This is a dead city, a battlefield where vultures circle overhead and the smell of panic is stronger than the stench of the unswept, palm-fringed boulevards. The shops are barred, the restaurants deserted. Hour after hour, day and night, the tomblike hush is broken only by the distant crump of exploding mortar shells, the whoom of bazookas, the crack of anti-aircraft cannon, and the short, chattering bursts of machine guns.
Somewhere, blocks away, the U.N.'s Indians, Swedes and Irish are fighting hard. But on the wide pavement outside the seedy Hotel Leopold...
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