They ran from the building, half naked and screaming with fear

By Julius Strauss outside School No 1 in Beslan

4 September 2004

IT BEGAN with two loud explosions. Then a middle-aged woman began to cry, choking sobs that came from deep within her chest. There was a long burst of gunfire and as it died what sounded like the distant screams of children.

A group of parents and relatives dressed in tracksuits, who only minutes before had been standing beside a yellow BMW talking about the children inside, started to curse wildly. "Bitches, fucking bitches," one said. Another tore at his hair.

Then the first child was pulled over a white brick wall. He had on only his underwear and his face was bloodied. A hail of gunfire erupted. Then another child, a girl, was hauled over.

Her mother, a middle-aged woman dressed in a black skirt, was standing nearby. She ran and grabbed her, they hugged and held each other tight. Then the woman pulled the young girl away, dragging her from the gunfire and into a side street. "She's alive. She's alive," she shouted, her face streaming with tears.

The next boy to escape was small and very skinny. He only had on green underwear and bandages to a leg. He looked around in shock and hope, but there was nobody waiting for him.

By now the men were desperate to get more children out. A small group tried to tear down a heavy sheet of metal to make the escape easier. Armed civilians were shouting for ambulances, but there was none.

In the creases of the walls and behind corners soldiers crouched, their Kalashnikov assault rifles pointing down the street towards the shooting. Another girl came over the wall, her face was covered in mud and she had on a long red shirt and terror in her eyes.

Then a boy covered in blood. Then another, barefoot and also bloodied. Then a third wearing only a sock, screaming. Then several more. Many of the children were bandaged, some on the head, others on the arms or the legs.

They were mostly in shock and close to breakdown. As they emerged, soldiers plied the children with bottles of water. They gorged themselves after two days and nights without a drop to drink in the sweltering gym.

When they saw them the adults started to cry hysterically. Others became angry. One saw me, clearly a foreigner, and punched me hard. But others were calmer and rushed to help.

The air hung thick with smoke and the smell of cordite. At the end of the street Spetsnaz, the Russian special forces, could be seen, carefully edging their way around the corner of a brick building. Despite their heavy green gear they moved like cats, one step at a time, the man in front beckoning to the one following.

A girl was brought over the fence, she must have been about 13. She had on a soiled bra. Then two more girls, both covered in blood and half naked. "Did they kill the children, did they kill the children?" a waiting mother screamed.

A large man in a track suit who was smoking long, feminine cigarettes swore. "Bitches, bitches." There were more explosions and more gunfire. The next boy to emerge was naked and unconscious or dead. He was carried away on a stretcher by two men, one stripped to the waist and wearing a black leather cap.

The soldiers looked on nervously, guns cocked and held tight to the shoulder. Nobody knew if or where the terrorists would be able to break out. Two old women, oblivious to the danger, walked towards the shooting.

They were waved back by a man with a gun who shouted at them repeatedly. Eventually they relented and turned. Then a small, slight boy emerged. Again, all he had on was his underpants and in his hands he was clutching some half-eaten biscuits.

For a moment he looked lost. Then a huge man lifted him up and hauled him across the road to safety. As he lowered him to the ground, he turned politely and said: "Thank you very much, Sir."

Nearby a woman, seeing the boy, broke down in tears. Overhead a helicopter began to circle. Another appeared, a gunship. An army van drove past with a woman lying in the back covered in blood.

I ran up the streets to the corner. There were two armoured personnel carriers with troops on top, guns at the ready. On the opposite corner two men crouched behind a tree firing. Next to me stood a group of police, soldiers and armed civilians.

One boy, who must have been about 16, carried what appeared to be a Second World War rifle. He turned to one of the soldiers and asked him to show how the safety catch worked. A heavy machinegun opened fire from just behind us. I ran forward to where the soldier were bunched on the corner.

Nearby Aslan, a 26-year-old wearing an orange T-shirt, squatted. "My brother and his two children are in there," he said. "His little girl, Lera, is three. His son, Shamil, is nine. They really didn't have to do this. To storm the building. With all those children inside.

They shouldn't have done it. But they are the government and we are just ordinary people." As the front-line moved forward I went with it.

A man was being hauled away towards an ambulance in a blanket by four men. He looked badly wounded. Cars drove through the street, swerving crazily. Some carried fighters, others were coming to get the dead and wounded.

Here the fighting was heavier. Bullets hit the masonry and there was the whine of ricochets. One bullet crashed into a wall about four yards away. The soldiers crouched behind huge metal containers.

As the special forces clambered over a wall and into a garden I followed. It was only about 100 yards from the school. The fire was thick and heavy. One soldier who looked about 20 was hit in the leg. A huge gaping wound opened up on the top of his thigh. Immediately others rushed to his aid.

One held a bulky white bandage to try to staunch the bleeding. The soldier was clearly terrified he would die. His face turned ashen and he began to blink rapidly. Then another man was hit, this time about 60 yards away. "First aid, first aid!" his colleagues shouted.

Fresh shooting erupted. Then a wooden gate was opened. Locals, many of them armed, had found a way through to the edge of the school. Soldiers, civilians and emergency workers charged in the direction of the fire, trampling the long grass.

They returned with a stream of dead and wounded. There was a teenage girl with a gunshot wound in her side. Another with a toe blown off. A little blond boy, his face covered in sand, was clearly dead.

As the men saw them being carried past they broke down and wept. "Bitches, whores," they swore. Relatives began to arrive, their car tyres screeching. There were harrowing scenes as parents found their children, dead or dying.

They bundled them in and sped off to hospital. One woman who broke down was helped into the back of a police car. "My child is dead, my child is dead," she wailed.

Nearby a man was tearing the curtains from his old van to use as makeshift bandages. Four bodies were placed in a row in the street, covered in white sheets. There was more shooting, more explosions.

A blonde medic, dressed in army camouflage, crouched behind a van. Her face glistened with sweat and her make-up was running. By now the stretchers were becoming bloodstained. There were too many wounded.

A Spetsnaz soldier who had been shot in the leg was helped to a Jeep. I ran down a side street. In each courtyard, armed men crouched, guns pointing outwards. At the end of the road the school came into view.

Huge plumes of smoke were pouring from the roof which had caved in. The fighting continued. Here the Spetsnaz soldiers stood around in small groups, exhausted. Some smoked, others drank from huge buckets of water.

Groups of locals, all armed, gathered. The shooting and explosions continued. All the surrounding houses were damaged, at least two flats had been burnt out and helmeted Russian soldiers could be seen crouching in the ruins.

Many of the armed men by the school were Beslan residents who had taken up arms. Their blood was boiling, their eyes were wild. Moments later an ambulance emerged from near the school.

One man appeared to open the door to check the occupant. Then a blood-curdling howl went up. It was one of the hostage-takers, dressed in camouflage. The first man dragged out the slightly-built terrorist, who appeared alive, and began stamping on him and kicking him.

Other men rushed in and stamped furiously. Within a minute the man was dead, his body a bloody mess. His trousers had been pulled down around his knees and his tunic up around his neck.

Blood was smeared all over his face. The Russian authorities stood aside as the furious relatives had their fill. Then the mass of people moved on towards the charred school, howling with fear and hatred.