"We are the lifeblood of this town and without us there would be no life," says Haidar Abdul Hadi, who manages the capital's biggest bus depot in the Wazariyah district.

"We drove our buses every day during the war because without us the capital would die and Baghdadis would be wiped out," the 30-year-old claims.

The publicly-owned General Transport Company covered the whole of Iraq, providing inter-city and urban services.

In Baghdad the company had 400 double-decker buses which criss-crossed the city but today amid the ruins only 50 remain in running order.

"We resisted the bombs, the bullets from all sides, but we could do nothing against the looters who came to steal our buses armed with Kalashnikovs," Abdul Hadi admits.

"We went to the Palestine Hotel but no one would see us," he says of the city centre highrise where US forces have set up an operations centre.

The bus drivers' claim to be the real heroes of the war is not too far-fetched. When civil servants had fled, all shops and business closed and ordinary people sand-bagged themselves in at home, every morning at 7:00 a.m. the first buses of the day appeared on the roads.

"One day I found myself in the middle of the bombing," relates Mohammed Abbas Hassan. "The 30 passengers were terrified and so was I, but I carried on and no one was hurt," says the 40-year-old who did not see his five children throughout the war as he slept by the depot.

Each driver has a tale of a brush with death while making sure the passengers reached their destinations.

But death was ever present.

"Some people stopped my bus after a bombing and put on a family of five who were covered in blood," says Mussa Mazeel, who has 28 years of service.

"The three children died during the ride. I left their parents at the emergency ward and the children at the Zarhawi hospital morgue."

To be sure of setting off on time every morning, the 51-year-old took his bus home every night and slept inside it.

"I worked 14 hours a day," he said adding that his three children begged him not to go to work.

"I would explain to them that I had to help people in the circumstances and then after a few minutes they would tell me 'Go on Dad'."

All the drivers questioned say they stayed on the roads to help people.

"In the evening, passengers were so afraid they would beg me to take them back home. And I did.

"I became a taxi. The route was decided by what a majority of the passengers wanted," says Mohammed Abbas Hassan.

After several close shaves, he said the passengers shouted, referring to the Iraqi regime's militia fighters: "It's the bus drivers who are the real heroes, you are the fedayeen."

At Al-Manta bus depot in the Shiite district of Kazamieh in northeast Baghdad, Sheikh Saad al-Safaa turns up surrounded by bodyguards wielding Kalashnikovs.

Wearing a dark brown cloak and a white turban, he has come to check on the situation after all the looting.

"Orders are very clear from Najaf," he says, referring to the seat of Shiite spiritual and political power in southern Iraq.

"Public resources must be given back and we will do everything to get back what was stolen."

Most of the looters came from Saddam City, the poorest quarter of the capital and a Shiite stronghold.

SPACE.WIRE