BY his own admission, things are going badly for Sheriff Harry Lee and his crisis management efforts.

Outside his mobile headquarters truck, two officers grip a stepladder while a third stands on the top rung waving his mobile telephone in the air, searching for a signal.

Inside Sheriff Lee, of Jefferson parish in New Orleans, is sitting at a table, fuming. He is doing his best to alleviate the biggest catastrophe he will ever witness, but lacks even the most basic of resources.

He cannot communicate with his own officers, and his officers can barely communicate with each other, because the overloaded radio frequency keeps jamming. The chain of command for Louisiana’s hurricane rescue plan has missing links. There is tension between the numerous agencies involved in the relief effort, and some of Sheriff Lee’s deputies are so overwhelmed and demoralised that they are giving up.

“It’s not getting better — it’s getting worse,” he says. “This is probably the largest national disaster in the history of the US and the co-ordination that should be in effect all these days after the event just isn’t happening. It’s lack of proper planning and lack of co-ordination. There are plenty of Indians, but no chiefs.”

Around two miles from his command post, a section of Highway 10 has become a giant refugee camp. The evacuees are gradually being taken away in buses and trucks to shelters as far away as Houston, Texas. But some have started turning up at his door, pleading for food and water. Some have not had a drink since Tuesday.

“Except a box of crackers for my deputies, I don’t have anything to give these people. We don’t have water, electricity or toilet facilities. How can I take all these refugees when we can’t even take care of our own people?” he complains.

“My deputy just got in a row with the US Coast Guard because they want to bring a cutter up the river here with 3,000 people on it. I don’t have a drop of water or a peanut butter sandwich to give to anyone.”

Police officers across New Orleans are striving to help their stricken city even though they too have lost homes and loved ones, but a handful of Sheriff Lee’s men have had enough.

“My chief deputy said some of the other deputies are quitting on us. They want to be with their families. Well, I want to be with my family too but you don’t quit in the middle of a crisis,” he said. “My daughter rang me, crying. She said, ‘Daddy, can’t you leave?’ I said ‘Yes, I can point my car west and step on the gas, but can I go and leave these people here? No, I cannot.”

Gregory Vorhoff, a cardiologist at Memorial Medical Centre, also will not desert his post. He hitched a ride on an airboat and then walked for a couple of miles to reach the Highway 10 control point to plead for help for his patients. But there is nobody in charge to help him. “I almost feel guilty being here knowing the horror I left behind,” he said. “The hospital has no power, no sewer, no elevators. It’s impossible to run healthcare in that situation. I thought at least if they are brought this far, there will be help and treatment here, but it’s a desperate scene here too.”

Further up Highway 10 hundreds of volunteer firefighters, auxiliary coastguards and others with small boats were anxious to rescue people, but were being held back because one of their vessels had been shot at.

“We are trying to do our job here but we can’t if they are shooting at us. We don’t know who and we don’t know why but we don’t want to get in a situation of having to return fire,” Major Joey Broussard, of the Louisiana State Fisheries and Wildlife Division, said.

Ken Dunnen, and his fellow volunteer firefighters from the Ville Platte Fire Department in Louisiana, was out on a cutter and saw surreal scenes.

“Houses are totalled, animals are dead and floating in the water. We are riding level with the tops of the street lamps. . . . It’s one hell of a mess, one hell of a mess.”

Hopes rose at the refugee camp last night as hundreds of buses began arriving to take people to shelters, but evacuees were still arriving by the helicopter-load. Among them were Timira Carruth, 22, her sister Deindre Bailey, 23, and their four children, all aged 6 or under and filthy.

They took shelter in a high school when the floods rose, retreating to the roof for two days, living off soda and crisps that they found after breaking in to the cafeteria. “We found paper, chalk, marker pens, crayons and we got the kids to help us make signs saying ‘Help Us, Help, Help’,” Timira said. “We were waving at the helicopters but we didn’t know if someone would come for us.”

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