Death Before Dishonour - True Stories of The Special Forces Heroes Who Fight Global Terror

by Nicholas Davies

  Goffena knew they were going down and his head was clear enough to remember that he had practised for this a hundred times on a flight simulator. He knew that he must keep the bird level, get the nose up before impact with the ground and stay cool. Somehow he managed all three. He selected a narrow alley in which to bring down the stricken chopper and, when only feet off the ground, pulled back sharply on the stick.

  But, as Goffena and his crew braced themselves for the impact of a crash landing, the chopper suddenly responded. Instead of landing on the ground, it somehow pulled out of the slow dive and flew on. Goffena wasn’t sure what engines and rotors were somehow still working, but he found that by keeping the nose up he could fly on at roof height. Within seconds they were out of the city. Ahead, Goffena saw the new port facility, which was guarded by US Marines, and hoped the damaged Black Hawk would keep going long enough to reach safety. He skimmed the perimeter fence and brought down the chopper. As soon as the wheels touched the ground it keeled over and came to a crunching halt. They were safe. As the pilot clambered out of his seat to check the condition of his mates, he was thinking of the possible fate of Durant and his crew, whom he felt he had failed.

  But Durant and his men were still holding out. After Gordon and Shughart had been among the men, checking their injuries and fighting capability, Gordon took up a position in which he could confront the main thrust of the Somali militia. Hunkered down and with enough ammunition to hand, he was quietly confident that he could deter the gunmen until help arrived.

  Shughart moved the injured Durant some fifteen feet from the fallen chopper so that he could sit with his back to a tree and get a better view of any approaching Somalis. Then he rummaged inside the bird and came out with two M16s and plenty of ammunition. He knew that he would need the help of every man capable of firing a weapon if they were to halt the Somalis’ advance until the QRF arrived.

  At that moment Durant heard an anguished cry from Gordon’s position. Then there was silence. Shughart went to investigate and came back with his mate’s Car-15, a carbine based on the M16 infantry rifle but with a shorter barrel and collapsible butt. He loaded the weapon and handed it Durant, along with a fresh supply of ammunition and wished him luck. He said nothing of Gordon’s fate but Durant knew he must be dead.

  Shughart called up on the survival radio and then positioned himself on the other side of the chopper from where most of the fire was coming. Within minutes, however, there was a tremendous onslaught of incoming fire and Durant heard Shughart cry out. Silence followed. Now he knew he was totally alone and unable to move, with only a Car-15, an M16 and his own pistol to keep the Somalis at bay. He had no illusions. This was it.

  Durant fired at a face which was only yards away; then another ten or more approached and he stopped firing. It was useless. He wondered what they might do. They didn’t shoot him, but tore off his clothes, kicked and punched him and then dragged him away blindfolded. Then he fainted.

  Back at the first crash site, where Super-Six-One had come down, Chief Warrant Officer Cliff Wolcott, the pilot nicknamed ‘Elvis’ because of his cool personality, was still waiting for the ground convoy to arrive and rescue them. Around Wolcott’s downed Black Hawk were some thirty US Special Forces, both Rangers and Delta boys. They were having little trouble keeping the groups of enemy gunmen at bay. Some of them were worried as they saw bands of Somalis edging towards their positions, but they had calm, experienced leaders. They did feared for their safety, however, when they heard over the radio that the relief convoy had run into trouble and no exact ETA – estimated time of arrival – could be given. As dusk was falling, orders were given to move the wounded into a house adjoining the crash site. Those capable of firing a gun took up defensive positions and waited for the convoy and the cover of night.

  In command was Captain Scott Miller, the Delta ground commander, and various small groups of Special Forces soldiers held four other positions down the road from the crash site, where thirty men were gathered. Some were wounded, some were medics, others were Black Hawk crew and the rest were Rangers and Delta men who had arrived on the scene shortly after the chopper had crashed.

  But the Somalis were getting more daring and creeping closer to the crashed Black Hawk. The five groups of men were now totally encircled and gunfire was coming in from every direction. One by one the defenders were taking hits from small-arms fire and the medics were having to work hard taking care of all the injured. Occasionally someone was hit by an RPG – a sight that brought a shudder to all who witnessed it.

  As darkness fell the order was given for everyone to move back towards the Black Hawk and take up defensive positions in the house next to it, where all the wounded could be treated in one place. In that way Captain Miller hoped that he could save the lives of more of his men and make life easier when the rescue team finally arrived.

  When the men had all gathered in the new base by the chopper a quick check was made on ammunition, water and IV (intravenous) bottles. All were dangerously low; all would need a re-supply drop, and fast.

  General Garrison discussed the situation with his senior officers. All agreed that the need to re-supply was vital. All agreed too that there was every chance the rescue helicopter would be brought down by enemy fire. But he still gave the order to go.

  Super-Six-Six’s pilots, chief warrant officers Stan Wood and Gary Fuller, watched as their Black Hawk was loaded with kitbags containing ammunition, water and IV bottles. The idea was to fly directly to the crash site and hover as low as possible over the site while the kitbags were pushed out of the aircraft. Within minutes the chopper was over the target, and as it descended out of the night sky, machine guns, AK47s and RPGs opened up on it. The men inside the base house were surprised how close the enemy were to their position.

  The Black Hawk hovered for about thirty agonising seconds while the kitbags were thrown out into the night. It was getting riddled by bullets; the rotor blades were taking direct shots and so was the main engine and gearbox. But somehow no RPG found its target and, having dropped its precious cargo, Super-Six-Six lifted off and accelerated away, making it safely back to the airfield. The damage was serious, but, more importantly, those men surrounded by a ferocious enemy had been re-supplied and they could now resume the fight to save their lives and the lives of their wounded comrades. They all knew it would be a long, exhausting and anxious night for everyone.

  The Little Birds kept making darting gun runs over the Somalis, swooping low, firing off in bursts of automatic fire and then accelerating away from the small-arms fire and the even more dangerous RPGs.

  Those officers high above the battle area could see that there was an urgent necessity to get all the Special Forces men into one consolidated position where they could defend a designated perimeter for as long as necessary. The commanders watched the battle below through infrared and heat-sensitive cameras that sketched the area in black and white. They were all aware that there was every chance that the one hundred and thirty or so soldiers on the ground, including the wounded, might have to defend their positions throughout the night before a large enough force could be assembled and sent in to rescue them. A major offensive, including tanks and armoured personnel carriers (APC), was planned.

  But those on the ground were not happy with the orders being radioed over to them by commanders in the air and back at base. They all understood that it would be better for all the men to be consolidated in one defensive position near the crashed Black Hawk, but the commanders didn’t accept that plan was highly dangerous, as two groups of men would be risking their lives as they moved there. To some of them the plan seemed near suicidal.

  Nevertheless, Captain Miller decided to lead the way and ordered four Delta soldiers to spring out of their position, across the main road and into the house adjoining the crashed Hawk. As they sprinted out of their courtyard a wall of rapid gunfire greeted them. All four came rushing back to the spot they had left seconds before, diving back into th
e courtyard. They were all convinced they would never have made it the forty feet or so across the road.

  As the night wore on the shooting died down, but the Special Forces men could take no chances. Everyone knew they had to stay awake and alert, ready for any attack from any direction. Occasionally the silence would be broken by the distant hum of a Little Bird on its way to make another gun run down a street. Minutes later the shattering noise of automatic fire and rockets would startle everyone as the little chopper with just two crew flew fast down the street, firing at the enemy positions. Always the Somali AK47s and machine guns would open up, and usually an RPG or two would be fired. But luck seemed to be with the Little Birds.

  The rest of the time, the quiet of the night was unnerving for the trapped soldiers. Most were convinced that the Somalis were sending small teams to probe their positions, finding out exact numbers. Others believed the Somalis might send suicide squads armed with RPGs who were prepared to take ridiculous risks in order to attack and kill or wound their enemy. A hit by a well-aimed RPG could be catastrophic in the confined spaces they were defending. And they already had fifteen men with serious injuries, some of them life-threatening. The injured could not easily be moved.

  Time seemed to stand still as the men strained to listen for any movement of encroaching Somali gunmen. Occasionally, if one was seen edging too close, a burst of fire would quickly make him change his mind and retreat. Everyone knew that the Rangers and Delta boys coming to their rescue would have one hell of a job holding off a concerted attack over several hours.

  Shortly after midnight the soldiers on watch heard the first faint rumblings of tracked vehicles seemingly only a few hundred yards away. They had been informed by radio that a relief force was on its way, but they were also told that the Somalis seemed determined to make that journey as difficult as possible.

  As the convoy edged closer the men could hear the thunder of its guns and the noise of a heavy machine gun, which sent the fear of God into the Somali gunmen. The men holed up had been informed that the rescue convoy of tanks, APCs and Humvees numbered nearly one hundred and that the order had been given to take no prisoners. For the first time in many hours there were smiles on their lips. They were going to make it.

  Some time after five in the morning, as the orange sun was rising over the roof tops and the last of the wounded were placed in the APCs, the order was given to return to base. After the 10th Mountain Division soldiers had boarded the APCs, the Malaysian drivers simply sped off, unbelievably leaving behind those Rangers and Delta boys they had come to rescue. These were the men who had just spent the last fifteen hours fighting a desperate rearguard action against overwhelming odds.

  They shouted and yelled but no one in the APCs could hear above the roar of their engines and the rumble of their half-tracks. There was only one thing for the Special Forces men to do – run for their lives. They had to cover just over a mile, carrying their packs, their weapons and spare ammunition, and the Somali gunmen were waiting for them. They were moving targets. As they ran they fired at anything that moved. They fired at windows and doors, and down alleyways, anywhere they thought a gunman might be hiding. Incoming small arms-fire was increasing by the minute and a number of men were hit.

  These guys hadn’t eaten for some twenty hours, surviving on a few sips of water. In the sustained firefight they had lost many of their comrades. They were shattered, physically and mentally, and now, incredibly, they had to run the gauntlet once again, and face an avalanche of fire like the one that had felled and injured so many of their mates.

  News of what followed on that hellish day in Mogadishu reverberated around the world as Somali television showed dead US Special Forces soldiers, stripped half naked, being dragged around the city behind jeeps and trucks while the local people jeered, cheered and revelled in their hour of glory. For President Bill Clinton, his entire administration, the Pentagon and every American watching, those news pictures were the most humiliating and degrading images ever seen on US television.

  Everyone was asking the same brutal question. How could the US Special Forces, backed up by the world’s most powerful army, navy and air force, be routed and humiliated by a few thousand Somali gunmen?

  Eighteen Americans had been killed and dozens badly wounded. And the pride of Delta Force, the Rangers and the SEALs had taken a battering.

  The whole operation, scheduled to last an hour, should have gone like clockwork. Well armed, well trained, well disciplined and with excellent helicopter support, the Special Forces should have been able to capture a couple of military aides of a Somali warlord with ease. They didn’t, and those eighteen American soldiers paid the ultimate price.

  Yet this extraordinary episode had proved one thing – that America’s Special Forces had the stomach for a fight even when battling against great odds. It showed wonderful camaraderie among the men on the ground, who risked their lives to save their colleagues. But for their courage and ability to stay calm and disciplined in a desperate situation, the casualties might have been far worse.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE SOVIETS’ GRAVEYARD

  THE DEATHBED OF invading armies for two hundred years, Afghanistan has an awesome reputation for any nation that dares to set foot in this rugged, mountainous country where warlords and tribal gunmen have nearly always held power.

  Once a distant part of the Persian Empire, Afghanistan was occupied by many different peoples during its early history, but the rule of law never extended much further than major towns and cities. During the nineteenth century Russia took over much of the country and persuaded its countrymen to take control, but the local warlords had no wish to be ruled by anyone, particularly Russians.

  Some warlords turned to Britain for assistance because the Russians seemed ready to move south into British-held India, which then included Pakistan. In 1939 the British sent in the Redcoats to bring Afghanistan into the British Empire, but the Afghanis had different ideas. Rather than live under the discipline of the British Crown, they rebelled and, in 1842, wiped out the entire British garrison in the capital Kabul. The British withdrew, but returned in 1878, taking the two main cities, Kabul and Kandahar, and subduing the Afghan warlords. Britain only wanted to keep a token force in Afghanistan as a buffer state to dispel any Russian idea of driving south into India and beyond. However, World War One effectively ended the British presence in Afghanistan and the country lapsed once again into a backwater in which local warlords changed alliances, fought battles and lived off the opium trade.

  Decades later, in the 1970s, the Soviet Union’s Secret Service, the KGB, decided for various important reasons that Afghanistan should become a part of the Soviet Union in all but name. The rationale behind this policy was that Afghanistan had become a back door for trade for many of the southern Soviet satellite countries, which had become disenchanted with the Soviet system of government. The KGB also saw the poppy fields of Afghanistan as a lucrative source of illegal funds for its own department, which was becoming increasingly starved of income by the close-fisted Soviet treasury.

  In this way the KGB would be in a strong financial position to keep its power base within the Soviet system intact and functioning efficiently without any strings attached. The KGB leaders were ecstatic when the Soviet politburo agreed to their plan for Afghanistan. During the previous decade they had come to believe that the KGB’s power and influence were declining in the face of a stronger, more powerful United States, which it had been incapable of halting or even slowing. Now they could see a highly lucrative, more powerful future for the department, with their finances guaranteed.

  They began by organising the removal from power and, in 1973, the assassination, of the King of Afghanistan, Mohammed Zahir Shah. Slowly but surely the Soviet Union eased troops and civil servants into the country and came to dominate the main cities. Five years later the new Afghan republic, led by the Soviet puppet President Amin, signed a peace treaty with the Soviet Union.

>   But the Soviet forces were unable to dominate any of the autocratic Muslim warlords who held power outside the main cities and towns and, as the Soviet Union increased its grip on the country the warlords became resentful and eventually troublesome. One of the main reasons for the breakdown was the KGB’s ambition to wrest control of the poppy market from the Afghan warlords, who were equally determined this would not happen. The opium trade provided the funds which gave the warlords their power. In short, this money paid for guns and ammunition for their local fighters.

  The more the Soviet forces moved out into the country to subdue the warlords, the more resistance they met. The warlords called on their fighters, whom they had armed with the latest Soviet AK47 rifles, and the local Muslim peasants, who made up some eighty per cent of the rural population, to resist the pagan Russian invaders. Slowly the conscript Soviet army found itself the target of increasing guerrilla attacks and realised it had no stomach for the fight.

  The KGB leaders came to the conclusion that they would have to rule the country through another puppet leader, and that would mean removing the warlords and their power bases and subduing the Afghan farmers and peasants by force of arms. But first it would be necessary to remove President Amin and his close advisers quickly and clinically. The Spetsnaz, the Soviet Special Force, was given the task. The KGB’s new ideas for the virtual annexation of Afghanistan, including the assassination of Amin, were rubber-stamped by the Politburo.

  Already the KGB had the run of Darulman Palace, the heavily fortified home of President Amin, so that the logistics and planning presented no foreseeable problems. The initial raid on the Afghan forces defending the palace’s grounds and defences was given to a crack Soviet airborne battalion.