I once became a local war correspondent, reporting live from a battle on the streets of New Orleans. It was a lazy Sunday morning on January 7, 1973, and I was going through the newspaper (saving the comics for last), with my constant cup of coffee when I got a call from the newsroom assignment desk about a fire at The Downtown Howard Johnson’s hotel.
I had just about changed into my anchorman’s costume when I got another call – a shooting at the Downtown Howard Johnson’s hotel.
By the time I reached the TV station on Cleveland Avenue, only a couple blocks away from the hotel, I could see and smell the smoke and hear the wail of sirens. The assignment desk already had two photographers on scene in the big open space, a short bit of front lawn for City Hall called Duncan Plaza.
The news’ crews were everywhere, but mostly hiding behind something that could cover them from the random gunfire that would occasionally be sprayed from somewhere above. They weren’t alone – police, firefighters, medics all were in self-preservation mode.
What transpired over the next 12 hours was an exercise in frustration of not having all the facts, combined with a reporter’s strange exhilaration of having a major story unfold in front of you: multiple shootings with a sniper, a fire in a downtown high rise hotel, the cacophony of police radio broadcasts as uniformed men were scurrying for cover, some wounded, others to die of their injuries.
I was covering it live for WVUE – all we did was open the back doors of the studio so the big studio camera could shoot in relative safety. We had to interrupt our movie several times, The Buccaneer, was the Sunday night movie after our 11pm news. (Charleston Heston as Andrew Jackson and Yul Brynner as the pirate Jean Lafitte – Louis De La Foret played the narrator for this modern-day Battle of New Orleans)
And it was a real-life battle of New Orleans – a point I made several times that night within our live broadcasts, albeit with helicopters and rapid-fire guns replacing the muzzle loaders from the original.
How could I know that Chuck Pitman was in my audience and, as a Lt. Gen in the U.S. Marines, a three-tour veteran of the Vietnam War and a helicopter pilot, was just across the Mississippi River at the Belle Chase Naval Air Station on the West Bank.
And how could I know that he could round up a volunteer crew and commandeer a CH-46 Sea Knight twin rotor helicopter and put himself in the middle of gunfight. Because, had I known about Chuck Pitman going into Chuck Norris mode, I would have reported on it. Instead all I had were the basic facts and some speculation thrown in for continuity.
And, unseen by me, there Chuck was, landing in a nearby parking lot to pick up some NOPD snipers and off they went to battle.
Mark Essex had already killed when his assault on New Orleans began – two policemen were killed a week before in an ambush which sent Essex into hiding.
This night began with Essex coming to the Howard Johnson building with a .44 calibre rifle, murdering the general manager, then the assistant manager and then a couple who were on their honeymoon. He set several fires in the hotel in order to attract uniforms to the scene and then opened fire on them.
He killed three NOPD officers including Deputy Police Superintendent Louis Sirgo.
Chuck and his posse flew repeatedly over the hotel but could not get a clear shot at Essex. He was now on the rooftop taking cover in a concrete service bunker and only coming out to fire once the helicopter had passed.
Pitman saw what was happening, so he quickly doubled back instead, seeking safety out of range. The maneuver fooled Essex, who was caught far away from his cover leaving him at the mercy of the cops in the helicopter and those on neighboring buildings who opened fire.
Essex was stopped his tracks with more than 200 wounds.
You would think that would be the end of it, but no. There were rumors about maybe Essex was not alone – possibly he had an accomplice or two, or three. The next week’s, month’s and year’s news cycles were filled with conspiracy theories.
But they ended with Mark Essex being the lone sniper.
Investigators found that Essex was discharged in 1971 from the Navy after he complained he was racially abused by whites. The Navy called his case ‘character and behaviour disorders’. Then in 1972 he was outraged at the killing of two Southern University students during campus protests in Baton Rouge.
Now you would think Chuck Pitman would just bask in the glory – well he did, as far New Orleans was concerned.
Funny thing though, the military likes to follow protocol, and it seems, even a Lt. General has to fall in line. Did he have permission to take the helicopter? No. Did he have permission to engage in combat? Uh, no. And that Federal government fuel that was used – did he have permission to that? Again, no.
The case for a court martial for Lt. Gen. Pitman Sr. was building amongst the brass in Washington who could see nothing legitimate in his self-appointed mission. The Commander at Belle Chase Naval Air Station where Pitman was in charge of a Marine helicopter unit thought otherwise. He contacted Rep. F. Edward Hebert, a New Orleans Democrat and, at the time, the powerful chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, and suddenly the legal problem went away. In fact. Chuck Pitman was picked by President Jimmy Carter for a mission to rescue 52 American hostages in Iran.