Middle East: View from the Target

While Aikman witnessed the assault from Israeli lines, TIME Middle East Bureau Chief William Stewart discovered what it was like to be the target of concentrated firepower from land, sea and air. He was often less than 2½ miles away from Aikman, and constantly in mortal danger. Stewart's report:

The memory begins to play tricks. It is difficult to remember when one day's shelling ended and another began. I reassure myself by consulting the papers. On Sunday I am the only one in the apartment house. A week earlier it had taken a direct hit, and although I was away, I felt vulnerable as never before. At 4 a.m. the shelling begins. I twist and turn in bed, wondering whether or not to get up. I am really only afraid of shells from the sea, but they are shooting from the sea. I decide to get dressed and go downstairs. Abu Ali, the Palestinian concierge, is already up.

Later in the morning TIME'S Abu Said Abu Rish, Photographer Rudi Frey and I set out on a tour. So far the bombs and shells have been confined to known Palestinian areas. They have not struck the commercial heart of West Beirut. We drive to the Carlton Hotel, atop a hill in once fashionable Raouche, gently argue our way past the guerrillas guarding the building and climb 14 floors to look over toward the airport, Sports City and the wealthy district called Ramlet al Baida.

Never before had the fighting been this close. Out at sea Israeli gunboats train their sights on the coastline. Abu Said and I peer around a wall to watch Israeli jets drop cluster bombs on Ramlet al Baida. As each falls on the boulevard, there is a shower of small explosions. As the bombardment grows we decide to leave, making our way past the guerrillas who are hidden in the concrete corridors and recesses of the buildings, stumbling over them in the dark, making foolish excuses in English and Arabic.

A few hours later Frey points to a white speck in the sky, and I watch an Israeli pilot float gently to the ground. For a few minutes it looks as if he is going to land in the foothills, where he would be picked up by his own people. Then I see the pilot disappear into the city.

Just before 5 p.m. there is a barrage of artillery fire so fierce, so extensive, so positively horrifying in its intensity that Frey and I are stunned into silence. Building after building comes crashing down. Great flashes of fire light up the sky. A crescendo of noise like some dreadful thunder rolls across the city.

The building we are on comes under fire. A shell whistles overhead as we rush inside. The building shakes as each shell finds its target. Another shell crashes with an earsplitting sound into the parking lot below. We race down the steps, floor after floor, afraid for our lives. This time there are no mumbled apologies as we push past the guerrillas. Once back in the hotel I have two quick Scotches.

Early on Wednesday morning the ninth cease-fire is broken as Israeli armor attempts to move into West Beirut. To cover the advance, Israeli artillery and ships drop shells everywhere. Not a single area escapes untouched: for the first time Hamra, the heart of the commercial area, comes under sustained and heavy shelling.