Haiti

On patrol

with the 81st Platoon Weapons Compay

A firsthand report of the Marine presence in Port-au-Prince Haiti

Chris Austin
Ebbtide Correspondent

Chris is a former SCC student who traveled to Haiti in March 2004 to gain freelance experience as a foreign correspondent.

It had been only three days since the Marines 81st Platoon Weapons Co., had been ambushed in downtown Port-au-Prince’s Belair district - a firefight which resulted in the first U.S. casualty in Haiti, a Marine on an accompanying foot patrol who was wounded in the shoulder by sniper fire near the steps of the Cathedrale Notre-Dame. Now, on March 20, the 81st Weapons Co. was returning to Belair in a three Humvee convoy. This was a mounted patrol, so-called because of the 240mm guns mounted on each of the unarmored Humvees.

Officially, it is known as a presence patrol, designed to show that the Marines have arrived and are in control. Their mission is to disarm and stabilize downtown Port-au-Prince, particularly Belair and Cite Soliel, the western hemisphere’s most infamous shantytown. Both neighborhoods are strongholds of Aristide supporters, including the “chimeres,” armed gangs of Aristide loyalists. Many see the Marines as occupiers and blame them for the coup which deposed Aristide on February 29.

Relations have been further strained as civilians have been killed, caught in the crossfire of firefights with the chimeres, or deliberately shot at roadblocks. When traveling at night during the period of lawlessness following the coup, many Haitians sped through town to avoid being ransacked at rebel or chimeres road blocks. Initially unaware of the American imposed 10:00 p.m. curfew, some tried to run through the Marine road blocks and were killed.

This is a situation I experienced while trying to return to my hotel from military headquarters (HQ) after curfew. As my Haitian driver approached a Marine checkpoint, invisible a moment earlier, a spotlight suddenly blinded us. Orders to halt were shouted as we were approached by two Marines, rifles drawn. They lowered their guns upon seeing an American in the car. After a brief interrogation, they ordered us to continue slowly with our lights off, otherwise we might be shot at the next checkpoint, they warned.

Our experience was mitigated, not only by my U.S. passport, but also our ability to speak English. Most Haitians only understand Creole, and don’t know what’s going on when commands are barked out in English.

To counter such friction, the patrols make an effort to appear helpful rather menacing, though this can be a steep order when your team is wearing full body armor and toting heavy weaponry. But an effort is made to mix with the locals and put on a friendly face, to the extent that this is possible.

The next morning as we roll into town, the crew members clutch their M-16s with one hand and wave to pedestrians with the other. Many Haitians wave back; occasionally, a middle finger is extended. At one point, a boy of 12 or so ran after the patrol, repeatedly making a knife-across-the-throat gesture.

Traffic thickens and we momentarily stop at the site of the only Marine casualty so far. Lance Cpl. Dillon, 21, Lynchburg, Ohio, points to the gas station where they had been ambushed that night. “See how it’s kind of charred. The chimeres shot up one the pumps, to set it on fire.” He pointed to the cathedral steps at the other end of the street. “That’s where the Marine from Lima Company got hit. They were on a walking patrol, we were backing them up.”

Had they been ambushed since then? “No. We haven’t been shot at in three days. It kind of sucks.”

At Port-au-Prince’s famed Marche de Fer, the Iron Market, we became mired in traffic. During every previous visit to the Iron Market, I had passed by a 10 feet high, city block long mound of garbage when approaching from any direction. Like a compost pile, and not unlike Haitian socio-politics, new garbage was continuously thrown on top while the bottom rotted and condensed. Now it was being scooped-up and hauled away by a Haitian contractor. I would later learn that the Marines were behind this project. But it was causing a traffic jam and Dillon was sent out to clear traffic.

The next thing I knew we were running over Dillon. “Back up,” someone shouted. The Humvee was thrown into reverse. The Iron Market venders were visibly shaken, as were the Marines.

Staff Sgt. Hendrix, who had ordered Dillon to clear traffic, carried him to the back of the Humvee. He was loaded through the back gate and we were off. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” someone yelled from the front, as we charged through the intersection, rolling over piles of garbage as people scattered to get out of the way.

There would be no foray into Cite Soliel.

As we raced back to the base, the Humvee’s medic tended to Lcpl. Dillon, cutting off his sock to observe the wound. No external bleeding. Just broken bones.

Conscious of the Haitian public’s perception of the Marines - they want to be liked - they noted, with some satisfaction, that this incident hadn’t been met with jeers or laughs. Most of the crowd at the market was noticeably upset about witnessing this accident.

As the checkpoint the night before had given me a glimpse of what it’s like to be a Haitian trying to get across town after curfew, I had gotten some sense of the Marines’ feelings of vulnerability. In their Kevlar helmets, same as mine, and bullet-proof vest, the Marine’s effective against rifle-fire, mine only against handgun ordinance, they really didn’t have anymore protection than I did. The Humvees had no armor behind which to duck. Sitting back in the truck bed, we were more or less moving targets. And if some one was shooting from one of Port-au-Prince’s many crumbling buildings, I can’t even imagine being able to tell where it was coming from. From this perspective I can understand why the hand of a person in his early twenties, in unfamiliar surroundings, might be quick to the trigger.

Half way back to the base, Dillon, though obviously in pain, is putting on his best Marine face. He cracks jokes and laments that unlike bullet wounds, crushed ankles come with no heroic story for the girls back home. “Great. So I’m going to be in the Seattle Times.” I wish.

When I mention how picturesque the Iron Market made this incident, he asks what the Iron Market is.

“It’s the central meeting place downtown, and where I’ve bought most of the Voodou flags in my collection.”

“Like that means anything to me.”

“I don’t know,” rejoins Lance Cpl. Quintana, the gunner. “I think you got hit by some of that African juju.”

Back at the base, it looks as if Staff Sgt. Hendrix and Staff Sgt. Rainey, the convoy commander, are on the verge of a fist fight. “Did I give orders for anyone to leave the vehicle?” Rainey yells repeatedly. The commanding officer of the base breaks them up.

I’m invited to mess hall. The food isn’t bad. The crew from the patrol is friendly. They leave, I stay for dessert.

My new table-mate wants to know who I am and what I’m doing here. I usually work for an alternative weekly in Seattle, I say, but am in Haiti pursuing freelance projects. “Seattle? Isn’t that place full of a bunch of tree huggers?” he charges.

I leave.