Back To The Front? Part II

As I drove East and then North on the highway, I saw "The Crescent City Connection," the bridge that connects the West Bank to Downtown NOLA (that's the name the below-mentioned mentioned crappy atlas had for it - correct me if I am wrong). Cops, MPs, and utility and cleanup crews were everywhere. Abandoned vehicles spotted the shoulders of the road. As I neared the bridge, I saw two cops with shotguns guarding its entrance. They were letting only official and emergency vehicles pass, and they waved me off to the exit directly before the barricade. I felt it wise to drop down to the streets without any argument or fast-talking, at least for now.

When I hit the surface streets (I later learned the area was called Algiers), I immediately noticed more cleanup and utility crews steadily working, cleaning the major debris clogging streets, and surveying/repairing downed power lines. There was moderate hurricane damage here, but no flooding ever occurred in this area, which, at least where I was, contained a mixture of lower and middle class neighborhoods. At first I tried to head West, toward the river, because the atlas I have is so crappy that I didn't trust it not to leave out secondary bridges in its city detail. I ran in to two soldiers guarding an intersection. They checked my ID, but since I had no media credentials, turned me away. They were pretty apologetic about it, but only residents and verifiable members of the media were allowed. I swung back around and tried a more Northerly route.

I still didn't know what to expect as I drove through the streets alone, armed with nothing but a big, scary, fighting knife. There were, and would continue to be, daily reports of psychos shooting at National Guard troops, Cops, journalists, and even cell phone tower repairmen. I couldn't believe I was there without a pistol, but I didn't have one and didn't have time enough to get one once I made my decision to go there. It's a good thing that I'm big, and a decent hand-to-hand fighter, or I might not have had the confidence to continue. I was still nervous, though. I think one my my next major purchases will be a high-capacity .45, complete with extra mags and a quick and comfortable holster system. Quite a few soldiers that I saw had aftermarket set-ups which seemed to be pretty effective.

I continued North at a slow clip, head on a swivel - looking both for interesting things to photograph and anyone who might offer any kind of threat to me. I suspiciously eyed anyone who wasn't wearing a hard hat or a helmet, ready to hit the gas and run over a motherfucker, if I had to.

I spotted a couple of Humvees and a group of soldiers a few of blocks down the street. There were 15 or 20 of them, mostly gathered around a map spread over the hood of one of the vehicles, discussing the situation.



Pulling over across the street from them, I parked and, camera in hand, approached the gathering. A Sergeant Major (SGM) and a 1st Lieutenant (1LT) saw me and broke from the group to check me out, rifles held close, but non-threateningly. I trust them. I know what's in their heads at this point.

I introduced myself, explaining that I was there to help where I could and to document the situation as a freelance photojournalist (admittedly amateur). The 1LT, seeing that I was no threat, wandered back to the meeting, while the SGM quizzed me about what was going on. He wanted to know the situation. They had just arrived that morning and were a little uncertain regarding the local terrain and politics. Here's the deal: while they had heard all the stories of random violence, snipers, and looting, and they truly wanted to help out, these combat tested, door-kicking, shooters had two problems.

The first difficulty is that these troops are in an American city doing relief work and dealing with an American problem, but there were crazies about. The soldiers had to defend themselves, but the last thing they wanted to do was shoot fellow Americans. Second, as federal troops, they were constitutionally prevented from acting as a police force within an American state. This obviously means that not only do they have no power to arrest folks committing crimes, but that their tenuous legal state made even returning fire when attacked subject to major review within the political arena. Of course, there are certain legal clauses that, in extreme situations, can be invoked to get around this situation, but the administration - already embattled by accusations of overstepping their constitutional bounds by creating and supporting the Patriot Act - was hesitant to call on these. The National Guard, acting upon invited (eventually) Louisiana state control, was to heavily augment the local police forces to serve that purpose. I found out later that active duty units like 1st Cav. and the 82nd Airborne were being relegated to body recovery. Damn, I'll bet they were pissed. These guys are action-oriented, but hey, better to not set the precedent for allowing federal troops to run shit within the borders of the US, in my opinion. They weren't scared, but they had issues.

The SGM told me that the area we were in was supposedly a pretty bad one. He noted, however, that although the locals seemed to hate the city cops, they had been pretty friendly with the troops since they had arrived. A wise choice, I think. Unfortunately, I had only just gotten into the area and didn't have a lot of info to offer these guys besides what I had heard on local radio and learned from talking to people who lived in the greater NOLA area. Trying to stay out of the way and not interrupt their planning session, I took a few shots of soldiers doing what soldiers have done in every theater of operations throughout history and moved on, heading East to see what I could see.







As I drove slowly down the street, I saw a lot of spectacular looking damage, but it was very obvious that this area was more than salvageable. There were trees down everywhere, of course, and most of the side streets had yet to be cleared, but most of the other damage consisted mainly of roofing and siding that had ripped off of buildings from the hurricane's winds. A couple structures were devastated, but most of the neighborhood was in relatively good condition.















An old man sitting in a plastic chair in front of a building called out to me as I drove past. I stopped. "Hey, you gotta light?" he asked, waving around an unlit cigarette. I got out and walked over to him, and handed him my lighter. We talked while he smoked. His name was Russell Boudreaux and he was an ethnic Cajun who lived on some backwater bijou until he met and married a "city girl" and moved with her to this area. His wife had died some time back, but he never returned to the swamps. He's a welder and probably makes more money in the city.



He told me that the first few nights during the hurricane and subsequent flooding were insane. People had been running around the streets shooting, looting, and generally freaking out. Russell had spent those nights locked in his apartment above the store where I found him, cradling a loaded shotgun, ready to defend himself if necessary. He said that it had been pretty calm during the days, especially once the local cops were reinforced by police and military forces from throughout the country, but he cautioned me against traveling alone at night in this neighborhood. "Yeah, well don't worry about that," I responded, "I may be an idiot, but I don't have a death wish." I told him about the Army unit based just down the street and said if he had any problems he should flag them down. He didn't seem worried. Funny thing about old people: some are terrified of everything, clinging on to what scraps of life they have left. Others, like Russell, aren't looking for death, but manage to work through life with an attitude that screams, "I've been through it all. What can you possibly do to me? I'm not afraid to die, but you'll have to take me down kicking and screaming." I don't expect to live as long as Russell, but if I do, I hope I share his attitude when I get there.

I gave Russell an old, GI issue, waterproof container filled with matches. It had a striking surface glued to the inside of the lid. Then I thanked him, wished him luck, and drove off.

Just a few blocks East of Russell's place, I came across the first evidence I'd seen of real looting. It was a small, local supermarket called the "BreauxMart." It was pretty disgusting - food and trash spilling out of the shattered doors out into the parking lot. While taking pictures, I kept looking over my shoulder for signs of anyone approaching. People who do this to their own neighborhood are not to be trusted, I think. And before anyone complains, this store suffered not just a run on basic supplies like food and water. It had been trashed. The people who did this did it not out of survival instinct, but mob anger.













I wanted to go inside, but didn't because I thought I might get shot as a looter by a passing cop. Perhaps this sign directly across the street added to that feeling: