The soldiers at first were nervous, carrying surplus rifles slung over shoulders with bayonets in their belts. Next morning they were storm troops, shined helmets and boots, new American rifles, still slung. Today they're elite units, blue berets, rifles held, fingers on triggers, bayonets fixed, fixin' for a tussle.

Taxis in the line of fire.

They've surrounded the office of the socialist newspaper. The staff are marched out single file, hands on head.

We're ordered by our peripatetic authority figure to stay in the hotel. He looks especially stern when addressing me. He walks to the American consulate for guidance and is gone most of the day.