In The Midst of Trouble

By Edward Barnes/Limbe

In Limbe, a Haitian town of perhaps 20,000 on the road from Cap Haitien to Port-au-Prince, the chaotic interlude between the disintegration of the old order and the establishment of the new began last week with the spectacular helicopter landing of U.S. Marines. We heard stories of how townspeople began tentatively probing the extent of their new freedom. They dared to say the name Jean-Bertrand Aristide in public -- and were not beaten. Then, from hiding places under beds and inside suitcases, pictures of the exiled President emerged. Step by cautious step, people grew bolder. Friends formed groups that swiftly grew into crowds, and the crowds began to move with their own will.

Their target was the town's police headquarters. Again and again, the crowds surged forward before being driven back by shots fired in the air by the remaining police -- most had already stolen away. (The Marines had confiscated mortars, heavy weapons and deadly fragmentation grenades but had left six rifles for the police.) Policemen are seldom assigned to their own towns -- it is harder to abuse the people one knows well -- but nine of them had nowhere to run and were huddled inside when reporters entered to ask about the gunfire. "They have burned our uniforms," a man who said he was the local commander explained when asked why none of them wore uniforms. "Look -- they throw stones at us," he said, motioning for another man to come out from the back. Two white gauze pads, daubed with wet blood, dangled fron his skull and neck. "See," he said. "They want to kill us." Just then, the crowd surged toward the precinct house. One of the police ran out to the gateway wildly swinging a machete. This infuriated the mob, who responded with barrage after barrage of stones. Inside the post the pounding of rocks on the corrugated zinc roof and hollow cinder-block walls was deafening. The police nervously grabbed their rifles and went to the windows.

"Shoot in the air," one yelled, and the stone walls reverberated with the report of gunfire. Another policeman ripped a grenade from his shirt and threw it toward the crowd. It rolled to the gate and stopped, a dud. At the sound of the shots, two Special Forces A-Teams that were arriving to occupy the town took up battle positions and prepared to attack. Looking up from the floor where we were crouched, I could see the first soldiers readying their guns. Given the firepower of the two A-Teams, in a minute there would not be much left of us or the building.

Without thinking, I raised my hands high over my head and, followed by Miami Herald reporter Susan Benesch, bolted for the American line, jumping over the unexploded grenade. "Don't shoot," we shouted. "They're scared and will surrender." Later the soldiers would tell us they were within a quarter- second of firing. "You are lucky we weren't Marines," one confided. "You would have been dead for sure."

In the few seconds it took to get outside, most of the police had run out the back, terrified of facing a fire fight like the one that had left 10 Haitian policemen dead in Cap Haitien three days before. I followed them and found eight hiding in other buildings of the compound. I told them to put their hands in the air. We were walking back to the main building when the Special Forces pushed in. It was over, and no one had died.