by E. Clay
I saw her at evening chow mingling with a bunch of long-haired Marines with no rank or insignia. They all seemed to know one another. Then I heard her speak and it all made sense. She was a Somali linguist on contract from the States. She had the loveliest African accent, with a kid-like voice. I am convinced there is a direct connection between pretty girls and dumb things falling out of the mouths of men. I was about to prove that point. I was waiting for the right moment to approach her…and then it came. Her friends went back for second portions of T-rations (military meals over burners) and she was all alone. She turned around in my direction and smiled at me. I took this as an invite and stood next to her.
I tried my best to appear confident but I was far from it.
“Assalamu Alaikum,” I said in my Barry White voice.
“Oh, are you a Muslim?” she asked.
The way she pronounced it, it sounded like “Mooslim.”
“Oh no, I am a Christian,” I said with my hand on my chin.
“Then do not say that to me. Do you even know what you are saying?” she asked rather agitated.
“Ah, ah..Praise Allah?” I responded in desperation.
“No!’”
“Ah, ah…Good morning?”
“You Black men are all the same,” she said with a look of disgust on her face.
“But you’re Black too,” I responded.
“No. I am Somali. Not Black.”
Whatever happened to all that “Back to the Motherland” rhetoric I had heard most of my life? “Getting back to your roots” and stuff. I was naïve and silly to think we would have a connection simply because of the darkness of our skin.
“We are very different people! Look at your hair,” she said.
“What’s wrong with my hair?” I asked as I felt it.
“It is matted and unruly,” she pointed out.
By that time, I had completely fallen apart and I felt like a fool trying to be something I was not.
I apologized for offending her and I told her my name. I then walked away. But I knew I would be back for her…I had to.
Chapter 15: Rules of Disengagement
23 December 1992
With the arrival of the second wave and our Operations Center up and running, we were ready to begin patrols in and around Mogadishu. I remember locking and loading my 9mm for the first time as I proceeded out of the compound in a two-vehicle convoy. There were three Marines and one interpreter in our Humvee. The interpreter was unarmed, but there were two 9mm pistols and an M-16 between the three Marines onboard. The mission to secure the major supply routes was charged to JTF Forward out of the old embassy, while the mission to police the intra clan fighting was our mandate. The most dangerous weapon in the militia arsenal was the “Technical.” The technical was a pickup truck with a heavy-machine gun mounted in the back. It was fast and deadly and Somalia was crawling with them on the outskirts of the city. Commanders and planners decided to embark upon a disarming campaign to reduce the potential for violence and thuggery. From that day forward, no one could carry a firearm in public view and Somalis were not authorized to use their homes as weapon caches…by order of the JTF Headquarters. Some residents turned in their weapons at various coalition compounds representing the UN sanctioned mission. Prior to our arrival, just about everyone carried weapons for their own personal protection. Our show of force on the street gave us great latitude because there was no police force. But in some ways, we were restricted, because our Rules of Engagement (ROE) prohibited us from intervening in Somali-on-Somali crimes unless there was a firearm involved. We had somewhat of a law enforcement mandate but our threshold for intervention was high, particularly if it did not involve US or coalition forces. We didn’t care about goat theft, domestic violence or other issues that local police would normally respond to. We were basically gatherers of weapons…at first.
As we exited the compound, we turned right, following the lead vehicle. Gunner Dalby was our sub unit Commander and he sat in the passenger seat while our interpreter (we called him Mo), Sergeant Wright and I rode shotgun in the back. The first thing I noticed was there was no more cheering on the streets; in fact, I detected an atmosphere of resentment. Every now and then, you would see a wave here and there but they were few and far between. It was sad to see such enthusiasm fade so quickly; obviously they were disappointed in something, I just didn’t know what. Whenever we stopped, we were swarmed by the locals. After that happened a few times we realized it was a distraction to steal something off our vehicle. After an uneventful morning, First Lieutenant Withers, the sub unit commander of the lead vehicle decided to travel to the Australian camp to trade meal rations. The Australians had the most delicious Ready-to-Eat rations; ironically, they were made in the US.
About five hundred meters away from the Australian compound, a distressed Somali man flagged the lead vehicle down. Both vehicles came to a stop and Gunner and I noticed the man getting extremely agitated with Lieutenant Withers. We observed for about two minutes before we left our vehicle to check out the situation. Our interpreter followed behind us.
“Lieutenant, what the fuck, over?” Dalby asked as he approached the two men.
“I don’t speak Somali, but I don’t think he is very happy,” Withers said.
Our interpreter got between the man and Withers, and began conversing with the complainant.
As the man was talking, Mo kept nodding his head as if he was agreeing with him. Then Mo turned around and looked at the three us.
“This man’s wife and two daughters are being gang raped by the Maryannas. We must act quickly!”
“Who are the Maryannas?” I asked Mo.
“A bunch of young punks who enjoy terrorizing families in the village,” Mo replied.
Since neighboring coalition forces began house-to-house searches for weapons, families were unable to defend against acts of violence. The Maryannas grew in numbers immediately after the weapons’ confiscation policy came into effect.
I could see Dalby getting worked up over the issue.
“I think this warrants a house call. Where is his house?” Dalby asked.
Mo then asked the man and the man pointed to a store across the street. It seemed as though the shop was also where he and his family resided.
“Gunner, stand down. We are bound by the ROE and if no firearm is involved, our hands are tied,” Withers said.
“Sorry LT, but it is obvious that you are not a father or a husband, because if you were, you would be right behind me,” Gunner responded.
Gunner then began walking to the residence/shop and the Somali man followed. My heart told me to follow Dalby, but my mind told me to follow orders.
“Gunner, as your superior officer I am directing you to return to your vehicle immediately,” Withers shouted.
Gunner just looked back, flicked his cigarette, and disappeared into the building.
I had never seen two officers go head to head before that incident. Dalby was probably ten years older than the young lieutenant was but he was still junior in rank. I could see that Mo our interpreter was pleased that Dalby decided to intervene.
About five minutes later I saw three ragtag youths come flying out of the building, pulling their trousers up and running in different directions. It looked like an episode from the Three Stooges. Almost immediately, Dalby came out dragging an older youth by his shirt collar. Three partially clothed females (one was obviously the mother) followed Dalby, kicking the perpetrator on the way out. The mother then began shouting in Somali and soon the other women nearby began crowding around the rapist in anger.
In the middle of the street, Dalby let go of the assailant and turned him over to the hostile crowd. The mother spoke to Dalby in Somali as he walked back to the vehicles. I think she was saying “Thank you.”
Moments later the crowd grew in numbers and the women grabbed rocks and anything they could get their hands on to inflict the greatest amount of pain. It was payback time, and it escalat
ed to the point that even I could not bear to watch. It was the most brutal beating I had ever seen and it was relentless. Locals came out of their homes to spectate.
The young lieutenant looked at me and spoke.
“Gunny T…I’m not so sure about this….that mob is out for blood. Do you think we should get involved?”
I was pleased that the LT consulted me, it made me feel like he respected not only my rank but my opinion too. So I answered him.
“Is a firearm involved?”
Dalby got in our vehicle and we continued on to our original destination…the Aussie compound.
Not a single word was spoken about the incident. It never happened.
Chapter 16: Sex, Lies and Videotape
23 December 1992
After we returned to the compound, we observed the mail truck pull in right behind us. We had our forward deployed addresses before we departed the US, so some of us had mail shortly after we arrived.
After evening chow, I stopped by the Operations Center to see if I had any mail. I had a letter from my ex-girlfriend Melody, whom I had broken up with a few months back. We were thinking about getting back together before I deployed but for some reason it never happened. I eagerly opened the letter hoping to reminisce about the good times we spent together. The letter was far from what I expected. She and her three-year-old son were being evicted and she needed a place to stay…so she asked if she could stay at my condo since it was vacant. There was no mention of “I miss you” or “can’t wait to see you again.” There was none of that. Strictly business. I wanted to write her back and tell her to move in with the married guy she cheated on me with. She had some nerve asking for such a big favor after what she put me through. After I thought it over, I wrote her back and told her just how I felt about it…it was fine. In my letter, I told her to get the spare key from Lori my next-door neighbor, using the letter as my permission.
One of the augmentees from a reserve unit also received some mail; it was a small parcel. He opened it and there was a video cassette inside.
“Sergeant Michaels. I hope it’s a good video. What is it?” I asked out of curiosity.
“Ah…the label says “The Hand that Rocks the Cradle.” But it’s a homemade tape, so the quality might not be that great,” Michaels said.
I thought it was odd because no letter accompanied the video. He mentioned he would bring it by the rec center and we could watch it. I had no plans so I was sure to be there.
At 2000 hours, Michaels put the tape in the VCR. It was a homemade tape all right, but it was not “The Hand that Rocks the Cradle.” It was a video of his wife in her living room chastising him for leaving her with tons of bills and no transportation for her and their daughter. As the tape continued, her anger escalated. Then the tape took a disturbing twist that began with a knock on the door. His wife left the view of the camera to answer the door and then she returned with a man probably in his forties. She introduced the man as John, her new boyfriend and began kissing him and then undressing him on camera. Michaels was pissed, and he called her every nasty word you could think of. The camera then faded to black, but by then they were both naked. All of us were stunned, some were disappointed that it ended before the fireworks began.
Michaels kept saying “I’m gonna kill that slut!”
Word of the tape quickly spread to command leadership. The first thing the First Sergeant did was remove his weapon from him to preclude self-harming. The camp Chaplain was notified and he offered Michaels counseling. All Michaels wanted to do was go home after that. Sergeant Michaels was on a plane in three days back to his reserve unit in California for “humanitarian reasons.”
Within a week of Michaels’ return, his commanding officer initiated an investigation. The findings of that investigation resulted in the demotion of Michaels to Corporal and six months confinement in the brig. The woman in that video was not his wife; it was his wife’s best friend impersonating her. The whole incident was pre-scripted to allow him to come home so he wouldn’t have to complete his tour in Somalia. At his court martial, Michaels confessed to getting the idea from someone who tried it in Desert Storm. If he would have destroyed the tape after it played, he would have gotten away with the plan. However, the First Sergeant got ahold of the tape and it was sent to Michael’s reserve unit. People there knew what his wife looked like.
Chapter 17: Mogadishu, Somalia: Officer’s Call
24 December 1992
Commanders on the ground grew uneasy as the security situation began to rapidly deteriorate. Sniper attacks occurred more frequently and the patrols we conducted were no longer like tour-guided bus rides checking out the sites. We were not authorized to conduct single vehicle missions anymore, two were the minimum. It seemed like for every one weapon we took off the street, two or three more surfaced. The Rules of Engagement were very clear, but not all situations were the same…so sometimes there was deviation. While conducting a mission on Christmas Eve, we ran across a truck with four militants armed with AK-47s in the back and a young White woman in the front wearing a white tank top and white shorts. At first, I thought it was a kidnapping. We cut the truck off by passing it at a high speed and blocking its path once we stopped. The rear vehicle stayed behind the truck and prevented it from reversing. I exited the vehicle with my 9mm, feeling inadequate to really address the matter because of their superior firepower.
“Excuse me ma’am, we are going to have to collect your weapons. No one is authorized to have weapons in public view,” I said, standing directly in front of their truck.
The lady exited the passenger side and approached me with humility and kindness. She wiped the sweat from her brow, removed her sunglasses and spoke to me.
“Sir, I beg you not to disarm these men. I know you are here to do a mission, but so am I. I support Project Feed Somalia, a non-profit group here in Mogadishu. Our headquarters is based in Ontario, Canada.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you traveling with four armed Somalis?” I asked, pointing to the armed men.
“In the back of the truck is one hundred kilos of rice that is destined for a village about fifteen kilometers from here. The only way to ensure the rice makes it to its destination is to have armed escorts. All the NGOs (non-governmental organizations) operate this way. If you disarm my escorts we won’t make it and we might even be killed for the rice.”
The ROE was clear. In this situation we should have disarmed the Somalis. I conferred with my sub unit commander and he then had a private conversation with the other officer in the rear vehicle. I was hoping that they would decide to allow the truck to pass with their armed escorts. I found myself trying to reassure the woman that everything would be all right. I even had a plan B. Plan B was that we disarm the escorts and we travel to the village with her. I was observing the two officers to try to gauge which way the wind was blowing, but I could not tell. The woman was pacing and I heard her speak in Somali to her escorts. My sub unit commander returned to our vehicle and he had a straight poker face.
“Let them go…with their weapons.”
“Thank you sir, thank you. My name is Claire. I will never forget what you have done,” said Claire as she jumped into her truck. We moved out of the way and the driver hit the gas and sped off with her waving goodbye.
The ROE was clear, but so was our conscience.
After our mission was complete, we briefed the Operations Officer on the events of the mission. On the way out of the Operation Center we were apprised about a vicious attack on an NGO. The vehicle we let pass was stopped by a patrolling coalition force who decided to disarm the escorts. The rice never made it to the village. All five were killed. At that precise moment, I saw a mental flash of her waving goodbye to us. I wanted to mourn for her and the four men but I was just too numb. It did not seem real to me. I said a prayer that night, a long one. Afterwards, I remember thinking “Maybe it was just their time to go.”
Chapter 18: Mogadishu, Somalia: Unconscionabl
e Conduct
25 December 1992
It was Christmas day and the heat was relentless. It didn’t feel like Christmas at all. It was just another day, like the day before. Attacks on the compound gates became almost a regular occurrence, mostly at night. Somali militants became bolder and challenged us during our patrols with sniper fire. Many of the Somali kids had grown arrogant and cocky; some of them were Khat chewers. Khat is a leafy branch that possesses similar narcotic properties to that of speed. It was widely used by Somali militants because it enabled them to stay awake for longer periods of time and suppressed their appetite, hence the nickname “Skinnys.”
Many of the Somali kids who consumed Khat were clever at stealing things off the truck and on your person. To steal from a coalition force was bragging rights, to steal from US forces was a bona fide badge of honor. The most popular item stolen was military issue sunglasses. I have never seen so many imaginative ways to steal sunglasses off a person’s face. Many times, you never saw who took them; the kids would just vanish into thin air. I laughed at Marines who fell victim to this silly prank because I could not fathom how anyone could fall for it. Until my prescription sunglasses were stolen off my face. I was in the passenger seat of a moving Humvee. I never saw him. I was so angry because those were prescription glasses that I needed. Fortunately, I had my birth-control-military-issued sunglasses as a backup (glasses so dorky that no girl would ever have sex with you.)
Tragically, some kids lost their lives because a few of the coalition troops shot them in self-defense thinking it was an attack. I felt sorry for those kids, very sorry. But I also empathized with the troops who had to live with that for the rest of their lives, my worst nightmare. A coalition force was a tenant on our compound. After I heard news that one of their Sergeants shot and killed a Somali kid, I wanted to know who this person was. I was curious to see if it had destroyed him, like it destroyed my friend Kevin the mail courier. I asked another Marine to go with me to his tent under the pretense of trading MREs. He did not seem the least bit frazzled or withdrawn. As I left his tent, I even heard him laughing with some of his comrades. I didn’t understand how he could act so normal after experiencing something so tragic. Then I thought maybe he was good at compartmentalizing pain and putting on a brave face. None of that was true. He was a cold-blooded killer. I later found out the facts surrounding the entire incident. While on patrol, a Somali boy stole the Sergeant’s sunglasses and ran to join his friends. The Sergeant became enraged and chased the boy to his house about 200 meters away. The Sergeant then shot him in the back as the boy stood in the doorway. The Sergeant approached the fatally injured boy and recovered his sunglasses. The mother came out screaming, kneeled over her dying boy, and cradled him in her arms. The Sergeant mounted his vehicle and drove off, not knowing there was a US patrol that witnessed the entire incident. I do not know whatever became of the incident, but the Sergeant was shipped back to his home country a week later. I felt so sorry for the mother who watched her son die in her arms…over a pair of $5.00 sunglasses.
