Good news was waiting for me back in Mogadishu. I had made sure the army knew I was having fun with the Marines by asking the desk to fax my stories every day to the Pentagon. Sufficiently shamed, the army arranged for an extraordinary ride-along with the Ninth Psychological Operations Battalion from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The psyops soldiers normally operated in secret, but the commander told me I could accompany a team to Baidoa—the infamous “City of Death”—and Bardera, two towns that had seen terrible hardship.
I was handed off to a young sergeant and a junior enlisted man. Their weapon of choice was a seven-hundred-watt amplifier and loudspeaker mounted on top of their Humvee. They had the usual weapons, too, but their mission was to convince the Somalis to cooperate rather than fight, and to use words instead of bullets. This was going to be a challenge, because the two soldiers had studied German as part of Cold War training for Europe and did not speak the local languages. They did have prerecorded messages in Somali, and they were in good spirits, excited about a road trip across a country as big as California, but with dirt roads and landmines. I wasn’t sure how they felt about me tagging along, but they didn’t have a choice.
Dale, my managing editor in Washington, always told me to imagine an interview as a first date. You wanted to use good manners and a light touch. I was going to be with these guys for a couple of days, so I started slowly to not spook them. Mostly in the field, I was the first journalist the soldiers had ever met in person. They all had opinions about “the media,” but few had ever talked to a real reporter.
Joe, the sergeant, was a twenty-five-year-old Gulf War veteran, and we traded war stories. Jamie was twenty-two and had been on a mission to help Haitian refugees, which I also had covered, so we had a connection, too.
We packed up, I got comfortable in the back seat, and we pulled out with a convoy of Marines. Joe said to his partner, “We don’t want to hit any mines out here. Let’s shake out the mojo.” They rattled wooden necklaces with charms of zebras and giraffes.
Joe turned in his seat to explain, “I’m covered on both bases. I’ve got a St. Christopher medal, too.”
Jamie turned to show me his St. Michael.
They cranked up the Red Hot Chili Peppers on a boom box. When they checked in on the radio, I heard their call sign: “Psycho One.”
I knew this was going to be a different kind of road trip.
Did they think the African charms and Christian saints were effective against landmines?
Joe turned back to me, solemnly nodded his head yes, and said, “That’s powerful juju, sir.”
Jamie loved to drive holding a microphone and lip-synching with the tapes recorded in Somali. People would be walking nearby, half-listening to the broadcast, assuming the speaker was a Somali man. Then they would cautiously look over at the Humvee and see the light-skinned, muscular American apparently speaking their language quite fluently.
“Greetings,” boomed the voice in Somali. “We come in peace.”
People stared, eyes wide and mouths open, and Jamie would grin and wave at them. Then the Somalis got the joke, laughed, and waved back. This always set Jamie and Joe guffawing and slapping the seats in pure pleasure. They rode through small villages like gregarious traveling salesmen hawking their wares, which, in this case, were peace and goodwill.
Our first rest stop after many hours was an abandoned Soviet-built air base outside Baidoa. The base resembled a ghost town hit by a tornado, cluttered with the remains of jets and rusted radars amid the broken buildings.
I tried dozing in the parked Humvee, but the sun’s rays through the open turret felt intensified, so I was like a bug being fried with a magnifying glass. I climbed out and tied my poncho to the door to make a little tent, but then I was sitting in an airless, plastic bag. My body was so dirty that when I scratched the back of my neck, my fingernails filled with gunk that looked like rubbings from an eraser. A fresh baby wipe felt cool on my burned face. My clothes smelled musty and were never quite dry.
Hygiene and normally private matters were regular topics of discussion. The Marines we were accompanying talked about whore baths and how to clean between your butt cheeks. A sergeant suggested we line a tent with plastic so everyone could pleasure themselves. “You’d need oven mitts to go in there,” he said, and the guys all laughed.
Not known for their modesty, the Marines had constructed a toilet from a fifty-gallon drum cut in half and placed in the open between two busy dirt roads. I took one look at the latrine and decided to hold it as long as I could, possibly until I got back to Washington.
While I was contemplating the toilet, a lieutenant colonel approached and asked who I was.
Reporter, I said, offering my hand.
He turned abruptly and walked away, in a rare display of rudeness.
I was told there was only one other reporter in the convoy, a Brit, and the many reporters left behind in Mogadishu were not happy.
A young Marine intelligence officer, the S-2, said the Brit probably wasn’t even a reporter, more likely undercover for MI6, British intelligence. He told me, “I figure you must be a real reporter because otherwise you wouldn’t have given me the name of some news service I’ve never heard of.”
“That’s cold, Two,” I said. He was a smart young guy, Tufts grad. I smiled and added, “I can’t help it if you are so ignorant of American history that you don’t know Scripps Howard was started in 1878, founded United Press, and sent Ernie Pyle to cover World War II.”
He laughed. Whatever.
We stood in the sun for hours as 3,200 Marines loaded their gear. Then we stood some more while the vehicles were lined up in a convoy. People were grabbing full water bottles to drink and empties for urine. That was a bad sign: it meant we weren’t going to stop during the road march. I was okay peeing in a bottle, which in a moving vehicle was trickier than it sounded, even for a guy.
My bigger worry was that I had not pooped, and I would feel better if I did. I didn’t want the convoy to leave without me, however, because that would have been worse than being a little backed up. I knew there would be no warning when we got the order to start driving. The rhythm was always the same: Hurry up. Wait. Go! Go! Go! I did not want to use that tin-can latrine. Should I go to the bathroom now or wait? Probably I should wait. Well, now maybe it’s going to be awhile before we leave. If I just went nearby . . .
I grabbed a roll of toilet paper and a shovel and shuffled off away from the vehicles. There wasn’t a single tree or even a bush higher than my knees, just flat, scruffy desert. I was not especially modest at this point, but I had the best results pooping in private. Better not to walk too far from the convoy, however, so after a few hundred feet I scratched away some dirt, dropped my pants and squatted over the hole.
As soon as I did, engines turned over and rumbled. Heavy, metal doors slammed shut. Then more engines started. I glanced up over the tiny bush I was trying to hide behind. People were running around the vehicles, throwing stuff inside and taking their seats. Blue exhaust smoke filled the air. Of course. Now they were in a big hurry to leave.
A voice yelled above the convoy noise, “Hey reporter dude! Let’s go!”
I buried my meager deposit in the sand and ran back to the vehicle, buckling my pants along the way, clutching the roll of toilet paper under my arm and trying not to bang myself in the head with the shovel. This apparently was very funny to everyone but me. “Fuck you guys,” was my clever retort. I got back to the jeep, splashed some water on my hands and wiped them on my pants, below the knees. We pulled out of Baidoa. Next stop, Bardera.
The road was just a gravel strip carved through bushes as tough as steel wool and armed with thorns that could pop a tire. The convoy passed miles and miles of shoulder-high sorghum and small villages filled with delicately crafted, acorn-shaped, thatched huts. Hundreds of Somalis turned out to cheer and wave, staring at the Marines as if they had landed from a different planet.
Every hour or so, either Joe o
r Jamie would say, “It’s not hot. It’s Africa hot!” And then laugh hysterically. It was funny the first three or four times.
We were traveling into the bush and back in time. The cities we left behind had been built by Somalis, and then destroyed by them. The primordial African countryside was almost unchanged by human hands. We drove by women working the ground with short wooden hoes that forced them to bend deeply. Other women led donkeys carrying jugs of water or bundles of firewood. When the road was smooth enough to write, I took notes about this beautiful, ancient place, and I imagined myself far away from my own world.
Until I saw a woman carrying a baby in a shawl tied on her back. That was how Mexican women carried their babies, and from there my mind jumped to Maru and Isabella and the chubby rings of fat around her legs, and how she got slippery as a seal in the tub. These babies were not so fortunate. And suddenly they weren’t so far away.
That night we stopped at the airport outside Bardera. The commanders wanted word of our arrival to get around, so there would be no surprises and plenty of time for tempers to cool. There was no real enemy other than the societal breakdown that prevented food from getting where it was needed. The world could have sent an international police force instead of warriors, but maybe it was the Marines’ potential for great violence that kept Somalis from resisting.
We climbed stiffly out of the vehicles after the long ride. I guzzled a bottle of water, so chlorinated it tasted like a warm swimming pool. After nine hours of bouncing and engine noise, the quiet and stillness were welcome. The dust-coated Marines seemed to have traveled inside a giant vacuum cleaner bag. The ones who rode up top appeared to be wearing pancake makeup.
Exhausted, I tried to sleep that night in the back of the Humvee. It got cold after dark, and I kept waking to add more layers of clothing, until I was wearing everything I carried. The next morning we rolled into Bardera. Children were the first to greet us, running alongside the vehicles, shrieking with laughter and clutching at the rags that fell off their nearly naked bodies. They were so thin they seemed to be all knees and elbows. “Okay! Okay!” the kids shouted happily, laughing delightedly when the Marines spoke to them.
Most people seemed pleased, relieved, or at least curious to see the troops. A few Somali men, however, lurked in the shadows of darkened shacks, staring angrily without making a sound. Many of them were armed, and if just one of them started shooting at us, the whole place would blow.
Further along, we saw people on the ground. They must have been trying to walk to safety or to food, and then collapsed on the roadside. They were hungry, so thin they looked like stick figures. Men and women were too weary to stand, lying on the filthy dust and so weak they ignored the swollen flies that buzzed around their heads and landed on their dripping noses. Their eyes, even those of the youngest children, were wet and dark, shiny, and unfocused. Medics helped those they could.
We were ordered not to give people food without medical supervision because it could overwhelm their weakened bodies. I just watched and took notes and did not help anyone. It was all too much. Parts of me shut down just then, like a circuit breaker during a power surge. The first thing to go was my curiosity, then empathy. I was overwhelmed and in shock. I did not like the feeling.
My big concern, as always, was filing the story. I turned my notes into a feature about Christmas Eve and another story about the road trip. Late in the afternoon, I noticed a portable antenna atop a burned-out building. That looked promising, so I made my way there. There were a handful of Marines camped on the dirty floor of the building, which like everything else was torn apart and trashed. In the middle of the floor was a familiar pair of silver metal suitcases: satellite phone.
I knocked on the busted doorframe and introduced myself. I explained I had stories written, but if I couldn’t transmit them soon, the shelf life would expire and they would be worthless. The Marines were friendly and didn’t see a problem helping me do my job.
I knew how to work the phone, so I dialed the office computer and filed the stories. I called a second number to confirm that the desk could read the words without any garble. I also asked my editors to call the families of my escorts, Jamie and Joe, to tell them their soldiers were fine and Merry Christmas to all. I hung up and sat back, relaxed, knowing I had fed the beast.
By the time I got my stories in, it was getting dark fast. The Marines kept flashlights and cigarette lighters low to avoid attracting attention or drawing fire. Everybody was in his own private world. Some were smoking, dozing, or talking quietly. At least one kept an eye on the street, but the evening was still. There was random gunfire, but it didn’t sound close or threatening. The Marines didn’t pay much attention to me.
I slid closer to the phone. No one seemed to notice. I opened my computer and called up the story I had just filed. I cupped a flashlight to shield the light, and dialed a number I knew by heart. The phone rang about three times before someone picked up and said, “Hello.”
“Hi mom, it’s me.”
“I’m holding your baby!” my mother gushed, thrilled to hear from me but far more excited to have Isabella in her arms. I pictured the family sitting in the living room, the baby in my mom’s lap and my stepfather nearby. My brothers would be there with their wives and children. I knew the Christmas tree was decorated and piled with presents.
My mother gave Maru the phone and we talked in Spanish. My mom never appreciated us speaking Spanish because she feared we were talking about her (and sometimes we were), but Maru and I had fallen in love in Spanish, and it was the only way to have any privacy or intimacy.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No,” she said, in that weak, choked voice that meant, I am going to cry and I want you to take care of me. I didn’t hear that voice very often, but only when she was at the end of her strength. Her first sign of anger or upset was to be cold or distant. Then she would lash out. Only when she had exhausted those stages did she show weakness. She had to be far gone or she would not let me see fear. I was worried now. I needed her to be strong so I could stay strong.
I tried a joke, and that got a small laugh. I told her how I scammed the call, and the Marines were right next to me but didn’t know what I was saying. “I’ve got the screen of my computer up and I’m pretending to dictate my story.”
She laughed again.
I told her I missed her. I could feel the tears just behind my eyes.
“Kiss my baby for me,” I said. “Merry Christmas, too. I have to go. I love you.”
I clicked off the connection and packed up my computer.
One of the Marines looked over and asked, “Did you get your story in?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said, and then burst into tears, big heaving sobs. “Everything’s fine,” I blubbered, trying to compose myself.
They looked up but didn’t say anything. Crying was another of those private things that happened with your battle buddies. Nobody judged me or even seemed surprised. They didn’t know me, and I wasn’t wearing the uniform, but I was there on the ground with them. I wiped my eyes and laughed a little. I made a joke about my story being emotionally powerful. I was embarrassed, but I felt better after draining the tension. I didn’t cry often, but when I did, the relief was complete.
In the darkness, I saw flashes of white teeth smiling. I thanked them again, grabbed my gear, and groped my way back to the Humvee.
Jamie and Joe were waiting for me with a Christmas gift. We were parked along a dirt road near soldiers from the French Foreign Legion. They were hard-looking guys who had spent some serious, unpleasant time in Africa. The Legionnaires were sleeping on the ground alongside their vehicles, and they were admiring the simple, folding cots used by the Americans.
The Legionnaires were traveling light—no cots and no tents—but the one advantage they had over us was food. This was a French force, after all, and they weren’t going into battle with cold tuna casserole in a plastic pouch. There was some trading—nobody w
ould tell me the details—and the boys presented me with my Christmas gift: a genuine French field ration.
As excited as kids unwrapping a present under the tree, we tailgated at the back of the Humvee and tried to figure out how to prepare the food. The ingredients were more elaborate than an MRE and included a small heat tab to warm the main course. Oh yeah, this field ration had actual courses. The little cube burned very hot, and we used it to warm some kind of meat in a savory sauce. There was a small bottle of wine. We shared the food and passed the wine. We toasted each other, Christmas, our families.
The stars came up and filled the black sky all the way to the horizon. The night cooled off, and we nestled into the Humvee to sleep. I thought about my baby. Jamie and Joe probably were tired of hearing about her, but they didn’t make me shut up. I missed Maru, but I was glad she was with my family and not alone tonight. I said goodnight to the boys. It turned out to be a nice Christmas.
After the road trip, I was ready to go home. In fact, I had been ready to go home after the first week in Somalia. One morning, like all the previous mornings, I filled a canteen cup with cold water from a tank called a water bull and bent over to shave using the side mirror on a Humvee. I would not have bothered to shave, except I was with the Marines, and felt I should observe the dress code. Wearing only boxer shorts, I splashed my face and hair and lathered up with shampoo. Somalis stood on a ridge looking down at us with the curiosity of visitors at the zoo. I didn’t care anymore. I was careful not to use too much water, but I really needed a bath. I wasn’t sure about water etiquette. How much was one person allowed to use? I washed off most of the soap and dried my hair with a towel. I felt better clean.
Then I rinsed the soapy canteen cup and filled it with hot water. I mixed in the powdered contents of four packets: hot chocolate, instant coffee, creamer, and sugar. It was warm and sweet. This was breakfast, again.
Finding the News Page 26