by Mark Bowden
Eversmann was losing it. He’d been through a lot this day, and just the sight of all this blood, and all those mangled men—his men!—dismayed him. It was hard to stay even. He was venting on the nurses and medics when one, an older man, pulled him aside.
“Sergeant, what’s your name?”
“Matt Eversmann.”
“Well, Matt, listen. You need to calm down.”
“Roger.”
“We are going to take care of these guys. They’re going to be fine. You just need to calm down.”
“I am calm,” shouted Eversmann, who clearly was not. “I just want you to take care of them!”
“What these guys need right now from you is to see you being a stand-up guy. Don’t let them see you being nervous because that just makes them nervous.”
Eversmann realized he was making a fool of himself.
“Okay,” he said.
He stood helplessly for a few moments, turned, and walked slowly back to the hangar. It was hard to remove himself from the emotions of the fight. He felt himself in a kind of aftershock. Having to identify the dead was chilling. Casey Joyce was one of his men. He’d last seen Joyce when he ran off with the litter carrying Blackburn back to the convoy. He’d lost track of him after that. Now he saw his face pale and stretched with the life drained out. During the fight there hadn’t been time to react to the terror or even to recoil at what was grotesque. Now it all sank in.
It helped when Lieutenant Colonel McKnight asked him to reinforce perimeter security at the airport. There were fears that with all the fighting, Aidid might try storming the base. So Eversmann packed his brooding away and went to work. He still had six men from his chalk who were able.
The stitches on Specialist Sizemore’s elbow, where he had earlier cut off his cast to join the fight, were open and bleeding, but he waved the nurses away. He didn’t want to be sidelined again. He was haunted by images of his buddies out there in the city under siege, waiting for him. He was angry, and like many of his Ranger buddies, he wanted revenge. He thought about Stebbins, who had taken his place on the bird, and was infuriated that the company clerk was out there in his place. He had to get out there. What was holding things up? Sizemore was pacing around the waiting Humvees when a D-boy approached and asked, “Anybody here know Alphabet?”
Sizemore said he did. They walked together through the gate and past the hospital tent to the fire station. Behind it the minibunker of sandbags built by Sergeant Rymes was now covered by a white sheet. The sergeant lifted the sheet. Inside was Kowalewski’s body with the RPG still embedded in his torso.
“Is this Kowalewski?” the D-boy asked.
Sizemore nodded, or he thought he did. He was stunned. The D-boy asked him again.
“Is this Kowalewski?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
Lanky Steve Anderson tried to motivate himself for going back out. He had gone out the first time reluctantly. The events of the day so far had stirred up a mess of strong feelings, but anger predominated. Until today Anderson had been as gung ho as the rest of the guys, but now, seeing all the dead and wounded, he just felt used and stupid. His life was being put at risk and he was being thrust into a situation where he had to shoot and kill people in order to survive ... and it was hard to see why. How could some politicians in Washington take men like him and put them in such a position, guys who are young, naive, patriotic, and eager to do the right thing, and take advantage of all that for no good reason?
He listened to one of his buddies, Private Kevin Matthews, who had been in the small Humvee column when Pilla was killed and had gone back out with the first rescue convoy. Matthews was going on about this guy he had killed out on the street a few hours before, about how the man shook as five, ten, fifteen rounds slammed into him, and it sounded to Anderson like Matthews was bragging. Except, as he listened more, he saw that the young private was actually upset and was going on because he just needed to talk about what had happened. Matthews was trembling. He wanted to be reassured that he had done the right thing.
“What else could you do?” Anderson said.
Anderson had just talked to his parents the night before back in Illinois, and he’d told them everything was okay, nothing was happening, and probably nothing would. And now, this.
* * *
An effort was launched to identify men who could drive the five-ton trucks wearing NODs. The night vision goggles blocked all peripheral vision and sharply foreshortened the view. It took time to get used to driving with them. Specialist Peter Squeglia, the company armorer, had some experience riding a motorcycle wearing NODs, so one of the lieutenants asked him to take a truck.
“Sir, if you’re telling me to drive it, I’ll drive it. But I’ve never driven a truck before.”
The idea of grinding gears and stalling out in the middle of a gun-fight, where one stalled vehicle can hold up an entire column, or, worse, get left behind, terrified Squeglia. The lieutenant made a face, and walked off to find someone else. Squeglia went back to collecting weapons off the dead and wounded. Later he would clean and repair them. For now he just piled them next to his cot, a heap of blood-smeared steel. The lieutenant’s expression left Squeglia feeling deflated and guilty. Everybody was scared. Some guys were frantic to join the fight while others were looking for a way to avoid going out. Squeglia was somewhere in the middle. After what he had seen of the lost convoy, part of him felt like going out into that city was like committing suicide. It was crazy, but they had to do it. They were going to load Rangers on the back of flatbed trucks lined with sandbags that weren’t going to stop a damn thing, and roll them out into the streets where every one of these skinny Somali motherfuckers was trying to kill them, and for what? At least the Malaysians had armored vehicles. Squeglia was going to go. He was going to do his part, but he wasn’t going to do anything foolish, like decide to learn how to drive a big truck in the middle of a firefight.
When it came time to climb aboard, Squeglia picked up his pistol and his CAR-15, which he had rigged with an M-203 grenade launcher. He made sure he got in the truck after most of the others. He figured the safest spot in the flatbed, if anyplace was safe, was toward the rear where the spare tire and muffler came up. He crouched down behind that. Maybe it would stop something. The sandbags certainly wouldn’t.
Just before the convoy left the base, Specialist Chris Schleif dashed back into the hangar, rooted through Squeglia’s pile of weapons, and fished out Dominic Pilla’s M-60 and ammo. The gun and ammo can were still slick with Pilla’s blood and brain matter. Schleif ditched his own weapon and boarded the Humvee with Pilla’s.
“He didn’t get a chance to kill anybody with it,” Schleif explained to Specialist Brad Thomas, who like Schleif was heading back out into the city for the third time. “I’m going to do it for him.”
It was 9:30 P.M. when the rescue force left the airport and drove north to the New Port to link up with the Malaysians and Pakistanis. Most of the Rangers, all of the D-boys, SEALs, and air force combat controllers who hadn’t been killed or injured, and both companies of the 10th Mountain Division made up a force of nearly five hundred men. Waiting for them there were the Malaysian APCs, German-made “Condors,” rolling steel Dumpsters painted snow white with a driver in front and a porthole in the back for a gunner. Each was built to hold about six men. The Paki tanks were American-made M-48s. The armor was lined up and ready to go when the long convoy of trucks and Humvees arrived, but coordinating movement of this strange collection of vehicles—Lieutenant Colonel David called it a “gagglefuck”—was going to take more time.
He plunged right into it. With a map spread out on the hood of his Humvee, and with soldiers gathered around holding up flashlights to illuminate it, he began improvising a plan. To David’s relief, most of the Malaysian and Pakistani officers spoke English. There was little argument or discussion. The Malaysian officers at first balked at removing their infantry from the APCs, but relented when David agreed to let each vehicle retain a M
alaysian driver and gunner. The various units did not have radios that were compatible, so American radios had to be placed with all the vehicles. They worked out fire control procedures, steps to prevent friendly fire incidents, call signs, the route, and a host of other critical issues.
David felt a sense of urgency, but not an overriding one. He knew there were critically injured soldiers at the first crash site for whom every minute was important. On the other hand, this convoy was it. If they screwed up, failed to reach the crash site, and got broken up or bogged down, who was going to come in and rescue them? If one or two soldiers died waiting it would be tragic, but rescuing the other ninety-seven men, and getting his own in and out safely, had to be the priority.
To the Rangers and the 10th Mountain Division soldiers eyeing the Condors for the first time, they looked like caskets on wheels. Choosing between the APCs and the sandbagged five-ton trucks was like choosing your poison: You could get riddled with bullets in the back of a flatbed or toasted by a grenade dropped into the turret or poked through the skin of an APC. The men reluctantly began to board the Condors an hour or so after they’d arrived at the New Port. There were only little peepholes in the sides, so most of the force would be riding blind. The idea of being driven out by Malaysians didn’t make them feel any better.
As the hours crept by without action, the Rangers stewed with impatience. As they saw it, they were being held back by this slow-moving, by-the-book regular army unit that didn’t fully appreciate the urgency of the situation. Further back in the column it looked like nothing was being done. Some of the 10th Mountain guys were dozing in the back of vehicles. Sleeping! Ranger Sergeant Raleigh Cash couldn’t contain himself. His buddies were dying out in the city and these guys were taking naps? Why the hell weren’t they moving? He had made peace with himself riding out with the cook convoy in that aborted effort to rescue Durant and his crew. If he was going to die today, so be it. The pull of loyalty felt stronger in him than the will to survive. He had thought it through methodically. He was wearing body armor, so if he got shot, it would probably be to the arms or legs and there were medics who would take care of him. It would hurt, but he had been hurt before. If he was shot in the head, then he would die. He wouldn’t feel any pain. His life would just be over. Just like that. The end. His friends would take care of his family for him. If he died then that was what was meant to happen.
When word came that Smith was dead, that he had bled out waiting for rescue, Cash lost it. He vented his anger and impatience on a 10th Mountain Division officer. He told the officer that before the Rangers had gotten saddled with his unit they’d had no trouble finding the fight.
“Look, we’re not holding things up,” the officer protested. “We’re ready to go just as much as you are. You have to have a little faith in your leaders.”
“It’s taking too long,” Cash said, his voice rising with anger. “My friends are dying out there! We need to get going now!”
Cash’s platoon leader came over and quieted him.
“Look, we all want to get going.”
By about 11 P.M., David had the “gagglefuck” set to go, and was feeling pretty good about it. He regarded the organizational effort as one of his major life accomplishments. The Paki tanks would lead the convoy out into the city. Behind them, each platoon would have four APCs interspersed with trucks and Humvees. The QRF’s Cobra gunships would provide air support. They’d roll out to a staging point on National Street, then one half of the force would steer south toward Durant’s Super Six Four crash site and the other would push north to Wolcott’s Super Six One, where the bulk of the task force was pinned down. They had commo links established, liaison officers dispersed throughout the convoy ... they were good to go.
Then one of the Pakistani officers ran up. His commander objected to the tanks leading the convoy. This was a problem because tanks were needed to plow through the formidable barricades (ditches, abandoned shells of cars and trucks, heaps of stone, burning tires and debris) the Somalis had erected to block most of the main roads leading out of the UN facilities. Since the New Port was home base for the Pakis, and they were the ones who had proposed the route to the holding point, a compromise was reached. The tanks would lead the way out to the K-4 circle, then fall back to the midfront of the column.
Then new problems surfaced. It was easy to see how, with enough commanders, a battle could be debated into defeat. After conferring with their superiors, the Malaysians said they had been ordered to keep their APCs on the main roads, for the same reason that Garrison had earlier judged Mogadishu the wrong place to fight with armor. It was hard for tanks and APCs to maneuver in the city’s complex web of narrow streets and alleys. The big vehicles were vulnerable when they moved slowly through streets where the enemy could creep up close or drop grenades down from rooftops and trees, or fire armor-piercing rounds at close range.
David got back out of his Humvee and huddled with the officers again. He told Captain Meyerowich, “Look, Drew, here’s the situation. I need for your company to lead us out.”
The Pakistanis agreed to lead the convoy as far as the K-4 circle, which was the borderline of Aidid’s turf. At that point Meyerowich’s company, most of them riding in the Condors, would pull through and take the lead.
It was now 11:23 P.M.
3
As he heard the guns of the giant convoy approaching, Captain Steele knew this was the most dangerous time of the night. The moon was high and shooting in the neighborhood around the first crash site had all but stopped. There were a few pops every once in a while. The air had cleared of smoke and gunpowder. Now there was just that musky stink of Somalia, the trace of desert dust in the air, and the slight aftertaste of the iodine pills in their canteens. Sammies would still inexplicably wander right into the middle of their perimeter up the street. The D-boys would let them walk until they reached a cross-fire zone and then drop them with a few quick shots. Every once in a while the Little Birds would rumble in and unleash a rocket and spray of minigun fire. But now the only noise that concerned Steele was the intensifying thunder of guns as the rescue column moved closer to their position. With that much shooting, with two jumpy elements of soldiers about to link up in a confusing city in darkness, the biggest threat to his pinned-down men were their rescuers.
—Romeo Six Four [Harrell], this is Juliet Six Four [Steele]. How we gonna keep from running out of the building and getting smoked?
—They’re looking for your position to be marked with an IR strobe. If there’s any doubt in your mind, flash a red desert flashlight at them.
Up the street, Captain Miller had his own concerns.
—Okay, this task force is made up of Malaysians and who, over?
—Malaysians and Americans. They have Rangers with them, over.
Miller added hopefully:
—Okay, so every vehicle should have some type of NODs so they can ID the strobe, over?
—That was the instruction sent back, over.
Then, a few minutes later, the command helicopter reassured Miller.
—Yeah, they’re moving. The lead element has night vision devices so they should be able to pick up your IR strobe, Scotty, over.
Miller was also informed that members of the Delta unit, including Major James Nixon, John Macejunas, Matt Rierson, and Chuck Esswein, would be leading the column in, which to him and the other Delta team leaders was an enormous relief.
The rescue convoy was coming from the south. By the sound of it, they were moving along the same route the Rangers and D-boys had taken that afternoon, east from the Olympic Hotel, which meant they would reach Steele’s position first. They were coming steadily but slowly, and from the sound of it they were just shooting at everything. It was about ten minutes before two in the morning. Without the NODs nobody could see that far down the street. They just had to hunker down and wait and hope the convoy did not come blasting its way down the middle of their street.
—Romeo Six Four, th
is is Juliet Six Four. We’re going to put IR strobes out in front of the buildings here. We plan on throwing a red Chemlite as well to mark for casualties. If we can have the APCs pull in as close to those red chems as possible that will facilitate the loading of the casualties, over.
—Roger, but you better be real careful with those red Chemlites or the bad guys will start shooting at them, over.
—Okay, but you’re saying all the guys will have NODs, right?
—They’ve got people in the lead element with NODs and they should be homing in on your IR strobes, over.
It was tense. Nearly an hour had gone by since Steele had been told the convoy would reach him in twenty minutes.
—Romeo, this is Juliet. I understand now they may have turned north. The ground reaction force turned north. Do they have an ETA at this location?
—No, they are moving slowly, taking their time. It is going to take them a while, Mike. Probably fifteen to twenty minutes based on where I think they are, over.
—Okay. We are fairly secure here. I think the Little Bird runs dampened the rebels’ spirits.
Word came from the command helicopter at about two o’clock.
—Okay, start getting ready to get out of there, but keep your heads down. Now is a bad time.
—Roger, copy. Positions are marked at this time. We are ready to move, said Steele.
—Roger, they are going to be coming in with heavy contact so be real careful.
—You better believe it, over.
“We’re about to link up,” Steele radioed Perino. “I want everybody to back up out of the courtyards, and to stay away from the doors and windows.”
So the Rangers drew back like hermit crabs into their shells, and listened. They were all terrified of the 10th Mountain Division, whom they regarded as poorly trained regular army schmoes, just a small step removed from utterly incompetent civilianhood.
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes passed. Then another radio call from the command bird.