Aturday was a quiet spring day in Baghdad. Early in the morning I drove around town to look at the effects of the previous night's "shock and awe" airstrikes. Just a few hours before, the night sky had pulsed with crimson fireballs and Iraqi tracer fire, the concussion had knocked the plaster from my hotel's ceilings and an entire riverbank of government buildings had disintegrated as I watched from an upper floor. Now, the streets were mostly empty, except for groups of Iraqi soldiers digging trenches and bunkers for a last stand against the Americans. The July 14 Bridge was strewn with bits of shrapnel, perhaps the remains of the huge military complex that once stood at its southern end. A palace on the other side appeared intact, but a water main or hydrant had burst in front of it, turning the street into a lake. An acrid, burning smell hung in the air. I saw coalition aircraft flying overhead, but the air-raid sirens had stopped for now, and the antiaircraft guns were silent.
展开▼
