Dispatches From the Edge Part 7

"I don't want to say they were r.e.t.a.r.ded, exactly," Slaughter says, "but they were a little slow."

Anytime a corpse is found, the Virginia task force's body identification unit has to photograph it, and mark its location for recovery. Right now, there are no places to take the bodies; the local morgues are flooded, and so are the private funeral homes. Eventually FEMA will send in refrigerated trucks to store the dead, but it will take several days for the first ones to arrive.

At the Banes' house, Sally points to the window she broke open earlier this morning. The house is still. I can smell the bodies. Holding my breath, I press my face up to the rear window, dirty with mud. It takes a few seconds for me to realize what I'm looking at. There's a man lying in front of me. He's covered in mud and sediment, trapped amid piles of lumber and insulation. I a.s.sume it's Edgar Bane, Christina's husband. He's badly bloated, twisted and swollen like a birthday balloon about to pop. One of his arms is stuck at a right angle. Rigor mortis has set in.

He's the first storm fatality I've come across so far. I've seen drowning victims before-in Sri Lanka and elsewhere-but never here in America. I didn't expect it to make a difference, but it does.

The front door is jammed, blocked by pieces of debris left behind when the water receded. The team begins prying open a window. It doesn't take them long. As soon as the window opens, the odor pours out. Everyone has to stand back.

Christina Bane is inside. So are Edgar and their two sons, Carl and Edgar Junior. All four are dead. Drowned. Sally Slaughter is crying. She's the only one. One of the searchers takes out a camera-digital, downloadable-and shoots pictures of the Banes. Click. Click. Click. Click. Another searcher takes out a Magic Marker. On the Banes' front door he writes V V for victims. 4 for victims. 4 DEAD DEAD.

A FEW BLOCKS from the Banes' home, the searchers find a body lying on a sidewalk in an empty cul-de-sac. I think it's a woman; at first, it's hard to tell. Water wipes away ident.i.ty, race, even gender. I think she's African American, but her skin appears white, translucent almost. from the Banes' home, the searchers find a body lying on a sidewalk in an empty cul-de-sac. I think it's a woman; at first, it's hard to tell. Water wipes away ident.i.ty, race, even gender. I think she's African American, but her skin appears white, translucent almost.

Someone has covered her face and part of her body with a dirty bedspread. Her feet and hands stick out.

"Did she drown here?" I ask one of the searchers.

"No," he tells me. "Apparently, she died in one of these buildings here. The residents kind of dumped her here. This has become the dumping ground for people that have died."

The team takes pictures-Click. Click-then records the woman's GPS coordinates. Later they'll mark the spot on a map. It's dotted with small circles for each of the bodies they've found so far.

"Do you ever get used to this?" I ask David Cash, the team's doctor.

"Hurricane Ivan, Opal, the Pentagon, Oklahoma City," he says, listing some of the disasters he's worked on in the last eleven years. "You never get used to it; it just needs to be done."

I ask Chris Davis, my cameraman, to take some tight shots of the woman's hand and one of her feet. The image of her body, covered in the bedspread, will be too grisly for television, but I don't want to ignore the reality of what's happened here. Dr. Cash and his team climb back in their vehicle. We get back in ours, and follow them out.

I never thought I'd see this here, in America-the dead left out like trash. None of us speaks. There's nothing you can say.

Chris is having a hard time with the bodies. I see it in his face. At first, I don't understand what the problem is. Then I realize it's his first time.

MY FATHER'S CORPSE was the first one I ever saw. His wake was at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel in New York. I pa.s.sed the building for years on my way to school and never knew what went on inside. was the first one I ever saw. His wake was at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel in New York. I pa.s.sed the building for years on my way to school and never knew what went on inside.

I didn't recognize him at first. I hadn't known how different the dead really look-the sickening stillness, the flatness of an embalmed face. He resembled a figure cut from some soft stone.

I remember the clothes my father wore in the casket, the unnatural way they lay on his body. Already I felt his absence, missed his embrace, the comfort of having him near. At night we'd watch TV. He'd stretch out on the floor on his back, his head perched on a pillow. I'd lay perpendicular to him, my head resting on the soft part of his stomach, which rose and fell with each breath.

My father was born a Baptist but had long since moved away from the fire-and-brimstone preachers of his youth. He no longer went to services, and his funeral was held in a Unitarian church.

"When you mark 'Unitarian' down in the hospital," I remember him saying, "they don't know what it means, so they don't send any minister to bother you."

After the funeral, I stood in a receiving line with my mother and brother. People I didn't know filed past, shaking my hand. Later, there was a gathering at our apartment. A few friends from school. A teacher I particularly liked.

My nanny, May, who'd helped raise me since I was born, had just returned from a trip home to her native Scotland. She rushed back when she learned of my father's death.

"Don't worry, May. Everything will be okay," I told her. Years later she cried as she recounted the moment. "Of course, it wasn't okay," she said. "Nothing was ever okay again."

IT'S WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 31, 2005. I'm still in Waveland, Mississippi, reporting on Katrina's aftermath. Women sob searching for family photographs. Middle-age men beg to use my satellite phone. Every conversation starts the same: "Mom, it's me. I'm alive." I'm still in Waveland, Mississippi, reporting on Katrina's aftermath. Women sob searching for family photographs. Middle-age men beg to use my satellite phone. Every conversation starts the same: "Mom, it's me. I'm alive."

I see the president's plane fly over Mississippi.

"Do you think he can see the corpses from so high up?" a resident asks me as we watch the jet streak by.

It's more than forty-eight hours after the storm, and there's still no one to pick up the dead. It's unconscionable. Soldiers have a motto: "Leave no man behind." I saw it stenciled on a blast wall on an army base outside Baghdad. They'll risk life and limb to recover the body of a fellow soldier. Many have died over the years doing just that. There are front lines in America as well, and right now Waveland is one of them. These people should not be left to rot.

As dusk falls, I go back to the site where the dead woman was lying. She is still there. I think about trying to move her, but I have no equipment, no gloves, and besides, there's nowhere to put her. I feel powerless, weak.

For the last two nights, I've been a guest on Larry King Live, Larry King Live, and listened as politicians thanked one another for the "Herculean" efforts they were undertaking in the wake of this "unprecedented" and "unpredictable" disaster. I don't know what they're talking about. I see their lips move, I hear the sounds, but it doesn't make any sense. and listened as politicians thanked one another for the "Herculean" efforts they were undertaking in the wake of this "unprecedented" and "unpredictable" disaster. I don't know what they're talking about. I see their lips move, I hear the sounds, but it doesn't make any sense.

"Stop thanking each other" I want to yell. "Grab a body bag and get down here with some soldiers!" Instead I nod and listen. Night after night.

Wednesday, I interview FEMA director Michael Brown. I tell him I'm not seeing much of a response here, and there are bodies lying in the street. It's "unacceptable," he says. He promises he's "working on it." After the program, someone from FEMA tells my producer we can follow Brown around the next day. Later, however, they call back and rescind the offer.

Politicians keep saying that they know people are "frustrated." If they really understood, however, they wouldn't use that word. Frustrated Frustrated is waiting on line for a film; it's a slow-moving train. The feelings here go much deeper. People aren't "frustrated." They are dead. They are dying; the scales have fallen from their eyes. I remember what Dr. Tectonidis told me in Niger, about the mothers in the intensive care ward. "They don't want your sympathy," he said, "they want you to do your job." is waiting on line for a film; it's a slow-moving train. The feelings here go much deeper. People aren't "frustrated." They are dead. They are dying; the scales have fallen from their eyes. I remember what Dr. Tectonidis told me in Niger, about the mothers in the intensive care ward. "They don't want your sympathy," he said, "they want you to do your job."

In normal times you can't always say what's right and what's wrong. The truth is not always clear. Here, however, all the doubt is stripped away. This isn't about Republicans and Democrats, theories and politics. Relief is either here or it's not. Corpses don't lie.

When you're working, you're focused on getting the shot, writing the story. You sometimes don't notice how upset you are. In Waveland, I certainly don't. Late Wednesday night, I'm talking to someone back in the office about the woman we left on the street, and I find myself crying. I can't even speak. I have to call that person back. At first I don't realize what's happening to me. It's been years since a story made me cry. Sarajevo was probably the last time. I've never been on this kind of story, though, in my own country. It's something I never expected to see.

I used to get back from Somalia or Sarajevo and imagine what New York would look like in a war. Which buildings would crumble? Who among my friends would survive? I always told myself if it did happen here, at least we could handle it better. At least our government would know what to do.

In Sri Lanka, in Niger, you never a.s.sume anyone will help. You take it for granted that governments don't work, that people are on their own. There's a different level of expectation. Here, you grow up believing there's a safety net, that things can never completely fall apart. Katrina showed us all that's not true. For all the money spent on homeland security, all the preparations that have allegedly been made, we are not ready, not even for a disaster we know is coming. We can't take care of our own. The world can break apart in our own backyard, and when it does many of us will simply fall off.

THURSDAY. I'M ABOUT to interview Senator Mary Landrieu. She's a Democrat from Louisiana. I'm unaware she's going to be on the program until a few minutes before she appears. Much of what we're doing on the air each night is impromptu. I like working that way best. No scripts, no TelePrompTer, just talking with the viewers-no separation between me and the camera. Before I go on air each night, I have a rough idea what will be in the program: where our reporters are located and what they've been working on. During the broadcast, however, much of that changes, so I have to be quick on my feet, ready for anything. to interview Senator Mary Landrieu. She's a Democrat from Louisiana. I'm unaware she's going to be on the program until a few minutes before she appears. Much of what we're doing on the air each night is impromptu. I like working that way best. No scripts, no TelePrompTer, just talking with the viewers-no separation between me and the camera. Before I go on air each night, I have a rough idea what will be in the program: where our reporters are located and what they've been working on. During the broadcast, however, much of that changes, so I have to be quick on my feet, ready for anything.

As a child, I used to spend summers at the beach, and I loved to run along the edge of the sand cliffs made by the retreating tide. As I ran, I could feel the sand collapse beneath me, but as long as I kept moving forward, kept running fast, I could stay one step ahead of the falling cliff. That's what anchoring the news is like. You can easily falter, easily destroy your career in a sentence or two. The key is to keep going, keep moving, never forget you're running on sand.

I'm standing in a small clearing in a field of destroyed homes. It used to be someone's front yard. Senator Landrieu is in Baton Rouge. I can't see her; I can only hear her through my plastic earpiece.

I start by asking her if the federal government bears responsibility for what is happening. "Should they apologize for what is happening now?" I ask.

"Anderson, there will be plenty of time to discuss all of those issues, about why, and how, and what, and if," Landrieu says. "But, Anderson, as you understand, and all of the producers and directors of CNN, and the news networks, this situation is very serious and it's going to demand all of our full attention through the hours, through the nights, through the days.

"Let me just say a few things. Thank President Clinton and former President Bush for their strong statements of support and comfort today. I thank all the leaders that are coming to Louisiana, and Mississippi, and Alabama to our help and rescue.

"We are grateful for the military a.s.sets that are being brought to bear. I want to thank Senator Frist and Senator Reid for their extraordinary efforts.

"Anderson, tonight, I don't know if you've heard-maybe you all have announced it-but Congress is going to an unprecedented session to pa.s.s a ten-billion-dollar supplemental bill tonight to keep FEMA and the Red Cross up and operating."

I can't believe she is thanking people. In Waveland, the bodies haven't been picked up; the National Guard is just starting to arrive. In New Orleans, no help has come to the Convention Center; the Superdome is unbearable for those still stuck there. I literally cannot believe what she is saying.

"Excuse me, Senator. I'm sorry for interrupting," I say. "I haven't heard that, because for the last four days I've been seeing dead bodies in the streets here in Mississippi. And to listen to politicians thanking each other and complimenting each other-you know, I've got to tell you, there are a lot of people here who are very upset, and very angry, and very frustrated.

"And when they hear politicians slap-you know, thanking one another, it just, you know, it kind of cuts them the wrong way right now, because literally there was a body on the streets of this town yesterday being eaten by rats because this woman had been lying in the street for forty-eight hours. And there's not enough facilities to take her up. Do you get the anger that is out here?"

"Anderson, I have the anger inside of me," she responds. "Most of the homes in my family have been destroyed. Our homes have been destroyed. I understand what you're saying, and I know all of those details. And the president of the United States knows those details."

"Well, who are you angry at?" I ask her.

"I'm not angry at anyone," she says. "I'm just expressing that it is so important for everyone in this nation to pull together, for all military a.s.sets and all a.s.sets to be brought to bear in this situation. And I have every confidence that this country is as great and as strong as we can be to do that. And that effort is under way."

"Well, I mean, there are a lot of people here who are kind of ashamed of what is happening in this country right now," I say. "Ashamed of what is happening in your state, certainly, and that's not to blame the people who are there. It's a desperate situation. But...no one seems to be taking responsibility. I mean, I know you say there's a time and a place for...looking back, but this seems to be the time and the place. I mean, there are people who want answers, and there are people who want someone to stand up and say, 'You know what? We should have done more.' Are all the a.s.sets being brought to bear? I mean, today, for the first time, I'm seeing National Guard troops in this town."

"Anderson, I know," she says. "And I know where you are. And I know what you're seeing. Believe me, we know it. And we understand, and there will be a time to talk about all of that. Trust me. I know what the people are suffering. The governor knows. The president knows. The military officials know. And they're trying to do the very best they can to stabilize the situation. Senator Vitter, our congressional delegation, all of us understand what is happening. We are doing our very, very best to get the situation under control. But I want to thank the president. He will be here tomorrow, we think. And the military is sending a.s.sets as we speak.

"So, please, I understand. You might say I'm a politician, but I grew up in New Orleans. My father was the mayor of that city. I've represented that city my whole life, and it's just not New Orleans. It's St. Bernard, and St. Tammany, and Plaquemines Parish that have been completely underwater. Our levee system has failed. We need a lot of help. And the Congress has been wonderful to help us, and we need more help. n.o.body's perfect, Anderson. Everybody has to stand up here. And I know you understand. So thank you so much for everything you're doing."

When it's done, there is silence in my ear. We are in a commercial break, and my producers are not saying a thing. I worry I've crossed the line. I hate TV anchors who are rude, and I never want to be disrespectful to any guest on my program. I always pride myself on not wearing my opinion on my sleeve, and on being able to adapt to a given situation and discuss ideas with anyone. This is different, though. No one has any information, and people are desperate. The least our politicians can do is answer questions. It seems to me totally inappropriate to stick to sound-bite statements and praise of the president.

Three days later, Senator Landrieu appears on ABC News, ABC News, being interviewed by George Stephanopoulos. Her tone seems to have changed. She says she is upset about the pace of relief efforts and angry about federal criticism of New Orleans police. "If one person criticizes our sheriffs," Landrieu says, "or says one more thing, including the President of the United States, he will hear from me-one more word about it...and I might likely have to punch him-literally." being interviewed by George Stephanopoulos. Her tone seems to have changed. She says she is upset about the pace of relief efforts and angry about federal criticism of New Orleans police. "If one person criticizes our sheriffs," Landrieu says, "or says one more thing, including the President of the United States, he will hear from me-one more word about it...and I might likely have to punch him-literally."

Just as we come back from commercial break, a pickup truck drives by. In the back a young man with a trucker hat holds up a tattered American flag. He salvaged it from the wreckage. He's tired and worn, but proud of that flag, proud that he and his family are still standing. We don't speak-he is too far away-but I look him in the eye and we nod to each other. In his face I think I detect betrayal and anger, but also strength and resolve. I'm on the air, but I find myself tearing up. My throat tightens; I'm almost unable to speak. I quickly try to move on to another story, and hope no one has noticed.

MY DAD USED to cry often: in movies, at church, once even in a restaurant in Mobile. A woman moved among the tables singing "Amazing Grace," and tears rolled down his cheeks. I always found it embarra.s.sing. When he was a child, a relative whom everyone called Mr. Raspberry was known for his prodigious crying. Mr. Raspberry was a devout Pentacostalist, and one year at a family reunion he became overcome with emotion. Weeping, he shouted, "Glory to G.o.d! We've all been spared another year!" to cry often: in movies, at church, once even in a restaurant in Mobile. A woman moved among the tables singing "Amazing Grace," and tears rolled down his cheeks. I always found it embarra.s.sing. When he was a child, a relative whom everyone called Mr. Raspberry was known for his prodigious crying. Mr. Raspberry was a devout Pentacostalist, and one year at a family reunion he became overcome with emotion. Weeping, he shouted, "Glory to G.o.d! We've all been spared another year!"

"Why does Mr. Raspberry cry so much?" my father asked his grandmother.

"Oh, if you ask me, his bladder's just located too close to his eyes," she said.

There is so much about my father I'm just starting to remember, so much I recognize now that I'm nearing the same age he was when I was born. My father wrote a book called Families, Families, a memoir about growing up in Mississippi. The book is a celebration of family and of the importance of remembering one's roots. He wrote it two years before he died, as a letter to my brother and me. I think he knew he wouldn't live to see us grow into men. His father had died young, and his sister Elsie had died of a heart attack when she was just thirty-eight. I know he worried that in his absence my brother and I would forget our Mississippi roots, our blood connection to the South. a memoir about growing up in Mississippi. The book is a celebration of family and of the importance of remembering one's roots. He wrote it two years before he died, as a letter to my brother and me. I think he knew he wouldn't live to see us grow into men. His father had died young, and his sister Elsie had died of a heart attack when she was just thirty-eight. I know he worried that in his absence my brother and I would forget our Mississippi roots, our blood connection to the South.

When my father's book came out, he went on speaking tours throughout Mississippi and several times brought my brother and me along. He didn't try to hide the state's faults from us. He'd been an early champion of civil rights and made sure we were aware of Mississippi's history of racial injustice. Meridian was the hometown of James Cheney, the civil rights worker killed in Philadelphia, Mississippi, by local Klansmen. My father told us all about Cheney and the civil rights movement in the South. He saw the good and bad in his home state, and his love of Mississippi was richer for it.

Growing up in New York, we were always aware of my mother's family's history. It was hard not to be. We lived for a time not far from Vanderbilt Avenue, and Grand Central Station, where there is an imposing statue of my great-great-great-grandfather, Cornelius Vanderbilt, the founder of the New York Central Railroad. After seeing it for the first time when I was six, I became convinced that everyone's grandparents turned into statues when they died.

My father's family may have been poor, but they had branches of aristocracy as well. Men who weren't rich, but who carried themselves regally. My great-granduncle Jim Bull fought at Chickamauga, one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War. It was said he never got over the habit of killing, and once shot a man for cussing in front of a group of women. According to my grandfather, "he never killed n.o.body that didn't deserve it." He died trapped under an overturned train. According to family legend, when the steam began to scald him, he attempted to cut off his legs with a pocket-knife.

My great-grandfather William Preston Cooper also lived by his own set of rules. He had a number of illegitimate children, and on his deathbed, at the age of eighty-four, he shouted to horrified family members that if they'd just "bring a woman to my bed, I'd have no need of dying."

After my father's death, our trips to Mississippi all but stopped. For a few summers my brother and I went for weekend visits to stay with family friends. We'd see our relatives for just a few hours-strained meetings that always made me sad.

For years after he died, I used to imagine that my father would somehow give me a sign, sometimes I still search for it, his approval, his advice. Friends of his tell me, "Your father would have been so proud of you," but it's not the same as hearing it from him, seeing it in his face. I like to think of him watching my show each night. I like to imagine he's seeing it all.

"G.o.d BLESS YOU. You have no idea how happy we are to have you here," a man says to me Friday morning, shaking my hand in a rubble-strewn lot in Waveland. His name is Charles Kearney, and he and his wife, Germaine, have come to visit what's left of their home. You have no idea how happy we are to have you here," a man says to me Friday morning, shaking my hand in a rubble-strewn lot in Waveland. His name is Charles Kearney, and he and his wife, Germaine, have come to visit what's left of their home.

"Where are the people?" Charles shouts. "Why are people dying? I'll tell you why! Because there aren't enough National Guard troops to come here! They're all already dispersed! I mean, I hate to go there, but why else can it be? They're in Iraq and everywhere else."

"Foreign countries are getting better care than we get," Germaine says.

Charles and Germaine lost their house on Honey Ridge Road. So have their parents, who lived a few blocks away.

They evacuated on Sunday to Mobile. They've been coming back each day, ferrying food and water to friends from their hotel.

"I'm speechless. What the h.e.l.l is going on and why are people still on the freaking interstate in New Orleans?" Charles says, his face turning red with anger. "I don't care whose fault it is, but fix it now. And these people who are saying, 'You know, well we tried! We warned them. They could get out!' Well people don't have the resources to get out. They have nowhere to go."

Charles and Germaine take me to where Charles's parents' house used to stand. His mother and father, Myrtle and Bill Kearney, are picking up plates from their yard.

"Oh goodness, Anderson, I don't want to look like transient trash," Myrtle says, laughing when she sees me. "This house was so pretty. My father-in-law built it painstakingly. He would come to the lot, he would study the best views to put the windows."

"Look, our whole kitchen counter's over there," Germaine says, pointing.

Myrtle is holding a cracked plate in her hand.

"What are you going to do with that?" I ask "Probably frame it," she says, laughing. "For G.o.d's sake, I'm an artist! I'll probably paint it."

Myrtle didn't want to evacuate at first, but on Sunday, Charles convinced her she had to go.

"I vacuumed my house to the moon before we left to go for the hurricane," she says, shaking her head. "I cleaned the house so that when we came back we would have a pleasant environment to come back in."

"We stood right here in this driveway and laughed at her as we left," Charles says.

"And wait," she adds. "You wanna hear the best? Y'all are gonna die laughing. I collect rocks. I came out, picked out all my rocks and brought 'em inside and hid 'em! The rocks are gone. And the carpet's gone! And it's gonna be so d.a.m.ned easy to move, you won't believe it!"

I laugh with Myrtle, and realize it's the first time in days. Later, however, away from her family, her laughter is gone, her smiling face falls away.

"There's nothing that can prepare you for this," she says. "I have not cried yet. And I'm probably gonna go away and lose it completely. With all my joking and all my Myrtle-isms, I'm probably gonna lose it really bad. But right now...what can you say?...And this is the G.o.d's truth for me: we have each other, right here. Some people don't, and some people don't have water to drink right now. And some people have dialysis and they need drugs. We can't complain about this. This happens to other people, and they come back from it. And we're going to come back from it, too."

THE NEXT DAY, Sat.u.r.day, I leave for New Orleans. It's only about fifty miles from Waveland, but the drive takes several hours because of roadblocks and traffic. Our team has grown over the last few days, and when we line up to convoy to Louisiana we have at least fifteen vehicles. CNN has sent trucks from Atlanta with food and gas so we can operate independently for weeks. They've also sent two RVs so we'll have a place to sleep. Sat.u.r.day, I leave for New Orleans. It's only about fifty miles from Waveland, but the drive takes several hours because of roadblocks and traffic. Our team has grown over the last few days, and when we line up to convoy to Louisiana we have at least fifteen vehicles. CNN has sent trucks from Atlanta with food and gas so we can operate independently for weeks. They've also sent two RVs so we'll have a place to sleep.

New Orleans is largely underwater. The evacuation of the Superdome has just been completed. After days of waiting and inexplicable delays, buses arrived to take the stranded to Houston's Astrodome. The Convention Center has just started being evacuated. Medical tents have been set up across the street, and helicopters land nearby to shuttle the most vulnerable evacuees to the airport and shelters in Baton Rouge. Coast Guard helicopters continue to fly over the city, occasionally hovering over flooded neighborhoods to pick up people still stranded in their homes.

CNN has set up a base at the New Orleans airport, and we briefly stop there to pick up some gear-waders and handheld satellite phones. When we enter the city, it feels like we're crossing a frontier. The farther we go the more we find stripped away. Maps are useless. We double-back from dead ends and slowly find our way along the water's edge. We head toward the Lower Ninth Ward.

A FEW BLOCKS from Bourbon Street, we stop at a police station to borrow a boat. A cowboy crew of cops has been holed up there for days. A hand-drawn sign on a sheet of cardboard hangs over the entrance. from Bourbon Street, we stop at a police station to borrow a boat. A cowboy crew of cops has been holed up there for days. A hand-drawn sign on a sheet of cardboard hangs over the entrance. FORT APACHE FORT APACHE, it says. That's what they've renamed the station.

"We call it Fort Apache 'cause we're surrounded by water and Indians," says a cop with a cowboy hat and swimming goggles around his neck.

"Why are you wearing swimming goggles?" I ask.

"Because if things get really hot, I'm just going to swim out of here." I can't tell if he's serious or not. I don't think he knows, either.

I feel like a character in a Joseph Conrad novel. I've turned the bend in the river and found an isolated tribe armed to the teeth. They've been out on their own too long and are dazed by the horror.

"We're survivors, man. We're survivors," a young African American cop tells me, clutching a shotgun. He's talking to me but stares far away. "It's a war zone, man, but we're alive. The criminal element tried to get us down but they couldn't get us. We stayed together. They thought they could get us, but they can't. That's how it's going down."

He graduated from the police academy just four weeks ago. "Nothing they showed us in the academy could have prepared us for this," he says, slowly shaking his head, "but you gotta do what you gotta do."

Tricked out like a storm scavenger, one cop wears a Kukri tucked in his belt. It's a thick knife with a curved blade, used by Gurkhas in Nepal. I had one when I was a kid. It's said that a Gurkha can split a man from his collar bone to his waist with one slice of a Kukri. I don't ask this guy if he's ever used it.

The police say they've been taking incoming fire the last couple of nights. Now they've posted snipers on the roofs of surrounding buildings. "Shoot to kill, man. Shoot to kill," one cop says, smiling.

They loan us their boat so we can go out into the Lower Ninth Ward. Actually, it's CNN's boat. Chris Lawrence, a reporter for CNN, brought it into New Orleans the day after Katrina and loaned it to these cops so they could rescue their families and others.

"Shouldn't the city have had some boats ready for you guys to use?" I ask one of the sergeants.