But the chaos on the ground continued as crew men in several helicopters overhead tried to direct McKnight and his convoy to the correct spot. Once again incorrect directions were given. The incoming gunfire grew more intense and the Somali gunmen sensed that the convoy was lost and that they were within an ace of a famous victory – hijacking a US convoy and killing more than a hundred Special Forces soldiers.
In one RPG hit, three men were catapulted out of the rear of a Humvee on to the road as the grenade exploded inside it, igniting the petrol tank. All three suffered horrendous injuries. Those inside, who did not suffer the full force of the blast, received shrapnel wounds, broken bones, torn ligaments and serious gashes. The convoy stopped to pick up the wounded men and, with no thought of their own safety, three soldiers leapt from the Humvee, dashed back down the road in a bid to save their wounded mates. The shooting rose in a crescendo as they dragged the shattered bodies of their comrades back to the vehicle.
The machine-gunners manning the turrets in the Humvees all took direct hits and were too badly wounded to continue. Some were removed from their cockpits unconscious; others at death’s door. But, as soon as one gunner was knocked out, another man would take his place, knowing that he was putting his life at risk. But none of them gave such fears a second thought. It was their duty and they would carry it out no matter what the consequences. Their heavy-calibre machine guns were doing a fantastic job keeping the Somalis at bay, and so these weapons became the prime target of the militiamen.
Those men in the convoy still capable of fighting now faced a new and even more serious problem; and one that could not be easily overcome. In their efforts to hold back the Somali gunmen they had had to expend a huge amount of ammunition, and by now it was running dangerously low. As well as having to take the magazines from their wounded pals lying on the floor of the vehicles, they had to cut down on the number of rounds they fired. While they realised this would make life easier for their pursuers, there was no alternative. They began shooting only at the Somalis within close range, making sure that every shot hit its mark, taking out another gunman.
But even that ploy had no real effect. As soon as one Somali went down, someone else would run forward, pick up the fallen weapon, take aim and renew the firing. There were now thousands of Somalis, screaming and yelling, running down the streets and firing their weapons at the convoy as it snaked hither and thither, desperately trying to locate the second downed Black Hawk. With an extraordinarily naive disregard for their own safety, the Somali gunmen now lined both sides of the streets and fired as the convoy drove past. As a result, many found themselves shooting at their own side across the street, and some of the rounds that missed the US vehicles hit their fellow Somalis, killing quite a few.
For the convoy the situation had become bleak. But the bravery of those US troops shone through the disaster that was unfolding all around them. They relied on their training, their professionalism, their pride in the unit and their camaraderie.
As those in the convoy finally caught sight of the second crash site, the driver of one of the trucks, Private Richard Kowalewski, who was called ‘Alphabet’ because no one could pronounce his name, took a bullet in the shoulder. But he refused to let anyone else drive the vehicle because it was his responsibility. Private Clay Othic, who had been shot in the arm himself, was trying to apply a pressure dressing to his friend Alphabet’s shoulder when suddenly the vehicle was hit by an RPG. The grenade roared into the cab, severing Alphabet’s left arm and entering his chest. Unbelievably, it didn’t explode on impact but imbedded itself in Alphabet’s body, the fins sticking out of his left side under his missing arm. The nose was sticking out of his right side. He was unconscious but still alive.
As a result, the truck crashed into the vehicle ahead, which, in turn, smashed into a brick wall. All the other vehicles behind them came to a halt. Othic was knocked unconscious by the impact and woke to find someone screaming at him, ‘Get out, get out, the truck’s on fire.’
Dazed, Othic fell out of the truck and then remembered young Alphabet unconscious but still at the wheel with the grenade right through him. He stumbled back to the blazing cab and managed to drag his mate out. Medics at the scene put Alphabet in the back of one of the remaining Humvees, but they didn’t believe he would survive his horrific ordeal.
The convoy set off again, but now it was travelling more slowly and making an easy target for the enemy gunmen. The tyres on most of the vehicles had been blown out and they were running on flats. The vehicles were designed to keep going on flat tyres, but at half the normal speed. In addition, a number of engines had taken direct hits. The convoy would have difficulty in making it back to safety, let alone finding the second Black Hawk and taking on a whole load more wounded and assault troops.
Soon the vehicles had passed out of the market area, leaving behind many of the gunmen, the vast majority of whom had been on foot. But there was still occasional incoming fire.
The convoy had now been meandering around Mogadishu for forty-five minutes while the Somalis sprayed them with live rounds and hit them with RPGs, scoring many direct hits. Colonel McKnight decided it was useless to try to reach the crash site. Of the seventy-five men in his convoy, nearly half had been shot or injured by shrapnel, and eight were dead or dying. He radioed Control, demanding that the convoy be permitted to head back to base, but they refused, telling him it was vital he return to the crash site at once. But he and his soldiers were in no condition to go on a search-and-rescue mission in the heart of enemy territory, crawling along in their smashed-up vehicles, their ammunition all but gone and half of the men incapable of holding a gun.
McKnight told Control that it was vital the casualties received medical attention a.s.a.p., and the convoy started off for Headquarters. But they weren’t safe yet. As they moved off, Chief Signalman John Gay, of the SEAL commandos, took the lead in a Humvee. Riddled with bullet holes and with the engine smoking, the vehicle was crawling along on the rims of three wheels. There were eight wounded Rangers and a body in the back. On the bonnet was another wounded Ranger.
Then, down the road, they saw a group of Somalis running around having set alight a barricade made of two underground petrol tanks stacked with old furniture and rubbish. Gay knew that if he tried to drive off the road and round the obstacle, there was every likelihood the Humvee would come to a grinding halt. But he put his foot down on the accelerator and crashed through the burning barricade, throwing everyone to one side of the vehicle as it nearly turned over. Now they were heading for safety – or so they thought.
But the gallant men in the beaten-up convoy had been forced to leave behind some seventy Rangers and Delta comrades. These troops were now in a desperate situation, fighting for their lives against a howling mob of thousands of armed Somalis bent on killing the Special Forces soldiers holed up in pockets of resistance between the original target house and the first downed Black Hawk.
Those in command back at base could see on TV screens and hear on the radio the desperate plight of their men and they had no means of rescuing them before the Somalis moved in for the kill. The crash site was in danger of being overrun. If that happened, the commanders knew, every US soldier at the scene would be slaughtered. The Somalis would take no prisoners.
At the same time the men trapped in the city were convinced that rescue was on the way. They had no idea of the true situation, nor did they have a clue as to the number of dead or of wounded comrades who had somehow fought their way back to base.
The one hundred and fifty men of the 10th Mountain Division had been thrown into the fray in a desperate attempt to rescue the doomed soldiers. They raced out of the HQ in their Humvees and five-ton trucks, hell-bent on reaching them before the Somalis overran their positions. But as soon as the 10th reached the outskirts of Mogadishu, they faced the same impenetrable problems as the other convoys. Their progress was blocked by barricades hastily erected in the patchwork of streets and then, when the
y were forced to slow to a crawl, they were subjected to torrents of fire from automatic weapons.
Chief Warrant Officer Mike Durant in Black Hawk Super-Six-Four and his co-pilot, Chief Warrant Officer Ray Frank, had heard the report of the downing of Super-Six-One on their radio from another chopper pilot who witnessed the crash. To them, to Staff Sergeant Bill Cleveland and Sergeant Tom Field, and to everyone else in the helicopter, the downing of a Black Hawk by an unruly mob armed with AK47s and a few RPGs seemed incredible. But it gave them a warning of the dangers ahead.
Ordered to maintain a low, sweeping circle at roof height over the battle area where the Black Hawk crashed, the men in Super Six-Four could see everything going on below – the other circling US choppers, the columns of Rangers moving along the dusty streets, the crashed helicopter and the bands of armed Somalis converging on the stricken aircraft and its crew.
Having made a few sweeps around the chopper, Durant felt a thump and knew they had been hit. Quickly he checked the instrument panel; everything seemed to be OK. But, flying behind him, was another Black Hawk and the pilot reported to Durant that oil was pouring out of his tail rotor. Reluctantly, Durant headed back towards the airfield. Suddenly the tail rotor exploded and the airframe began to vibrate. A second or so later the Black Hawk went into a spin and, without the tail rotor, Durant was unable to stop it. As the ground rushed up towards the men in the eight-ton chopper, Durant and Frank pulled every lever they could think of in an effort to pull it out of its spin and level off. Somehow, when it was only a few feet off the ground, it levelled out and landed almost flat.
The crash landing was very, very lucky. The Black Hawk had come down in a shanty-town area where there were no brick buildings, and its super-tough shock absorbers had managed to take the impact of the crash without breaking up. Everyone on board had taken a hell of a battering, but they were alive and there were no broken bones.
Unfortunately, however, the TV screens at HQ did not show the exact location of the downed helicopter and so those in command could not give the CSAR team an accurate map reference. Worse still, the TV shots from the helicopters flying high in the sky showed bands of armed Somalis now running through the town towards the second crash aircraft.
In response, General Garrison ordered a Quick Reaction Force (QRF) to be assembled. In the lead Humvee would be Rangers and Delta troops who had just returned from Mogadishu after rescuing a soldier who had fallen out of a helicopter seventy feet to the ground. But they needed more men, and so dozens of support personnel, including cooks and communication specialists, volunteered for the rescue mission.
As they sped out of the HQ in a trail of dust, another helicopter pilot flying over Durant’s crashed Black Hawk reported that the Somali gangs were within a hundred yards of the chopper and closing in fast. Trying to hold back the swarming Somalia militiamen converging on the site were two Little Birds and another Black Hawk, flying low over the scene, strafing the angry crowds, throwing down grenades and firing bursts of automatic fire at them.
Chief Warrant Officer Mike Goffena, piloting the Black Hawk, aimed for the Somalis holding RPGs because he knew they could do the most damage, not only to the crashed chopper but also to the three helicopters trying to hold off the gunmen. So he flared his Black Hawk very low over the crowds, creating clouds of sand and dust and driving the gunmen back. But the angry Somalis firing the RPGs wouldn’t pull back. Instead they held their ground and tried to fire a grenade at the chopper just feet above their heads.
In turn, this exposed the RPG gunners, and the snipers on board the Black Hawk took them out with well-aimed shots. But as soon as one Somali had been felled, another would run out from the crowd, pick up the RPG and take aim. Small-arms fire was splattering the Black Hawk every time it flew low over the throng and Goffena feared one lucky shot might prove disastrous.
Sergeant Jeff Struecker would lead the volunteer QRF convoy heading for the second crashed Black Hawk, with two Humvees in front, followed by three five-tonners, and two more Humvees bringing up the rear. On top of the forward Humvees were heavy-duty .50-calibre machine guns and the three trucks were filled with Rangers with M16 rifles, M249 portable machine guns and loads of ammunition. Any Somalis who opened up on this convoy would be met by a hail of lead. But the convoy hadn’t driven a hundred yards out of the airfield when, to their amazement, they were met by a hail of gunfire.
What worried Struecker was the fact that every time the convoy came across Somali small-arms fire there were always one or two RPGs as well. He knew that if any vehicle in the convoy received a direct hit from an RPG there would likely be heavy casualties.
Within minutes of leaving the compound, Struecker realised that the convoy would never get through to the stricken Black Hawk, so heavy was the enemy fire. He knew that the crashed Black Hawk was only a mile or so away from his position, but the problem was getting there through all the incoming shit. After talking to Command, Struecker went for the only possible option – to circle the city and approach Durant’s chopper from the other side.
Meanwhile, above the confusion and chaos on the ground, Mike Goffena and his crew could see Colonel McKnight’s battered main convoy travelling at a snail’s pace back to base, carrying the dead and wounded and those Special Forces soldiers still firing away at the Somali gunmen. They could also see the Somali gangs closing in on the second downed Black Hawk and the QRF led by Struecker trying to battle their way through to the stricken helicopter.
On board were Master Sergeant Gary Gordon and Sergeant First Class Randy Shughart, two highly trained Delta snipers with combat experience. Goffena had identified a field some thirty yards from the crash site and the intervening area was dotted with shacks. He believed that Gordon and Shughart would be able to keep the mob at bay while those Special Forces in the downed chopper would be able to make their way the short distance to Goffena’s position, where they could be picked up by helicopters.
The senior officers in the air and back at base knew the two Delta snipers would be taking an extraordinary risk, pitting their firepower against hundreds of armed gunmen. But neither Gordon nor Shughart could leave their mates to die at the hands of angry Somali gangs without first trying everything to rescue them. Finally, Command relented – they could have a go.
As planned, Goffena put down the two men in the field, dropping them when just five feet off the ground. The two Delta snipers had no idea of the condition of the survivors at the Black Hawk crash site and decided to make an immediate dash to the helicopter before any Somalis even knew of their arrival on the ground. They figured that if they were there with those guys they would together be able hold back the Somalis creeping ever nearer the crash site.
When they saw the state of both the chopper and the crew they were glad that had made the decision to help – whatever the consequences. Mike Durant and Ray Frank had been knocked unconscious by the force of the crash, but both men happened to come round just before Gordon and Shughart arrived on the scene. Durant knew he had a broken leg and guessed his back was also broken. The pain was intense. Frank had also injured his back and his left tibia was broken, but he had dragged himself away from the chopper to get a better line of fire and to draw the incoming fire away from his mate. Both men had suffered crushed vertebrae in the crash.
For some time after they were downed, Durant had remained conscious, and later he recalled firing off shots with his pistol every time a Somali came too close. In that way he had managed to keep them away, but he knew there would soon be many more baying for their blood. Then, as the minutes dragged on, he had lost consciousness.
Frank had spent the time away from the chopper but in a good position, with his back to a high wall, which meant that he could see the gangs of Somalis but they couldn’t get behind him. This allowed him to keep firing whenever they crept too close, and they would back off. But he knew that couldn’t last for long.
During roof-top sorties over the crash site Goffena could see that Gor
don and Shughart had sorted things out on the ground, arranging the crew of the Black Hawk in a perimeter around the downed chopper. They all seemed to be in secure positions with some cover. And all waiting desperately for the arrival of the volunteer QRF.
The pilot was playing an heroic defensive game, hovering over the Black Hawk while his co-pilot picked off any Somali holding an RPG. But they were taking the most enormous risk. One grenade on target from an RPG would bring them down instantly, probably killing them. They seemed prepared to take that risk if it meant they were helping to give their mates on the ground a chance to live.
By now the streets and alleys around the crash site were filled with Somalis converging on the crash site. Goffena kept trying to scatter them, flying his Black Hawk just feet off the ground, but the Somalis would lie down and then jump to their feet after the chopper had passed overhead. He could see that the troops on the ground could not last long without help and there was still no sign whatsoever that the QRF was at hand. The situation was becoming truly desperate.
Goffena knew that he was risking his life and the lives of his crew by flying at ground level in an effort to keep the howling mob away from his mates around the crashed Black Hawk. But he also knew that if he didn’t hold the Somalis off, then those soldiers would be dead meat. So, with no thought for his own safety, he kept up his remarkable one-man battle, repeatedly hurling the Black Hawk down towards the crowd, skimming them in a cloud of sand and dust and then pulling out, turning in the air and diving down to ground level once more, making it difficult for the Somalis to move forward to the crashed chopper. And it worked.
Then, like a thunderbolt, an RPG struck.
The grenade struck the right side of the Hawk, killing the engines stone dead. The rotors ground to a halt and the helicopter’s alarms screamed out. Goffena looked around him. His co-pilot, Captain Yacone, was slumped in his seat unconscious; Sergeant Brad Hallings, a Delta sniper, had one leg crushed; but Sergeant Paul Shannon and Sergeant Mason Hall, sitting in the back, were uninjured.
Death Before Dishonour - True Stories of The Special Forces Heroes Who Fight Global Terror Page 21
