GIs Are Greeted With Curiosity but Little Fear

Sixty years and 28 days after U.S. Marines gave up their last occupation of this tiny, battered Caribbean nation, American troops returned Monday and received a cautious, distant welcome.

They encountered no resistance.

Initially, they also did not find a warm welcome, either, as most of the businesses in this Haitian capital were shut down.

The streets here early on were empty but for the cars of journalists and a few public buses.

As the afternoon wore on, though, crowds of Haitians--including several hundreds of those who support exiled President Jean-Bertrand Aristide--gathered at the docks and the airport to watch the American troops unload equipment and other supplies.

They stepped up their chants of “ Lavalas ! Lavalas !”--which means torrent or flash flood. That expression serves as a rallying cry for Aristide’s followers, referring to their efforts to wash away Haiti’s autocratic past.

By late Monday, reporters estimated that close to 10,000 people clogged the streets in front of the port. No shots were heard. But Haitian police began pushing back the spreading mob, swinging billy clubs and pushing people away. An 8-year-old boy was run over by a car and killed in the melee.

That was the most dramatic incident on this day when the vanguard of a 15,000-strong U.S. military occupation force--largely support and command forces, not the assault troops whose presence had once been expected here--began arriving about 9:45 a.m.

Otherwise, for most Haitians, these were oddly uneventful times. Some people stood in doorways and on curbs, gawking at the American helicopters filling the skies or staring out at the warships approaching within a mile of Port-au-Prince’s harbor.

But more of the population was walking, going to get water, trying to find food at empty street markets, simply moving from one place to another.

It appeared the prospect of an American occupation was no more important to their lives than last week’s spacewalk.

For the Americans arriving here, however, this was a day--at least to start--of tension and uncertainty.

The first troops--a security unit that was supposed to protect Lt. Gen. Hugh Shelton, commander of the American forces, as he arrived here--leaped off a heavily armed helicopter gunship onto the Tarmac of the civilian airport here.

The Americans wore black facial camouflage and full battle gear; they carried assault rifles and machine guns. They quickly assumed crouched, menacing combat positions as gunships painted lonely circles in the sky above and four-engine surveillance and communications aircraft circled even higher.

The anxious, battle-ready Americans were met by a relaxed, rumpled Haitian officer: Brig. Gen. Max Mayard. The fourth-ranking officer in the Haitian army--who is considered a nobody in the military--wandered out of the terminal, saluted and put out his hand in welcome.

After some embarrassed looks, an American officer told the next contingent of U.S. troops to disembark normally.

Despite their early chagrin, the American soldiers quickly took charge. The handful of Haitian soldiers present stood off to the side as the U.S. troops immediately set up traffic control and decided where the hordes of television crews and other reporters could stand.

One sergeant of the U.S. Army’s 10th Mountain Division observed: “I don’t know why I’m here. . . . I’m told to establish democracy and maintain neutrality with the Haitian army.”

The troops who hit the ground first Monday were largely communications and logistics specialists, along with some security forces. Their numbers totaled about 1,800. A total American force of 3,000 to 4,000 was scheduled to arrive Monday but it was unknown whether all had landed before dark.

Shelton’s first act after arriving from his command ship about four miles off the coast was to drive to Haitian military headquarters to see Lt. Gen. Raoul Cedras, the army strongman, in his office.

Riding through the rutted, almost impassable streets in a black Cadillac limousine provided by U.S. Ambassador William L. Swing, Shelton was stared at impassively by clutches of Haitians gathered on the curbs in front of the shuttered businesses.

Except for a Toyota pickup truck crammed with about a dozen Haitian soldiers that followed about 50 yards behind, there was almost no sign of the army.

A couple of soldiers stood in front of the open gates of the Presidential Palace, one slouching half asleep against a guardhouse, his rifle lying at his feet.

Even the military headquarters was free of anything resembling security, its only protection being speed bumps at each end of the street. Half an hour before Shelton’s arrival, American reporters walked to the building’s side door without being questioned.

Shelton told reporters that the objective for the day was to set up command and logistic facilities, leaving a wider occupation of the city for later. He set off waves of fright among some Haitians who support Aristide when he said that he would leave immediate control of the capital’s slums to the Haitian military and police.

That’s because those areas have been the scene of constant terror--including reported murders, rapes and nightly shooting--since Aristide was driven from office on Sept. 30, 1991.

Almost all human rights observers and diplomats, including the Americans here, blame the terror on the Haitian army, saying as many as 3,000 Haitians have been killed in the last three years. President Clinton cited the human rights abuses to explain why Americans needed to be here to protect Haitians and to help them restore democracy here.

“Gen. Cedras,” Shelton said after meeting with the Haitian strongman, “will use his forces in some cases” of violent incidents in Cite Soleil, one of the region’s most fetid slums and the site of near nightly incidents of military terror and violence. “There is no intention of U.S. forces going into Cite Soleil tonight.”

The Haitian forces were in control of that area Sunday night, when shots were fired randomly throughout the dark hours. Two bodies were found in the excrement-filled streets at dawn.

The shooting was not limited to the slums. Gunfire was heard even in the wealthy areas of Petionville and downtown close to the military headquarters--even as the U.S. negotiating team, led by former President Jimmy Carter, had been talking with Cedras and Haitian military leaders to try to reach their landmark accord over the weekend.

On Monday, Cite Soleil residents were cautiously leaving their shacks and hovels to see whether the new American presence might have changed their lives.

“I just came out of my house,” said Gary Ekius, 15, who lives in a two-sided hut made of mud and broken cardboard. “I am glad they (the Americans) came. I think it will be better for me and Cite Soleil now. There will be less blood.”

When asked what he thought the Americans would bring to Haiti, Dominic Gete, 24, an unemployed sugar worker, said, “A job. I haven’t worked in two years.”

Looking furtively around, Gete said quietly: “You know, I wouldn’t have talked to you before because ‘armed civilians’ would have killed me. But now I think they won’t hurt us.”

Then there was Edner Joseph, who approached a reporter with a photograph album that included a picture of a teen-ager in a scout uniform. “The military came looking for me all this week,” Joseph said. “Wednesday night, when I wasn’t at home, five soldiers shot my boy, Cosnoy. He was only 16 and his body is in the morgue. Do you think the Americans will help me get his body and protect me?”