Clandestine Insertion (well, sort of), Part II

I jumped back in my car, carefully did a U-turn through the debris, and headed South down the other side of the street. This time I made a few stops to closer inspect the area. My first was at the remains of a large brick building that had recently burned down. Smoke smoldered upwards and a few small fires still jumped here and there. I left my car to grab some shots. It was incredible looking, so I took quite a few pictures.



























My next stop was in front of “Lafayette School,” where what caught my eye was another boat and a wheelchair. I assume that they just threw their crippled colleague in the car or boat and high-tailed it out of town, not bothering to take the time with the chair.





Instead of following the directions of the soldiers at the last checkpoint, I wound my way West though cluttered side streets. I had to make several turns and often had to backtrack along the way to avoid deep water and obstacles in the road. My little sedan wasn't the right vehicle for the job, but at least I hadn't driven here on my motorcycle. I can't believe I even considered that!

After various twists and turns, I found myself only a few blocks down the street from the guarded gravel blockade I had circumvented earlier. Feeling cocky, as this time I was already within the Parish limits, I drove up to it and parked, wanting to have a look around. On my side of the barrier was a small group of tents, which housed a few refugees from the city. Numerous boats had been beached at the end of the canal on the North side of the street. Apparently this group of survivors had decided to camp on the first dry land they encountered during their flight.





I turned around and headed back East on Claiborne. Just after crossing Carrollton, an abandoned ambulance blocked part of the road in front of a looted bank. I would imagine that a bank would be one of the worst places to loot, because with any kind of warning, all the cash would have been secured in the safe. I somehow doubt that those citizens smashing through the windows with bricks and tearing up the interior were studied safe-crackers.





Driving on, I came to Broadway St. and saw a sign for the New Orleans Zoo pointing South. On a whim, I turned, figuring that it would be interesting to see in what condition the place had survived.

Broadway is a smaller street than Carrollton, but it is also a divided boulevard, and was mostly clear. The little cross-streets were pretty thoroughly blocked, but I began to see small crews of NG engineers, cutting swaths through the downed trees with chainsaws and clearing piles of brush and junk with Bobcat “skid-loaders.” They were working in the midst of downed utility poles and power lines, but they assured me that this whole area had its power shut off.





I saw a canoe grounded on the median a little further down the street. I would have ignored it as just another abandoned boat, but as I drove by I saw that its prow had a really cool, hand painted design. I stopped for a closer look and a picture.



While kneeling before the canoe to try to get a close shot, an SUV pulled up on the other side of the road. A man in an EMT uniform got out. He said that he recognized the canoe as belonging to his neighbor, so I helped him lift it to the roof of his truck. I offered a length of rope to secure the load, but he declined, saying he only lived a block or two away. As he carefully drove off, I wondered if he wasn't just stealing the damn thing. It was pretty cool looking.

At its Southern extreme, Broadway runs right up to the levee bordering the Mississippi river. Following the signs for the zoo, I turned East, ending up on Magazine street. I noticed hastily painted markings on some of the houses in the area. I had heard that the cops and soldiers were leaving these to mark which houses had been checked for survivors and which held dead. There were so many different agencies with different SOPs for making these marks that there was never any real consistency to them. I don't know how other units were supposed to decipher them.





Two blocks later, the terrain opens up; a golf course to the North and a grassy park that serves as the front lawn of the zoo (and aquarium, I think) to the South. Encamped in that park was 1st Battalion, 179th Infantry, Oklahoma National Guard.



I parked out of the way, but near their motor pool. I figured that my car was probably safer here than in my driveway in Los Angeles. I stuffed the camera and my notebook into a bag and walked toward the closest cluster of tents and camouflage netting. I didn't want to start wandering around taking pictures without getting permission.

Before I even reached the tents, an alert Staff Sergeant was already on his way out to question me. I told him my story. Once he knew that I wasn't just there monkeywrenching, he relaxed and we chatted a little. Gesturing at my pants and boots, he asked if I was ex-military. When I replied in the affirmative, he said, “You need to go see the First Sergeant. He'll probably be able to set you up to go out and take some pictures. Tell him you're a veteran.” He then grabbed a nearby Specialist and ordered him to escort me to the 1SG and then take me around their area for photos. He pointed out another cluster of tents to the East and said, “Stay out of that area. That's Battalion HQ. They might get a little weird with you being here.”

No problem. The Specialist and I walked over to the area where the First Sergeant was supposed to be. He saw us coming and came over himself to see who this outsider was. I have to admit. I've talked shit about the “Nasty Guard” in the past, but these guys were on top of things, and most of them were real veterans, not peacetime army slugs like myself. Experience in Iraq and Afghanistan has dramatically sharpened the morale, quality, and readiness of our Guard and Reserve troops (in both my opinion, and that of all of the troops that I spoke with about it).

I introduced myself, explaining my hope that I could link up with a patrolling unit. The 1SG decided to take advantage of my camera and attentiveness, so he laid into me. Apparently he was fairly exasperated at the lack of a strong, central leadership in control of the current situation (I think he may have called it a “goatfuck”), as well as disgusted at some of the coverage the media was providing.

“You want to take some pictures? I've got some goddamn pictures for you. You see that big fucking stack of water over there? You take a fucking picture of that! There are rumors running around that we don't have proper supplies of water and food, and that's bullshit!”

“Roger, First Sergeant,” I blurted. This guys had me practically standing at parade rest. I'm really just paraphrasing his language here. I was getting carpal tunnel from writing “fuck” over and over in my notebook.

“Listen, the Governor and the Mayor had no fucking food, water, or other supplies pre-stationed at all. HHC of the New Orleans National Guard was underwater within the first three days and had no communication. We were wheels up in under 72 hours. We left our jobs and families before a lot of federal and non-profit agencies were even mobilizing, so don't fucking tell me our response time was slow. We were mobilizing before we had gotten permission to enter Louisiana, because we knew we'd be asked, but the fucking people who are giving us shit about not arriving fast enough are dead wrong! It is technically an act of war for one State's Guard to enter another State under arms and without permission. Those people need to take another look at the Constitution!”

“Roger, First Sergeant.”

He was about to continue, but another two photographers wandered into the area. Looking at them, he gave me the cross-streets where I could find the Bravo Company command post and evacuation point. He told me to say that he had sent me and it was ok for me to be there. With that he stormed over to question and enlighten the new arrivals. The specialist and I left to dutifully take pictures of the stacks of food and water. Here's visual evidence (as per the orders of the 1SG) of the abundance of food, water, and other supplies available to 1/179.







That mission accomplished, we walked around the AO. There wasn't much going on. This was a headquarters and support operation. I took a couple of shots while my escort gave me tips on the local gang situation.





“There are two main gangs around here. One gang drives white Ford Escorts and the other drives red 'dually' trucks. If you see a line of either driving toward you, turn around and get away as fast as you can.”

He said that they'd pretty much disappear during the day, but could still be sometimes seen at night. The troops were having an effect on their free reign, however.

Valuable advice, because I probably would have assumed a convoy of similar vehicles to be an official one. Luckily, I saw none of this. I thanked him and headed back to my car, ready to finally be making some progress.

I missed the turn and ended up accidentally passing through a checkpoint and back into Jefferson Parish. When I realized my mistake, I turned around, but the cops at the checkpoint wouldn't let me back in. No problem. I headed North, found the 90 West, and drove right back through the hole at the gravel barrier, waving at the NGs who remembered me from earlier. I headed back to what I knew was the general area of the B Co. command post, watching the signs for the proper street names.