When he got home after delivering four dump trucks to New York City to support recovery efforts, Randy Bolinger, Volvo Trucks marketing communications director, sat down and wrote a personal journal capturing his thoughts and impressions of the trip. Here are some excerpts.

September 11, 2001

Shortly after nine, a colleague informed me that "two planes hit the twin towers." As I made our way down to the lobby to watch live CNN coverage, many thoughts began racing through my mind. Being an aviator, I was particularly curious how not one, but two aircraft could venture so dramatically off course. I knew that the Empire State building was once struck by a B-25 six decades ago; it could happen again, I supposed, if meteorological conditions obscured the buildings.

However, the image on CNN was immediately and disturbingly clear.

The sky was clear. One aircraft already impacted one tower, then 18 minutes later, a second commercial aircraft banked and made its final approach to its fatal impact on the second tower with near-surgical precision.

Minutes later, while watching replays of the New York City calamity, reports began to filter in about an attack on the Pentagon. I wanted to believe that this was some hoax of H.G. Wells' design and proportion. It was not.

September 12

Wednesday, I donned my American flag necktie, usually reserved for Memorial Day, Veterans Day and Flag Day, and drove to work.

September 13

Thursday morning, I am pulled into a meeting with a colleague who has the foresight to realize that no one has truly "championed" the logistics and finances necessary to make the offer to provide construction equipment and trucks a reality once the mayor of New York City accepts.

By the time I am involved, there is already a logically developed and viable solution to the generous offer of our chairman. But I still felt hollow, because there is nothing tangible I can identify as a resident of Greensboro and an employee of Volvo Trucks that demonstrates compassion for our fellow Americans in their time of need.

Then suddenly an idea, A light goes on. Why don't we send up the dump trucks that are sitting behind our technical center before the city gets organized enough to ask for them? Granted, these are beautiful show-quality trucks and perhaps don't even meet New York State bridge formula requirements - but each one is a fully functional dump truck.

The idea of sending trucks from Greensboro built momentum like a roller coaster that just crested the first pinnacle. The local dealer who vowed to "do whatever it takes to have them ready to roll on time" prepared the trucks for the trip. Fellow employees with commercial driver's licenses volunteered to make the 10-hour drive. People were making phone calls, making arrangements, sweating the details, and turning this generous paper offer into an act of corporate compassion that everyone in the Triad could point to and be proud of.

September 14

A crowd of well-wishers gathered for our departure. Last-minute details and adjustments, the obligatory photographs, choke down a breakfast biscuit, and we were northbound.

The trucks never looked better. Remember, these were show trucks. The finishing touches were magnetic flags on the doors (overnight), and flags attached to the windows (obtained in another county due to the recent flood of patriotism). Cheers filled the air as the truck rolled. Diesel fuel never smelled so good.

For hours I monitored two shortwave radios, juggled calls from work on the cellular phone, and listened to talk radio for the latest developments. This circus was punctuated by the welcome sight of American flags that adorned virtually every overpass. A white Chevy pick-up truck passed with "God Bless America" in electrical tape on the tailgate. At mile marker 46.8 of Interstate 78, a digital highway overpass sign read "Proud to be an AMERICAN." At 7 p.m., only a few short miles from the New York border, some people were standing on an overpass next to an American flag holding candles.

From the top of the Verrazano Bridge, I got my first glimpse of the city. The strange glow that silhouetted the city was caused by the intensely harsh portable, generator-powered lights that illuminated the smoke emanating from Ground Zero. I rolled my window down and actually smelled the smoke on the Manhattan side of the bridge as our circuitous route through Manhattan began.

The NYPD escort deposited us at the first checkpoint. From this point forward, the only people we would see were there to play some role in the rescue and recovery of the more than 4,700 still missing. We passed the checkpoint, entered the tunnel, and stopped at a checkpoint on the other side.

It was all so surreal from this point forward. Everyone on that side of the tunnel was wearing respirators. As I rolled my window down to talk to the policeman, I heard the familiar sound of F-16s on station overhead.

We began our final approach to Ground Zero - Church and Fulton Streets. The route took us past a variety of mangled and ash-covered vehicles. Even blocks away, the ash cloud from the devastation had permeated everything with a pasty gray coating reminiscent of the fallout from the Mount St. Helens volcanic eruption.

At Ground Zero

At Ground Zero now, the trucks were being positioned to be loaded with debris. I stood at the corner of Church Street amongst the firemen, policemen, EMS and construction workers, taking in the scope of the devastation for the first time.

Television clearly could not give an adequate measurement of the depth, or should I say height of the whole scale destruction. The rubble pile was huge. The plume of smoke was massive, and fires flared up when oxygen was introduced as debris was removed.

I walked around the corner past the morgue and watched our show trucks get christened with the debris of terrorism. This imagery was in stark contrast. Shiny new show trucks in the foreground of one of mankind’s greatest accomplishments reduced to a smoldering scrap heap.

The trucks were all loaded and we began to egress. 45 minutes later, our convoy arrived at the landfill. The loads were dumped in a tightly choreographed manner - one load at a time. Once the load hit the ground, a flock of seagulls descended upon it to scour and forage.

These were not your run-of-the-mill landfill seagulls looking for a meal. They were FBI agents dressed in white biohazard suits. They had the unpleasant task of pawing through the debris piece by piece to search for any shred of evidence. The tedious process took hours to complete.

At the rate of one load every five hours (from loading at Ground Zero to returning to Ground Zero) it became obvious this recovery would last for months. We parked the trucks for the night, piled in the van, and headed for the city.

September 15

6:30 arrived earlier than it normally did somehow. I caught the morning news while I got ready. They were turning volunteers and sightseers away today.

On the elevator ride to the lobby, I found myself looking at the shoes of the other man sharing the ride down. I was looking for the white mud on his shoes, the telltale sign of someone who had been to Ground Zero.

Since I do not have a CDL, my value here was limited now that the trucks were here. I was ready to begin the long journey back to Greensboro in the chase vehicle.

Upon checking out, I asked for a local street map. The clerk handed me a map of Manhattan dated September 2001. I looked inside to see the Twin Towers standing proudly on the southern tip of the island.