Copyright 2001 By The Associated Press. All Rights Reserved.
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EDITOR'S NOTE  Stamford, Conn., correspondent John Christoffersen grew up in Staten Island, sometimes called the forgotten borough of New York City. He left. Three of his friends did not. They grew up to be firefighters, and two of them died when the World Trade Center collapsed on Sept. 11. Here is Christoffersen's remembrance of his friends, who made
the ultimate sacrifice on a new day of infamy.

By JOHN CHRISTOFFERSEN
Associated Press Writer

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. (AP) _ It's been more than two decades, but I can still hear the gravelly voice of Gen. George Patton coming from the radio of Joe Gullickson.

We were teen-agers hanging out in the woods off Lester Street in Staten Island as the sun was setting on the 1970s. We hung out there so much that
some of our parents thought "Lester Woods" was a real person.
Joe was the patriot among us, playing Patton's speech in which he rallies his troops for battle. "If you can't handle the roar of the big guns," Joe loved to tell us, "get off the main deck."
  When the hijacked planes crashed into the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, I immediately thought of Joe and two other friends from the neighborhood who became firefighters, Arthur Barry and Jimmy Boylan.
Arthur and Joe were killed. Jimmy survived and was left with the grim task of searching for victims at ground zero.
Joe and Arthur are among 78 firefighters from Staten Island who lost their lives on Sept. 11. Staten Island, sometimes called the forgotten borough of New York City, will forever be remembered as the home of so many of the heroes.
Joe and Arthur were not supposed to be working on Sept. 11. Joe, a fire  lieutenant in Brooklyn, was doing a "mutual" _ working for a firefighter
who needed the day off. Arthur was on vacation, but had taken an early Staten Island ferry to drop off a heavy duty machine he had repaired for the firehouse when the fateful call arrived.
The fire truck had already left, so Arthur ran from his fire station in downtown Manhattan to the World Trade Center.    Joe a police officer before he joined the fire department and Arthur were among many from the neighborhood who followed their fathers into the ranks of the police and fire departments.   Joe loved Patton and John Wayne, country music and the Grateful Dead. At midnight, he'd play The Dead's cover of "In the Midnight Hour."
We listened to these long songs and speeches out of a sense of duty because Joe was the biggest. Joe would shake my hand so hard he could bring me to my knees begging for mercy.
Joe and I shared a page in Moore Catholic High School's 1982 yearbook. Joe had written about all the times we had: Grateful Dead concerts, Yankee
games, and St. Patrick's Day parades.
Memories are flooding my mind. On the trip from Staten Island to Yankee Stadium, we'd stand between the subway cars on the 4 train drinking Bud in
the can and singing a song led by Boylan:  "I like beer / it makes me a jolly good fellow / whiskey's too rough, champagne costs too much / and vodka puts my mouth in gear. I like beer."
As we matured, Arthur made his own beer, a tap and even a marketing slogan to go with it: "Artie's Ale, a Barry good beer.")    Joe and I played basketball together in high school. Every day we'd take the 112 bus from Moore down Victory Boulevard to Cromwell Center near the Staten Island Ferry terminal. The Manhattan skyline would suddenly appear dominated, of course, by the Twin Towers.
"Postcard!" we'd yell.  I was restless in my 20s, so I decided to have an adventure by driving across country. Arthur volunteered to go along for the ride and helped with the driving.
Arthur fixed everything. We'd camp out some nights and he rigged my lousy tent with vise grips so it would stay up. In the desert, the starter died. I banged it with a hammer, exhausting my mechanical skills. Arthur replaced the starter when we got into town.   We spent an extra day in Denver to visit my aunt. Years later, after Sept. 11, she quickly remembered him "He fixed my lamp."
Arthur spent a night in California and returned to New York to take the firefighter's test. But now I realize he was already a firefighter, bringing me safely across country when it was time for me to go.
Hundreds of firefighters and friends showed up at Arthur's and Joe's memorial services. We laughed and cried as firefighters and family members
recalled Arthur's sense of humor and adventure. He fixed so many things in his firehouse that firefighters dubbed them "Works of Art."
Joe was remembered as a dedicated and enthusiastic father and loyal friend. He still loved his World War II generals.
A survivor of the attacks spoke at Joe's memorial service. She described how she made eye contact with each firefighter as they climbed the stairs of the World Trade Center while she and others went down the stairs.
I can't help but think Joe and Arthur dragged some trapped workers out of the towers. I'm not surprised they rushed into the buildings. Their nerve and fighting abilities were obvious to anyone who knew them growing up.
Now Joe and Arthur are gone. So are the towers that symbolized New York for us. Lester Woods is no more, replaced by dense housing. Even the Yankee games were suspended after the attacks.
A group of us from the neighborhood got together at the home of friends Kevin and Eileen Christie. They live a stone's throw from Cromwell Center, where years ago Joe dribbled a basketball quite well. The nearby strip bar where we Catholic boys would sneak a peak is now a yoga center.We could see the Verrazzano Narrows Bridge from their window but, thankfully, the wounded Manhattan skyline was not in view.
Eileen placed two white candles in the window, one for Joe and one for Arthur. We sang one of Joe's favorite songs, "Wasn't That a Party," by the Irish Rovers.
We were together again. Our lives, of course, had changed. We had married, bought houses. Joe, who has two young daughters, took over his father's sprinkler business.
Yet I suddenly find myself wanting to be a teen-ager again. I need to, at least for one day. We could head to the local grocery store, stuff some beers in the deep pockets of the green Army coats we used to wear and run away, laughing all the way to Lester Woods to hoist a few.
I didn't know it then, but those days were free and innocent. We lived for the moment. We anticipated the weekends with excitement, not to rest from a weary week.
The past is suddenly clear; the present uncertain. The outburst of patriotism is remarkable. We're collectively standing at attention, saluting our country as if Patton was inspiring us on Joe's radio.    I just hope we can handle the roar of the big guns as well as Joe Gullickson and Arthur Barry.