by E. Clay
29-30 December 1992
It took us about fifteen minutes to sweep the Palace for weapons and we came up with zip, nada, not a damn thing. The anonymous tip we received was bogus and for no apparent reason. Up until that point, bogus calls were from locals who ratted out adversarial neighbors.
On the way back to base, a camel herder ushered his herd across the road, separating us from the two Humvees in front. The drivers ahead of us did not realize we were separated and continued to drive off. The herd of camels caused a light dust storm and I could see the taillights disappear in the large dirt cloud. Our driver became nervous because he was not familiar with the area and he was afraid of getting lost. Our interpreter eased his mind because he knew the way back. We all breathed a sigh of relief at that point. At that precise moment we were being lulled into a false sense of security, because hell and its fury was about to be unleashed.
As soon as the camels crossed and the dust cleared, there were six Somali militants lined in the middle of the road with AK-47’s pointed at us. It was a chilling standstill for about thirty seconds. No one moved. If the driver had tried to speed off, it would have escalated the situation and would have endangered all of our lives. Between the four of us, we had two holstered 9mm pistols, two M-16s and a shotgun. Gunner brought a shotgun for added security. Mohamed, our interpreter was unarmed.
One of the militants advanced towards us at sling arms. Fear is highly contagious and I looked at Master Sergeant Howard and Gunner Dalby and I saw no fear, but I didn’t know why. Clearly this was not going to have a happy ending. The militant had a few words with our interpreter and the conversation ended with Mohamed wiping spit off his face. Then the armed bandit lunged from the ground into the back with Gunner Dalby and me.
“Back the fuck off!” Dalby shouted as he butt stroked the Somali with his shotgun. The brute force behind the butt stroke rendered the Somali unconscious lying on the ground.
All of us in the Humvee were surprised at Gunner’s response. Maybe surprised was not the correct descriptor because I felt he jeopardized our lives at that moment.
Immediately the other five militants advanced and I remember hearing their weapons coming off safe almost in synch. We were going to be executed and there was nothing we could do. At that time, we all realized that the whole mission was a setup to ambush us, and it worked.
The only thing that kept me from losing my cool was the lack of fear in Howard and Dalby…absolutely fearless in the face of certain death. I was calm because of them.
Then the lead militant raised his hand, shouted a command and dropped his hand. I saw Howard and Dalby reach for their weapons; I followed suit.
The militants attempted to open fire on us…but every single one of their weapons jammed. Immediately the driver hit the gas jolting us backward. The militants dropped their weapons and ran off except for the leader. We ran him over. Gunner looked back and surprised us all…again.
“Jones, turn around!” Gunner shouted.
Howard challenged Gunner.
“Gunner, you trying to get us killed or what?” Howard yelled.
“Jones, that is a direct order! Turn around now!”
Jones was panicking and he swerved the vehicle so we were facing the spot where we were almost massacred. We went back. Gunner picked up the mangled but alive Somali and placed him back in the vehicle.
“Thompson, collect the weapons. Hurry!” Dalby shouted.
Mohamed assisted and we hurriedly scooped up the rusty AKs. Mohamed collected the last one and dropped it on the ground by accident. It went off…sending a morbid reminder to all of us what might have happened.
Jones didn’t hesitate and floored it, sending me and Dalby flying on top of our new guest.
Our new passenger was begging for mercy in Arabic.
“Mohamed. What is he saying?” I asked.
“He thinks we are going to execute him,” Mohamed replied.
He couldn’t have been more mistaken; we were on our way back to base. Once we got there we dropped him off at the infirmary to get medical attention, then we turned in the weapons. We back briefed the Watch Officer and were apprised that our Somalia guest would be interrogated later by counterintelligence.
There is a common phrase in card playing: “Live to see another day.” I must have said it a thousand times. I don’t say it as much, but when I say it now, I have a deeper appreciation for what those words really mean.
Chapter 23: Mogadishu, Somalia: Tier One Personalities
2-3 January 1993
The last few nights I spent in the interpreter tent trying to master the card game Arupaa Turup. I remember right after New Year’s Day, Ayan poked her head in the tent and greeted everyone in Somali. She was very surprised to see me there. I acknowledged her with just a smile and resumed card playing. Everything I learned about the game instantly went out of my head and I began messing up. My partner was not particularly happy with me because I lost the game for us. He got up, laid his cards down, and said something in Somali under his breath. Ayan went around the table and sat in his seat. She was now my partner. I tried to appear to be unaffected by the gesture. She had the most wonderful smile and I really liked the way she playfully head butted the shoulders of those sitting on either side of her. That night we won some and we lost some; we had many high fives though. After our last hand we took a walk around the camp and talked…well she talked. She was a proud Somali who was passionate about her people and was an advocate of women’s rights under Islam. I found out that she was a University student like the rest of the interpreters, with the exception of Hussein - the Marine interpreter.
She looked at her watch and realized she had to catch her ride back to the University compound, as it was getting dark. She asked me for my telephone number and I gave her my number at the Operations Center. Then she smiled and gave it back to me.
“No silly, your telephone number in the States.”
Wow. My morale noticed a significant improvement. I came out of the funk I was in and had a much better perspective about the deployment. The last thing she said to me that night was “You can be my friend now. My name is Ayan.” Then she did the double air kiss with me and waved goodbye.
I already knew her name. I even knew the multiple meanings of her name and the different ways to spell it. Initially my plan was to try to impress her with this knowledge, but given my history of trying to impress…I kept it to myself.
The next day I went on patrol and was happy knowing I would see my friend Mohamed Ali. I arrived at his residence about noon and his servant opened the door for me and invited me in. I could hear Mohamed in the back room raising his voice in anger; I didn’t know who he was shouting at. He came out the room in a foul mood and his left arm was bandaged in a sling. As soon as he saw me, he stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath.
“Where are my manners? I am sorry you had to bear witness to my anger. Please have a seat,” he politely said.
“My officers were grateful that you provided us with the information on the roadside bomb. I want to thank you as well,” I said.
“Think nothing of it, but I am sure you have more questions. No?” asked Mohamed.
I then began asking questions regarding the tier one personalities, warlord Mohamad Farrah Aidid, and Semi Osman, his financier and renowned arms dealer. These questions changed the dynamic of our conversation as he became almost hostile with me.
“Semi Osman is a ghost. No one knows what he looks like. He is not Somali, he is Ethiopian. Some say he has many disguises, but no one knows for sure. I have no knowledge to help you and your officers.”
“What about Aidid?” I asked.
Immediately his dialogue became passionate and lecturing. He stood and paced while he spoke.
“Aidid? You will never ever catch him, even though he sleeps under your nose. It is because you have underestimated him,” Mohamed explained.
“I’m not sure I understand you. Why do you say that?” I as
ked.
“It is because you do not respect him! Your leaders address him as warlord. He is most brilliant tactician. Did you know that he was our country’s top intelligence chief?”
“No,” I replied.
“Did you know that he was a diplomat to India, educated in Rome and Moscow. And that he speaks six languages?”
“No.”
“Did you know that he was top General in Somali army? You have not done your homework. Did you think you were chasing someone in a loincloth chucking a spear? Your arrogance is shameful. You will never find Aidid.”
Mohamed was emotional and I needed to change the channel to return to civility.
“Okay. Can you help us reach the Somalis, our patrols are still being harassed and we are looking for answers. Can you help?” I asked.
Mohamed sighed again and scratched his head before sitting down.
“Yes. That I can help you with. Two things.”
“I am listening,” I remarked.
“First, you have let one man hire all the Somali workers on your camp to do the things you are too lazy to do.”
“What is wrong with that?” I asked.
“The problem is that he is an outsider and he has hired only members of his sub clan, which is very small. This upsets members of larger and more powerful clans.”
“What is the second thing you mentioned?” I asked.
“The interpreters. Many of your allies do not allow them to visit their families here in Mogadishu. Some of them feel like prisoners in their own country and they are disgruntled. Many are sneaking away during the night to visit relatives. If I know this, then so do your enemies.”
“So what is the solution?” I asked.
“I am not confident you will find one,” he replied.
Chapter 24: Mogadishu, Somalia: No Sex in Theatre
4 January 1993
Prior to our deployment, we were given the standard brief on the potential for STDs in a foreign country. The medical officer put the fear of God in us and sex did not seem like an option once we hit the ground. Nonsense. Sex was rampant…but it was not with the locals. We were enjoying each other, it seemed. The first indication of sexual promiscuity was an uptick in sexually transmitted infections among the troops. If you had to ask who was having sex, it was obvious that you weren’t one of them. Some got desperate and resorted to extreme measures. There was a theft of medical supplies one night. No narcotics were stolen, those were left alone. The thief just wanted hand lotion…lots of it.
Then there was the entrepreneur who had his own racket. He had some logistics connections and set up a motel on one of the rooftops. I heard there were about twenty cots. Condoms were going for about eight dollars if you bought them from him. He accepted checks too. I don’t think he ever got caught. Before his operation, most troops had sex in vehicles, behind buildings and even vacant latrines. The sex situation got so out of hand; it was declared a “No Sex Zone” by Command leadership.
Then there was Sergeant Vicky Granderson. She was always getting caught having sex, by officers, roving patrols and even Somalis. But her case was unique, and because of her extenuating circumstances leaders turned a blind eye. Sergeant Granderson was married and her husband was billeted across the camp with the JTF. Since she was the only service member whose spouse was in country, Granderson was issued a sex-chit. She was authorized the use of a private tent (it was a senior member of staff’s tent) for a two-hour period to spend with her husband. It started out just once a week but she was successful in extending it to twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I knew Vicky’s husband (Andrew) because he was a Navy Corpsman (medic) for the Camp Pendleton Freestyle Wrestling team and he accompanied them to one of our dual meets at Twentynine Palms the year prior. Vicky was there behind him in the stands.
The JTF headquarters element organized PT outside the old embassy, so I ran with them one morning. I saw Andrew after the run and I mentioned, “It must be nice to have your wife here with you.”
I was surprised to find out that they were actually separated and were not on speaking terms. He said he stayed clear of her and if he ran into her, it was by sheer accident. Andrew never knew about the chit, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Three years later, Staff Sergeant Vicky Granderson ended up working in my department at another base. She was divorced then and had reverted to her maiden name.
Chapter 25: Mogadishu, Somalia: Name Game
4 January 1993
Combat-like situations sometimes tend to convert the non-believers into born again Christians. I was a Christian from the day I was born. I have my own relationship with God and sometimes it has a humorous side. Whenever I am most stressed, the Lord plays this game with me that lets me know he is paying attention to my situation. I call it the “Name Game.” The Name Game is the bizarre combination of a person’s name and his/her occupation that makes me step back and laugh inside. For example, my Equal Opportunity Officer at Twentynine Palms, well his name was Master Sergeant Bias. Our legal officer at Marine Corps Air Station El Toro…Major Justice. He was never at his desk and he was always out of the office. The joke around base was “If you ever get in trouble don’t bother going to legal, because you won’t find Justice.” And finally, after I divorced and became a single parent, I decided to have a consult for a vasectomy. The surgeon who performed the surgery, well his name was Lieutenant Hancock. If I told someone I had the operation at Upwood Clinic, they would never believe me, but it was all true. I liked the Name Game because it let me know that God had my back. I started to wonder if I would play the Name Game in Somalia.
Chapter 26: Mogadishu, Somalia: Underbelly
5 January 1993
I had been in the Mog for about a month and it seemed like serving time. I just wanted to do my time, go home to my son, and maybe have some Popeye’s Chicken with an extra biscuit. The range of emotions I experienced weighed heavy. Sometimes I would visit Chaplain Colder to have a chat. I liked speaking with him because it reminded me of talks I had with my dad who was also a chaplain during his pastoral career. On the way to a meeting at JTF, I passed the Chaplain’s tent and I heard a tape of Dr. Martin Luther King. I was curious so I poked my head in, and I was surprised. It was not a tape; it was Chaplain Colder rehearsing for a Martin Luther King Celebration scheduled for mid-month. The pitch, cadence and passion in his voice bore an eerie resemblance to the late Dr. King. In fact, it bordered on identity theft. I never believed in channeling a spirit, but Chaplain Colder made a case for it in his delivery.
Just before noon chow, I found out I was summoned for a joint patrol with the Italians. I was impressed with their standard issue assault rifle. The rifle was a Beretta AR70/90 and it looked like it was straight out of a Rambo action movie. Of all the coalition standard issue weapons, the Italians had the coolest.
The mission permitted me to pay a visit to my friend Mohamed Ali to get a “pulse of the city.” I was just hoping Mohamed was in a better mood compared to our last contact. I wasn’t too concerned about a home cooked meal because the Italians invited me over to their tent for dinner. The Italians deployed with a chef, which I thought was very unique considering the squalor we lived in.
When I arrived at Ali’s residence, the same woman servant opened the door to greet me. I never heard her speak during any of my visits, which I found quite strange. Anyway, I saw Ali in the bedroom packing a suitcase.
“Perfect timing. If you had arrived one hour later you would have missed me. I am sure you would like a chat. I have time for you now,” Ali said while zipping up his garment bag.
“I know you are a busy man, but if I could just pick your brain for a few minutes that would be great.”
“Pick your brain? You Americans have some very strange phrases. Some are actually quite witty though,” Ali said as he motioned to his servant for tea.
“Witty phrases? Tell me a clever Somali phrase. Something I can say to my Somali lady friend…something not too corny though,”
I said as I sipped my tea.
“Intaadan fallin ka fiirso!” Ali replied.
“Okay….was that one word or two? I couldn’t tell,” I asked.
“I say it slowly this time. Listen to me,” Ali said.
“Intaadan fallin ka fiirso. Now you repeat.”
I tried my best to repeat it but I am sure I butchered it beyond recognition.
“Good try. But you must practice.”
“It sounds very dignified. What does it mean?” I asked.
“It means…Look before you leap.” Ali said as he crossed his arms.
I tried to hide how underwhelmed I was but I am sure my body language gave it away.
“Okay, I know you did not come here for language class. Let us get to business,” Ali said.
“We are still having problems with some of the locals, but we are noticing more hostility in the rural areas now. Why is that?” I asked.
“Very good question. I have an answer for you. Some of your allies have seized truckloads of Khat and set Khat fields alight,” Ali said.
“Okay, but Khat is illegal, so what is the problem?” I asked.
“My friend, my naïve friend. Khat is illegal in your country, but it is legal in Somalia. Your allies make it hard for you. Their problem will soon be your problem. Khat is lucrative commodity in Somalia.”
We talked about ten more minutes about locations of militia arms caches, before his ride was waiting outside. I took copious notes.
“I have time for one more question before I go.”
“Uhmmmm, what about the interpreter problem? I remember you said some were disgruntled. What should we do?” I asked as I reached for my helmet.
As we walked outside to his car, he looked at me and shook his head with a grin. He got in his car, rolled down the window and said two words.
“Separate them.”
Chapter 27: Mogadishu, Somalia: New Era