by E. Clay
I went to visit Gunny Howard at Lester Hospital about a week later. I was surprised to find that he was fully coherent and there were no visible signs of injury.
“Gunny Howard, how are you holding up?” I asked as I sat next to his hospital bed.
“Well, Staff Sergeant Thompson, I have had better days. I heard about the rest of the Marines on board. Many of them were good friends of mine,” Howard said solemnly.
“Yeah, Major Kerney, our Executive Officer, encouraged us to write to the families of the deceased. I have a lot of respect for Major Kerney. He knew that all of us were wary of boarding a chopper after the incident and he put his name on the next manifest to help ease our minds. I can’t believe you had the courage to be medivaced (airlifted) on a helo after what you went through. No way on this earth could they get me near a helo if it were me…no way.”
Then Howard stunned me with his revelation.
“Staff Sergeant T, I feel invincible in flight, like I am being protected by something divine,” he said humbly.
“Really? How can you say that?” I replied slightly confused.
“You must promise not to share this with anyone…ever. This is the second time I have survived all other passengers. The last time there were many more deaths. In total, this is my fourth mishap while in flight and every single time…I have walked away,” Howard said humbly.
I cannot begin to describe how I felt when I saw Master Sergeant Howard on my flight to Mogadishu. It was as if my skin was peeled back and all my nerve endings were exposed. I looked back once again and this time Howard acknowledged me with a smile and began reading a book. At one point, the plane began to experience some turbulence. I immediately unbuckled my seatbelt. I had thoughts of retreating to the safest place on the plane. In the lap of Master Sergeant Howard.
Chapter 11: Mogadishu, Somalia: General Situation
12 December 1992
From 1969 to 1991, Somalia was led by President Mohamed Siad Barre. President Barre’s government collapsed when civil war erupted spurred on by a clan/militia backed coup. The architects of this coup were from the political party the United Somali Congress (USC). Mohamed Farrah Aidid was the Chairman of the USC and a member of the Habir Gidir clan (tribal). Ali Mahdi Mohammed was also a leader in the USC; he was from the Abgaal clan. On 26 January 1991, Barre fled the country amidst the heavy militia fighting. Shortly after Barre was deposed, Ali Mahdi Mohammed unilaterally declared himself President of Somalia and began printing money to win the hearts and minds of his countrymen. When Mohammed declared himself President, the USC split along clan lines and war broke out between Aidid’s Habir Gidir clan and Mohammad’s Abgaal clan. With no functioning government, chaos ravaged other areas of Somalia and clan fighting became widespread. A significant decline in the health and welfare of Somali citizens was noted by international nongovernmental organizations. Tuberculosis, leprosy, malaria, sexually transmitted diseases and parasitic infections plagued the country. Clan/militia leaders began seizing the food and aid along major supply routes, encouraging the onset of famine and starvation in major population centers.
In 1991, the US Office of Foreign Disaster Assistance listed Somalia as the worst humanitarian disaster in the world. When I deployed, the average life expectancy of a Somali male was about forty-three years, and Mogadishu was listed as one of the most dangerous cities in the world according to a non-profit organization’s survey.
* Top Most Dangerous Cities in the World
o Cape Town, South Africa
o Guatemala City, Guatemala
o Bogota, Colombia
o Grozny, Chechnya, Russia
o Detroit, Michigan, USA
o Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
o Mogadishu, Somalia
(https://www.mostdangerouscities.org/)
Chapter 12: Mogadishu, Somalia: Peerless Leader
12 December 1992
I could see the Mogadishu airfield from the window as we made a hard right turn. I hadn’t slept a wink during the twenty-hour flight. I was just waiting for the plane to taxi in…without incident. I felt the wheels make contact with the runway and heard the tires screech. That was music to my ears. I began to clap like a tourist arriving at a holiday destination. I got some strange stares from the passengers around me. It was probably inappropriate, but I was not celebrating my arrival in Mogadishu; I was celebrating an incident-free flight with Master Sergeant Howard. I was relieved…it was as if I had been holding my breath the entire time. My nerves were shattered and I was spent, while most of the other passengers slept a good portion of the flight.
As I marched down the air stairs onto the ground, I looked around and thought, “I can do this.” The sun was blinding and the heat was suffocating, but I was accustomed to the climate from being stationed at the Twentynine Palms (located in the Mojave Desert). Marines were quickly loaded onto cargo trucks and we were on our way to…somewhere. I remember seeing the first Somalis lined up outside the gate. They were cheering, waving, and giving us the thumbs up as we passed them. It was odd to see Somalis wearing US sporting attire, New York Yankee baseball caps and Michael Jordan jerseys. I didn’t feel the least bit threatened. “How could this be one of the most dangerous cities in the world?” I thought to myself.
After seeing about a hundred or so Somalis on the streets, I considered them a beautiful race of people. The Somalis had noble facial features; prominent foreheads, almond-shaped eyes and European-like noses. There were so many shades of skin tone and many had jet-black wavy hair. The women had the most brilliantly-colored head scarves I had ever seen. I never thought a headscarf could attract my attention in that way.
After about a forty-five-minute drive through Mogadishu, we drove through the gates of a compound where we were based. The two prominent landmarks on that compound were the old US Embassy and the Marine House where the Marine Security Guards were once billeted. Both structures were partially demolished by heavy mortar and rocket fire.
“Everyone off the truck!” yelled a Master Gunnery Sergeant who had only been there a few days.
Half of us went to the old US Embassy and the other half marched to the Marine House. Master Sergeant Howard and I were directed to report to the Marine House about a five-minute walk from the embassy.
“Gentlemen…this is home. Find a room and report back to the courtyard in five minutes,” the Master Guns commanded.
Howard and I picked a room together and we just shook our heads and laughed. Our room was probably an office at one time before it was shelled by rocket fire. It was littered with rubble and the window aperture was about three times the size it should have been due to shelling.
Five minutes later Howard and I joined the formation in the courtyard. After a ten-minute briefing about staying hydrated and not petting the local animals, etcetera, a tall lean Chief Warrant Officer raised his hand and asked a question.
“Where can I take a dump?” the Warrant Officer asked.
“The porta-potties have not arrived but we have a makeshift latrine located at the rear of the building. In fact, let’s take a walk and I will show everyone where it is,” the Master Gunnery Sergeant said as he took a drink from his canteen. It was too hot for our camouflage jackets so most of us just carried them. The Master Gunnery Sergeant saw a young Staff Sergeant with his 9mm pistol tucked in the back of his trousers just above the belt line.
“Staff Sergeant….Staff Sergeant Dilliard…this ain’t Starsky and Hutch! Either you holster that weapon properly or I’m gonna take it off you, son. You’ve been watching way too much TV.”
As the Master Gunnery Sergeant was pointing to the latrine, the Warrant Officer strolled in, dropped his trousers and began doing his business.
“Gunner, there is a door you know. Feel free to shut it if you like,” said the Master Gunnery Sergeant.
The Gunner just smiled and lit a cigarette then closed the door.
While the Master Gunnery Sergeant was pointing to the old US Embassy, sniper sh
ots rang out and everyone hit the ground. No one has to tell you what to do in that situation, it’s instinctive.
“Get down, get down!” yelled the Master Gunnery Sergeant.
After the firing subsided, we retreated into the safety of the building. We had a head count and we were missing the Warrant Officer. We looked out of the window and sniper fire recommenced, hitting the latrine from the rear and the left sides. I saw the smoke as the rounds blasted through the wooden makeshift latrine. We all were stunned by what we had just witnessed.
Security forces patrolling the compound located the snipers and shot them…there were two.
We had only been in country less than one hour and we had our first casualty. I was swiftly plucked out of my comfort zone. The Master Guns was affected by what just happened and you could see it in his eyes.
“Who will help me retrieve the Gunner?” Master Guns asked.
“We will!” Howard responded as he grabbed me to accompany him.
Whoa! I didn’t expect to be thrown in the deep end so soon. Howard and I approached the latrine and paused for a moment.
“You ok there, T?” Howard asked.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I responded.
As I reached for the door, Gunner swung the door open zipping up his trousers…still smoking his cigarette.
“What the hell?” Howard blurted as we both took a step back in disbelief.
I couldn’t’t believe my eyes…it was stranger than fiction. He was so calm and his Marine Corps bearing unruffled.
“Gunner, we thought you were dead when you didn’t come out during the sniper attack,” I said as I stepped out of his way.
His response.
“I wasn’t done yet.”
He then walked past Howard and I with the roll of toilet paper under his arm. Gunner’s name was Dalby and in my eyes, he was what all Marines wanted to be like. I often wondered how I would have responded in a similar incident. Would I have been as calm and cool as he, or would I have been a screaming lunatic flying out of the latrine with my pants around my ankles leaving a fecal trail behind me. I would like to think maybe somewhere in the middle. Gunner Dalby joined my list of all-time most respected officers that day.
Chapter 13: Mogadishu, Somalia: Head Games
18 December 1992
It had almost been a week since I landed and the novelty of Operation Restore Hope faded fast. The thirteen-to-fourteen-hour shifts of clearing rubble and debris was taxing in the Somali heat. Temperatures in December got as high as 40 degrees C (104 Fahrenheit).The teething pains of setting up a new forward deployed unit were becoming more apparent with each passing day. One of the first issues raised was latrine management. The Army called them latrines, but Marines referred to them as heads. On the third day of my arrival, a logistics crew erected a community head that accommodated three at one time. It was a shed-like structure with a built-in shelf with three holes for seats. About six inches separated each seat, which was probably too close for anyone’s comfort. Waste was deposited into three 55-gallons drums fixed below. There were no vents or windows and the stench around 10:00 a.m. traveled into the Marine House and downwind to the embassy. The structure had a door with a flip sign that read male on one side and female on the other. There was a constant line outside and rarely was there a time when it was not occupied by at least one male.
Women on camp suffered while waiting for the sign to be flipped to female because it was almost always in use by males. Males complained when the head was occupied by a single female because they had to hold it knowing there were two free seats available. I remember waiting in line and there was a very anxious female Sergeant close to the front of the line. She was doing what I called the “Boo-Boo Dance” waiting for a chance to flip the sign. Eventually I passed her in line and a seat was free so I took it. After the male in the middle finished his business, she busted in, dropped her trousers and spoke.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but this is an emergency head-call, you might want to light a match.”
She then relieved herself without a hint of shame. Out of courtesy, me and the other male quickly finished up and vacated. On the way out, I flipped the sign to female and two women in the back of the line moved up and joined her.
As much as I would have loved to be among the 75% of Marines who escaped the nasty side effects of Malaria pills, I was not so fortunate. No one really discussed it but two symptoms were fairly noticeable. From my perspective, there were two categories; Marines were either squirters or dream weavers. The squirters were the ones who were constantly washing their underwear at odd hours of the day and night in seclusion. The dream weavers were Marines who were tortured by their dreams as they slept. Their dreams would take them to the darkest corners of the subconscious in Technicolor and surround sound. I was a dream weaver. I had a recurring dream (night tremor) that began with me dying. I awakened in heaven in front of God’s church. Words cannot describe the magnificence of this divine experience. My Uncle Darryl and other loved ones who’d passed on were waiting inside to greet me. I sat next to my great grandmother Mary and my Uncle Darryl in a middle pew. At some point during the service, I fell asleep. Instantly two angels descended upon me, and began escorting me out of the sanctuary, and ultimately out of the church. I could see my dead relatives observing from the church windows. The larger more brilliant angel of the two slammed the church door shut. I could hear the dead bolt slide from the inside, locking me out. The lesser angel then wiped any memory of me from my deceased relatives so they would not mourn my eternal demise. I became fearful as the sky turned red and the wind became violent. The earth beneath me began to crack around me like a fault line. I ran away from the church and the fault line followed me and eventually swallowed me. I descended into a never-ending free fall into the depths of hell. That dream was more real to me than any experience I have ever had in a waking state. The dreams were too much for my psyche. I took my chances...I ceased medication.
Chapter 14: Supermodel in Desert Cammies
19 December 1992
It was almost 0600 hours and the sun was already in scorch mode. No one I knew ever used an alarm clock because the sun and its intense heat kept you from oversleeping. Every day was just like the day prior, but this day would be different. The second wave was scheduled to arrive and I was looking forward to seeing Corporal Ramirez again and hanging out with him. It was hard passing the card tent at night hearing everyone talking trash and having a good time, but I was waiting for Ramirez to turn up so we could be card partners. I often wondered how Ramirez and the Captain got along back in the rear. The flight was scheduled to arrive at the airfield about noon so I expected them to be on camp by 1300-ish. Master Sergeant Howard was kind of a loner and spent most of his off time just reading. Up until that point, I kept myself busy by adopting a serious workout regime. Not only was I keeping fit, but it made me tired and helped me sleep at night. Time dragged slowly that first week. The Marine recreation center was a tent with about four rows of cots and a VCR. We watched bootlegged videos of old movies. I remember asking the Marine Welfare and Recreation NCO what was playing that night and he told me “Single White Female.” I thought it would be a complete waste of my time…but I had time to waste so I watched it. It was a damn good movie, I really enjoyed it.
I saw the two-and-a-half ton truck clear the compound gates. I could spot Captain Shaffner’s big head a mile away. I was looking for my friend Ramirez but I couldn’t see him. Captain Shaffner dismounted the truck and walked towards me, right behind him was Corporal Warren. Dang! It was nice not having to bump into either of those two for the last week.
“Welcome to the Mog! Where’s Corporal Ramirez?” I asked as I looked for him through the passing crowd.
“He’s on the next wave,” the Captain replied.
The little morale I had was slipping away fast. I escorted the Captain and Corporal Warren to the Marine House and turned them loose to find an available cot. I saved a cot for Ramirez by pla
cing a nametape on the cross bar.
“Corporal Warren, that cot is reserved for Ramirez.”
“Yeah, but Ramirez is not here, is he?” Warren said as he put his duffle bag across the cot.
In combat-like situations, friendships become intensified and the reverse is true with adversarial relationships. I was beginning to despise Warren and never referred to him with his rank from that day forward. It would always be just Warren.
“Where is MAF Headquarters?” the Captain asked.
“It’s based in the old US Embassy about a five-minute walk from here,” I responded.
“Let’s go. We need to check in with Major Mees,” Captain Shaffner directed.
On the way to the embassy, a truckload of newbies pulled in. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a petite figure offloading the truck with the assistance of three other Marines. I did a double take to see what she looked like. When she turned around, I saw her remove her bush cover and her long jet black wavy hair unfurled almost in slow motion like in a shampoo commercial. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in person…an absolute stunner of a lady. She had a heart-shaped face, high cheek bones and a beautiful smile. But it was her eyes that sucked me in. She resembled Iman, the super model. Her arrival on camp slightly mitigated my slippage in morale. I needed to find out who she was and what the heck she was doing in Mogadishu. As I walked past her, I noticed her lack of military bearing and courtesies. Despite the presence of officers, she did not salute once. What was even stranger was that no one seemed to notice or correct her for that matter. I knew I would pursue her, but I knew there would be a line of other Marines thinking the same as I.