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

by Nicholas Davies

  On the ground waiting for the US assault were the enemy – a band of Somali militiamen armed with Kalashnikov AK47 automatic rifles and the odd machine gun, dressed in nothing but colourful shirts and cotton trousers, and many in bare feet. Also gathered in the streets – as if attending a carnival – were women in colourful dresses and scores of wide-eyed children, all eager to see what was about to happen.

  The crack US Special Forces had been sent to Somalia to sort out the African warlords who had reduced the nation and its capital, Mogadishu, to a lawless state in which rival gangs of thugs ruled by the gun, looting, shooting and killing one another and making life a living hell for the impoverished population.

  This mission was designed to attack a gathering of top Habr Gidr clan leaders, who controlled most of the armed gangs and who were in turn led by the infamous warlord Mohammed Farah Aidid. The task was to capture two of Aidid’s senior lieutenants and any other clan leaders and imprison them on an island off the Somali coast.

  US Intelligence had established that the clan leaders were to meet that day – Sunday, October 3 1993 – in a house in the heart of Aidid’s territory, the so-called Black Sea neighbourhood, the most closely guarded place in Mogadishu. The target building was only two hundred yards from the busy Bakara Market and across the road from the five-storey Olympic Hotel. L-shaped and on three floors, it was given privacy by a high stone wall that surrounded both the building and its courtyard.

  The first two Little Birds – McDonnell Douglas AH6 Apache helicopters with four men on board – landed in an alley on one side of the house and the teams leapt out, throwing thunderflashes to scare but not injure anyone who was nearby. They raced through the iron gates, across the courtyard and up a small flight of steps into the house, shouting at everyone to lie down. But the place seemed empty. They burst into a shop attached to the building, smashed their way into a warehouse behind the shop and found that empty too. They had the wrong target.

  Both teams ran back into the street just as the Black Hawk troop carriers hovered low overhead and the Delta Force and Ranger commandos fast-roped down, dropping through the cloud of dust and sand that filled the air.

  As the choppers took to the air again, urgent radio messages were going back and forth from the ground commanders to those in the skies. Undoubtedly the teams had landed at the wrong place. They were some one hundred yards from the target. Worse still, the Somali militiamen had begun hitting back, firing at random into the dust cloud, making life unpleasant for the commandos. And Eversmann knew that this was the third such fuck-up in as many weeks; the intelligence on the ground had been shit. Every time US Intelligence personnel had been given information about which building was being used by Aidid’s men, it had turned out to be wrong.

  The reception this time was fiercer than ever. Within minutes thousands of Somali women and children had poured into the street, drawn by the clattering helicopters and the sound of gunfire. The women began erecting makeshift barricades around Bakara Market as the men opened fire with all the weapons in their possession. Those in the command helicopters above the town watched helplessly as jeeps and open trucks raced towards the market, overflowing with gunmen rushing to the defence of their town.

  This riposte wasn’t new to the Special Forces. The Americans had been in Somalia six weeks and each and every week they had undertaken similar missions in the capital, sweeping in low in their choppers, beating up the town, scaring the people with low-level flights. Sometimes they landed, bagged some Habr Gidr personnel and then headed out of town – sometimes by chopper, other times by truck. But they had not yet landed any big fish.

  While Eversmann’s force held off the gunmen, the three other Delta ‘bricks’ – four-man groups – found the correct target building and burst in. They raced through the large house, hurling deafening thunderflashes and shouting for everyone to lie on the floor. On the first floor they found two dozen Somalis, among them Omar Salad and Mohammed Hassan Awale, two clan leaders, and, more importantly, Abdi Yusef Herse, an Aidid lieutenant. But as they were putting plastic cuffs on the prisoners, rapid machine-gun fire sprayed the wall and ceiling of the room. Experience told the Delta men that the weapon was a US M60 and that those shooting at them were their own comrades.

  One team took the prisoners and moved out of the room on to a flat roof at the front of the building. Suddenly they were confronted by shots from AK47s. They returned fire and then another US M60 opened up, pouring automatic fire on them. Sergeant Paul Howe, the man in charge of the brick, radioed the Delta Force ground commander. ‘One of our teams are firing their M60 at us,’ he said calmly. ‘Will you tell them to stop before someone gets killed.’

  What amazed the US Special Forces throughout their operations in Mogadishu was the bravery of the Somali women and children, who saw it as a duty to act as human shields for their gunmen. They would stand in front of a militiaman as he fired an AK47 because they were convinced the US forces would not open fire on women and children. On one occasion a US Ranger and his mate saw a Somali gunman lying on the ground firing his AK47 at US troops. The man had the barrel of his rifle between the heads of two women as they lay on the ground in front of him. Another time a Somali gunman made three teenage girls slowly walk in front of him towards the US soldiers as he fired shots. There was no way the US forces would shoot at a gunman in such a situation, so on both occasions they threw thunderflashes at the group. Shocked and scared, the women and the gunmen simply ran away.

  Despite the occasional burst of fire from the choppers overhead, the Somalis kept up sporadic firing at the Delta and Ranger bricks as they searched for Aidid’s men, moving in and out of buildings and watching their backs for fear of gun-toting Somalis. But already the Somali irregulars were massing behind their woman and children in the north of the city and moving towards the US forces.

  Relentlessly, the Somali militia edged ever closer to the US positions, firing behind their women and then darting for cover so that the Delta and Ranger troops could not get a crack at them. Things were looking desperate for the US troops because the Somalis – now numbering several hundred – were within fifty yards and their firepower was increasing. Shawn Nelson, the M60 machine-gunner of one of the teams, had to make an agonising decision. The Somalis were now coming towards him and his mates, running, stopping, firing and then repeating the process as they moved ever closer. He waited until they were only twenty yards away and then opened fire at them. At the same time a Little Bird, armed with rockets, came swooping low down the road behind the attacking Somalis and let fly two rockets into the crowd. A sheet of flame hit the mass of people, killing and injuring dozens and scattering those who survived.

  Satisfied that the mission had been successful and that his Special Forces had captured three key personnel, General William Garrison, the Texan in command of the operation that day, checked the intelligence coming from the satellites and aircraft in the sky and ordered the Special Forces in the town to wrap up the mission and return to their airfield base in the Humvees and five-ton trucks.

  But as the Special Forces, with their prisoners, began to drive away from the market and the target house, they were not only confronted by thousands of people standing across the road and screaming abuse, but were being fired on from both sides of the street. They could also see the trails of RPGs – rocket-propelled grenades – homing in on their vehicles, and that was truly worrying. A direct hit on either a Humvee or a truck would smash straight through the side and take out a number of men.

  Exposed and unable to speed out of the city, a number of Ranger and Delta soldiers were hit by gunfire. And then an RPG exploded into one of the five-tonners, bringing it to a sudden stop. Three wounded Rangers tumbled out, their legs shattered.

  But Sergeant Eversmann and his men were still holed up, desperately trying to ‘cas-evac’ – casualty evacuate – a man on a rescue helicopter. But the wounded soldier, unable to help himself, had fallen out of the chopper and had to be rope
d back in. All this took time and during those vital minutes the number of Somali gunmen had suddenly increased. Small-arms fire and RPGs were coming in all around Eversmann, his team, the medics and the rescue helicopter.

  Somehow they had to keep the gunmen – now in their hundreds – far enough away to make their escape. With their M16 rifles, rocket grenades and an M60, the small band kept up withering fire, while the Somalis kept their distance, not willing to risk their lives in an all-out attack.

  As the rescue chopper took off with the wounded soldier, Eversmann and his men looked up to see a Black Hawk attack chopper coming to their aid, its guns blazing and rockets firing at the attackers as it skimmed the roof tops. The gunmen ran for cover and Eversmann and his men relaxed, confident now that they would be able to make their escape.

  Then they saw the Black Hawk suddenly disappear from view. It had taken a direct hit and crashed to the ground.

  Many Rangers saw Black Hawk Super-Six-One go down, watching in disbelief as it took a direct hit on the tail from an RPG. With the noise of a thunderclap, the tail rotor exploded; the engine began to make an odd noise; the chopper slowed, stopped and began to spin towards earth, twisting faster and faster. As Super-Six-One clipped the top of a house and flipped over, the rotor blades were ripped off. It came to a crunching jolt of a stop in an alley below, throwing a cloud of dust into the air.

  News of the crash crackled over the US military radio network as everyone reported to Command what they had seen. No one knew how many on board the chopper had been killed or injured, but the very fact that a Black Hawk had been downed over the city by a single RPG had shocked the troops. Even the tough, cool Special Forces were shaken by the incident. Suddenly no one was safe and the mission had taken on a totally different shape. The US Rangers and Delta Force soldiers were now in a real battle, the like of which none had ever experienced. Their lives were under threat and they would have to work hard and fast, relying on their training and professionalism, to get out of the place alive.

  A teenage Somali youth named Aden told what happened after the Black Hawk crashed: In Black Hawk Down Mark Bowden wrote:

  I saw two US soldiers stagger out of the wrecked helicopter, one of them carrying an M16. I was frightened, so I ran away and hid under a VW parked nearby. The soldier with the M16 came and stood next to the car. Across the road was a Somali gunman also with an M16. They seemed to see each other at the same moment and both fired their guns. The Somali’s rifle jammed and the American ran over to him and shot him in the head.

  The American turned away and a big Somali woman in a bright dress came running down the alley charging towards him like a goat. Suddenly the American turned, saw the woman running towards him and fired. She fell to the ground dead.

  Then I saw more Somalis come running and shouting and shooting at the American soldier. He dropped to one knee and began to fire back, hitting one Somali with every shot. They were falling down in front of him. Then the soldier was hit but he still carried on firing.

  I heard the noise of another helicopter and looked up to see a small one, coming in low. It landed on the ground not far from me. Soldiers jumped out. Some began firing at a crowd of Somalis nearby while two others ran towards the crashed helicopter.

  The noise was deafening. Above the clatter of the helicopter blades I could hear grenades and firearms being fired almost non-stop. The bullets were coming from alleys, houses and buildings all around me and the American soldiers were firing back. I saw soldiers carrying two wounded men back to the little chopper and then it took off. I just lay on the ground under the car not daring to move. I was scared I was going to die.

  To General Garrison and his aides back at the Joint Operations Center (JOC) watching the debacle unfold on CCTV, the odds on getting all of the one hundred and sixty men out safely were narrowing by the minute. He ordered another Black Hawk, with a fifteen-man team of Combat, Search and Rescue soldiers (CSAR) on board, to the immediate vicinity of the downed chopper. But he knew that the CSAR team, simultaneously tending wounded men and fighting a rearguard action against a howling mob of gunmen screaming for revenge, would have a tough time.

  As he planned his next move General Garrison watched the CCTV screen, which showed countless Somalis running towards the crash site from every direction. Nearly all were armed. Some were racing in from further afield, hanging off cars and light trucks, desperately keen to join the battle. Plumes of black smoke from burning tyres hung over the entire area. Garrison was confident that his crack Special Forces could hold out against several hundred ragged gunmen, but he feared that Aidid’s own squads of trained combatants would be a different matter. They had good equipment and proper training. And if they arrived at the crash site before the CSAR team could get in and out again, Garrison feared his troops would be in an impossible position – pinned down, short of ammunition and surrounded by armed men.

  There was only one answer. If he was to save the lives of those dedicated soldiers he needed numbers. A squad or two was no good against hundreds of armed men who wanted revenge. He knew full well how the Somalis had mutilated the bodies of the US Special Forces who had crash-landed in another Black Hawk only weeks before.

  Word was flashed to the commanders of the 10th Mountain Division, part of the 75th Ranger Regiment, to mobilise immediately and get to the crash site by whatever means and in the shortest possible time. Garrison had decided to do all in his power to save his men, but he knew this would be the greatest test of US Special Forces.

  Rangers and Delta soldiers on the ground near the market were ordered to make their way in their Humvees and trucks to the Black Hawk crash site, some half a mile distant. But Eversmann and his men, including a number of wounded, were pinned down and had no vehicles. They were ordered to make their way to the crash site on foot, but with their wounded comrades that was impossible. Some couldn’t walk and Eversmann had only five who could still fire a weapon. It seemed as though they would all go down fighting, overwhelmed by the massive numbers of the enemy.

  All at once an eight-vehicle convoy of Humvees and trucks came round the corner, also heading for the crash site. On board were Rangers and Delta men. ‘Shit, it’s good to see you,’ Eversmann said with a sigh of relief. Manning the heavy-duty machine gun on the turret of the first Humvee was his mate, Sergeant Mike Pringle.

  As Eversmann and his men crossed the road to the vehicles, Pringle kept up a stream of fire with his .50-calibre gun, making sure no Somali gunmen would take a potshot at them. They piled the wounded on top of those already lying in the back of the vehicles and the convoy took off towards the crash site, while the Somali gunmen again took to the streets and peppered the convoy with their AK47s and the occasional RPG.

  It was while they were travelling through the hostile streets that their radio gave them another piece of devastating news. Control told them: ‘We just had another Black Hawk go down to RPG fire south of the Olympic Hotel. We need to get everyone off the first crash site and get down to the second crash site and secure it.’

  The men who heard the news exchanged nervous glances, knowing that this information changed everything. Escaping a barrage of fire had proved difficult, but this new order meant they would be lucky to escape with their lives.

  The convoy was now moving through incessant fire from all sides and the casualties were mounting. The vehicles were taking direct hits, and it was RPGs that were causing the damage. Although the great majority missed their target, when one of the rocket grenades did hit home the effect was devastating. The men inside the vehicles were simply blown apart. The convoy was still a long way from safety and the wounded were moaning and crying out in real pain.

  Though the Humvees and trucks were overloaded with assault troops, prisoners and the wounded, they had to make two stops before getting out of Mogadishu. Those in command of the convoy wondered how they would be able to pick up more wounded and assault troops from the first crash site and then make their way once more through wi
thering gunfire to the second crash site to rescue more of their comrades. Only then, with all the vehicles crowded to capacity, could they make a dash for safety. It was a tall, if not impossible, order.

  The next fifteen minutes would be hell for those in the convoy. They were all fully aware that there was no chance any of them would survive if they were captured by Aidid’s ragtag army. It was ‘kill or be killed’.

  It was then that the convoy got lost.

  In the heat of the moment everyone made mistakes. It began when the lead vehicle, containing the commander of the convoy, Colonel McKnight, was hit and shrapnel bit into his arm and his neck. It was obvious that those back at base had little or no idea what the convoy was going through. They continued to issue orders to go to the first crash site and then to the second crash site as though it was some bus trip.

  Colonel McKnight seemed disorientated and lost in the maze of streets, and asked Command for instructions and guidance. But apparently his position was misunderstood and, as a result, he was given the wrong directions.

  Worse would follow. A second convoy was dispatched to the second crash site in a bid to rescue those trapped in and around the Black Hawk and as a result further incorrect directions were given to the ‘lost’ convoy, which was now driving around the area being shot at from both sides of the street and facing heavy gunfire at every crossroads.

  As Mark Bowden wrote in his no-holds-barred classic Black Hawk Down: ‘So the convoy now made a U-turn. They had just driven through a vicious ambush in front of the target house and were now turning around to drive right back through it. Men in the vehicles behind could not understand. It was insane! They seemed to be trying to get killed.’