Rae Harrell Fund, established in his 7-year-old daughter's name. Raised in Midland Beach, Harrell, a 15-year veteran of the department, was a resident of Warwick, N.Y. Promoted to lieutenant in 1998, Harrell, 44, was assigned to Ladder Co. 157, Brooklyn, but was working at Ladder Co. 10 across the street from the World Trade Center when the attacks took place. Harrell was the officer on duty with the "probies" -- probationary firefighters -- on Sept. 11, and the unit was among the first units to respond to when Tower 1 was hit. "On Sept. 11 when we were going in there, they knew what was going to happen, but we couldn't stop them," said Capt. Mike Meagher of Engine Co. 255, Ladder 157. "Steve was the first guy up the stairs. "He was the highest one up in that building," said Steve Stora, a firefighter who worked with Harrell. "The guys took a break on the 35th floor, and he just kept on going. He knew there were people who needed help. He just kept going." Harrell's brother Harvey, 49, a lieutenant with Rescue Co. 5, Concord, was also killed when the Twin Towers collapsed. "We were devastated to lose them, but on the other hand, we couldn't be more proud of them," Meagher said of the brothers, who he said were known as "the Twin Towers of Midland Beach" when they were younger.

Stephen P. Russell was a firefighter who worked wonders with wood. He built furniture and cabinets and once even made a wave-skipping hydroplane that he raced around Jamaica Bay. Firefighter Russell, of Engine Company 55, also built a display case at his fire station in Little Italy that became a memorial to him and four colleagues who died at the World Trade Center. Black-framed pictures of them now hang there. Firefighter Russell, 40, grew up in Rockaway Beach, Queens, in a house on the edge of the bay, and he loved the water. He sailed. He water-skied. He became a master scuba diver. The youngest of three sons, he was close to his parents, Marie and Clifford Russell, and except for one brief time when he tried selling penny stocks, he never moved out of the family home. One New Year's Eve, he began a long romance with Rhonda Cohen, an administrative assistant at Ernst & Young. They traveled to Las Vegas and New Orleans, and they both loved the cockatiel that he had taught to whistle "Tequila." They never made it to the altar. But they were as much of a couple as a couple could be.

Steve Siller was an orphan at age 10 – his mother died of cancer his father from a blood clot -- and he spent his childhood in the care of his sisters and brothers. "He accepted what was handed to him," his wife, Sally. "He lived life to its fullest. People meant everything to him." A typical day for Mr. Siller, 34, went something like this: work a 24-hour shift and then golf with his brothers; go home and have lunch with his wife; take the children to the park; help the neighbor with a flat and then go to bed. He was a fireman with the Squad 1 company in Park Slope, Brooklyn, who died helping people. He was last seen running through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel on Sept. 11 with his bunker gear under his arm. His brother George wrote a poem for his memorial. It reads, in part: What to say to his five children and wife? How do I try to explain what's ahead in their life? I'll tell them their father was a saint and a hero, Who fought courageously, the battle at ground zero

While growing up in the Bronx, Steve Mercado wanted to play for the Yankees. And even though he ended up becoming a firefighter, he did not exactly leave his boyhood dream behind. He played softball with other firefighters. He presided over a stickball league. And he was helping to create a baseball and stickball league for children under 9. "He had his fingers in everything," said his mother, Mary Mercado. "Every time someone calls, I say, `I didn't know that.' " But Mr. Mercado, 38, who remained in the Bronx with his wife and two sons, also loved being a firefighter, his mother said. He was one of 11 firefighters missing from Engine 40, Ladder 35 in Manhattan. His parents, who live in Florida, visited the firehouse and were greeted with hugs and kisses from firefighters and strangers alike. "They cry with us," Mrs. Mercado said of the strangers dropping off flowers, food and money at the firehouse. "New York City has been great. They feel the pain." But none more than her son's Fire Department brothers, she said. "The firemen are the ones that are hurting," Mrs. Mercado said. "I'm very proud of him," she said. "He's a great son."

Steven Coakley, a firefighter with Engine Company 217 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, had just finished a full shift and was preparing to leave the station house when the alarm rang on Sept. 11. Working long hours was not unusual for him. Mr. Coakley, 36, would often work back-to-back shifts for two weeks so that he could spend the rest of the month either boating or at his house in Madeira Beach, Fla., near St. Petersburg. He liked life in Florida so much that he planned to retire and live there full time. "He had just a few years to go," said Linda New, who had been dating Mr. Coakley for about a year. "He used to say, '41 and done.'" He cherished his time off, but being a firefighter was also a passion. "He liked working at the firehouse in Bed-Stuy," Ms. New said. "It was an A house, with a lot of action." Ms. New said Mr. Coakley never talked much about the dangerous parts of his job, but would tell stories about the lighter aspects. "He delivered five babies," she said. "Two to the same mother, but at different times." A man who did not waste words, Mr. Coakley worked hard and played hard. "Steve was really pretty young," said John Kauzlarich, a friend in Florida. "It wasn't easy to keep up with him."

Although Stephen J. Bates liked the solitude of athletic competitions like running, swimming and bicycling, he was a team player. Period. That was why he worked for 18 years as a New York City firefighter. The lieutenant liked the way firefighters relied on one another while sticking to their vows to save lives and put out fires. Most of all, Lieutenant Bates liked the automatic brotherhood of the job. It gave him the family he always wanted. His mother died when he was 15, and he was estranged from his father, said his girlfriend, Joan Puwalski. He frequently took family- style dinners with the firefighters at his stationhouse, Engine Company 235 in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. He liked cooking family dinners for the gang; sauerbraten was his best dish. The other members of his family were two big dogs who lived in the home that he shared with Ms. Puwalski in Glendale, Queens: Samantha, a 105-pound yellow Laborador retriever, and Norton, an 85- pound mutt. "He called them his babies," Ms. Puwalski said. "Sometimes the four of us would sleep together in our queen-size bed." That was a squeeze, considering that Lieutenant Bates was a big man, standing exactly 6 feet and weighing 235 pounds.

Every firehouse has an array of personalities, from pranksters to perfectionists. At Ladder Company 3, on East 13th Street, Steven Olson was known as "the rock." Cheerful, optimistic, diligent, reliable, Firefighter Olson arrived in 1989, fresh out of the Fire Academy, and never left. He proved to be an excellent probie, short for probationary firefighter. Lately, whenever the older firefighters would try to push a little extra work out of the newest recruits, they would hold him up as an example. "We'd say, 'There hasn't been a good probie here for 12 years, not since Steve Olson,'" said Rob Burmeister, a friend and fellow member of Ladder 3. "He was full of energy. He never sat down." Firefighter Olson, 38, turned himself into a top fireman. In the 12 years they spent together, his colleagues watched him marry and become the devoted father of two daughters. In the quieter moments at Ladder 3, he'd work on crossword puzzles, usually with a pen. "He was a confident guy," Firefighter Burmeister said. At fires, "you always felt comfortable working with him," he added. "If you were in trouble, he was coming to get you."

Firefighter Tarel Coleman's friends, co-workers and football teammates called him "Prozac." Not because he took the mood-balancing drug, but because sometimes he needed to calm down a little. While many people have a childhood story involving matches, Firefighter Coleman's firebug past cost him some hair. At 5, he stuck his head into the incinerator in his family's apartment building in Queens. "We didn't notice anything," Firefighter Coleman's brother, John Coleman Jr. , also a firefighter, "until we got upstairs and saw that he had no eyebrows, no eyelashes and no hairline." His chattiness and high-strung curiosity were viewed as charm by his friends. Whenever he prepared a lasagna dinner for his mother, Laurel Jackson, in her Jamaica, Queens, home, she would just watch her son patiently, with her head propped on her hand. "You couldn't stop him," she said. "You had to sit there and listen." Firefighter Coleman, 32, had an intensity that was viewed with dread by his team's opponents and by the referees of the league games he played for the Fire Department. Everyone knew, after all, that he did not suffer bad calls gladly.

Terence S. Hatton did not like surprises. A captain in the Fire Department, he took his squad to tour buildings when there were no smoke or flames, or people to rescue. "He was very knowledgeable about the history of Manhattan and its buildings," said Alfred Benjamin, a firefighter who was a member of the captain's squad at Rescue Company 1 in Times Square. Captain Hatton was a 20-year veteran of the department. The firehouse is an elite force of about 25 firefighters, whose mission is to perform rescues. It is one of the busiest houses in the city, with 10 runs a day -- very few of them are false alarms. Captain Hatton, 41, once took his rescue team on a drill to a small theater on 43rd Street, off Eighth Avenue, so that they would know what to expect. "The theater looks small from the outside, but it's a tremendous building," Mr. Benjamin said. "It has sub-cellars, and the performers have dressing rooms in one of the basements. We wouldn't have known that if we hadn't done the drill."

The life of Terence McShane, so full and so brief, could be measured by his friendships. There were the buddies from Sts. Cyril and Methodius parish, St. Anthony's High School, lifeguarding, Siena College, rugby, his decade as a New York police officer, and the two years he spent as a city firefighter. "Terence was still friendly with guys he went to nursery school with," said his older brother, Kieran. "He'd bump into someone and start talking, and I'd say, `Who was that?' " "Some girl I went to third grade with," he would answer. What drew people to him? Maybe it was the way he had mastered the art of drawing the best from small moments. Take one of his approaches to fatherhood: pushing a kids-packed stroller while in-line skating. Shirtless. Along Montauk Highway. Mr. McShane, 37; his wife, Cathy; and their three children had been living at a relative's house while their home in West Islip, on Long Island, underwent a wholesale renovation. And when he disappeared in the firestorm of Sept. 11, the buddies of McShane banded together to finish the job. Cathy McShane was back at the house a couple of weeks, preparing it for her family's first night there in months, when four men in uniform appeared at the door with the awful but welcome news: they had found her beloved Terence's remains. "I told everyone all along that I didn't want to come back to the house without him," she said. "And in a way, I didn't."

Terrence P. Farrell lived close to the flame, said his brother Dennis. As a transit police officer, Terrence Farrell's specialty had been disasters. In the Fire Department, he joined Rescue Company 4, an elite unit specially trained to do things like extricate people from collapsed buildings. Mr. Farrell, who was 45, was not simply a New York City firefighter. He was also a volunteer fireman near his home in Huntington, N.Y., a part-time construction contractor and a father of two. And, a few years back, he helped save the life of a child in Nevada by donating his bone marrow. When Mr. Farrell joined the department, his blood had been tested as part of a program to screen for potential bone marrow donors, Dennis Farrell said. Told years later that his blood matched that of a small girl dying of t-cell lymphoma, he underwent the painful process of marrow extraction. A year later, he learned that the child was considered cured. She and her family flew to New York and had lunch with him at the World Trade Center, his brother said. On Nov. 1, they were back. Fellow firefighters had raised $3,000 to fly them to New York for Mr. Farrell's funeral because they did not have the money.

Like a tree, or a starfish, Thomas A. Gardner reached in many different directions. He was a 39-year-old firefighter who spent more than a dozen years battling blazes in Harlem, then moved on to the city's elite hazardous-materials unit in Queens. He was a father and husband who taught his family to love canoeing and hiking and animals the way he did. He was an aspiring science teacher, who put himself through Queens College while working full time at that Harlem firehouse. He could wing one-liners with the best of them, and sold jokes to Henny Youngman and Joan Rivers. He also played hockey for a Long Island team, with his older brother, Joseph. And with a fellow firefighter from Hazardous Materials Company No. 1, he performed in a comedy routine broadcast on a Long Island radio station. "Originally, he was supposed to sit in the back and pass ideas along," said his wife, Liz. But sitting in the back was not his style. At Queens College, his professors were amazed by his inquisitiveness and enthusiasm. "He had this intense curiosity about all the aspects of science," said one of them, Mark G. Miksic. At one point, they invited him to lecture, and he was a hit. Now the college has the Thomas A. Gardner Award, for students planning to teach science. "There are a lot of people who are full of themselves, but Tom was never full of himself," said Rob Koudelka, his friend from Engine Company 59, known as the Harlem Zoo. "He never thought he was the smartest guy. He wanted to become smarter. And he never thought he was the best at anything. He wanted to get better."

Thomas A. Casoria waited almost five years, after taking his exam, to be called to his job at the Fire Department. After almost three years on the job he was with Engine 22 on East 85th Street. Firefighter Casoria was last heard from, according to his father, Carlo, when he radioed his captain to say that he and two other firefighters were helping a paraplegic down the stairs from the fifth floor of 1 World Trade Center and, a little later, when he radioed that a fireman was down. Firefighter Casoria, 29, grew up in Whitestone, Queens. At Holy Cross High School in Flushing, Queens, he played second base and was captain of his baseball team and was an all-city football player. Once in the Fire Department, he switched to softball and played second base on the department team. He "made plays they can't believe he made," his father said. Tommy's brother, Carlo, who is also a firefighter, was in the same class at the academy. "He was my go-to guy," Carlo said. "He would be there for me." With his firefighting career under way, Thomas Casoria had time to think of his future and make his mother, Judy, happy.

Capt. Thomas Farino was the rock on which his wife, Mary, built her life. He was the baby in a family of six boys, sons of a New York City policeman. He was captain of Engine Company 26 in Manhattan, doing a job he loved. He was posthumously promoted to battalion chief. "I never knew anyone who woke up in the morning happy to go to work," said Mrs. Farino. And his schedule allowed for a lot of family time. For their children, Jane and James, it was like having another mother -- "five out of seven days they'd have Daddy at home." "I'm not making it a fairy tale, everyone has good times and bad times," she said. But the good times were rolling recently -- a new house, the fourth trip to Disney World. "He was the most content person I've ever met," Mrs. Farino said. Throughout their 20 years together, she said, he would tell her: "Love me all you want, want me all you want, but don't need me so much. You have to get your strength from someone higher than me." After the attack, she thought: "Wow, this is what he was talking about. It was a gift he gave me by telling me I'm stronger than I think -- I know how happy he would feel to know that I believe I am stronger."

Sometimes the spotlight lands on a New York City firefighter and just stays there. That's what happened to Thomas Foley, 32, a member of Rescue Company 3 in the Bronx. Two summers ago he helped rescue construction workers dangling from a broken scaffold 12 stories above the street. "Don't worry," he told one of them. "You'll be going home to your family tonight." He got plenty of TV time for that, which blossomed into bit parts in "Third Watch" and "The Sopranos." Then he posed shirtless for People magazine's list of 100 most eligible bachelors in 2000. "It was one of the most popular photos in that issue," said Carol Wallace, People's managing editor. Mr. Foley, who lived in Nyack, N.Y., started out shy, said Joanne Foley Gross, his sister. But as an adult, he pursued interests like bull riding and hunting and turned his German shorthaired pointer, Maggie, into a field-trial champion. He was "always the life of the party," said Danny Foley, his brother and a firefighter with Engine Company 68. When it came to firefighting, "he said it was the best job in the world and he would never give it up, ever," remembered a cousin, Christina Cimmino. "No matter how famous he got."

He loved the old-time Latin Mass and drove his family all the way from their home in Babylon to Ave Maria Chapel in Westbury to hear it each week. On the back of his car was one of those bumper stickers that read "Keep Christ in Christmas."And Rescue 3 firefighter Thomas Gambino Jr. kept the church's rules about meatless Fridays, though when it was steak night at his Bronx firehouse he'd make sure his company saved him one."At 12 o'clock midnight, he'd be looking for his meat," recalled Rescue 3 Lt. Gerry Murtha with a laugh. "They used to tease him that they'd eaten it."Gambino, 48, who attended Farmingdale High School when it was split among jocks, greasers and other students, was a kind-hearted teenager who got along easily with all kinds of people, recalled Murtha, who first met Gambino in sixth grade. He poured his considerable strength into weightlifting before it was fashionable, founding the school's weightlifting club, and always had a smile on his face.Gambino joined the New York Fire Department 17 years ago and spent most of his career there in Engine Co. 163 in Woodside. But he was always looking for more of a challenge, and Murtha helped him join the busy rescue company. Gambino was remembered with a traditional Latin Requiem Mass at Ave Maria.Family values was the watchword for this firefighter, whose spare time was devoted to his wife, Janet, and their two sons, Tommy and Brian, and to the life of their church. The boys were altar boys at Ave Maria, and when they got interested in surfing, Gambino went along with them to Robert Moses Beach. "A lot of boys that age wouldn't want their father coming down to the beach with them," Murtha said, "but they loved it."

Thomas Hannafin was a high school and college basketball star on Staten Island. When he followed his eldest brother, Kevin, into the Fire Department, he joined Ladder Company 5 in Greenwich Village. The captain there, John Drennan, a football coach on Staten Island, was building the firehouse into an athletic powerhouse, Kevin said. Then Captain Drennan and two others in the company died from injuries in a 1994 fire. "Being so young on the job, it affected him deeply," Kevin, a member of another company in Brooklyn, said of his brother. On Friday, Kevin was part of a search team, including members of Ladder 5, that found the bodies of Thomas, 36, and four other members of his group in the mound of trade center rubble. Kevin carried his brother's helmet out of the wreckage. "It was the proudest moment of my life," he said. "It means a lot for firefighters, in firefighter tradition, that members of their company carry them out. That day, I was part of that company."

Thomas Hetzel, 33, was attached to Ladder Co. 13 on the upper east side and is believed to have been rescuing victims at Two World Trade Center when it collapsed. An Elmont resident, Hetzel went to H. Frank Carey High School in Franklin Square and studied liberal arts at Nassau Community College. A firefighter for more than five years in the city, he also was a member for 15 years of the Franklin Square Volunteer Fire Department. "He wanted to be a firefighter since he was 5," said his sister, Doreen Hetzel. She recalled that as a youngster he once painted his bicycle red to emulate a fire engine. Hetzel received a commendation from the city because of his efforts in helping motorists during a major flood on FDR Drive. He is survived by his wife, Diana, and a daughter, Amanda.

Colleen Fitzpatrick was introduced to Tom P. Holohan through a mutual friend at a bar. "A big blond guy named Eric came to greet me as I walked in the door," she said, "but I wanted Tom" he was the guy leaning back in a seat, quiet and smiling. When they were newlyweds, Mr. Holohan, an auditor at Manhattan Trust, became eligible for a firefighter's spot. "I didn't want him to go," said his wife, now Colleen Holohan. "But he was so happy. Being a firefighter was his boyhood dream." When Mrs. Holohan was pregnant with their third child, Liam, the young couple bought a piece of land in Chester, N.Y., and started building their dream house. It was a two-story colonial with four bedrooms. "In June 2000, we moved into a new house with a new baby." He was the soccer dad who helped coach the football team of Thomas, and brought Caitlyn, to the soccer fields. He took them to see "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," the "Pokemon" movies and "Shrek" as soon as they were released, and read them bedtime stories, tucked them in and kissed them goodnight every night he was home. "He enjoyed every minute of being with us," said Mrs. Holohan. "I just wish it were longer." Mr. Holohan, 36, was a member of Engine Company 6 in Manhattan.

Thomas J. Kennedy had the sort of welcoming face that babies and children love. Wherever he went, they would try to make friends. "He would treat kids as if they were adults," said a brother, Bob. "Then he could play the kid himself, at the same time." A firefighter with Ladder Company 101 in Brooklyn, Mr. Kennedy, 36, wanted five children of his own. He and his wife, Allison, had two children and planned to have another, Michael and James. As a father, Mr. Kennedy cherished his children's bedtime rituals, administering evening baths and reading "Goodnight Moon." He and Michael would drop coins into a piggy bank, because the father was teaching the son the value of saving. This winter, Mr. Kennedy had hoped to take Michael skiing and ice skating, and to see James walk. On Sept. 14, the baby took his first steps. "Now he runs and climbs," said Mrs. Kennedy. "Tom would have loved that."

Tommy K. was a fine carpenter, so the guys happily let him build a steam room in Squad 252's firehouse. Tommy K. was also a fine cook, but the guys almost body-blocked him from the kitchen: not tofu and vegetables, again, man, please! Thomas Kuveikis, 44, was a lovable bundle of contradictions: a rescue firefighter devoted equally to his job in clamorous Brooklyn and to a secluded home on a dirt road in tiny Kent Cliffs, N.Y. A strapping vegetarian and environmentalist who joked with his carnivorous buddies. A first-rate slob as a kid (an excavation of his teenage room would uncover the hardtop of a Triumph and a tank full of dead fish) who, said his sister, Chris Peschel, became a Mr. GQ as an adult, impeccably turned out — and were those highlights in your hair, Tommy K? Two marriages went south, but he spent vacations with his daughter, Kristen. He was a big-hearted soft touch, the favorite uncle-as-overgrown kid, and an awful businessman when it came to his carpentry jobs. But as a firefighter, he was unusually aggressive. His father, Capt. Peter Kuveikis, "was a legendary tough guy," said a firefighter, "and Tommy K. was on his way to becoming a legend himself."

Thomas Butler liked to say that in a former life, he must have been a pirate. You could not keep him off the water. His life basically was fire and water. He was a firefighter with Squad 1 in Brooklyn, and he had a part-time job as the bay constable in Smithtown, N.Y. The bay constable job allowed him to be out on the water a lot, and he was entranced by water and its calming effect. Not that he needed calming down. He was the epitome of the laid-back man. "He was my rock," said his wife, Martha. "We'd get bills and they would give me ulcers, and he'd say, 'Don't worry about it, the bills will be there tomorrow.' " In some respects, he could be too laid back. "The grass could grow six feet, and it didn't bother him," Mrs. Butler said. "I'd try to get him to do it, and he'd say, 'The grass'll be there tomorrow.'" Firefighter Butler, 37, lived in Kings Park, N.Y., with his wife and three children, Kell, Shawn, and Patrick. Patrick was christened on Sept. 9, and Firefighter Butler wanted to have a big party. Mrs. Butler was getting her usual ulcers about the cost. He insisted. He wanted to buy a suit for the occasion. Her reaction was, "Tom, do you really need a suit?" He got the suit. They had the party. "I'm so glad we did it," Mrs. Butler said, "because everyone was there and everyone got to see Tom that last time."

Thomas J. McCann was a great firefighter, a low- handicap golfer, a devoted father to Courtney and Sean and a loving husband to Anne Marie. But he was perhaps best known for his cooking. A few years back, he decided to whip up a little chicken dish for the guys at Engine Company 65, where he spent most of his career. He got everything ready, set it on top of the range, turned on the heat and then the alarm began to wail. Everybody, Firefighter McCann included, pulled on their coats and boots and jumped onto the truck, pulling out of the firehouse on West 43rd Street and leaving the meal-in- progress behind. When they returned, several hours later, orange flames and black smoke were billowing from their firehouse and firefighters from another company were spraying water everywhere, trying to bring the situation under control. "I guess they didn't quite turn everything off before they left," said Firefighter McCann's brother, George. Fire departments from all over started sending Firefighter McCann recipes for barbecued chicken. "Put the chicken on a tray, leave it on the stovetop, turn the stove on and leave your firehouse for two hours," they wrote. "When you come back, it will be well done."

Thomas Mingione, 34, was a firefighter with Ladder 132 in Brooklyn. He was a beloved husband, cherished son, loving brother, fond nephew, special uncle, and adored cousin and friend. He was also the proud father of daughter Amanda, who was born in December 2001. His family's nickname for him is 'Topshelf Tommy,' because he always wanted the best and had the best. There are those who have an inner gift that makes them very special. The gift to be blind to the flaws and imperfections of those around them. The gift to see only the good. The gift to make others feel love, compassion, and hope. [He was] one of those people to whom God has given that special inner gift.

Captain Thomas Moody loved to give people "the elbow." He would be telling a joke, kidding someone, and if they didn't get it right away, "he would give you the elbow in the ribs," said his wife, Maureen. "He loved to tease." Captain Moody also had a certain way with names. His daughter Deirdre's first-grade teacher, Mrs. Fear, became Mrs. Afraid. Mr. McDonald became Mr. Arby's. And when he was growing up in Brentwood, on Long Island, his younger sister, Lorraine, became "the secret helper.'' "Whenever he wanted to get my sister to do something, he'd call her his secret helper, and he would con her into doing these little favors for him," recalled Frank Moody, an older brother. But for all his teasing, and (literal) ribbing, Captain Moody, 45, was quiet at heart. An 18-year veteran of the Fire Department, he was working to be transferred to the hazardous materials team, so he could make full use of his degree in chemical engineering; he started his career as a chemical engineer. He still got consulting work as an engineer, but his adventurous side was most fulfilled working in the Fire Department. "He was in probie school when we met," said Mrs. Moody. "He was so excited about it, so content."

When Thomas G. O'Hagan was 7, he tried to stamp out a fire in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, but his pants caught fire. He ended up with second- and third- degree burns. "Even with all that," said his brother Raymond, "and all the pain that burns cause, Tommy wanted to be a fireman." In a family of 11, where his grandfather, father and two brothers were police officers, Thomas O'Hagan's decision to become a firefighter, and later be promoted to lieutenant, set him apart. "Tom was very different from the rest of us," said the eldest of the five O'Hagan brothers, Frank O'Hagan, a banker. "While the rest of us are kind of quiet, Tom was very loquacious and extremely generous with his time, money and advice." Lieutenant O'Hagan, 43, lived in Riverdale, where he grew up, and was an enthusiastic firehouse chef who knew all the best recipes because they were his own. He had been assigned to Engine Company 6 a few weeks before Sept. 11. If anyone needed a hand, his brothers said, Tom O'Hagan's voice was first to be heard. He was dedicated to his wife, Andrea, and their twins, Patrick and Pierce. After his mother died in May, Lieutenant O'Hagan visited his father at least three times a week and often more. "He was there for dad a lot," Frank O'Hagan said. "That speaks volumes about his generosity."

When Thomas P. DeAngelis was promoted to battalion chief in the New York City Fire Department, his wife, Patty, told him: "You've been running into burning buildings for 22 years. But you're a battalion chief now, so you won't have to do that anymore."In her heart, she knew better. Tommy DeAngelis would never send a firefighter into a building he had not personally entered and checked out. Around the East 51st Street firehouse in Manhattan, he was known as "Chuckles" because of his sunny good humor and his lust for life: sports, cooking, sailing, carpentry, writing. But when the alarm sounded, he would suddenly become all business.Sometimes he would kick around the idea of retiring in a year or two — he was 51 — maybe to take up writing children's books. But, again, Mrs. DeAngelis knew better. "He loved being a firefighter way too much to ever quit early," she said. On Monday, Sept. 10, she had lunch with him at their home in Westbury, on Long Island, before he headed into Manhattan to pull a 24-hour shift. "See you Tuesday night," she said as he left, giving him a kiss. "Be careful."

In the weeks before his death, as a member of Squad 41 in the Bronx, Thomas Cullen, 31, studied for the Fire Department's lieutenant's exam. But even without a test ahead of him, his wife, Susan, said, his idea of pleasure reading was an abstruse volume about confined rescue or some other technical aspect of firefighting. If he worked in a kind of building he was unfamiliar with, he would read up on its structural peculiarities. The couple met in 1992 at Fordham University, where Tom Cullen took the fire- fighters test and the law boards as a senior. He came from a family of lawyers, but "fire was his true love," Mrs. Cullen said. He made perfect scores on the exam, she said, but then had to wait four years for an opening, "buying time" as a CPR instructor and a dean of discipline at a public school. Firefighter Cullen's son, Tom, shares the passion and already can distinguish one kind of truck from another. Father and son also shared a love of electric trains. Many nights, after the toddler went to sleep, his father would add a new twist or turn to the tracks on the living room floor. Mrs. Cullen continues the tradition, but with less panache. "Lucky for me he's not picky," she said.

Everything about Thomas R. Kelly's life springs from his summers in Riverhead on Long Island. He spent all his vacations in a family bungalow there, riding his bike to the beach and swimming. Eventually he followed in his father's footsteps and joined the Fire Department, but his world continued to revolve around water and bike trails. He swam in the shark tank of a nearby aquarium. He went deep sea diving in Belize. After his divorce last year, he moved into a house around the corner from where his family had summered, and where his parents, Sue and Emmet, now live year-round. When he was not swimming, he was biking, and on a 400-mile charity ride from New York to Boston last June he met Kate Zellner. The couple planned to pedal through Europe and raise money for AIDS research. But instead their last bike ride was on Sept. 9, through all five New York boroughs. Because Ms. Zellner's pace was slower, Mr. Kelly waited for her at a bar, where he sat down next to another man named Thomas Kelly — also a firefighter — and they marveled that two Tom Kellys happened to be in the same place at the same time. Two days later, both Tom Kellys died at the World Trade Center.

Thomas Sabella, a firefighter with Ladder Company 13, was no stranger to heroism. In 1998, he ran up six flights of stairs in a burning Upper East Side tenement and rescued a man who was leaning out of a fifth-floor window. The city honored him for his bravery the following year. His wife, Diana, who met her husband at Susan Wagner High School in Staten Island when she was just 16, accepted his choice of a high-risk occupation. "I never really worried," she said. "I always knew that he knew what he was doing, and that he would do his best." Mr. Sabella, 44, had many hobbies. He went skiing and snowboarding with his daughter Nicole. He grew tomatoes and cucumbers in his Staten Island garden, and he made his own red wine, giving away bottles as holiday gifts. Their son James, used to have an ambition shared by many little boys. These days, his mother said, "he says, `I was going to be a fireman, but I don't know, now.' "

Tommy Schoales landed at Engine Company 83 in the Bronx as a novice firefighter. A low-key one, too, everybody thought. That was before they experienced his competitive streak. He'd dash into the fire truck when the alarm rang because there was a prize: controlling the hose at the fire. "Here, if you get to the back step first, you take the nozzle," said Michael Scanlon, who worked alongside him. "And it was hard to beat him to the back step. He was always there." He fought flames in the tenements of Mott Haven and responded to alarms from Randalls Island. He bunked in Stony Point, N.Y., with a battalion chief — his father, Edward. To his five siblings, he was the much-loved baby brother who danced at their weddings and treated their children to the batting cage. And to the older firefighters he was the kid who worked hard and came up with well-timed pranks, like balancing water balloons in the rafters so that a fire engine backing in would dislodge them, spraying everyone around. After that first year, he was assigned to Engine Company 4, at the southern tip of Manhattan. But his heart remained with Engine 83, said his brother Eddie. He went to their picnics and played on their basketball team. At 27, he had found the firehouse where he wanted to stay. "He fit the typical mold of a good fireman," Firefighter Scanlon said. "He was looking forward to coming back."

In some ways, Thomas Haskell seemed like everyone's idea of a firefighter. The battalion chief for Ladder Company 132 in Brooklyn, he loved football — "God help you if you got in the way of the TV" on Sundays, said Dawn Haskell-Carbone, his sister — and he played on the Fire Department team, like his brothers, Kenneth and Timothy. Timothy Haskell also died in the World Trade Center attack. But he had another side. Every year just before Thanksgiving, Mr. Haskell, 37, would start disappearing into the basement of his home in Massapequa, N.Y., for hours, forbidding anyone else to come down. "He'd stay up till 3 a.m.," said his wife, Barbara Haskell. Then, about two weeks before Christmas, his wife, daughters, friends and other relatives would be invited downstairs to see an elaborate winter landscape with hundreds of tiny ceramic figures, surrounded by ski chalets, with three separate train sets running through it all. Last year he built three miniature towns — Meaghanville, Erinburg and Taratown, named for his daughters — along with Barbara's Garden, for his wife. Behind them all was a dark blue night sky, lit up with electric stars.

Firefighter Thomas W. Kelly, 50, wasn't one for telephone chit-chat — "Hihowareyo, here's Kitty" was his standard greeting as he turned a call over to his wife — but his actions shouted. He quietly stuck by his friends, worked a second job to help his widowed mother, and at Ladder Company 15 in Manhattan was known as Mr. Dependable, a mentor to the probies. But, his sister, Maureen Paglia said, "Tommy never wanted praise for anything." Something else his actions shouted: this Sinatra fan and father of two sons had a big, squishy, sentimental streak. Raised in Brooklyn, he bled Dodger blue so truly that he paid $1,420 for an original seat from Ebbets Field. Firefighter Kelly, who lived in Staten Island, collected bats, cards, statistics and baseball caps from special events. He was so proud of his little brother Dennis that he saved his sports trophies, newspaper clippings and diplomas, from grammar school on, and presented them after the birth of Dennis's second child. His wife saw that sentimental streak on their first date, in September 1971. Mr. Kelly, then a steamfitter, took her to his construction site, his grandest project: the 40th floor of 2 World Trade Center.

Timothy Haskell trained his dalmatian, Blaze, to "stop, drop and roll." He took the dog to the school where his sister, Dawn Haskell-Carbone, teaches. "Timmy would say to the dog, `Your clothes are on fire! What do you do?' " she recalled. "She would stop, throw herself on the ground and roll. He would ask the kids, `What if you smell smoke?' The dog would crawl on her belly over to a door. Timmy would say, `Feel the door first to see if it's hot.' And the dog would put her paws on the door." Timothy grew up in Seaford, N.Y. — on a skateboard, then a dirt bike, and always on the water. As an adult, he loved scuba diving and extreme games; he was getting his pilot's license. Timothy, 34, and two of his brothers, Thomas and Kenneth, followed their father into firefighting. "All my brothers, they all got perfect scores on their physical, and their tests were almost perfect," his sister said. "It was that important to them, that they worked hard at it."

Paper fell in a strange blizzard from a darkening sky Sept. 11 as Terry Hatton led the men from Rescue Co. 1 into the World Trade Center's north tower. "Brother, I'm afraid this day we may die," he told a friend as they entered. An hour later, the order came to evacuate the teetering building, but Timothy Higgins and the men from Squad 252 kept heading up the stairs. They said they were on their way to help Hatton. The two decorated fire captains had learned their dangerous business together as young men in the same elite Brooklyn rescue company. They had been handpicked for one of the city's busiest companies, and their captain, Ray Downey, a department legend who also was lost Sept. 11, taught them to press into the flames beyond where others dared to go. Higgins, who grew up in Freeport and raised his son and two daughters in Farmingville, was always asking for more drills and pestering his elders with questions. He had a knack, Evers remembered, for choosing the right tool for any rescue. But for firefighters like Higgins, whose company motto was "In Squad We Trust," some things overcome that desire. "The instinct of a firefighter is to make sure everyone gets out alive - you don't think twice about it," Joseph Higgins said. "The gamble is there. You have to depend on each other."

Timothy Patrick McSweeney, 37, firefighter, FDNY, Ladder 3. McSweeney joined the FDNY in 1987, and won six awards for heroism. Known as the Big Guy or the Gentle Giant, the 6 foot-3-inch tall McSweeney loved to spend time with his family - his wife and their three children. Firefighting was a family affair: McSweeney’s father, Dennis, is a retired FDNY battalion chief, as was his first cousin, Peter Freund, was also died on September 11th.

After the floor collapsed in the East New York inferno of June 5, 1998, leaving two firefighters dead and Lt. Timothy Stackpole severely burned on his arms, legs, stomach and back, he worried that he might never work again. But he threw himself into months of treatment and physical therapy, encouraged by his wife, Tara, and his five children. And he used the seemingly endless recuperation time to finish his bachelor's degree in education at St. Francis College in Brooklyn. After some months of light duty at Ladder 103 in Brooklyn, "he felt it was a tremendous victory when he came back to the firehouse to full duty a few months ago," said the Rev. Jim Cunningham, the Stackpoles' parish priest in Marine Park, Brooklyn. The Thursday before the terrorist attack, Lieutenant Stackpole was promoted to captain. And on the Saturday before the disaster, Captain Stackpole was named Irishman of the Year at the Great Irish Fair in Brooklyn, Father Cunningham said. On Sept. 11, Captain Stackpole had just finished duty, but with the first news of the calamity he rushed to the trade center, "and he perished there," Father Cunningham said. "Tara knows that Timmy died doing what he wanted to do, serving the people of his city."

When Timothy Matthew Welty was 15, he bought a junk car and surprised his father. "I go into the garage and he's got the car up on jacks and all the pieces lying around," said his father, Bill. "I say, `What the hell are you doing?' and he says, `Fixing the brakes.' I say, `You don't know how to fix brakes,' and he says, `I took the brakes apart and I remember how it goes. I'll put it back together.' " It was a turning point in their relationship, said his father, a college professor. He realized that his son "had a kind of intelligence that I don't have." Tim Welty's true métier was in the physical world. A strong, wiry man who could do push-ups with two fingers, he skied, sky-dived and motorcycled, and he played hockey and volleyball for the Fire Department. He was a firefighter with Squad 288 in Queens. Firefighter Welty, 34, who lived in Yonkers with his wife, Delia, and two young children, had recently started a construction company. He renovated his mother's house, gutting it and adding skylights, new molding and handmade parquet floors. Now, seeing his handiwork gives his mother, Adele, comfort. "It was not only the skill of his carpentry but his artistic vision that makes the house so special now," she said. "He was a philosopher, too," said Delia Welty. When couples who they knew would argue, "We'd hear the guy's side but not the girl's and I'd form an opinion," she said. "Tim would always say, `Well, wait, we should hear the other side.' He taught me to see everything from a different angle."

It is the singing, more than anything else, that keeps Vernon Cherry so vivid in their minds. A Brooklyn firefighter who moonlighted as a wedding singer, Mr. Cherry, 49, sang it all and he sang it everywhere: Barry White in the firehouse, Frank Sinatra at weddings, the national anthem at Fire Department promotion ceremonies. "He would just sing," said Raymond Thomas, a firefighter who worked with him for 11 years at Ladder Company 118 in Brooklyn Heights. "He would be walking up the stairs, in the locker room, taking a shower. He had such a beautiful voice. I used to ask him: `Sing me a song, Vernon. Vernon, sing `Always and Forever.' He wouldn't do the whole song, just short bits and pieces." Mr. Cherry, a 28-year veteran of the Fire Department, was known at Ladder 118 as "Vernon Mo," because he called everybody else "Mo." And there was his lasagna, "Lasagna Mo." "He put mushrooms in it," Mr. Thomas said. "He used every pot in the firehouse. We tried to discourage him from cooking. I mean we loved it, but he had to use every pot in the house."

Vernon Richard, his wife, Dorothy, recalled, "loved anything that had to do with roller coasters." His daughter, Vernessa, recalled the same thing. "When I'd come home for the summer, we'd go to Great Adventure," Vernessa Richard said, "and he'd look up at the roller coaster and go `Wow! Let's go on that!' The excitement on his face!" Lieutenant Richard, 53, was a 24-year veteran of the Fire Department. A member of Ladder Company 7 in Manhattan, he was to have been promoted to captain in November, an elevation that occurred posthumously. A weight lifter and jogger (he ran six New York City Marathons), he sang in the choir at the First Baptist Church in Spring Valley, N.Y., near his home in Nanuet. His voice , a deep baritone, was memorable. "When I played high school ball, and there were maybe 500 people in the stands, I'd hear nothing but his voice," said his son, Vernon II. "He'd be saying, `Go to work, Vernon.'"

Cathy Brunton had always known that her husband, Vincent, the captain of Truck Company Ladder 105, loved being a firefighter. He joined the department 22 years ago, the same year they got married, the same year their daughter Kelly was born. But it was not until she received a four- page letter from a young firefighter she did not recall having met that Mrs. Brunton came to appreciate the kind of firefighter her husband had been, the lessons he was always prepared to teach and the depth of respect others had for him. "I could go into his office at 11:30 p.m. and ask him a fire question and he would lean back in his chair and tell me countless stories," the letter from the firefighter, Will Hickey, said. "He would say the best way to learn is from your mistakes. `If you're not making mistakes, you are not trying.' " Even a false alarm provided an opportunity to learn. Mr. Hickey described how terrified he once had been at a fire with Captain Brunton. Flames were shooting out the windows and the roof. "I was thinking to myself, `This guy is absolutely crazy! What is he thinking, he's John Wayne or something?' " But Captain Brunton, 43, took his arm and showed him what to do. "I have put a small picture of him on the underside of my helmet," Mr. Hickey said. "Sometimes I just touch it to remind me to stay calm, to keep it simple and to `think on my feet.'"

At about 1:30 p.m. on Sept. 7, Lt. Vincent F. Giammona was at Coney Island, flashing his fireman's badge and, once again, pushing the limits. He had just spent the morning exploring the aquarium with his wife, Theresa, and their two youngest daughters — Nicolette, and Daniella. They had started back home to Valley Stream, when, suddenly, he turned the car around. He couldn't go to Coney Island without riding the Cyclone roller coaster. But the Cyclone would not open until 6 p.m., Lieutenant Giammona was told. He smiled and jabbered about his upcoming birthday (he would turn 40 in four days, on Sept. 11th). Soon, the Cyclone was creaking up into the sunshine, carrying one passenger. His daughters cheered. He lived for moments like this. Using fake buck teeth, an accent or his infamous Elvis costume, he would transform household errands or roll call at the firehouse into improv comedy. At sporting events involving his two older daughters — Francesca, and Toni-Ann, — his cheering was an aerobic workout. At Ladder 5 on Houston Street, he taught rookies about high-rise fires and downtown bars. They called him "Lieutenant Fun." The morning of Lieutenant Giammona's 40th birthday, Theresa would hear his voice for the last time: he said goodbye during a brief phone call while hurrying to the World Trade Center. On Sept. 7, though, when the Cyclone started its descent, she heard him shout with joy.

A lot of firefighters have second jobs. Vincent Halloran had a nonpaying but extraordinarily rewarding second job in his children. He and his wife, Marie, had five of them and a sixth on the way in 2001. Around the firehouse, some of his colleagues would say, "I can hardly handle my two kids. How do you do it with five?" He would just laugh. He did just fine with five. He had a cool demeanor that left him unruffled if one of the kids was crying while another was running his toy truck over his foot and one of the others had to eat, and eat immediately. Lieutenant Halloran, 43, who was with Ladder Company 8 in TriBeCa and lived with Mrs. Halloran and the children in North Salem, N.Y., took it all in stride. He ran the house, as his wife put it, like a camp. There was a wide age range — Jake, Conor, Aidan, Kieran, and Declan, — but he arranged activities for all of them. They'd go fishing, boating, camping, swimming. Crowded as these activities could get, when Lieutenant Halloran took the children camping, he told each of them to invite a friend along. If that wasn't enough, during the summer, the Hallorans welcomed children from Ireland to stay with them, further swelling their ranks. "What can I say," Mrs. Halloran said. "He just loved kids."

Among the city's thousands of firefighters, Vincent Kane stood out. He lived on the Upper East Side and spent hours in the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And he went to performances of the New York Philharmonic -- something that still amazes his friends in Engine Company 22. "Most firefighters don't even know what the Philharmonic is," said one of them, Michael Ruddick. He was also an environmentalist who regularly patrolled the firehouse trash bins for recyclables. And not long ago, he became a vegetarian -- though the other firefighters insisted on piling red meat onto his plate anyway. "My daughter would be serving turkey on a holiday, and he would have the artificial kind," said his mother, Joan. "We had to laugh when he'd do that." Firefighter Kane, 37, grew up in Breezy Point, Queens, where he became a volunteer fireman at 17. "He was always giving," Mrs. Kane said. He loved to play tunes by the Grateful Dead or the Beatles on his guitar. His neighbors on East 80th Street, who nicknamed him "the Mayor," listened for the music wafting softly from his apartment late at night. He kept a guitar in his locker at the firehouse, too, and would sometimes announce to his colleagues that he was heading out to play it in the park. "I used to tell him he was straying as far away from the normal firefighter stereotype as he possibly could," Mr. Ruddick said.

One weekend every summer, the commissioner of the Male Bonding Association would lead eight buddies to the Hamptons — but what happened there remained a mystery. His rules: No guy could call his wife. No guy could mention his wife. If a wife asked what the husbands did, the guy had to reply, "I can't tell you." Each year the rules became sillier, in direct proportion to the commissioner's happy descent into family life. Debi Morello, his wife, never worried about those weekends. That's because Vincent Morello, 34, a firefighter with Ladder Company 35 in Manhattan and the son of a retired battalion chief, would still surprise her throughout the year with flowers, candles and wine for no other reason than love. And he kept everything around the house in fine order: he was great with his hands, especially when cooking holiday meals for the family. Funny thing, though: the first time he held his son, Justin, he was awkward and fumbling. He wanted so badly to be a good father that he never seemed to let go of the baby. By the time Paige, was born, Mr. Morello was more than ready. While Paige wrapped her father around her finger, the commissioner's Hamptons rules grew sillier still.

First there was the blue van with the surfboard strapped to the roof. Then there were the bright Hawaiian shirts, the flowing hair, the perpetual tan. Soon there was no doubt: Vincent A. Princiotta was cool. Starting in the late 1970's, Mr. Princiotta, a firefighter with Ladder Company 7 in Manhattan, led a band of surfers from their landlocked Bronxwood Avenue neighborhood into the big waves off Gilgo Beach. "I think he watched too much Don Ho," said Dave Breiner, a Connecticut firefighter who knew him as Vinny Van. When he visited his sister Bernadette at college in Hawaii, her friends were amazed, she said, that a non- Hawaiian, "this haoli from the Bronx," was so able on the longboard. Even as the years rolled by, and he married the lovely Karen and became the adoring father of Christina, Mr. Princiotta, 39, who lived in Orangeburg, N.Y., maintained his profile. He invested in phony winning lottery tickets, which he would distribute to his fellow firefighters and watch while they shrieked and kissed the firehouse floor. But he also helped the younger ones get familiar with firefighting tools, said Patty Boylan, a friend and colleague at Ladder 7, and cooked heaps of Italian food for the entire company. And he kept on surfing. "He was just supercool," Mr. Boylan said. "We called him the Vin Man."

Capt. Walter Hynes was the person his extended family relied on for everything. If you needed your plumbing fixed or a room painted, Walter would do it. He would change your tire. He was the family lawyer. He even met his wife while lending a hand: he was helping another firefighter, Richard Fanning, move into a new house and was introduced to Mr. Fanning's sister. Captain of Ladder Company 13 at 85th Street and Lexington Avenue, Walter lived in Belle Harbor, Queens, with his wife, Veronica, and their three daughters. He had worked as a firefighter in Brownsville, Brooklyn, and put himself through law school at St. John's University at night. "He had no free time," a family member said yesterday, "because he was always doing for everyone else."

Calling Capt. William F. Burke Jr. a firefighter is a little like referring to Elvis as an entertainer. Captain Burke took the job description and set it over the high flame of his personality, rendering something else entirely. "He always made everything better," said his brother Michael, "and in Manhattan, it's nice to be around somebody like that." Like his father, who worked in the South Bronx in the 1960's when fires raged around the clock, Captain Burke, known as Billy, believed in putting his men first. On Sept. 11, he ordered them out of the north tower, his brother said, while he continued searching for people to rescue. In Stuyvesant Town, the Manhattan residential complex where he had an apartment, Captain Burke, 46, enjoyed a parade of admirers. Some were romantic interests, penciled into his address book, drawn by his singular charm. "The first words out of his mouth every single time he met a woman were, `Have you lost weight?' " his brother said. Then there were the neighbors he helped out. He liked to bicycle to his firehouse, Engine Company 21 on East 40th Street, but if he saw someone struggling with groceries, he'd screech to a halt. He spent 25 summers working as a lifeguard at Robert Moses State Park, and a friend, Stuart Kaplan, remembered how the oldest living Jones Beach lifeguard turned up one day. The man was sickly and in a wheelchair, but his dearest wish was to swim in the ocean one last time. Captain Burke put an arm around him and helped him into the waves. Afterward, they shared a cold beer and then another. Everybody went home happy.

When he was not fighting fires, William Feehan walked the fields of Gettysburg, toured Churchill's War Room and read naval history. Military culture, with its embrace of tradition and tactics, appealed to Mr. Feehan much the way firefighting did, said his son, William Feehan Jr. He remembered his father tracing the path of Pickett's Charge, mapped in his mind by accounts he had read in a novel, "The Killer Angels." The senior William Feehan, a New York City firefighter who ascended through the ranks to serve as first deputy fire commissioner, recommended the book often. One who read it at his suggestion, Firefighter Vincent Panaro, was there when the towers fell and Commissioner Feehan was killed. At his wake, Firefighter Panaro stood sentry in his dress blues at his mentor's coffin. "He refused to leave until he was relieved," the younger Mr. Feehan said. It was that sort of bond, that sort of Semper Fi can-doism, that Commissioner Feehan thought was intrinsic to the firefighter ranks, his family said. It explained, he thought, how people, whether they be soldiers or firefighters, found it within themselves to charge into harm's way to save complete strangers. When he died, Commissioner Feehan, 71, was the oldest and highest-ranking firefighter ever to die in the line of duty.

Henry Jr., who was known as Bill or Buddy, had a galaxy of friends and admirers that stretched from the Ladder 24 firehouse on West 31st Street to the paddle tennis courts at wind-swept Jacob Riis Park in the Rockaways. He spent his vacations in places like Brazil, and his free time fixing up houses for people like his mother, Ethel. People would compliment his work; Mr. Henry tended to agree with them. "Yeah," he'd say, "it's a beautiful thing." His competitive streak ran deep. "He would say to me, you know, I go to more fires than you do," said John Dopwell, a former colleague at Ladder 24, where Firefighter Henry was assigned before moving on to Rescue 1, also in Manhattan. He also let all kinds of post-conflagration messiness build up on his coat and helmet, as a sign of how hard he worked. "Outside of his family, that job was what he lived for," said another friend, Paul Stewart. For a while, he moonlighted as a security guard at Laura Belle, a nightclub in Times Square. "I was his boss, but in all honesty, he was my boss," said Joanne O'Connor, the club's director of catering and special events. "He was always telling me what to do." Once Ms. O'Connor made a demand of her own. "I asked him, when are you going to take me for a ride in the fire truck?" It became a joke between them. Then one day, the huge red Rescue 1 pulled up in front of Laura Belle, packed with firemen on their way back from a call. In clomped Mr. Henry, who said, "Let's go for a ride."

For a while there, a large firefighter was walking around with one eyebrow. That was thanks to William R. Johnston of Engine Company 6 in Manhattan. It happened while the Fire Department football team was on the road, and Mr. Johnston shaved off his teammate's eyebrow while the fellow was sleeping: part of some undetermined high jinks, said Mr. Johnston's sister, Diane Cuff. He was the quiet one in a North Babylon, N.Y., family of four siblings, but could be mischievous outside of it. While on a date at a Ground Round restaurant one night, Mrs. Cuff said, she heard a familiar-sounding croon. It was Mr. Johnston, singing "Roxanne" into a microphone. "He was a character, and everyone loved him for that," she said. The Fire Department and sports grabbed Mr. Johnston more than anything else. He joined the football team as a kicker because of his soccer prowess. His friend since age 5, Eugene Masula, said that Mr. Johnston played professional indoor soccer and had "a rocket of a right foot." On their team in a Long Island amateur league, Mr. Johnston was the center midfielder, or playmaker. Until joining the Fire Department, Mr. Johnston worked for the Transit Authority as an ironworker, tending to elevated subway tracks. A high-school friend, John Kolich, joined the New York Police Department around the same time as Mr. Johnston. "We both were really ecstatic for each other," he said. Not long afterward, Officer Kolich found himself attending Mr. Johnston's funeral in full dress. "I never thought in a million years I'd wear my uniform for my best friend," he said.

When William E. Krukowski gave up his motorcycle — and, by the way, skydiving — he took up with a bicycle. He got his exercise: he rode the bike to work most days at Ladder Company 21 in Manhattan from his home in Bayside, Queens. He was a firefighter for about three years. He grew up in Bayside and went to Holy Cross High School and Nassau Community College. While he was waiting to be called to the Fire Department, he worked in construction and with the New York Department of Sanitation at Fresh Kills landfill in Staten Island, where, more recently, the rubble from ground zero has been taken. Firefighter Krukowski was separated from his wife but spent a lot of time with his son, William Lee. "I am so proud of the kind of father my brother was to his son through all the difficulties of his personal relationship," said his sister, Virginia. His other love was souping up a car and then trying it out on a drag strip, his mother, Barbara, said. His father, Walter, said his son would also be remembered as a collector of junk, most of which Firefighter Krukowski brought to his grandparents' place in Connecticut, where there was more room. "Thanks, Bill," his father said. "I know what I'll be doing someday when I retire."

When Billy Lake was 7 years old and it was time for dinner, his mother, Helen, always knew where to find him: at the firehouse two blocks away, where Billy would peer at the trucks and chat with the men. "He loved to be over there," Mrs. Lake said. On Sept. 10, Firefighter William Lake, 44, celebrated 20 years with the Fire Department. To mark the occasion, another firefighter from his company, Rescue 2, in Brooklyn, whipped up a dinner of roast beef, shrimp and chocolate mousse for everyone on duty. Firefighter Lake had all the trappings of a tough guy: a Rescue 2 tattoo, a Harley- Davidson motorcycle, hands terribly chapped from the time he dug through concrete to rescue two laborers from a collapse at a construction site. "If he was in the military, he'd be a marine," said Firefighter Scott Stromer, a friend. "If he was a hockey player, he'd be the goalie." But to really know Firefighter Lake was to know his tender side: to see him dote on his son, Kyler, his mother and his cat, Boxy. "A tough guy with a cat?" Firefighter Stromer asked. "Think about it."

William J. Mahoney II was an Adonis who did not sculpture his sleek physique at the gym. He was a player, and baseball was his game. Mr. Mahoney, 37, coached his children's baseball teams and played center field in two adult leagues. A firefighter at Rescue Company 4 in Elmhurst, Queens, he was sentimental in his approach to the game. He had scribbled his wife's name inside his baseball glove. He also insisted that his family perform a good luck ritual before every game. "We always had to either kiss his bat or touch his bat before he'd get up and touch the ball," his wife, Donna, said. "If we couldn't show up for the game, he made sure that we touched his bat before he left." His ultimate baseball fantasy was to crisscross the country and visit famous baseball fields. Around home in Bohemia, N.Y., he was the originator of projects that included making a vanity table for his wife and adding several rooms to the house. He also worked as a cabinetmaker and ran a tent-rental business on weekends. "He wasn't just going to be sitting home watching a sitcom on a Friday night," said Ray Smith, a longtime friend and fellow firefighter. "He was always doing something. He was always looking to learn more."

William E. McGinn was a civil engineering major at Hunter College. But he spent much of his spare time hanging out at the firehouse in Spanish Harlem where his uncle Kevin was a lieutenant. Some time around sophomore year, he took an exam that was not in any of his courses: the firefighter's test. By the time he graduated, he had decided that being a civil engineer would be boring, so he became a firefighter. Eighteen years later, in September 2001, Firefighter McGinn was Lieutenant McGinn of Squad 18, a special operations command based in Greenwich Village, a father of two, cub scout leader and the only male member of the school leadership team at his children's school in Riverdale in the Bronx. Lieutenant McGinn, 43, used his engineering skills mostly to demolish parts of the house, but he used them on the job, too. "He understood how structures and materials fail," said Dr. Anne Golden, an epidemiologist, who was Mr. McGinn's college sweetheart and who later became his wife. "He would have had a field day with this one." Squad 18 was one of the first on the scene on Sept. 11 and lost all seven men, but Lieutenant McGinn had already passed on the firefighting itch. For the past two years, a kid from Staten Island named Sean Bradley spent much of his spare time hanging around Squad 18, where his uncle Billy was a lieutenant. Sean, decided that he wants to be a firefighter, too.

Bill was a loving husband, father, son, brother and friend. He felt very fortunate to be a New York City fireman and genuinely loved his profession. He truly valued the many friendships and the camaraderie of the job. He rose to the rank of Battalion Chief and was a real leader but he considered himself 'one of the men' and cherished his time as a fireman as his favorite. Some of his personal interests include the New York Yankees, boating, music and his Irish heritage. He was an outgoing fun loving man with strong values and passions, who knew how to enjoy life and bring enjoyment to all whose life he touched.

One night at a club in Staten Island, two young men approached two young women. They paired off and chatted for a few minutes, until one of the men whispered to his friend that he wanted to switch partners. So they did. And that is how William O'Keefe met his wife, Ginny. Never loud or aggressive, Captain O'Keefe was nevertheless assertive. (He was the one who wanted to switch partners.) He had a quiet way that served him well as a firefighter, and, later, an officer. "He wasn't a blowhard," Mrs. O'Keefe said. "He was never boastful. He was a gentleman." The only thing Captain O'Keefe, 48 and in the best shape of his life, liked more than running was watching his daughters, Tara, 20, and Kaitlin, 17, compete at track meets. With his flexible schedule, he spent many days cheering them on. "He was proud of that. No regrets," Mrs. O'Keefe said. "He was a great father and a great husband. He was the best."

Brian McDonnell was a member of the Emergency Service Unit Truck 1, stationed on East 21st Street in Manhattan. He was last seen heading into the south tower. "Brian was a cop's cop," Mrs. McDonnell said. "When people get in trouble they call the police; when the police get in trouble they call Emergency Services." But more important to him than the job were his children, Katie, 8, and Thomas, 3. When his daughter was born, he was there in the delivery room holding his wife's hand, gently weeping. A former Army paratrooper, Officer McDonnell, 38, was never decorated in his 15-year career because he never wrote himself up for an commendation. "He wasn't showy," his wife said. "It wasn't his nature. He just wanted to help people." Once, he saw a little girl waving to him and the mother pulled her in the window and scolded her: "'Don't wave to him, police are bad,'" Mrs. McDonnell recalled. "It crushed him."

If ever a man was to the bomb squad born, it was Detective Claude Richards of the New York Police Department. Fearless, meticulous and disciplined nearly to a fault, Detective Richards, 46, the bomb squad's intelligence coordinator, spent his off-duty hours working, working out and planning his next workday. When he took some time off, it was to defuse land mines in Bosnia with a United Nations peacekeeping force. All the way from boyhood, Dan, as Detective Richards was known, "always wanted to charge up to the front," said his brother, Jim, "just to prove himself." He was in the Rangers in the Army, and on the bomb squad his command presence allowed him to give orders to colleagues who far outranked him as he oversaw security logistics for events ranging from presidential visits to the United States Tennis Open. Detective Richards, who lived in Chelsea, was a complicated man. True, he could yell at a co-worker who borrowed his stapler and put it back in the wrong place, but he also didn't think twice before taking his shoes off on the street and giving them to a vagabond, Jim Richards said. Detective Richards's work ethic left him little time or space for relationships, his brother said, but added, "He was so devoted to his work I don't think he had a problem with it."

Maybe there was something in the water. For some reason, perhaps a dozen men who came of age during the 1970's and 80's in Deer Park, N.Y., developed an appetite for civic duty. They became New York City police officers and firefighters in their professional lives, and volunteer firefighters with Engine Company No. 2 in Deer Park in their personal ones. They called it the Deer Park Connection, and Firefighter John Vigiano and Detective Joseph Vigiano, two of the tightest brothers you could ever find, were among the best-liked and most accomplished members. Both followed the unwritten manual on growing up right in Deer Park, said their father, John Vigiano, a retired captain in the New York City Fire Department. They were active in sports. They became Eagle Scouts. They hatched pranks that were wicked in their creativity but gentle in their impact. "They never embarrassed me," said Captain Vigiano. "They were good fathers, good husbands and they were good men. Joseph Vigiano, who was known as Joey, loved to mug for the cameras and played lacrosse on the Police Department team, said his wife, Kathy, a fellow police officer. On the job, he was commended for his bravery: he survived being shot on three different occasions. At home, he taught his two boys how to build derby cars of pine. Eventually, he was going to do the same with his youngest son, now 6 months old. On the Sunday before Sept. 11, Kathy Vigiano returned home after the first game of the season in her soccer league, bruised and tired. She was prepared to make dinner, but instead, she saw that her husband had fixed prime rib, Caesar salad, mashed potatoes, and broccoli with cheese — while watching their baby, too. All this from a guy who had previously insisted that he only knew how to make spaghetti sauce.

Glen Pettit took on a lot and never let it slow him down. In addition to being a New York City police officer, he was a TV news cameraman, a freelance photographer, a volunteer fireman and a devotee of Irish tradition and music. Then there was the endless flood of gifts: from care packages of Skippy peanut butter for friends in East Asia to the prized seat he arranged for his mother at a Christmas Eve mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, just a row from the mayor and police commissioner. "If he loved you he loved you completely, and he was going to take care of you," recalled Tara Felice, one of his six siblings. Officer Pettit, 30, had joined the department's video production unit, which makes training and promotional videos. "His greatest love was being behind a camera, composing a shot," said his partner, Officer Scott Nicholson. The video unit responded to the World Trade Center attack hoping to get footage for an annual promotional tape it makes called "Heroes." "Glen was telling us, 'I'm gonna get in close; you stay and get the establishing shots, get the rescue workers responding,' " Officer Nicholson recalled. "I looked over and Glen was running past me, camera in hand, heading toward the towers."

James P. Leahy learned responsibility at a tragically early age. A New York City police officer, he was 13 and the eldest of five children when his father, a Parks and Recreation Department employee, was murdered while on duty at a city golf course. Officer Leahy, 38, became the head of his family then and there, said Officer Tim Duffy, a colleague at the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village. His youngest sister, Danielle, describes James Leahy as the only father she knew, from the time she was a toddler until he walked her down the aisle. Losing his father shaped Officer Leahy's devotion to his own family: his childhood sweetheart and wife, Marcela, and his sons, James Jr., Danny, and John. To ensure his children's educations, he worked two part-time jobs, as a security guard at New York University and at a J. C. Penney store near his Staten Island home. He coached his sons in football and was always on the sidelines for their Little League games. A die-hard Pittsburgh Steelers fan, Officer Leahy fulfilled a dream by taking his boys to the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Ohio last summer for the induction of Lynn Swann, his favorite player. He was always very unselfish, putting others first, and that's why he ran into Tower 1 on September 11th. He was trying to help the people,'' said his sister Michele Safatle. Leahy was told he didn't have to be in the building but took oxygen bottles and other supplies to firefighters anyway. "Jim would never consider what he did to be an act of heroism," said his brother, Arthur III. "He just took his love of people and wanting to help them seriously."

A police officer in the emergency services unit of the New York Police Department.

John D'Allara, a member of the New York Police Department's emergency service office in Harlem, was a rescue specialist on the scene at the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. During his 14 years on the job, he pried, cajoled or otherwise extracted a broad array of life forms from danger, dealing with a menagerie of exotic animals. Spider monkeys. Bats. Squirrels. One time, he saved an iguana. But he helped plenty of people, too. "One time, we had a kid trapped in an elevator, with his head trapped between a beam and the elevator," said Sgt. Lee Hom, who worked with Officer D'Allara for five years in the late 1980's and early 90's. "He kept the kid calm, and we got him out." A physical education teacher before he joined the Police Department, Officer D'Allara, 47, who lived with his wife and two sons, Johnny, and Nicholas, in Rockland County, intended to go back to teaching. "He loved the Police Department," said his brother, Dan. "But he was counting his paychecks to retirement."

John W. Perry was not your typical police officer. He spoke French, Spanish, Swedish and Russian, and was learning Albanian. He was a graduate of New York University School of Law. He ran in three marathons and took part in a swim around Manhattan. He was an extra in Woody Allen films. He volunteered one day a week for the Kings County Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. He was in the New York State Guard and was a board member in the New York Civil Liberties Union. He collected bulletproof vests from retired police officers and gave them to officers in Moscow. On the morning of Sept. 11, Mr. Perry was filing his retirement papers at 1 Police Plaza, intent on becoming a medical malpractice lawyer. When he learned of the attacks, he ran the few blocks to the World Trade Center. Colleagues said he disappeared in the rubble when the south tower collapsed, just moments after he tried to help a woman who had fainted. "I always wondered why John did so much," said his mother, Patricia Perry. "As a child he was classified as having a learning disability, but he rose above it. He always felt he had something to prove." 

Mark J. Ellis always dreamed of becoming a police officer. At age 5, he played cops and robbers with a set of plastic handcuffs and a notepad that he used to write speeding tickets. As he grew older, it became apparent that he had developed an affinity for the straight and narrow path. As a teenager, he lectured his older sister about getting speeding tickets, rarely went to parties and never drank alcohol, because he liked to stay in control. By the time he joined the New York Police Department and became an officer in Transit District 4, his character was legendary. "You couldn't get him to do anything wrong," said Officer Eric Semler, Officer Ellis's partner for three years. "He might bend a rule, but he would never break a rule. It was almost to the point where it was annoying." But Officer Ellis, 26, who lived with his parents in Huntington Station, N.Y., did take risks. He was an avid outdoorsman and enjoyed activities like boating, mountain biking and snowboarding. Having realized his dream of becoming a police officer, Officer Ellis set new goals. He wanted to marry his longtime girlfriend, Stephanie Porzio. And he applied for jobs with the Secret Service and the F.B.I. After Officer Ellis's death, his parents received acceptance letters from both agencies.

Moira died heroically in the line of duty on September 11, 2001. Beloved wife of James. Loving mother of Patricia Mary. Cherished sister of Mary Reddy. Adored godmother of Allison Reddy. Dear niece and cousin. Devoted friend to many. Proud New York City Police Officer. She will be greatly missed.

Paul and Barbara Talty's Cape Cod in Wantagh, N.Y., was already crowded when there were just two children, Paul Jr. and Lauren. With a third was on the way, it was time to raise the roof. Having worked as an electrician and carpenter before joining the New York City Police Department in 1993, Officer Talty tackled most of the work himself. He built a full second-story addition, working after his shift and on days off to get the place ready for Kelly, who was born in August. Officer Talty built his career the way he remodeled his house — combining disparate elements in a master plan. "Paul wasn't driven to be a hero like some others on the force," said his sister-in- law Lisa Talty. There are many teachers in his family, but no policemen. "He became a policeman because he wanted to take care of his family." Officer Talty was nonetheless dedicated to police work, especially after joining the emergency services unit. "You knew that if it came down to it, Paul would do whatever needed to be done,"said his friend Joseph McAuliffe. Officer Talty, 40, loved the beach, and looked forward to vacationing in Naples, Fla., each winter. He considered taking the police officer's test there, and going into teaching after he retired. "Paul would have made a great teacher," said his wife, Barbara. "I always said 'I wish you were a teacher. It's a much less dangerous career.' "

Carmen and Ramon Suarez were all dressed up for a party when they saw a few teenagers pummeling a man across the street from their home in Ridgewood, Queens. Mrs. Suarez's husband, a New York City police officer, gave her one of his looks and took off running, dress shoes and all. Minutes later a patrol car found Officer Suarez and the teenagers he had apprehended. "I don't know how my husband used to do this," Mrs. Suarez said. "He must have had wings." Officer Suarez could run like the wind because, at 45, he still worked out twice a day in the gym. He also ran, and coached the track team at his daughter Jillian's elementary school. And he was a physical fitness guru who chided those who sinned. "He would tease you and say, 'Instead of having that doughnut why don't you have a PowerBar or something," said Officer Suarez's partner of 11 years, Officer Steven Rentas. He said Officer Suarez was a perfectionist about his uniform, his appearance, his performance on the job. On the morning of Sept. 11, Officer Suarez was on transit duty at the Delancey Street subway station. He commandeered a cab and rushed to the World Trade Center, where he was photographed helping people out of one of the buildings. "Ray basically symbolized the essence of what the Police Department is looking for in its officers," Officer Rentas said.

At 41, Robert Fazio Jr. was still single. People would ask him when he was going to marry. But the pressure of society's conventions, said his sister, Carole Lovero, could not affect his decisions. "He was a happy person, he was happy within himself," she said. "He would have gotten married if he had found the right person, but he was happy doing what he was doing." What he was doing, outside of his job as a patrolman for the New York Police Department, was working on motorcycles, cars, boats and houses for anybody who needed a hand. "Half my neighbors, he fixed their cars," said Officer Fazio's father, Robert Sr. Shortly after he got his driver's license, Robert Fazio Jr. could be seen on the weekend in front of the family's house in South Hempstead, on Long Island, hoisting engines in and out of cars with the help of a sturdy tree limb. He had worked for the Police Department for 17 years and was called from his precinct in the East 20's on Sept. 11 to help people out of the shopping plaza beneath the World Trade Center. He had less than three years to go until retirement, his father said, and planned on setting up a motorcycle and car repair shop somewhere near his home in Freeport, N.Y., with a friend from junior high school, Gino Lanza. But though he had no children of his own, he spent as much time as he could baby-sitting for his nephew, Michael Lovero, and friends' children, who nicknamed him the Tickle Monster

Within the tight fraternity of the New York City Police Department is an even tighter fraternity the 25 men, from officers to lieutenants, who wear the blue jerseys of the department's lacrosse team. Ronny Kloepfer, 39, a sniper with the Emergency Service Unit, was their leader. He was founder, coach and midfielder of the six-year-old team, which had a 4-2 record in the annual charity game against its arch-rival, the New York City Fire Department. Officer Kloepfer, who played for Seewanaka High School and then Adelphi University, somehow fit the team into a schedule that included his elite police position, a side job as a contractor and the demands of a young family. His wife, Dawn, and three children Jaime, Taylor, and Casey, were always on the sidelines, as Officer Kloepfer was when his two daughters played their games. Casey was still too young, Mrs. Kloepfer said, but had his own stick from the day he was born. From March to May, the team practiced two or three times a week, from 5 to 7 p.m., at an abandoned junior high school near Officer Kloepfer's home in Franklin Square, N.Y. Now that he is gone, three teammates will run the team, a task Officer Kloepfer managed alone. "We don't know how he did it," said Detective Craig Carson. "We took him for granted almost."

There is a saying among police officers: "When people are in trouble, they call the cops. When cops are in trouble, they call Emergency Service." Santos Valentin Jr., a member of the New York Police Department's Emergency Service Squad 7, answered the call on Sept. 11. Officer Valentin was a sharpshooter trained in counterterrorism tactics, said his sister, Sgt. Denise Valentin, and his family thought that if anyone could come out alive in this attack, it would be him. What have lived on are the memories - of the jokes he played on his colleagues, of how he loved his dog, Luger (so much that he would leave the Animal Planet channel on for him when he was not home), of his love for family and friends, and of his bravery. Officer Valentin was not afraid of death, but he did hate funerals. So, his family gave him a send-off at the rubble of the World Trade Center, where he was last seen. He loved his Budweiser, so they poured him a can and said their goodbyes.

John G. Coughlin was a giving man, and that kept him very busy. Sergeant Coughlin, 43, was with the emergency services unit of the New York Police Department. In his spare time, he was a volunteer firefighter in Pomona, N.Y., where he lived with his family. "He was always on the go," said his wife, Patricia Coughlin. He was good at spoiling his three daughters, Erin, Tara, and Kayla. He took them parasailing, white-water rafting and to amusement parks. He took them to baseball games, but there was a slight complication. He was a Mets fan and all three girls are Yankees fans — Mrs. Coughlin is neutral — and so they went to both stadiums. When the Yankees played the Mets in the World Series, well, that got a little tense. A former Marine, Sergeant Coughlin was active in the Rockland County detachment of the Marine Corps League, helping older veterans and doing honor guard duty at funerals. "He loved that," his wife said. "Once a Marine, always a Marine." One of his favorite times was the middle of December, when he would take a week's vacation to work on the Marine Toys for Tots Program. "He was a firm believer that every kid should have a toy for Christmas," Mrs. Coughlin said.

Water recoveries. Auto extractions. Cajoling deranged gunmen into straitjackets. Talking jilted lovers down from a ledge on the George Washington Bridge. As squad sergeant for Truck Company 2 of the Police Department's Emergency Service Unit, Michael Curtin never knew what kind of risky rescue operation he and his men might be asked to perform on any given day. But he believed in being prepared. On Sundays or slow days, when New York residents managed to keep themselves out of mortal peril, Sergeant Curtin, 45, a former marine who served in the Gulf War, did not let his squad members just sit around. Instead, he would drill them on old skills and teach them new ones — like how to wire a police van by tapping into a telephone pole. "If you wanted an epitome of an E cop, that would be Michael Curtin," said Robert Yaeger, an officer with Truck 2, using the police lingo for an Emergency Service Unit officer. "He was always thinking on his feet and wanted you to think on your feet, too." Not that Sergeant Curtin was all work and no play. At the end of those Sunday morning training sessions, he would fry up an outsize Marine Corps breakfast for all: sloppy eggs, sausage and bacon seasoned with his favorite red, blue and green spices. On Sept. 11, Sergeant Curtin, the father of three athletic teenage girls, was due back in the kitchen of his home in Medford, N.Y., again -- this time, to make a birthday dinner for his wife, Helga.

In just under 34 years, Rodney C. Gillis had accomplished many things: A police sergeant with the Emergency Service Unit. A certified emergency medical technician. A dedicated father of three. But years from now, Sergeant Gillis, who lived in Brooklyn, may be best remembered as the man with many smiles. Even when he was angry — which was rare — he'd still smile. Herewith, according to his mother, Geraldine Gilliam, and a colleague, Officer Harriett Stevenson, a partial list: 1) The Knowing Smile: When he made eye contact with someone else, and both knew what was going on. 2) The Proud Smile: When he talked about his son and two daughters, or when he got dressed up in uniform and looked at himself in the mirror. 3) The Concerned Smile. When friends or relatives were going through a difficult spell, and needed a morale boost. 4) The Encouraging Smile. "If a situation was difficult, you wouldn't know about it, because he'd have that look of assurance saying, 'Don't worry, we can handle it,' " Ms. Stevenson said. Even on Sept. 11, right after the first plane crashed, Sergeant Gillis remarked to a colleague that the weather was beautiful. "God allowed him to see some beauty before he went in to see all the ugliness," Ms. Gilliam said. And the picture here? The Courtesy Smile. Sergeant Gillis didn't like to have his picture taken, but he always obliged.

Timothy A. Roy, 36, of Massapequa Park, New York, a bus squad sergeant with the New York Police Department.

When his parents' Bronx neighborhood began to change for the worse, Stephen Patrick Driscoll decided to help them realize their dream of owning a house near a lake. "He was so anxious to get them moved out of their neighborhood," said Gail Silke, Mr. Driscoll's sister, who helped manage the renovations at their parents' new home in Carmel, N.Y. "His goal was to put them somewhere they always wanted to be." For months, Mr. Driscoll wrangled with contractors and fussed over details to make sure the house, which sits beside Lake Carmel, was perfect. Every night after he left his job with the New York City Police Department's Emergency Services unit, Mr. Driscoll, 38, stopped by his parent's apartment and picked up a box of their belongings. He also secretly restored his 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity so his father would have something to drive once he moved to the suburbs. On Oct. 13, 2001Mr. Driscoll's parents finally moved into their three-bedroom ranch-style house. That night, Patrick J. Driscoll, Stephen's father, wrote a note for his son and taped it to the front door. It read "Stephen, we finally made it. Love, Mom and Dad." "I just wanted to let him know that we were here," the elder Mr. Driscoll said. The next morning, the masking tape was still on the door. The note had disappeared.

A neighboring volunteer fire company called the one in Roslyn, N.Y., for help on Thanksgiving 2000. A rescue specialist was needed to extricate a young man from a wrecked car. The company, and the driver, were lucky. Two rescue specialists, Peter and Thomas Langone, arrived and cut him loose. In their time off, Firefighter Peter Langone and Police Officer Thomas Langone were leaders at the Roslyn Rescue Fire Company, training other volunteers in the skills they learned at work. Thomas Langone, 39, of Emergency Squad 10 in Brooklyn, went to Oklahoma City in 1995 to help with recovery efforts after the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. "His entire day went at a million miles an hour," a fellow officer said. "He didn't wait to be called." He also taught firefighting techniques for Nassau County, and was working toward a bachelor's degree from Empire State College's distance learning program so he could teach when he retired from the department. With his wife, JoAnn; his daughter, Caitlin, and his son, Brian, Thomas Langone took a trip to Rhode Island last summer, touring mansions and enjoying the cliff walk in Newport. Their jobs brought the brothers together. In 1990, the Roslyn volunteers went to the scene of the Avianca crash in Oyster Bay. In 1993, working for New York City, the brothers went to the World Trade Center bombing. On Sept. 11, they arrived separately not long before the twin towers collapsed.

Vincent G. Danz was a member of the New York Police Department's Emergency Service Unit's third squad in the Bronx. The elite unit's officers are experts in areas like psychology, rappelling, scuba diving, first aid and marksmanship. Officer Danz liked the excitement and challenge of the E.S.U. Officer Danz, of Farmingdale, N.Y., was also a husband, and a father of three daughters, including an 8-month-old. With the two older girls, he liked to watch "SpongeBob SquarePants," a Nickelodeon cartoon. "He was a special breed," Felix Danz said of his brother, who at 38 was the youngest of nine children. "I'd always ask him if he had any good jobs lately. He'd say, 'Yeah, I had this subway "pin job," ' where some poor soul was taken out by the subway, or even worse, still alive. "The E.S.U. guys are the ones who go on the tracks, find some way to lift up the train and get those people out," Mr. Danz continued. "He wasn't boastful. He wasn't one of those guys with the swelled chest at the bar. He loved his work and the guys that he worked with. They would die for one another. I think that goes globally for the N.Y.P.D. My brother and his partner went into the trade center without any questions. They knew what to do and how to do it. Unfortunately, this thing was bigger than either of them."

Police officer with the emergency services unit of the New York Police Department.

Mr. Niedermeyer, 40, was a Port Authority police officer, a big man with a booming New York accent who was a genuine hero even before he rushed into the World Trade Center on Sept. 11. In 1992, he received a special citation for rescuing passengers from a US Airways jet that skidded off a runway at LaGuardia Airport. Robert A. Fischer, a retired Port Authority police officer who worked with Mr. Niedermeyer for 16 years, called him "a born rescuer." He made friends quickly and kept them for a long time, said Kevin R. Quinn, who met Mr. Niedermeyer in the sixth grade.

Antonio Rodrigues painted what he liked and he liked the water, so he painted scenes of the beach and of boats. He grew up in Portugal, in a town perched on the coast. When he married and settled near New York, he and his wife, Cristina, chose Port Washington, on Long Island, because they wanted to be near the balm of the water. Their two children, Sara and Adam, had no complaints. Mr. Rodrigues, 35, had been a transit officer in New York but joined the Port Authority police force earlier this year. He designed a T-shirt for his graduating class, with a logo on one side and caricatures of graduates on the back. He had been stationed at the Port Authority bus terminal, and when the attack occurred, he and 14 other officers commandeered one of the regular commuter buses and raced down to the trade center. Much as he relished painting, Mr. Rodrigues had not done many canvases in a few years. Instead, he drew cartoons about his job. "He found a lot of things funny with his job," Mrs. Rodrigues said. For instance, she said, one of the other officers at the academy was assigned to carry around a rock and take care of it. It became a running joke to inquire of this officer, "Where is your rock?" So Mr. Rodrigues drew a cartoon about the officer and the rock. In sorting through the cartoons, Mrs. Rodrigues has decided to give some of them away to officers she feels would appreciate them. The officer with the rock is getting his.

While most teenage boys were playing hoops or hanging out at the mall, Bruce Reynolds spent many of his adolescent days diligently tending to his neighborhood garden. People who lived in the Inwood section of Manhattan called it "Bruce's Garden" and watched the spectacular array of roses, evergreens, lilies, mums and violets sprout annually from the rich soil. For Mr. Reynolds, the garden offered serenity and tranquillity -- an appreciation he inherited from his father, J.A. Reynolds. One day, when he was 12, Mr. Reynolds surprised his parents by announcing he wanted to be a police officer. That dream crystallized on June 23, 1986, when he joined the Port Authority Police. On the morning of Sept. 11, Mr. Reynolds reported for his regular shift at the George Washington Bridge when the Twin Towers were first hit. Mr. Reynolds and other Port Authority officers were sent to the scene. A fellow officer, out of concern for Mr. Reynolds' respiratory problems, told him to stay outside. But Mr. Reynolds was last seen rushing in, determined to help people make it out of Two World Trade Center. The 41-year-old Knowlton resident leaves behind two young children, Brianna and Michael. "He was a good cop. Everything he did was always the right thing," said officer George Hickmann, who was Mr. Reynolds partner for 16 years. "If you could exemplify the qualities you'd want in a police officer, he was it."

When Kathy Mazza threw her line into the water, fish couldn't resist. At least, it always seemed that way. Ms. Mazza didn't get to fish as much as she would have liked in recent years, but she was known as the "family fisherperson" because of her chronic success. When she was growing up and went fishing with her brothers, she was the one who came home loaded down with all the fish. "On our honeymoon, we went to Acapulco and we went deep-sea fishing," said her husband, Christopher Delosh. "No one got anything, except her. She hooked a sailfish. It took her 90 minutes to reel it in, but she did it." Ms. Mazza, 46, lived in Farmingdale, N.Y., with Mr. Delosh. She was a police captain with the Port Authority, and the first female commander at its police training academy. Trained as a nurse, she taught emergency medical service at the academy, a fact not lost on her neighbors.

Romito was born in the Bronx. The son of a corrections officer, he graduated from Adelphi University, Garden City, New York, in 1978. He received an M.A.E. in 1998 from Seton Hall University in South Orange, New Jersey and taught in the school’s master’s degree law enforcement program.Chief Romito, fifty-one, was most recently the commander of the Port Authority headquarters support team and oversaw emergency operations. Prior to this command, he was chief of the Field Aviation Section for two years and was responsible for the Port Authority police operations at JFK, LaGuardia and Newark Airports. An inspector at the time of the 1996 crash of TWA Flight 800, he helped federal and local authorities coordinate information. He received a commendation for valor for his work in the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. On September 11th, Chief Romito went up to the twenty-seventh floor of the North Tower and was supervising rescue workers who were trying to find survivors. He sent some officers outside for first-aid supplies. As the floors above them began to cave in, he ordered personnel to retreat. A colleague said that Chief Romito turned back from a clear stairwell to go back for a group of firefighters. He was found burned under the rubble with colleagues Officers James Parham and Stephen Huczko, Lieutenant Robert Cirri, and Captain Kathy Mazza, along with a woman they tried to rescue.

One night after Sophia Rose Amoroso had her bath, she looked at her tiny hands, wrinkled from the bath water, and told her mother, Jaime, "I have Daddy's fingers." Her father, Christopher C. Amoroso, used to tell his wife that two of his favorite things in the world were taking their 19-month-old baby for a walk, and bathing her, and he used to wiggle his wrinkly fingers at Sophia Rose. The baby is too young to understand that her father, 29, a Port Authority police officer, died when he went back into the World Trade Center's north tower after leading a group of people to safety. She will not remember the thousands of people, including hundreds of police officers, who spilled out of Our Lady Star of the Sea Church in Staten Island for his memorial service. But she will always have the letter he wrote her when she was 10 weeks old: "Sometimes it makes me cry, as I am overwhelmed by the joy I've been given by you and your mother. I want you to know that I consider myself the luckiest man to ever walk the face of this earth. If anything were to happen to me, I could honestly say I've known true love and happiness in my life. I've known that because of your mother and now you."

Clinton Davis, a Port Authority policeman, was a disciplinarian. "Keep in line, stay out of trouble and stay in school" was the mantra he had for his children and his nephews and nieces. "When one of the kids got into trouble, he would have a little talk with them," said his younger sister, Sandra Davis. The children looked up to Mr. Davis, 38, as their model, and the family savored the story of his restraining a "huge crazy man" at the World Trade Center. In the process, Mr. Davis tore his hamstring. The knowledge that Mr. Davis died while helping others gives his family comfort. One of his colleagues told his family that he ran in and out of the north tower to evacuate people, and when he went in one last time, the tower collapsed. His body was later found on the stairs next to his closest friend, another Port Authority police officer, Uhuru Houston.

He pushed. Whatever you thought you were capable of, he thought higher. David Lemagne loved to help people, and especially to push them to become all that they could. "He pushed people to get the grades, to get moving, to get motivated," said his sister, Magaly Lemagne Alfano. "He pushed a lot of friends, and they went further in life because of him." Officer Lemagne, 27, lived in North Bergen, N.J., and was a police officer for the Port Authority, as well as a part-time paramedic in New Jersey. He had begun riding around in ambulances when he was only 11, learning to care for others. He was assigned to PATH in Jersey City, and when the attack occurred he was told to stay put. But he asked to be sent to the trade center, because of his training as a paramedic. Officer Lemagne was a notorious prankster, and loved to kid around. "He would tell my husband, in front of me, 'If you ever have a problem with her, I'll help you get rid of her,' " Mrs. Alfano said. "He would say, 'Don't worry, no one will ever have to know.' " For all his paramedic training, he was not always entirely comfortable with blood. When he was young, he and his close friend decided they would become blood brothers. Fine. Officer Lemagne was handed a knife. "I'm not cutting myself," he exclaimed in horror. They became spit brothers.

When they heard about the attack on the two buildings, Dominick Pezzulo and other Port Authority officers at a Midtown bus terminal commandeered a New York City bus to get downtown, said Gus Danese, president of the Port Authority Police Benevolent Association. Pezzulo, 36, arrived at the scene before either building collapsed and tried to rescue Sgt. John McLoughlin and Officer William Jimeo of the Port Authority police, who were trapped in the rubble from the initial explosions, Danese said. While Pezzulo was trying to rescue the officers, the south tower collapsed, killing him, Danese said. "The two people he attempted to take out of the rubble survived. They are currently in Bellvue Hospital," Danese said. "When they did remove Officer Pezzulo's body, one of the rescue workers wrapped him in an American flag," Danese said. The flag was given to Pezzulo's wife, Jeanette.

The picnic was intended for Port Authority police officers assigned to the PATH system. Technically, Officer Donald Foreman was assigned to the Holland Tunnel, but he was welcome anyway. Donald Foreman was always welcome. He had spent 29 years with the Port Authority, working for many of those years as a captain's clerk, which meant he did a lot of the nuts-and-bolts administrative tasks for a superior. According to a plaque on a wall at the Holland Tunnel offices, he served 15 consecutive captains, according to his last, Robert Sbarra. "If he could work for 15 captains without anyone trying to remove him, he must have done his job extremely well." But Mr. Foreman, 53, had a full life outside, with a large extended family and volunteer duties that included running the youth sports program for his Roman Catholic parish, Immaculate Conception, on Staten Island. He was also a strict vegetarian, but that hardly kept him from that picnic, a hamburger-and-frankfurter feast on the Jersey Shore. "I do remember giving him French fries," recalled his companion, Cheryl Cooper-Foreman. "He loved French fries."

A multitasker before the term became trendy, Donald J. McIntyre never seemed to run short on energy or good intentions. A Port Authority police officer for 15 years, he was also a union trustee -- a vigilant, wave-making trustee, said his wife, Jeannine. But around the house in New City, he was the sort of husband even the neighbors couldn't seem to get enough of: he shoveled driveways, ran errands, played Mr. Fix-it. ''People were always calling me up and asking if they could borrow my husband,'' she said. ''It seems like there's nobody he hasn't done a favor for.'' Donald, 39, banked enough overtime to take December off to stay home for the birth of their third child. He was on duty for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, escorting workers to safety, and was on the scene of last Tuesday's disaster. As usual, he was multitasking: when he ran into the towers with his unit, he called his wife and promised to try and get to the 84th floor to search for his brother-in-law, John A. Sherry, a missing EuroBrokers trader. And he told her to skip work that night because he would not be home in time to baby-sit.

Sept. 11 was the second time that George Howard, a Port Authority police officer, was enjoying a day off when he heard that there was trouble at the World Trade Center. It was also the second time that he raced to work, voluntarily, into the midst of the chaos. The last time was 1993, when the trade center was bombed. "He always did that," said his mother, Arlene Howard. "He heard about it and called up and said, `I'm on my way.' " Mr. Howard, who was 44 and lived in Hicksville, N.Y., worked in the Port Authority's emergency services unit, an elite group he helped found. To him, Mrs. Howard recalled, the unit combined the best of police and rescue work. In his spare time he volunteered for the local fire department and he trained other police and fire departments in safety and rescue work. And he loved coaching children, including his own two sons, Christopher, and Robert. When President Bush visited ground zero just after the attacks, Mrs. Howard was asked if she would like to present him with her son's silver shield. When the president mentioned the shield in a subsequent speech, and said he could carry Mr. Howard's memory forever, Mrs. Howard said, "That made me very proud."

Since he was a boy, Gregg Froehner yearned for a job where he could serve others. When he was a teenager, he became an Eagle Scout and a volunteer firefighter. After college, he became a police officer with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. Mr. Froehner, 46, was assigned to the PATH system in Jersey City, and was a unit leader for the Emergency Services Unit. Yet he never bragged about the rescues he was involved in. Many people who knew him in Chester, N.J., where he lived with his wife, Mary, and four children, did not even know what he did for a living. His wife usually only found out about his daring episodes when she overheard his nightly conversations with his boss, whom they sometimes referred to as his "other wife." Mrs. Froehner used to work as a nurse in a nursing home, and one of her patients was Mr. Froehner's grandfather. One day, he told her, "You look like somebody my grandson should meet." This information was passed on to Mr. Froehner's father, who urged Mr. Froehner to go visit his grandfather soon at the nursing home. Mary and Mr. Froehner clicked immediately. When he was home, Mr. Froehner was a total family man, his wife said. "He loved his children more than anything in the world," she said in her eulogy. "This could be seen in the way he always called Katie his little smiley face, by coaching Matt's team in Little League, by laughing to himself all the way across the room at one of Heather's jokes and by teasing Meghan that she couldn't date until she was 25."

Anthony Infante, an inspector for the Port Authority Police, had gotten in shape for the New York City Marathon after laying off the race for a few years. His regained slimness came in handy as he ran up the stairwell of 1 World Trade Center, aiding victims. He was seen giving his coat to one man to protect him from burning materials. Mr. Infante, 47, became a cadet with the Newark Police Department at 18. After staff cuts, he joined the Port Authority Police. As he progressed through its ranks, he attended college and then graduate school at night. His last post was as the highest-ranking policeman at La Guardia and Kennedy Airports, when Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani was campaigning for the city Police Department to take over the job. Mr. Infante marshaled evidence to show his force was doing well.

When friends describe James F. Lynch, the first word they all reach for is "helpful." A lifelong law enforcement officer and avid fisherman, the 47-year-old Woodbridge resident died in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. "He was a very helpful individual, very thorough, very involved," said Ray Geary, a captain of a charter fishing boat and a member of the Greater Point Pleasant Charter Boat Association, where Mr. Lynch had served as secretary. "He was a very good fisherman. And he was always open to share information. If he had a good day, he'd share that, so the next guy going out would have a good catch," Mr. Geary said. "He was a great guy, willing to help anybody," said Joe Larosa, co- owner of another charter fishing boat. He noted that Mr. Lynch, a Port Authority police officer, was out on sick leave on Sept. 11. But he was unwilling to stay home during the disaster at the building where he worked. Mr. Lynch went to Manhattan to help out and, like so many others, never returned.

James Nelson, 40, of Clark, New Jersey, a 16-year veteran of the Port Authority Police Department was killed in the line of duty while rescuing others at the World Trade Center disaster. Jimmy was called to the scene shortly after 9 a.m. on September 11 from the Port Authority Police Academy in Jersey City. He was married and the father of two beautiful girls. Jimmy always wanted to be a police officer, considering it the most noble profession. His passion for his job was surpassed only by his love and pride for his family. The world suffered a great loss when Jimmy was taken from us. His courage, humor, generosity, and integrity made the world a better place. I will never see his beautiful smile again or laugh at one of his jokes but I do know that I am a better person for having known and loved him. He was my brother and a hero in every sense of the word.

The joy of being the older brother is that you can do whatever you want simply because you're older. Or at least that's the way James Parham, 33, used to justify the pranks he pulled on his younger brother. "When I was about 7 he got me to stick a coat hanger in the light socket," said Kevin Parham. "All I remember was the hallway looking blue to me and him sitting there tickled to death." Of course, not all the pranks between the two were so painful. The boys would race one another home from school determined to win control of the television. But big brother always managed to come out on top, mainly because of a scheme. "He'd take the knob off the television so that even if I beat him, I couldn't turn to my channel," Kevin Parham said. "It was stuck on his show, 'Little House on the Prairie.' "But Mr. Parham the prankster eventually became Mr. Parham the proud United States marine, the proud father Resa, and the respected law enforcement officer. Shortly before he died, he had been promoted to an academy instructor for the Port Authority. "He had so much to be proud of," Kevin Parham said. "But he'd give up everything to help somebody. He was always on the job."

Debralee Scott walked into the Greenwich Village bar Hogs & Heifers on Dec. 15, 1995, and there he was a cop who rode a Harley. The rugged, tattooed man who wore a cowboy hat asked her to dinner. "It was love at first sight," said Ms. Scott, an actress. Five years later, on a cross-country trip, John Dennis Levi, a police officer with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, proposed to her in a hotel room in Winslow, Ariz., the town mentioned in an Eagles song. It was to be a March wedding. But he took the call for overtime at 6 a.m. on Sept. 11, because he liked to be with her on the weekends. He called her when the first plane hit. He called again from the basement of the World Trade Center, as he searched for evidence. He was thoughtful like that. He even made a beauty parlor for his mother, Joanne Priavity, below her Brooklyn home. He loved his children, Dennis, and Jennifer. "He'd like a lot of bikes at his funeral," said Michelle Dell, the Hogs & Heifers owner. "He'd really like that."

When your name was John Lennon, you had to go with a nickname. John Lennon's father, also John, went by Jack. John Lennon himself went by Jay. His own son, John III, is sticking with John, though his mother, Patricia, said, "I tell him, watch what you do." Mr. Lennon, 44, was a Port Authority police officer who worked out of Jersey City and served as a court liaison who transported prisoners. He lived with his family in Howell Township, N.J. Patricia and John met when they were 15, living in nearby neighborhoods of Brooklyn. He went to an all-boys school and she went to an all-girls school. A mutual friend introduced them. She was quiet. He was gregarious. A perfect mesh. Soon after, they became a permanent item. "It was love at first sight," Mrs. Lennon said. "I never had a desire to look at anyone else and neither did he. We saw each other every day." They were married at 23. "He made a comment to a friend a few years after we met that at 16 he knew I was the girl he was going to marry," Mrs. Lennon said. "When I heard that, I thought he was crazy. But he knew. He knew."

John Skala enjoyed himself, but it was important that he made sure everyone else was having fun before he could get comfortable. "He loved making people laugh," said his sister, Irene Lesiw. "If he didn't see you smiling, he would try to make you smile before he would smile." Officer Skala, 31, lived in Clifton, N.J., and was a Port Authority police officer assigned to the Lincoln Tunnel, and also worked part- time as a paramedic in New Jersey. He was called to the trade center after the towers were attacked. Yash, as his friends called him, was well- known for his good humor and hospitality. He would put in a 48-hour shift but still find the time to have some fun with his friends. He could not hold a tune, but he loved to sing. At karaoke bars or at weddings, he would grab the microphone and break into song. Every year, he threw a Christmas party at his house open to everyone and anyone. When he was young, he had a propensity for getting into mischief, like sneaking out in the middle of the night and driving around in his parents' car before he was even 16. "He was ahead of his time," said his sister.

Joseph Michael Navas was trained in life-saving, high-risk rescues. A 20-year veteran police officer for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, Mr. Navas was one of 37 Port Authority officers lost in the aftermath of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. "He probably died trying to save lives when the buildings collapsed," said fellow Port Authority officer Gene Dubelbeiss of Glen Rock, his best friend. A 1985 graduate of the Port Authority Police Academy, Mr. Navas, 44 of Paramus, joined the Port Authority's Emergency Services Unit at Journal Square seven years ago. He took numerous courses in rescue diving, confined space repelling and chemical and biological counter-terrorism. "He was trained for rescue diving which he loved," said Karen, his wife of 15 years. He also loved to dive recreationally, ski, work in his garden and spend time with his wife and three children. He coached his son's Little League team. "He was definitely a true family man, very devoted to his children. He was the best dad. He was a wonderful husband," his wife said. "He worked out all the time," Mrs. Navas said. He and his fellow officers "were very into keeping themselves safe because they wanted to come home to their families." A 1975 graduate of Paramus High School, he spent four years working as a plumber for the Port Authority before graduating from the Police Academy. After graduation, he was assigned to Newark International Airport and then to the authority's central police pool.

As a boy, the two things that scared Ken Tietjen most were fire trucks and police cars. So he took some ribbing from his family when, as an adult, he chose a job that required him to ride in both. Mr. Tietjen, a Port Authority police officer, was at the 33rd Street PATH station when he heard about the terrorist attack, said Laurie Quinn, his sister. Mr. Tietjen commandeered a taxi, banished the driver to the back seat, and drove to ground zero. He rushed into the north tower and helped people down, but when he emerged to get a new respirator, only one remained, his partner recalled. Smiling, Mr. Tietjen said, "Seniority rules," took the respirator and ran into the south tower. Moments later, the building fell. Typical, said Ms. Quinn, noting his commendation for bravery this year, received for tackling a man who had stabbed the sergeant he worked with. As a firefighter several years back, he returned to a burning building to rescue an unconscious colleague. One of those Mr. Tietjen rescued on Sept. 11 attended his memorial Mass. But he did not stay because he became overwhelmed. Ms. Quinn said: "My brother had a choice whether to go back and he chose to go back in. I wouldn't expect anything less from him."

Liam Callahan always made it out of dangerous situations. So it was fully expected that Mr. Callahan, a Port Authority police officer, would emerge from the trade center wreckage -- even if days later. So his wife, Joan, waited. They were supposed to celebrate 20 years of marriage on Sept. 12. But his homecoming was going to be sweeter, a wedding anniversary combined with a hero's welcome at their home in Rockaway, N.J., where they were raising four children: Brian, Bridget, Ellen, and James. Officer Callahan, however, died in the line of duty. Police work was the lifeblood of Officer Callahan, 44, a 22-year police veteran who got at least a half of a dozen citations for exemplary actions, including a group citation for "heroic efforts" during the first trade center bombing in 1993, the police said. One of his first rescues as a rookie came on Sept. 9, 1982. A distraught 20-year-old man was threatening to jump from the roof of the Port Authority bus terminal. "Suddenly, he slid closer to the edge, and I grabbed him," Officer Callahan told The New York Post that day. "If I didn't get him then, he would have been gone."

Robert and Eileen Cirri met when she was an emergency room nurse and he was moonlighting as a paramedic. "There was this weird, electric charge," Mrs. Cirri said. She had not believed in love at first sight until then. It was the second marriage for both. The Cirris had a merged family, with three of her children and three of his. Lieutenant Cirri, a member of the Port Authority Police Department, had about 10 ham radios operating at their home in Nutley, N.J., and helped shore up the state's emergency communications systems. One of the repeaters he set up for the Hudson County Office of Emergency Management was working on Sept. 11, with his voice, and his friends are keeping it. "His voice is still going on, as we speak," Mrs. Cirri said. "It's still keying up every 15 minutes on that repeater, out in space forever." She found another remnant of him when she tried to log on to his e-mail and found he had chosen her first name as his password. Lieutenant Cirri's body was found with the bodies of four other officers and that of a woman they had been trying to carry out in a rescue chair.

As thousands fled the searing flames and smoke of the Twin Towers on Sept. 11, Maurice Barry ran in. A Port Authority police officer assigned to the PATH commuter train system, Officer Barry rushed from Jersey City to Lower Manhattan as police learned of the terrorist attack. He was last seen in the North Tower, attempting to reach trapped and frightened workers on the structure's upper floors. "It was just in his nature," said his son, Jon Barry, 20, an Army reservist from Rutherford as he rattled off a list of rescue efforts his father was involved in. "They (police) said he went up to the higher floors to get people out," Barry said. "That's the last time they saw him. Sometimes it doesn't seem real, but he did it. We're real proud of him for that." "Every one of the 37 members of the Port Authority Police Department gave up their lives saving lives," said Gus Danese, president of the Port Authority Police Benevolent Association, which represents patrol officers. "The word 'hero' doesn't do them justice," he continued.

Some police officers wear their profession like a second skin. Not Michael T. Wholey. "If you asked Mike what he did, he'd say he worked for the Port Authority," said his wife, Jennifer. If pressed, she said, he would say he had put in eight years with the Port Authority Police and looked forward to retiring when their three children finished college. "He was an excellent police officer," she said, "but it didn't define him." What did define the 34-year-old officer, say those closest to him, was the way he was with children, his own and those of others. "He was like a Pied Piper," said his sister Bernadette. The minute he pulled up in his driveway at home in Westwood, N.J., he was surrounded by children begging him to take them to the park. Officer Wholey's sharp family focus was accompanied by a refined maturity that had long impressed his friends. "Years ago, there were times when we'd be sitting in a pub without even enough money to pay the bar tab," said Jim Cunneen, a friend since the seventh grade. "Mike would be saying: `What? You don't have life insurance!' " His closest friends expected Officer Wholey to always do the proper thing. The Friday before Sept. 11, they were not surprised when he missed their annual golf outing because he went to a retirement party for another Port Authority officer. "He knew that guy was going to retire only once," Mr. Cunneen said, "but he'd get to see us many times."

In the garden was an apple tree, and they were forbidden to eat of the fruit of that tree. Nathaniel Webb and his cousins picked his grandfather's still-green apples anyway. When the old man saw that the apples were missing he demanded to know who had disobeyed him. "We didn't tell the truth," said Delores Matthews, Mr. Webb's cousin. "But when he was cornered, Nathaniel always got teary-eyed and told the truth. Then we all got punished, but he never did." From that almost biblical beginning, Mr. Webb remained on the side of authority for the rest of his life. He was a Port Authority police officer for 28 years and, said Mrs. Matthews, "he was always trying to keep everyone else on the straight and narrow." His friends and colleagues knew Officer Webb as a righteous and generous man. He took care of his housebound mother, stopping in several times a week to spend time with her. Sometimes, when a few officers went out for drinks or dinner after work, he would pick up the tab. Officer Sharon Feoktistov, who worked with Officer Webb at the Holland Tunnel, said that once when she was stuck in Brooklyn with a flat tire, he drove from his home in Jersey City just to sit with her and wait for the tow truck. "And the thing was," she said, "I didn't even have to ask."

Paul Laszczynski had a box full of honors from his career as a Port Authority police officer, most notably a Fraternal Order of Police Valor Award for helping to carry someone down more than 70 flights of stairs after the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center. But his position with the Port Authority's honor guard carrying the American flag meant more to him, said his girlfriend, Charlene Talarico. "That was probably one of the more important things to him, more important than most of his commendations," she said. At 6 feet 5 and 240 pounds, Mr. Laszczynski, 49, of Paramus, N.J., was a striking flag-bearer. "He was into the snap, he liked to look right," Ms. Talarico said. "I don't think anybody looked better in the uniform." He kept his turquoise Harley-Davidson Wide Glide just as spiffy, and even named one of his Lhasa Apsos Harley. He rode the bike with the Renegade Pigs, a motorcycle police group that raises money for children's charities. "He was a hero with a heart," Ms. Talarico said.

Those who knew Paul Jurgens said his life was divided into three parts: family, work and practical jokes. He excelled at all three. He joined the Port Authority police in 1980 and developed such expertise as a rescuer that he was made an instructor at the authority's Rescue Training Center. On the morning of Sept. 11, Mr. Jurgens, 47, was driving from Kennedy International Airport to Jersey City, but he detoured and was last seen speeding to the World Trade Center to help. In 1992, he rushed onto a burning jumbo jet that had crashed on takeoff at Kennedy and helped usher all 292 passengers to safety. "What he did was unusual and heroic," said Sgt. Mike Florie, one of his supervisors. "It's hot and smoke-filled, and you're risking your life." On weekends, he loved to shoot baskets and throw softballs with Paul Jr., June, and Lindsay. He and his wife, Maria, also loved inviting friends over to barbecues. "He always used to say, 'I got it made. I got the greatest wife, the greatest kids and the greatest job,' " she said. As for practical jokes, his brother-in-law, Tony Liotta, recalled that when he woke up after dozing off one evening after dinner, he found "Paul Jurgens is my hero" written on his arm. At a memorial service in Levittown, N.Y., Mr. Liotta said, "Now I realize how true that is."

It can't be said with certainty that Richard Rodriguez was the only Puerto Rican man ever to parade around in a skirt and enjoy it. But his family is certain that no one could have reveled in doing so more than he did. A member of the Port Authority Police Department and a drummer in the Port Authority's Emerald Society Pipes and Drums. Officer Rodriguez was as proud of being a police officer as he was of his Latin heritage. And he didn't mind putting on a kilt and mixing the two. "He used to say he was breaking barriers," said his wife, Cindy. Before joining the force, Officer Rodriguez went to school for technical drafting — and hated it. But the more time he spent with the volunteer first-aid squad in Perth Amboy, N.J., where he grew up, the more his career interests shifted to public service. When the Port Authority police offered him a position eight years ago, he told everyone he had won the lottery. He was first assigned to Newark Airport, where he trained for special duty protecting the president when Air Force One landed there. When the planes hit on Sept. 11, Officer Rodriguez and the other officers rushed through the Holland Tunnel. The Port Authority Emerald Society, missing one drummer, played at his memorial service.

Men and women of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, friends and family members: Soon, the famed lyrics of Sgt. Robert M. Kaulfers may be available. These are the tunes you know and love from retirement parties, wedding receptions and slow days on the job. Take it from Sgt. Mark O'Neill: "Bob was a minstrel." You'll get "The Hat," the famous ode to Officer Mike Barry, set to the tune of the theme from "The Cat in the Hat," and "Carnevale Time," the paean to Lt. Mike Carnevale. And who could forget the tribute to Sgt. Bernard M. Poggioli, a world-renowned expert on runaway children, "I'm Much Taller Than Poggioli"? Many of the lyrics were found in Sergeant Kaulfers's locker. His wife, Cookie, thinks she may soon be strong enough to go through his papers at home to meet requests for the other songs. "I would hear him in the shower singing and laughing to himself," she remembered. Sergeant Kaulfers, 49, also found time to study world history, keep the rookies on the right path and raise two children. His friends said he never held a grudge; perhaps the best evidence of that was his 25- year marriage to the girl who beat him in the election for sixth-grade class president.

Stephen Huczko Jr. was never one to do anything halfway. For three years, he went back to college to earn a nursing degree while working at night as a police officer for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. He cooked dinner for his family and didn't hesitate if that meant preparing a holiday meal for as many as 25. An avid runner, he finished the New York City Marathon in 2000. "Steve always had bigger vision than most people," said Kevin Byrne, his brother-in-law. And he always tried to include his four children, according to his wife, Kathleen Huczko. "Everything he did was for the kids, with the kids," she said. For two years, he encouraged his three oldest to participate with him in a local triathlon — he swam with Kaitlyn, biked with Liam, and ran with Cullen, 7. When the family went hiking two summers ago, he carried the youngest, Aidan. Officer Huczko, 44, of Hampton, N.J., was at the Port Authority's Jersey City headquarters on the morning of Sept. 11. He was among those who rushed to help with the rescue effort. Officer Huczko's plan was to retire in five years and start a second career as a nurse. "He could never sit still," Mrs. Huczko said. "It was the idea of continuing to help people." Officer Huczko is buried in a cemetery near Ken Lockwood Gorge, an area in Hunterdon County, N.J., where he used to like to jog, especially with his children.

On the morning of September 11th, 2001, Fred was working in Jersey City when the news came in. A plane had struck tower 1 of the World Trade Center, where Fred’s office was. As soon as the people who knew him heard about it, they didn’t need to ask. They knew he was on his way to help. He phoned his wife to let her know that he was going to the city to help. ”To this day, people don’t understand why he went there” she said. But he was a “Cop’s cop. He would never send men to do a dangerous job if he wasn’t willing to go in there and do it himself.” She said it was the “Cop in him” that put him in the car that day and took him to Ground Zero.The last time anyone saw Ferdinand Morrone, he was on the 45th floor of the World Trade Center. He was trying to evacuate as many people as he could, including many of his own men from offices on the 66th and 67th floors above. He was calmly going about his business and urging people to safety below. Within hours of the attack, the tower had collapsed, and Fred and nearly 3000 other souls were lost that day.His wife and Children attended mass together on Christmas Day that year. ”We tried to honor him” she said. “We wanted to keep the holidays as close to the way he would want us to celebrate them. We tried to honor my husband with the same family love and affection that we always showed each other during the holidays.”

Some people like to imagine how they would spend their days if they learned that they had only one week to live. Thomas E. Gorman seems to have spent his last seven days as if he had some inkling of what was to come. The week began on Sept. 4, which happened to be the day that Mr. Gorman's eldest daughter, Laura, turned 15. Before Mr. Gorman left for his job as a police officer with the Port Authority's emergency services unit in Jersey City, he left Laura a "Happy Birthday" note on the kitchen table of their home in Middlesex, N.J. He cooked dinner that night and passed around slices of cake to his wife, Barbara, and their three children. Two days later, Mr. Gorman, 41, invited his friends to a golf outing to raise money for the Middlesex Little League. Fathers of Little League players showed up, as did some of Mr. Gorman's co-workers. That same week also found him celebrating his wife's birthday, the two of them riding in his motorboat up Barnegat Bay. They stopped at a lighthouse and collected seashells and driftwood. Their getaway ended with dinner at a seashore restaurant as darkness settled. Days later, Mrs. Gorman watched from her car on her way to work as an airplane crashed into 1 World Trade Center. Miles away, her husband climbed into a rescue truck. It was the end of a very full week.

Although just 5-foot-6, Uhuru Gonja Houston, thickset and with a confident stride, could be mistaken for a tough, no-nonsense type in his Port Authority police officer's uniform. He didn't look like someone with a fine eye for window treatments; he didn't appear emotional. But Officer Houston , a genial, affectionate fellow, had an artistic streak and could be unashamedly emotional. After taking his son, Hasani, to his first day of school he lingered outside the classroom, watching through the window, teary-eyed. Officer Houston, 32, was determined to make a better life for his wife, Sonya, their son and their daughter, Hannah. He had grown up in the projects of Canarsie, Brooklyn, sewing clothes and cutting hair as a teenager to earn money. As an adult he was thrifty, and proudly moved his family to a home in Englewood, N.J. (and made the curtains). Life was sweet: while walking his beat at the World Trade Center, he would chat on the phone with Sonya about a whole lot of nothing. Every day off was "family day," and off they would go.

Walter Arthur McNeil, 53, of Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, a police officer with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.

His smile was incandescent, and his kisses ever-flowing. His wife, Thelma, used to chide him over his enthusiasm for his newborn daughter. You're going to smother her and Mrs. Stuart didn't much like it when he came after her with his hugs and smooches. Well, actually, she did. Just not all the time. Mr. Stuart, 28, was a Port Authority police officer who loved his family, chess and the Lord. He had been a narcotics detective with the New York City police, but switched jobs after Mrs. Stuart became pregnant because he wanted a safer assignment. He became a father last year, and when he worked late, nothing meant more to him than returning home to Valley Stream, N.Y., and holding little Amanda. He was great with children, but Mrs. Stuart would sometimes look on, just a little worried. "I would be like, `Honey, that's enough,' " Mrs. Stuart said. "He once said to me, `You know, you never know when the day is going to come and you are going to want that hug from me and I'm not going to be there for you.' "