10-13
10.
By that Thursday afternoon, I remained unsettled. Apparently, so did Ronny. With no discussion, Ronny informed me that he wanted to go back. Knowing that circumstances and security were changing daily, we began to try to obtain some source of legal authority to regain entry to the City. With knowledge that St. Bernard Parish remained under water and essentially inaccessible, discussions ensued between our friend, Sam Jones with the Governor’s Office, and Senator Walter Boaso, who represents this area east of New Orleans and south of the area of our previous mission. The parish was not accessible by road. Bounded on the west by the Industrial Canal, on the north by the Intracoastal Waterway, on the south by the Mississippi River, and on the east by marsh and the Gulf of Mexico, access by boat was virtually impossible, due to the extensive levee system.
We were hopeful arrangements for access could be made with authorities because there was great need for boats inside of St. Bernard Parish. That parish had suffered the double whammy of storm surge from the surrounding waters of the gulf and the lake followed by rising water caused by failures in the levees. Word was that many houses were still under water and many residents remained trapped.
The plight of the New Orleans area pulled on my homegrown heartstrings and also on the sentiments of the R & R guys, who by now had adopted New Orleans as their own. Intent on planning better and equipping more thoroughly, a 3:00 a.m. Saturday departure was fixed. To avoid a repeat experience with poorly structured layers of obstruction referred to as “staging areas” by Wildlife & Fisheries officials, we opted to go with the options presented through Senator Boaso. Our only choice would be to try to access St. Bernard Parish from the west bank of the Mississippi River. We were encouraged when informed that the ferry between the west bank of the river and St. Bernard Parish at Chalmette was operating. With the word out, we had the potential to join with other groups and accumulate an even larger contingent to enter the troubled area.
We left a little later than scheduled and met with a few delays. Shortly after sunrise we approached the LaPlace roadblock. Our entry was not so easy this time. The reference to the long line of boats and volunteers in tow did not gain us immediate passage. Dropping references to the Governor’s office, to Sam Jones and to Senator Boaso were still met the officer’s reluctant consideration of our request. He wanted a letter. I was incredulous that a written authorization would be necessary since we understood that all arrangements were in place for our entry. No one mentioned a letter. I maintained eye contact and as honest a gaze as a lawyer can muster. He waved us through but cautioned us,
“You won’t gain entry to the city again without a letter’”
“That’s OK”, I thought, “We plan to stay downtown. This is the last access we will need.”
My confidence wavered as we approached a second checkpoint on the west bank of the river just east of Boutte. More vehicles were being turned around than were being allowed to pass. As we approached the City from up river, we noticed the outlying areas coming back to life.
On this fifth day after the storm hit, traffic on the highway had increased dramatically. Some of it consisted of locals, but most of the vehicles carried workers, supplies and equipment to be used in the rescue effort. The stranded masses had by then been transported out of New Orleans to shelters all over the United States. Later, it was reported that the million or more residents of New Orleans relocated by this storm was the largest redistribution of population in this country’s history.
The officer at the roadblock asked for our letter. Again, some name-dropping and the reference to the number of vehicles and workers who had traveled from Lake Charles sufficiently legitimized our group to allow us through.
“Don’t come back without a letter”.
As we entered the West Bank Expressway, signs of normal day-to-day activity all but disappeared. There remained a significant number of law enforcement, emergency and support vehicles streaming into the City. Three police units sped by with sirens blaring. Up ahead they gathered at a convenience store responding to a call, presumably a “looting”. That term came to be loosely used with exceptions apparently allowed for hungry and thirsty people looking for food and police officers looking for the same or for equipment to assist in their operations. Which type it was at this location was not apparent, as we did not slow. We barely glanced at the scene as we passed.
With the drop of the Senator Boaso’s name, access and an escort were to be provided at the last checkpoint before the Crescent City Connection. With the contingent of workers and equipment, our hopes were that the plans would unfold as expected. No such luck. The lone officer at the barricaded entrance to the City acknowledged that he had heard something about us on his radio. He allowed us entry to the west bank roads leading to the Algiers ferry landing across the river from Chalmette, but provided no escort.
The Cajun convoy moved toward the general location of the ferry. The devastation here on the West Bank was from wind more than flooding. We stopped at one point with access blocked by fallen trees and power lines. At the stop, a young lady drove up and stopped to talk to some of our group. From her distinctive drawl, she was clearly a native of New Orleans. She offered gasoline and directions, and asked that we allow her to join in our rescue efforts. We agreed.
She directed us to River Road, where we were forced to travel for approximately two miles on the sloped side of the levee to avoid the string of power lines and poles blocking River Road. The trucks and boats managed well with only the mechanic’s truck nearly bogging down in one of the areas of soft wet ground. The flat bed trailer carrying the cases of bottled water stacked and strapped to it, began to shift and listed to one side.
We were encouraged as we saw signs of the final approach to the ferry. Then we came upon the sight of two monstrous ferryboats grounded at 45º angles on the river side of the levee. High and dry. We stared at the beached bottoms of the ferries glaring back at us over the levees and looked at the mighty Mississippi. We began to consider our options. It did not seem that there were many.
Another group of three boats with whom we had coordinated had arrived shortly before us. Mike Nodier and his group had been drawn to the rescue effort by Mike’s connections to the area. Raised in New Iberia, Mike had lived for an extended period of time in the area, in St. Bernard Parish. That was his destination, come hell or high water. His obsession with getting in to help old friends and neighbors in St. Bernard burned in his eyes as we plotted together in Lake Charles the day before. Nothing was going to stop him from getting his group in.
Nodier’s group informed us by walkie-talkie radio to continue on the levee to the launch. Again encouraged, we proceeded along the top of the levee past a bend to the anticipated launch site. The “launch”, as they referred to it, was a concreted portion of the levee sloping at a 45º angle to a wet grassy area adjacent to the river. It was obvious that this “launch” would handle only the smallest of boats behind the biggest of 4-wheel drive trucks. Again though, discouragement did not obstruct progress, and before we knew it, “NuNu” had a flat- bottomed boat in the river ready to go.
Radio contact with the lead group confirmed the presence of a law enforcement relief operation in the Chalmette slip across and up river from our location. My careful, conservative senses were stretched to their limits as the small skiff sped into the current of this country’s largest river. The adrenaline flow was again kicked up a notch. As I strapped on my bright orange life jacket, the best I could manage from my boat mates was to have them politely accept the personal flotation devices I handed to each of them. They placed them on the deck of the boat as Nu-Nu gunned the motor and headed upriver.
Approaching the Chalmette slip on the other side, human activity was obvious on two ferries floating at the entrance. We exited onto a three level tugboat that we later learned was one of the many vessels commandeered by the St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Office. A high-ranking law enforcement official pointed to a passing officer, noting that he was carrying the “keys to Chalmette”, a large pair of cable cutters.
It was first suggested by the Chief Deputy of the sheriff’s office that we could set up guard posts on levees at key locations of entry into the parish to prevent entry by criminal elements. I corrected the misimpression of this gentleman, telling him that we were construction workers and not trained law enforcement. We were promptly provided free access to a large crew boat and any equipment that we might see that we could use to assist us.
“Take whatever you need. We have confiscated everything on the river from Chalmette to the parish line”.
On board our new vessel, the next task was to retrieve our crew and the thousands of bottles of water that we had brought. By the time we had left Thursday morning, there remained tens of thousands of people in the area who could not get drinking water. We were determined to do what we could to fill this void and Ronny had negotiated with a local Wal-Mart store to buy every unsold bottle of water they had on hand.
The listing water trailer was backed part way down the levee. A human chain was formed from trailer to crew boat across a flat boat, and 2,000 bottles of water were passed for transport. With bottles and crew on board, our return trip to the St. Bernard operation began, less a small security force left with the vehicles,
On arrival at the Chalmette slip, the hope for mechanized removal of the water was scuttled and we formed another water line up the 25-foot wall of the dock. Onto pallets and away by commandeered forklift, the bottled water moved one step closer to its intended destination. Images of folks on rooftops and trapped in attics kept the troops motivated. However, it quickly became apparent that rescues by boat would not be started from this location.
There was need for repair of a roadway adjacent to the slip and two or three of the group began this task. Projected to be a two-day job by the new operators of the facility, the work was complete in less than an hour. By this time, the head of the operation, who had chosen to cool his heels with the security force on the west bank, lost his patience. Ronny summoned the forces to return, declaring that we had not come to build roads but to rescue people. He declared that we were going back into the City to return to the area of those we had left three days before. Failing all else, we would rely on our ability to charm the gatekeeper at the foot of the Crescent City Connection. Our options would be subject only to the limitations of our ingenuity.
11.
Turning off of River Road, we came upon an unintended roadblock caused by a gathering of various vehicles. Among them was an NOPD unit. Generous and cooperative officers patiently attempted to communicate on the sole channel available to the entire department. Their purpose was to help us to try to reach Capt. Tim Bayard, our downtown contact with the keys to our Canal Street campground. They managed to reach him and received instructions to direct us to Carrollton Avenue at I-10 where we would launch into the water from the interstate. He informed us that he would be unable to provide any law enforcement support for us.
By this time, it was after 2:00 p.m. and we knew that our time in the water would be limited. Despite this and the 95 degree heat, we were excited about the gate to the City being opened and our deployment to our defined task. We were also pleased by the officers’ offer to escort us, additional security that our access to the City would not be impaired. We crossed the Crescent City Connection, necessarily heading west in the eastbound lane to avoid high water covering the eastbound lanes of the interstate up ahead. I noticed our early and unexpected descent down a ramp in the vicinity of the Superdome.
The Dome had become the center of international media attention while it housed twenty–five thousand or more as a shelter of last resort to those who could not or would not leave the City during the approach of the storm. Now empty, the crowds were not an issue. Instead, the knowledge that the area of the Superdome was under water was my concern. Near the base of the down ramp, the escorting officers realized that this single lane ramp was not only the wrong route into impassable waters, but it was too narrow for the 17 vehicles with boats to make U-turns.
Each vehicle began the tedious process on the narrow down ramp of unhitching, manually turning and re-hitching each boat, large and small. Delayed for over 30 minutes, the frustrated recovery team moved again toward its destination, longing to launch their boats and crank their motors. The productive recovery effort of the previous Wednesday was still fresh in their memories, and we all wanted to duplicate it.
Eventually we were able to enter the correct area of elevated interstate. The Wednesday morning scene of thousands of displaced residents wandering along the shoulder was replaced by the accumulated trash of those who had lived on the road after the storm until their transport out of town. By the time of our entry on this Saturday afternoon, resources had finally been provided to sustain the stranded residents and then to transport them to a better place.
Back at ground level, the adjacent areas appeared nearly deserted, with the exception of an occasional pedestrian wandering aimlessly on the shoulder of the highway. After parking in the left lane of the usually bustling eight-lane interstate, we exited our vehicles and ourselves began to wander, trying to determine how to get the boats in the water. A large man, clearly wet and frustrated, approached us on foot. He appeared angry and ready for confrontation, perhaps uncertain about how we might greet him. His demeanor changed immediately when we offered him a cold bottle of water. He gratefully accepted and stayed to talk briefly before continuing his trek to somewhere. After much trouble launching boats from the slightly inclined interstate, we encountered shallow waters. It was past 5:00 p.m. when all boats reached the assigned area near the Carrollton Shopping Center.
By this time, the scene that media was presenting to the nation seemed unreal and unbelievable. From our position on the ground, or in the water, those descriptions were woefully inadequate. As dusk began to fall, “surreal” again came to mind, in addition to “eerie”, along with some “scary” thrown in as our flatboats quietly glided closer to the edge of old New Orleans. Without law enforcement escorts or presence, we idled slowly through the waters, occasionally thinking of our vehicles left in the care of our own patrol, armed with hand guns, shotguns and automatic weapons. A member of another civilian security force had warned us at the dock, to stay out of certain areas. His warning had been supplemented by his mimicking the firing of a rifle to indicate why the area to be avoided was unsafe.
The smells on this sixth day after were consistently present and intermittently overwhelming. In the shadows of the tangled interstate overpasses, a lone man sifted through his acquisitions of the day stuffed into the small storage compartment of a wave runner. At the first major intersection, we passed two poor souls who didn’t make it. Both were in final resting positions that were difficult to understand. One rested on both knees in shallow water in the inside travel lane of Carrollton Avenue. It appeared as if he had been stopped in his tracks and brought to his knees while trying to cross the street. His face was submerged and squarely planted against the pavement. The other rested on his back on a high piece of neutral ground near the Palmetto Street Canal. His body was rigid and facing the sky with only his elbows, heels and buttocks making contact with the ground. His face grimaced as if frozen in the split second of a nuclear blast. Some speculated that higher waters may have brought them there and dropped them into these strange positions after the waters receded. Others suggested that heat and natural processes just caused them to draw up. Each remained grotesquely positioned amidst floating household items, debris and the stench that had accumulated after the storm.
Almost as soon as the last of the 10 boats entered the area, five could not be located. Our entry without a plan then relegated us to an effort to locate and recover our own people. During this effort, it became obvious to all of us that we would not achieve the high level of recovery that we had reached three days before. We encountered some folks intent on staying in their homes to protect their stuff, despite being told that lights, water and dry land in a few days was not a reasonable reality.
Here in these deserted neighborhoods, we first encountered boaters who appeared to have questionable motives. In those encounters, the occupants of each boat appeared content not to create any controversy. Each waved off the other politely as the boats passed each other to continue their respective missions. Fanning out into a makeshift grid pattern, we continued to search for our comrades.
In the long shadows of the afternoon, I was struck for the first time with the New Orleans that might now be forever lost. Much of the architecture of the City is unique and defines the City as distinctly as does the spirit, character and vitality of its people. All of it is connected in one way or another to the City’s historic diversity. Realizing that the sites I was experiencing in the nearly deserted metropolis would be experienced by few and recorded by even less, I borrowed the last nine shots of a disposable camera from a boat mate. This provided only a few shots of a limited area, but I knew these would convey enough information to family and friends to give some sense of the enormity of this disaster. It might preserve some memory of a part of this historic City that I began to realize could be forever lost.
We returned to our starting point and were relieved to see the remaining boats heading back to our launch in the right lane of I-10 next to Xavier University. We trailered the boats then moved toward the trolley tracks at the foot of Canal Street in hopes that the same location would provide us a place to rest for the evening.
12.
Sticking with our attempts to be more prepared for this trip, we stopped periodically to retrieve a few of the hundreds of unopened boxes of bottled water lining the interstate. Evidently it had been too much, too late brought to those who by this time had been transported to their new temporary homes. This water would allow us to wash the sweat, the smell and hopefully the bacteria from the new city swamp off of our bodies. I stopped my truck to retrieve from the highway shoulder 20 gallons still packed and sealed in the original containers. The water had baked all day in the sun, and provided promise of something close to a warm shower that evening.
We entered downtown as if we owned it. An impressive line of vehicles, the length of a small Mardi Gras parade, we rolled into our spot on Canal Street as if it had our names on it.
We shared MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) provided to us by City police as we sat on the beds of our trucks and recounted our stories. We laughed that national media was reporting a City run by armed thugs ruling the streets. We had occasional contact with family by text message and spoke with NOPD officers who had not seen their families since before the storm.
During one of the stops on interstate to retrieve water, one member of our group happened upon a junior high math book amidst the debris and opened it in curiosity. Inside he found a 4 page hand-written letter to no one in particular. It appeared to detail experiences of the writer during the storm and the days after while he was confined in the Superdome. It was difficult to read due to the writer’s apparent limited education level, but it was fascinating. We took turns reading it by flashlight, as it was passed around carefully and handled gently to avoid damaging it.
During the night, a contingent of mules galloped past, chased by police. A cool front came through providing relief. The 42-floor Sheraton Hotel lit up briefly, amidst the downtown darkness, a sign of hope to those who were awake to see it.
Much was different on this Sunday morning compared to four days before when the Dome, Convention Center and expressways were jammed with frustrated people. By Sunday, the buses, planes, water wagons and National Guard had arrived. The Dome and Convention Center, once overflowing with anxious evacuees, was now occupied only by mounds of stinking debris and garbage next to unopened cases of bottled water. The City was silent but for the passing helicopters that filled the sky. The radio carried stories of snipers and criminals. Some told of bands of thugs roaming the streets reducing law enforcement to defending a single building from the rooftop. We saw none of that, but knew that we were not seeing the entire City.
Capt. Bayard described the intended missions that would move up Canal Street or target possible retrieval of families in the Carrollton area, which we had explored briefly the night before. We expressed our desire to return to the search area of New Orleans East where we had left folks who expected us to return. Capt. Bayard agreed and deployed us to that area again.
Each boat was to be assigned a law enforcement officer and boats were to work in pairs. Though we had not witnessed the reported criminal element, stories being told indicated that many of those who remained in the City might be up to no good. Awakening around daybreak, we were more relaxed. The most popular gathering spot was around the Coleman coffeepot brought on this trip by one of the more practical thinkers in the group.
The plan was to deploy back to Reed Blvd. at 7:00 a.m. Around 6:30 a.m., a young lady in her 20’s and a gentleman in his 50’s entered our trolley track campsite with plastic i.d. tags hanging around their necks. From CNN, they inquired about our group and were directed to Ronny. They wanted an on-air live interview. Ronny wouldn’t do it. He designated his legal counsel as spokesman. We explained that we had little time due to our planned 7:00 a.m. deployment with our NOPD friends. We moved a block up Canal Street to meet Soledad O’Brien, formerly with the weekend version of the NBC Today Show. She had recently moved to a more prominent position with CNN as host of its Morning Show.
I was disappointed to see the cameras positioned to show the collapsed brick wall of a two-story building as a backdrop for the interview. I thought the impression given viewers of a downtown New Orleans akin to London after the Blitzkrieg was unfortunate. A rescue and relief effort rejuvenated with fire and rescue personnel from across the nation was bustling less than a block away on Canal Street. It seemed to me, that would have been a more accurate and appropriate setting to show.
I was asked about our group and its activities and got to tell about the generous group of guys and a few of their amazing stories. Asked about the violence and turmoil, I honestly told Ms. O’Brien that we had seen none of it, and that we had slept safely in the beds of our pickup trucks on Canal Street the night before. The interview finished, I returned to the group after agreeing to allow her to accompany us in one of our boats later that morning.
13.
Soon loaded in our vehicles, we were pleased to be accompanied by two ambulances with EMTs, in addition to our law enforcement contingent. We moved east through the area of the Convention Center past the blocks and blocks of garbage and debris. The City was virtually silent now, but with new smells. Noticeable was the increased presence of law enforcement, National Guard, and emergency personnel from towns and counties across the country.
We glided quietly onto the nearly deserted interstate cluttered by boxes, trash, bottled water and other remnants of the bus loading areas thrown up on the expressway during the days before. Past the clutter and through the bumper-high water again, our line returned to Chef Menteur Highway. In the shadows of the overpass and the location of the Wednesday blockade, three men shuffled through the debris of the now deserted temporary settlement. Though we saw no violence or criminal activity, we remained on constant guard for what might happen.
At Reed Boulevard, the increased amount of trash since our last visit was a sign that a significant volume of people had been brought through the area since we left. The stench of the garbage joined with the pungent odors emanating from the launch site. The water was now blacker and seemed thicker than it did on Wednesday.
The first boats launched sped off with their impatient pilots and without escorts to the high-rise assisted living facility to check on our few friends left behind. A short time later we were happy to confirm that the facility had been emptied and cleared by NOPD since we had left.
Also different than our previous trip, those in charge professed their intentions to grid the area and organize the search. After a planning session among law enforcement, boats began spreading to five launch areas spread out over a five-mile stretch of The Chef. Before the last six boats could leave, a sudden spike in intensity was obvious as officers received sketchy radio contact of an ongoing incident
From one of our boats at Reed Boulevard, a homicide investigator, in cutoff camouflage pants, an NOPD shirt and knee boots, jumped to dry land. With radio in hand, he let loose a string of exclamations apparently directed to those who were the topic of the radio conversation. Our impression was that a group of bad guys with guns were in our area in gunfights with law enforcement. I was only a little comforted by the fact that on this trip, our group had come well armed with handguns, automatic rifles and shotguns. I had even found my 12-gauge shotgun hidden on a shelf in my closet, and held it close for comfort.
Deployment of boats stopped as the drama developed and the situation unfolded. Four of the culprits were down, apparently on their way to meet their Maker. Two or three were still engaged with officers. Eventually, we learned that a group of six or seven had descended upon a vehicle crossing the area of high water that we had crossed ourselves. Their intentions were to carjack the vehicle. The culprits were not aware that a well-equipped contingent of law enforcement approached the scene close behind the vehicle the bandits sought to misappropriate for their own use. Word was that law enforcement prevailed in the confrontation. From then on, we held our weapons a little tighter and at the ready.
Less than an hour later, chatter on the police radio channel increased again. We heard,
“Officer down in a boat …Reed Boulevard and Pressburg … fired on”.
That was two blocks from our base. It was our boat and our guys. Four more boats were scrambled into the water. Word was that the SWAT team or tactical contingent would go out in boats to the scene of the incident. Minutes passed and an officer exited a police unit arriving at the scene. He was clearly angry that “they” had the road blocked and the Tac Unit could not pass, apparently referring to some other arm of law enforcement over which he had no authority.
Again, like Wednesday night, we found our guys potentially in harm’s way, and were helpless to do anything. From the area of the call, smoke bellowed into the air from an obvious fire. Still no word. Four boats sat still in the water, their drivers armed and ready, awaiting the SWAT team. Ronny was ready to go, armed with an automatic rifle and standing in a boat like George Washington in the famous painting of his crossing of the Delaware River. The ranking NOPD lieutenant at the scene told him to “Stand down”, but Ronny either did not hear him or ignored him.
Law enforcement’s single radio channel was cracking with chatter of officers trying to evaluate and respond to the situation. That effort was briefly interrupted by someone, oblivious to the unfolding drama, requesting drop locations and telephone numbers for clothes donations. A frustrated officer politely asked for the channel to remain clear for handling of this more urgent situation.
No sniper located, it was eventually surmised by those of us as the “launch” that the house fire had ignited rounds of ammunition in the house. Upon the return of our biggest vessel, a 25-foot bay boat, we heard the rest of the story. Upon seeing the smoke, Shannon had steered the boat into the vicinity of the fire. At a point about ½ block from the fire, the boat stalled. With the boat temporarily dead in the water, the rounds of ammunition inside the burning house began igniting. The poor policemen, probably from traffic patrol, reported being under fire and the boat down in the water. Adrenaline had flowed at the scene and in everyone tuned to the lone, fractured radio channel. Though now clarified at this location of the incident, stories would certainly expand around the metropolitan area recounting increasingly exaggerated versions of the confrontation between police and snipers.
This Sunday was clearly going to produce less evacuees and more risk than the Wednesday before. For the rest of the morning and into the scorching afternoon, the boats covered the grid methodically. Occasionally, they would return with an area resident. More often it was with stories of those who refused to leave their pets, their homes or their stuff. By early afternoon, Capt. Bayard personally appeared to thank the R & R crew and to inform us that the effort was moving from rescue to recovery mode. Speculation by some public officials by midday Sunday was that there might be 10,000 dead on the streets and in the flooded homes, hospitals and nursing homes of the City.
With Timmy Bayard were a crew from the New York Times and “someone from the Governor’s Office”. Upon seeing our good friend Sam Jones, who helped coordinate our gate passes in St. Bernard Parish, I gave him a hug and was introduced to Gigi, a nurse who accompanied him. Sam had become a close friend to Sara and me during the previous two years. His generous and sympathetic nature paired with his political astuteness and quiet enthusiasm was a unique combination in the current political arena of uninformed bipartisan bickering. It also was the bond that made our relatively brief friendship seem as if it had been lifelong. I never managed to speak to the New York Times group.
No comments:
Post a Comment