thedrifter
09-12-05, 08:21 AM
Tour of the dead zone
By Story by David Montero, Photography by Maria Avila, Rocky Mountain News
September 12, 2005
VIOLET, La. - Section 142 used to be a neighborhood. Look at the intersection of B Street and Second Street. The Violet Church of God in Christ sits on the corner, its red brick exterior offset by white trim. There's a reserved-parking sign for the pastor and his wife. No doubt faithful in the things of God, they have, nonetheless, posted a sign next to the front door that warns would-be thieves that the structure is also protected by the security firm ADT.
Not far down the street, a blue building that used to serve cold Bud Light also used to show local football games.
Off the main road, Saint Bernard Highway used to boast several businesses, including every kind of automotive repair one might require. Fixing transmissions appeared to be big industry here in this town southeast of New Orleans.
The men of the Colorado National Guard, 2nd Platoon, drink all of this in with their eyes and their noses. Their ears provide little information because, for the past couple of weeks since Hurricane Katrina hit, there are virtually no sounds coming from this town - only the occasional helicopter flying overhead.
It's the platoon's third day trudging through parts of St. Bernard Parish, and in a place where things used to be something, these men are, quite simply, not used to it at all.
"That's so sad," Spc. Bill Prather said, pointing down to a tiny doll stuck in black mud that resembles tapioca.
The 37-year-old has four children, including a 6-year-old with cerebral palsy, and the ruined toys he sees in yards eat away at him. He continues walking down the street where it's so squishy that once a footprint is down, the mud converges right back over it, leaving little evidence that anyone was ever even there.
Prather likens it to puréed charcoal.
Gruesome guessing game
The platoon had begun their search up Canal Street in the morning, each soldier wearing rubber hip boots or waders that went over his stomach.
The first part of the street near the main road was dried mud - the soles of their feet crunching it like fragile pieces of china. But looking ahead about 50 yards, they could see the street seemingly descend into thick black water. In some parts, the water had a developed a skin on its surface. There was no way to tell what was below it or how deep the water was.
"Does everyone have a probe?" 2nd Lt. Garret Rasnick asked the platoon. "You have to have a probe. Please."
The 22-year-old was heading up the platoon's search for the living Saturday. He is tall, with cropped blond hair. Despite his youth, nobody in the platoon will second- guess him on the order - even if for the rest of the day, Rasnick will endure ribbing with a series of endless probe jokes.
He will even laugh at some of them.
Poles are found quickly. Sgt. William Choe plucked an orange broom handle from a pile of debris that was once a kitchen. So did Staff Sgt. Jerry Anderson. Rasnick found a long piece of rusty metal that was taller than himself.
Fully equipped with the decidedly nonmilitary-issue equipment, the men paired up and began to check the houses.
"National Guard," Spc. Jerald Carico yelled, banging on the door of a white house with his rifle butt. Outside the home, a large cooler rested in the top of a tree. "National Guard. Is there anyone here?"
No answer.
The National Guard is not allowed to enter homes unless the doors are unlocked or there is someone inside asking for help.
There is a hard truth to be faced here - buildings such as the one Carico checked may contain the dead, but they can't look to be sure. And a stench hangs over the neighborhood, masking much and creating a guessing game for the Guardsmen sloshing through the streets.
"Oh, that's a new smell," Anderson said as he approached a white house with no roof.
The culprit was a dead horse.
The skin was so dry, it sagged on the bony frame like a thin brown sheet tossed over pieces of furniture.
To see the platoon fanning out on the street - arguably a river with no current - looked like something out of a jungle-based war zone. They had their black automatic rifles riding high on their backs, each walking slowly to avoid unseen hazards beneath.
Chatter among the unit already had revealed how some earlier in the week were swallowed by the toxic filth after stepping into open manhole covers.
So, they walked at a painstakingly slow pace. Every once in a while, a shout was heard to warn those behind them about what was coming up beneath them.
Staff Sgt. Keith Kline, 42, of Eaton, said it was his third trip into the flooded neighborhoods. He said he's still not used to it. At this stage, the likelihood of finding survivors is remote, he said. Bodies are more likely to be found - something that he would find out later in the afternoon.
And then there were animals.
Hard to leave dogs behind
It was clear after wading down Canal Street that there were plenty of dogs trapped in houses. As the soldiers approach another street, a brown dog on a splintered porch curls up and barely moves when the men go by.
The entire house is surrounded by water, creating an Alcatraz-like setting for the dog.
Prather, who has three dogs of his own at his home in Colorado Springs, said that leaving the dogs behind is taking an emotional toll on the men.
Up ahead, Kline hears a beeping coming from inside a house with boarded-up windows.
He said he thought it was an oxygen tank because his ex-wife's grandmother's tank used to make the same sound when they lost power. In the yard, half submerged, is a child's wheelchair.
Carico and Spc. Zachary Reynolds go as quickly as they can to the door. Carico, with a booming voice, announces their presence.
Nothing.
Kline stopped in the flooded intersection. The water was just past his knees and, from where he stood, it looked like Reynolds might be getting up to his waist soon. The baby- faced 22-year-old walked along the side of the house where cars used to park. Reynolds, who got called up for duty just a day before being shipped to New Orleans last week, banged on the door along the side of the home.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Carico would love to kick the door down and make sure everyone is OK inside. Instead, all they can do is take down the address and notify search-and-rescue officials.
"Let's keep moving," Rasnick said. "We've got a lot of area to cover."
The beeping faded as they headed down A Street. On the left of the platoon, a two-story building has a bad odor coming from it. Carico and Reynolds go to check it out. Carico climbed the stairs and went into the hallway.
It quickly becomes clear that it used to be a convalescent home. Carico emerges a few minutes later, relieved that he didn't see any bodies. But Rasnick is clear - he doesn't want any of his men to put themselves at risk to recover bodies.
Past the Violet Church of God in Christ, Sgt. Dwayne Moore is probing down what looked like a street, but with the movement of buildings, it can often be hard to tell. One building is slammed up against a street sign warning drivers not to exceed the speed limit of 20 mph.
Another home, it is determined, was planted in the middle of A Street.
Moore thought a house hadn't been checked yet and gingerly walked toward it when he splashed down, the thick sludge pouring into his rubber boots and submerging his arm.
He was concerned because he had a cut on his hand and the Band-Aid came off in the fall.
"It was supposed to be a waterproof Band-Aid," he said. "I guess not."
Moore's day looked to be done. He would be taken to a decontamination site a few miles away and be hosed and scrubbed down. Rasnick issued an order that no one else was allowed to fall into the water.
The day had grown hot and the humidity was beginning to sap the strength of some of the men. Rasnick ordered a break at a Catholic church on the main highway - its chief landmark now being a dead dog in the middle of the road that had been there for several days.
But before they got there, Anderson and Sgt. William Choe came to a house on the corner and heard a bark inside.
Anderson saw a black Labrador retriever through the glass on the front door.
"Wait, he's coming to the window," Anderson said. "He's wagging his tail."
A black nose poked out the broken window, followed shortly by the dog's head. Rasnick arrived and the dog went back into the house. Anderson asked if they could get it out.
Rasnick was torn. He knew the orders were that they couldn't do animal rescue work, but he didn't want to leave the dog to starve inside.
A compromise was reached. Anderson opened the door about a third of the way.
"If he gets out, at least he has a chance," Anderson said.
They left. No one ever saw the dog again.
Mapping the dead
By mid-afternoon, the platoon split into two squads after a short lunch break, during which 49-year-old Staff Sgt. Anthony Ciotti had led a trio of men in an a cappella version of the B.J. Thomas hit, Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song.
Ciotti, with a New England accent, said he met Thomas a few weeks ago and sang briefly with him while waiting for an autograph after a concert. He said that Thomas treated him "like he'd known me for 20 years."
Later in the afternoon, while taking a short break in thigh-high water in Section 142, Ciotti tried to get the other men to sing with him, only to be greeted by blank stares from younger men who didn't know B.J. Thomas or any of Ciotti's beloved Gene Autry tunes.
"I saw him on AMC once," Sgt. Joshua Lanham said of Autry.
The humidity was bearing down on them, and some actually looked forward to being thigh-deep in the water because it kept the sun from heating their rubber boots.
Down the road, in the muck where a tree had fallen and the water was oily black, a body was found floating face down.
It was Kline who found him - a man the Guardsman estimated was in his 40s. They noted it on the map to let body-retrieval experts pick it up.
Kline said later that the images on television didn't prepare him for what he was seeing.
"They showed so much from inside New Orleans," he said. "We didn't see how bad it was in these places outside of there."
He has an 18-year-old and a 9-year-old at home. He said that finding the body isn't something he will want to talk about in front of them, even though he knows they will likely ask. "That's not a conversation I want to have."
The platoon was weary by the time Kline and the men with him hooked up with the rest of 2nd Platoon and checked the last of the houses.
In one, a baby alligator had made a home inside the living room. A couple of Guardsmen said there was an alligator den down the block.
"This is about as much fun as a bathtub full of scissors," Lanham said.
In the end, the 2nd Platoon found no survivors, one body and close to a dozen trapped dogs. When they left, Section 142 was clear.
The neighborhood, however, was not.
monterod@RockyMountainNews.com or 303-892-5236
Ellie
By Story by David Montero, Photography by Maria Avila, Rocky Mountain News
September 12, 2005
VIOLET, La. - Section 142 used to be a neighborhood. Look at the intersection of B Street and Second Street. The Violet Church of God in Christ sits on the corner, its red brick exterior offset by white trim. There's a reserved-parking sign for the pastor and his wife. No doubt faithful in the things of God, they have, nonetheless, posted a sign next to the front door that warns would-be thieves that the structure is also protected by the security firm ADT.
Not far down the street, a blue building that used to serve cold Bud Light also used to show local football games.
Off the main road, Saint Bernard Highway used to boast several businesses, including every kind of automotive repair one might require. Fixing transmissions appeared to be big industry here in this town southeast of New Orleans.
The men of the Colorado National Guard, 2nd Platoon, drink all of this in with their eyes and their noses. Their ears provide little information because, for the past couple of weeks since Hurricane Katrina hit, there are virtually no sounds coming from this town - only the occasional helicopter flying overhead.
It's the platoon's third day trudging through parts of St. Bernard Parish, and in a place where things used to be something, these men are, quite simply, not used to it at all.
"That's so sad," Spc. Bill Prather said, pointing down to a tiny doll stuck in black mud that resembles tapioca.
The 37-year-old has four children, including a 6-year-old with cerebral palsy, and the ruined toys he sees in yards eat away at him. He continues walking down the street where it's so squishy that once a footprint is down, the mud converges right back over it, leaving little evidence that anyone was ever even there.
Prather likens it to puréed charcoal.
Gruesome guessing game
The platoon had begun their search up Canal Street in the morning, each soldier wearing rubber hip boots or waders that went over his stomach.
The first part of the street near the main road was dried mud - the soles of their feet crunching it like fragile pieces of china. But looking ahead about 50 yards, they could see the street seemingly descend into thick black water. In some parts, the water had a developed a skin on its surface. There was no way to tell what was below it or how deep the water was.
"Does everyone have a probe?" 2nd Lt. Garret Rasnick asked the platoon. "You have to have a probe. Please."
The 22-year-old was heading up the platoon's search for the living Saturday. He is tall, with cropped blond hair. Despite his youth, nobody in the platoon will second- guess him on the order - even if for the rest of the day, Rasnick will endure ribbing with a series of endless probe jokes.
He will even laugh at some of them.
Poles are found quickly. Sgt. William Choe plucked an orange broom handle from a pile of debris that was once a kitchen. So did Staff Sgt. Jerry Anderson. Rasnick found a long piece of rusty metal that was taller than himself.
Fully equipped with the decidedly nonmilitary-issue equipment, the men paired up and began to check the houses.
"National Guard," Spc. Jerald Carico yelled, banging on the door of a white house with his rifle butt. Outside the home, a large cooler rested in the top of a tree. "National Guard. Is there anyone here?"
No answer.
The National Guard is not allowed to enter homes unless the doors are unlocked or there is someone inside asking for help.
There is a hard truth to be faced here - buildings such as the one Carico checked may contain the dead, but they can't look to be sure. And a stench hangs over the neighborhood, masking much and creating a guessing game for the Guardsmen sloshing through the streets.
"Oh, that's a new smell," Anderson said as he approached a white house with no roof.
The culprit was a dead horse.
The skin was so dry, it sagged on the bony frame like a thin brown sheet tossed over pieces of furniture.
To see the platoon fanning out on the street - arguably a river with no current - looked like something out of a jungle-based war zone. They had their black automatic rifles riding high on their backs, each walking slowly to avoid unseen hazards beneath.
Chatter among the unit already had revealed how some earlier in the week were swallowed by the toxic filth after stepping into open manhole covers.
So, they walked at a painstakingly slow pace. Every once in a while, a shout was heard to warn those behind them about what was coming up beneath them.
Staff Sgt. Keith Kline, 42, of Eaton, said it was his third trip into the flooded neighborhoods. He said he's still not used to it. At this stage, the likelihood of finding survivors is remote, he said. Bodies are more likely to be found - something that he would find out later in the afternoon.
And then there were animals.
Hard to leave dogs behind
It was clear after wading down Canal Street that there were plenty of dogs trapped in houses. As the soldiers approach another street, a brown dog on a splintered porch curls up and barely moves when the men go by.
The entire house is surrounded by water, creating an Alcatraz-like setting for the dog.
Prather, who has three dogs of his own at his home in Colorado Springs, said that leaving the dogs behind is taking an emotional toll on the men.
Up ahead, Kline hears a beeping coming from inside a house with boarded-up windows.
He said he thought it was an oxygen tank because his ex-wife's grandmother's tank used to make the same sound when they lost power. In the yard, half submerged, is a child's wheelchair.
Carico and Spc. Zachary Reynolds go as quickly as they can to the door. Carico, with a booming voice, announces their presence.
Nothing.
Kline stopped in the flooded intersection. The water was just past his knees and, from where he stood, it looked like Reynolds might be getting up to his waist soon. The baby- faced 22-year-old walked along the side of the house where cars used to park. Reynolds, who got called up for duty just a day before being shipped to New Orleans last week, banged on the door along the side of the home.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Carico would love to kick the door down and make sure everyone is OK inside. Instead, all they can do is take down the address and notify search-and-rescue officials.
"Let's keep moving," Rasnick said. "We've got a lot of area to cover."
The beeping faded as they headed down A Street. On the left of the platoon, a two-story building has a bad odor coming from it. Carico and Reynolds go to check it out. Carico climbed the stairs and went into the hallway.
It quickly becomes clear that it used to be a convalescent home. Carico emerges a few minutes later, relieved that he didn't see any bodies. But Rasnick is clear - he doesn't want any of his men to put themselves at risk to recover bodies.
Past the Violet Church of God in Christ, Sgt. Dwayne Moore is probing down what looked like a street, but with the movement of buildings, it can often be hard to tell. One building is slammed up against a street sign warning drivers not to exceed the speed limit of 20 mph.
Another home, it is determined, was planted in the middle of A Street.
Moore thought a house hadn't been checked yet and gingerly walked toward it when he splashed down, the thick sludge pouring into his rubber boots and submerging his arm.
He was concerned because he had a cut on his hand and the Band-Aid came off in the fall.
"It was supposed to be a waterproof Band-Aid," he said. "I guess not."
Moore's day looked to be done. He would be taken to a decontamination site a few miles away and be hosed and scrubbed down. Rasnick issued an order that no one else was allowed to fall into the water.
The day had grown hot and the humidity was beginning to sap the strength of some of the men. Rasnick ordered a break at a Catholic church on the main highway - its chief landmark now being a dead dog in the middle of the road that had been there for several days.
But before they got there, Anderson and Sgt. William Choe came to a house on the corner and heard a bark inside.
Anderson saw a black Labrador retriever through the glass on the front door.
"Wait, he's coming to the window," Anderson said. "He's wagging his tail."
A black nose poked out the broken window, followed shortly by the dog's head. Rasnick arrived and the dog went back into the house. Anderson asked if they could get it out.
Rasnick was torn. He knew the orders were that they couldn't do animal rescue work, but he didn't want to leave the dog to starve inside.
A compromise was reached. Anderson opened the door about a third of the way.
"If he gets out, at least he has a chance," Anderson said.
They left. No one ever saw the dog again.
Mapping the dead
By mid-afternoon, the platoon split into two squads after a short lunch break, during which 49-year-old Staff Sgt. Anthony Ciotti had led a trio of men in an a cappella version of the B.J. Thomas hit, Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song.
Ciotti, with a New England accent, said he met Thomas a few weeks ago and sang briefly with him while waiting for an autograph after a concert. He said that Thomas treated him "like he'd known me for 20 years."
Later in the afternoon, while taking a short break in thigh-high water in Section 142, Ciotti tried to get the other men to sing with him, only to be greeted by blank stares from younger men who didn't know B.J. Thomas or any of Ciotti's beloved Gene Autry tunes.
"I saw him on AMC once," Sgt. Joshua Lanham said of Autry.
The humidity was bearing down on them, and some actually looked forward to being thigh-deep in the water because it kept the sun from heating their rubber boots.
Down the road, in the muck where a tree had fallen and the water was oily black, a body was found floating face down.
It was Kline who found him - a man the Guardsman estimated was in his 40s. They noted it on the map to let body-retrieval experts pick it up.
Kline said later that the images on television didn't prepare him for what he was seeing.
"They showed so much from inside New Orleans," he said. "We didn't see how bad it was in these places outside of there."
He has an 18-year-old and a 9-year-old at home. He said that finding the body isn't something he will want to talk about in front of them, even though he knows they will likely ask. "That's not a conversation I want to have."
The platoon was weary by the time Kline and the men with him hooked up with the rest of 2nd Platoon and checked the last of the houses.
In one, a baby alligator had made a home inside the living room. A couple of Guardsmen said there was an alligator den down the block.
"This is about as much fun as a bathtub full of scissors," Lanham said.
In the end, the 2nd Platoon found no survivors, one body and close to a dozen trapped dogs. When they left, Section 142 was clear.
The neighborhood, however, was not.
monterod@RockyMountainNews.com or 303-892-5236
Ellie