

## The Mogadishu Diaries

Bloodlines: 1992-1993

### Eddie Clay III

This book is inspired by true events, but names and some events have been changed to protect the privacy of those portrayed.

The US Department of Defense cleared this book for release and publication.

Mogadishu Diaries 1992-1993: Bloodlines

Copyright © Eddie Clay III 2013

New Paradigm Publishers-All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

### Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Where is Your CAR?

Chapter 2: Warning Order: 1st MAF

Chapter 3: Pre-deployment: Blue in the Face

Chapter 4: Semi-Permissive Garrison Environment

Chapter 5: Fear Factor

Chapter 6: Internal Affairs

Chapter 7: Perception Management

Chapter 8: Autopsy

Chapter 9: I MAF Execute Order

Chapter 10: Passenger 67

Chapter 11: Mogadishu, Somalia: General Situation

Chapter 12: Mogadishu, Somalia: Peerless Leader

Chapter 13: Mogadishu, Somalia: Head Games

Chapter 14: Supermodel in Desert Cammies

Chapter 15: Rules of Disengagement

Chapter 16: Sex, Lies and Videotape

Chapter 17: Mogadishu, Somalia: Officer's Call

Chapter 18: Mogadishu, Somalia: Unconscionable Conduct

Chapter 19: Mogadishu, Somalia: Me and Mohamed Ali

Chapter 20: Mogadishu, Somalia: Major Intervention

Chapter 21: Mogadishu, Somalia: Presidential Palace

Chapter 22: Mogadishu, Somalia: Jam Session

Chapter 23: Mogadishu, Somalia: Tier One Personalities

Chapter 24: Mogadishu, Somalia: No Sex in Theatre

Chapter 25: Mogadishu, Somalia: Name Game

Chapter 26: Mogadishu, Somalia: Underbelly

Chapter 27: Mogadishu, Somalia: New Era

Chapter 28: Mogadishu, Somalia: Waiting Game

Chapter 29: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 1

Chapter 30: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 2

Chapter 31: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 3

Chapter 32: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 4

Chapter 33: The Flies Have It

Chapter 34: Mightier than the Sword

Chapter 35: The Cover Up

Chapter 36: Revelations

Chapter 37: LAX Airport: Return to the Rock

Epilogue

Operation Restore Hope Gallery

Dedication

Glossary of Terms

About the Author

# Prologue

In August 1992, the United Nations embraced a mandate to facilitate humanitarian aid to Somalis trapped by civil war and famine. On 3 December, the UN Security Council overwhelmingly approved Resolution 794, which authorized immediate intervention. President Bush responded to Resolution 794 with a decision to initiate the US-led "Operation Restore Hope." The mission was two-fold; secure major supply routes for the safe delivery of relief supplies, and help create a secure environment. Under Chapter VII of the Charter, US/coalition troops were authorized the use of "all necessary means" to accomplish the mission.

# Chapter 1: Where is Your CAR?

1 November 1999

It was just about 11:30 a.m. and I was sitting in the back of a taxi en route to Los Angeles International Airport. The driver had just turned onto Century Boulevard and I could hear the thunder from the planes preparing for landing. This had been the best military leave in my thirteen-year career. I just returned from Detroit, Michigan, to see my mom and dad. My dad is the pastor of Alpha Baptist Church, and I love the smile on his face when I just stroll into church during Sunday worship unexpectedly in my uniform. I always sit in the pew right behind my unsuspecting mother. The year before, I disguised myself as a courier needing a signature for a package. She signed for the package and tipped me, not knowing it was me in the fake beard and dark sunglasses. The parcel she collected was a diamond necklace I purchased for her while I was in Thailand. The next time I rang the doorbell, I removed my disguise and hugged her as she opened the door. I really missed her. Anyway, as we pulled into the departure terminal, I straightened my necktie and grabbed hold of my clothing bag and suitcase. I was in plenty of time but I was flying space available on a military chartered plane and one's chances are always hit or miss. I was flying back to Okinawa, Japan and saved a small fortune catching a military hop on the way over. The military flight over was only $10.00. I was just hoping to be as lucky on the rebound. The only slight inconvenience of flying military Space-A is you have to fly in your dress uniform. I paid the driver and scurried to join three others in the large revolving doors. I checked in at the Military Airlift Command counter and prayed for a seat to avoid having to purchase a same-day commercial ticket to Japan.

"Good afternoon, Corporal. I was just wondering about my chances of getting a seat on the bird to Oki at 1400?"

"What category are you flying Gunnery Sergeant... Thompson?" asked the clerk as she read my ID card.

"Annual leave," I responded less confidently.

"Not so good, most of the service members here are travelling on government orders, and annual leave as you know is low priority."

As I stood at the counter, I noticed two large families waiting to check in behind me. At that time I began to lose hope of getting back to Oki on the cheap and started to calculate the added expense I was about to drop on my Visa. I thanked the Corporal behind the desk and tried to hide my disappointment as I walked away. While walking past my fellow Marines and their families, I saw an old familiar face.

"Staff Sergeant Barnes, Staff Sergeant Barnes!" I called out, waving my free hand.

The gentleman looked over his shoulder and stood. As soon as he saw me, he smiled and walked towards me.

"I'm sorry, I mean Chief Warrant Officer Barnes," I said as I saw the shiny bars on his shoulder tabs.

"Gunny T...how long has it been?"

"Almost seven years now, congratulations on your officer appointment," I said as I shook his hand firmly.

"Just trying to think where and when was the last time we met up," said Barnes as he scratched his head.

"Man, how could you forget? 1992 in Mogadishu, Somalia."

"Wow, you have an excellent memory. Do you remember the firefight with General Aidid's forces?" Barnes asked as we both sat beside one another.

"Do I remember...how about January 7, 1993 at 7 a.m.?" I responded with 100% accuracy.

"Yeah, Somalia was good to me, I got another row of ribbons out of it and was selected for Warrant on the next board," Barnes said proudly.

Barnes then began to size up my uniform and tilted his head with a puzzled look on his face. I thought my uniform was misaligned or something.

"Where's your CAR?" Barnes asked.

"I took a taxi; my car is back in Oki," I responded somewhat confused.

"I mean your CAR...your Combat Action Ribbon from the takedown we did that day," Barnes replied.

"I didn't know one was awarded. I was told by my officer in charge that it was a humanitarian relief operation, and no CARs were considered."

"That's bum scoop, everyone I know that took part in the fight got one," Barnes said as he pointed to the CAR on his chest.

"Didn't you work for Captain Shaffner back then?" Barnes asked.

"Yup, he was the one that told me I was ineligible."

"Don't know what to tell you, but he put me and Lance Corporal Knox in for it."

"Do you remember the combat photographer we brought along as an additional shooter? Well he got the whole firefight on video and I have a copy at home," I said to Barnes.

"You have to dub a tape for me...that's a piece of history! So when's the last time you watched it?" Barnes asked.

"I showed it to my troops for training a few months ago," I added.

"Betcha it brings back memories huh?" Barnes asked.

The truth was, I didn't need the tape to remind me of what happened during the Takedown of Aidid's Forces, I could never forget it. Seven years had passed, but to me it was like yesterday.

# Chapter 2: Warning Order: 1st MAF

Seven Years Earlier

In November 1992, I was assigned to Third Battalion, Ninth Marines at Twentynine Palms, California. At that time, we were under siege, but not from foreign power. This was a media blitz. We were bombarded with almost nonstop news coverage of widespread famine plaguing Somalia. Rumors quickly spread that President Bush considered US intervention. Within days, the rumors were put to rest...as they became confirmed by the Warning Order 1st Marine Amphibious Force received. Many referred to this military action as the "CNN War." My unit was tapped to supply a Gunnery Sergeant and an NCO, preferably a Sergeant. This was an opportunity I could not pass up, and it stemmed from me not deploying to the Gulf War two years prior. I was on instructor duty and was never called up. I remember as the Gulf War vets returned home with their amazing stories, I felt less than competitive and maybe a little envious. They were tested, I was not and I often wondered how I would have responded to such a demanding combat environment. I felt deploying to Somalia would close the gap between me and my Gulf War peers. On the way to noon chow, I saw Major Ennis, the Operations Officer.

"Major Ennis, I heard you are looking for a couple of bodies to support One MAF's deployment to Somalia."

"Affirmative. First, we were looking for volunteers, but now it may be that Marines are voluntold. I know why, too," said the Major.

"Why? I think it's a great opportunity," I replied.

"Gunny T...no one wants to deploy just before Christmas. Most troops have their leave chits already approved, plane tickets bought, the whole nine yards. If I don't have any luck by COB, somebody's gonna draw the short straw."

"If you need a Gunny, I'm throwing my name in the hat," I said eagerly.

"I appreciate your offer Guns, but aren't you a single parent?"

"Yes, but my ex-wife is stationed here on Mainside. She is the Audio Visual NCOIC and she could watch our son while I'm deployed. As far as my son goes, he will be excited for me. He never lets me forget that most dads on base are war vets."

"Okay, if you can drop your Family Deployment Plan on my desk by tomorrow, you are my man."

"Oohrah sir! Will do!" I said as I saluted him outside the chow hall.

"Hey Guns! If you know of a squared away Sergeant let me know!"

"Roger that!"

I had a great deal of respect for Major Ennis, he really looked after his troops. What I liked most about him was he was flexible and he really listened to what you had to say. I appreciated the opportunity he had given me and I had just the right man to fill the Sergeant slot...Corporal Ramirez.

Corporal Ramirez worked in the armory and was the best shooter in the unit. As a Corporal, he was the junior marksmanship instructor on the rifle range the year prior. As a marksmanship instructor, they let him qualify with the 9mm pistol. He qualified expert with the 9mm as well. Rarely did you see a Corporal with both rifle and pistol badges because Corporals were only required to qualify with the M16. At the Marine Corps Ball, he looked impressive with his double expert badges. It's not often that the best NCO for the job is a Corporal, but Corporal Ramirez was an exception. I just needed to find a way to approach him without telegraphing my intentions prematurely. I figured I had one shot, so I did my homework and found out he enjoyed restoring classic cars off duty. His specialty was interior restoration and he preferred the diamond tuck seat design. Now that I had a plan, I needed to act quickly because time was of the essence. Luckily, I spotted him in the PX store just after work; he was perusing oldies music in the cassette section. He reached for a cassette that surprised me. It happened to be one of my favorites, and I remembered my uncle playing it to death around the house. The cassette was "Let's Stay Together" by Al Green. I had to comment as I stood to his left.

"Okay, I am confused...what could you possibly know about Al Green?" I said jokingly.

"Gunny, this is a classic. They don't make music like this anymore," Corporal Ramirez replied.

"I will buy you a soda if you can name his biggest hit," I said as I reached for my wallet.

"I guess you owe me a root beer," he said with a smile.

He began singing the lyrics to "I'm Still in Love with You." I joined in as we headed to the cold drinks section. For the next ten minutes or so, all we talked about was oldies and never once mentioned cars. At the end of our conversation, I told him I was deploying to Somalia and mentioned the NCO opening. I was surprised to find out he asked his NCOIC about it. Unfortunately, his NCOIC never submitted his name because they were looking for a Sergeant. With that in mind, I made it my mission to secure him that slot. The following week, Corporal Ramirez and I were in my Mazda RX-7 bound for First Marine Amphibious Force, Camp Pendleton.

#  Chapter 3: Pre-deployment: Blue in the Face

20 November 1992

Camp Pendleton was well sign-posted off the I-5 freeway. We were greeted by the ocean shore on the right and the beautiful palm trees that lined Hill Street. I was told by many of my friends who were once stationed there to go through the back gate, but that seemed senseless since the main gate was less than a half mile off the freeway. It only made sense that Mainside (I MAF Headquarters) would be in close proximity to the main gate. Nope...that would not be the case. After about a twenty-five minute drive on the base, I finally found Headquarters and Service Company I MAF. Mainside was closer to the rear gate, nowhere near the Main Gate as you would expect. As I passed the PX store on the left and the movie theatre on the right, Corporal Ramirez asked if we could grab some sodas before we checked in. I was parched from driving almost non-stop for the last two-and-a-half hours, so I pulled in the PX parking lot.

"Hey Gunny T, what can I get you?"

"I'll take a bottle of Dr. Pepper, and could you pick up some boot blouses? I must have lost one," I responded as I reached for my wallet.

"Don't worry Gunny, I got it," Corporal Ramirez said as he stretched his arms wide and let out a big sigh.

I started to feel good about this deployment and somewhat excited about seeing another foreign country besides Okinawa, Japan. Moreover, this was a Humanitarian Relief Operation, a real world operation and not just another Command Post Exercise.

As I was adjusting the radio to find a local station, I noticed Corporal Ramirez in a confrontation with a young girl who was no more than seventeen. She was irate and animated and Ramirez was starting to get excited as well. I immediately unbuckled my seat belt and flew out of my car as fast as I could to diffuse the situation.

"You saw the blue sticker, I know you did, you liar!" said the blond girl with braces.

"Calm down...what is going on here?" I asked, as I was conscious of having only one boot blouse amongst a crowd of senior Staff Non-commissioned Officers.

"He owes me a salute, and I want it now."

"Excuse me, but I know my Corporal would have saluted if he had seen it."

"He looked right at me, I know he saw it. My name is Megan Anderson and I want some ID."

"My name is Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and I am sure it makes you feel special to have Marines salute you now that you are old enough to drive your parent's car, but...Corporal Ramirez is not saluting a parked car...sticker or no sticker."

"I'm telling my dad, Major Anderson, he is the Deputy Provost Marshal for the Military Police on base and he will rip you a new one. I am writing your license plate number down, Thompson."

"Let's go, Ramirez. I will meet you back at the car...don't forget the boot blouses, okay?"

"No problem, Gunny."

We both left the agitated teenager in front of her Ford Crown Victoria with her arms folded.

I always said the only thing worse than BS was unnecessary BS, and this was in my opinion unnecessary. I was slightly disappointed in myself for letting a Varsity cheerleader get under my skin.

Corporal Ramirez returned about ten minutes later with some sodas and my boot blouse. I think that was the first time I ever drank a soda without taking a breath.

"Whew! Let's go check in, I MAF is just across the street," I said as I buckled up.

"Gunny, what if her dad tracks us down?"

"You were following orders, my orders. If he wants to chew me out, he won't be the first and he won't be the last."

Although I said that confidently...I was imagining getting reamed six ways to Sunday over it. I was hoping to deploy before I could be traced. Maybe my vehicle would not show up on their databases. Better yet, maybe she would forget about it altogether. It was too late to do anything about it, but it still bothered me.

As we pulled into I MAF Headquarters, I asked a Sergeant where the admin building was. It was right in front of me. Ramirez and I grabbed our original orders and marched right into the S-1.

"I'm Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and this is Corporal Ramirez. We are augmentees from Marine Corps Base Twentynine Palms."

The Lance Corporal behind the counter received our paperwork and checked our names off the roster. After about five minutes of paper shuffling, she gave us a map with a large arrow pointing to our reporting command.

"Are you sure this is where we are supposed to report? Could there be a mistake by any chance?" I asked with obvious unease.

"What's wrong, Gunny?" Corporal Ramirez asked as I gave him the map.

"Talk about dumb luck," Corporal Ramirez sighed. Our assignment: Military Police, Security Company, Provost Marshal Office. To make matters even worse, as we proceeded to the parking lot, I saw a Military Policeman writing me a ticket and placing it on my windshield.

"Hey Corporal, that's my car. What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a ticket, what does it look like I am doing?" the MP said arrogantly with his clipboard in his right hand.

"This is Staff NCO parking, so what is the problem?" I asked.

"The problem is simple...you are not Master Sergeant Wilkins and this is his reserved spot."

"Hey Corporal, the Gunny and I are stationed at the Stumps, we didn't know. Can you give us a break?" asked Corporal Ramirez.

"If I were you Corporal, I'd keep my mouth shut. This doesn't concern you," the MP responded.

"Wait a minute Corporal, just because you have a badge, doesn't mean you can talk to anyone anyway you want...Corporal...Warren," I said, as I was aware of the escalating tones in our voices.

"You know Gunnery Sergeant...you are confusing your rank with my authority. The fact still remains you are at fault, not me, and my superiors will back me. Now move your car!"

As the MP drove off in his police car, I snatched the ticket from my windshield fit to be tied. Ramirez and I got in the car and we both slouched in our seats.

"Can it get any worse Gunny T?"

"I'm going to be optimistic and say no." I tried to be positive, but it just felt that there were forces at work here, forces greater than us. At that very moment, I doubted if this deployment was such a good idea, but it was too late to turn back. I regained my composure, took a deep breath and started the engine. We proceeded to base billeting to get our assigned rooms. Check-in was the following morning. For the rest of the afternoon all I was thinking was...Next stop... Military Police, Security Company, Provost Marshal Office.

#  Chapter 4: Semi-Permissive Garrison Environment

21 November 1992

The next morning Ramirez and I had breakfast at the McDonalds on base. I think we both extended breakfast as long as we could to delay checking into MP Headquarters. Since I got the parking ticket the day before, it was more likely that my vehicle would now be in the Camp Pendleton database. I began mentally bracing myself for a lovely chat with the Deputy Provost Marshal over why we did not salute his sixteen-year-old daughter. I looked at my watch and noticed that it was 0745, and check in began at 0800. Fortunately, the drive was less than five minutes away just opposite the fire station. Ramirez was particularly quiet, as I was. We both grabbed our gear and headed to the car.

As we pulled into the MP parking lot, I was careful not to park in reserved parking to avoid yet another confrontation with Corporal Warren. As I shut the engine off, I saw an old boot camp buddy heading in the building. I hadn't seen Whitfield since we graduated in October 1979, platoon 2080. I couldn't see his rank, so I just yelled out his name.

"Whitfield! Hey Whitfield!"

I quickly exited the car and called him again until he made an about face.

"Private Thompson, is that you?" Whitfield remarked in a friendly tone, removing his Ray Ban sunglasses.

"Private Thompson reporting as ordered SIR," I said at the position of attention in my boot camp voice. I quickly introduced him to Corporal Ramirez and they shook hands.

"Glad to see you are still in the Corps, a lot of us punched out after the first enlistment. Whatever happened to Private Surcoff? He was the oldest dude in boot camp," Whitfield asked.

"Wow, I guess you didn't hear. He followed me to Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, right out of boot camp. Within a few months, he was dead, killed in a car accident. I found out in the base paper. They spelled his name wrong in the paper so I ran to his office where he worked hoping it was a mistake. It was him."

"Damn! Surcoff was my bunkee...he always talked about becoming an officer. Shame!

"So what brings you here?" Whitfield asked.

"We are augmentees in support of the Somalia deployment," Corporal Ramirez replied.

"Follow me, you will be working with Captain Shaffner, he's the Detachment Commander."

"What's he like to work for?" I asked hesitantly as we walked into the building.

"He's awesome to work for. He was enlisted, then he went Warrant Officer and now he is a Captain hoping to make Major on the next board. Great guy but he does not suffer fools gladly."

"What do you mean by that?" Ramirez asked as he tried to keep up with our fast pace down the hall.

"Just bring your A-game. Especially if you are an augmentee. He is hard on augmentees."

"Oh....great!" Ramirez sighed.

As we walked toward Captain Shaffner's office at the end of the hall, I saw a picture of Corporal Warren on the wall. Apparently, he was MP of the Quarter. Corporal Ramirez stopped and looked at the mounted picture.

"Hey Gunny!"

"Yeah, I saw it too," I responded.

"Do you know Corporal Warren?" Whitfield asked.

"Unfortunately, we do," I lamented.

"He's a superstar around here. He's gonna make a fine Sergeant. He has issued more tickets over the last two quarters than anyone in the battalion," Whitfield said somewhat proudly.

"Imagine that," I said as rolled my eyes towards Ramirez.

I could see Captain Shaffner's office on the left, and the office to the right...belonged to the Deputy Provost Marshal.

As we approached Captain Shaffner's office, we noticed the door was shut. We knocked on the door but there was no response. I sighed with relief, but as we were knocking, the Deputy Provost Marshal strolled into his office.

"Morning, Major Anderson," Whitfield said as he noticed the Major switching the lights on.

"Morning to you as well, Gunny Whitfield. By the way, I'm looking for a Gunny Thompson and a Corporal Ramirez. If you run across them, send them into my office."

"You're in luck sir, they are right here."

"Send them in!" The Major responded as he sat behind his desk and put his glasses on.

Dang...I was a fool to think I could dodge this bullet. I looked at Ramirez and he was nervous for me. The fact that he knew our names was not a good sign. We slowly walked into his office...I had no idea what to expect, but I did not want to be shouted down in front of Ramirez.

"Sir, Gunnery Sergeant Thompson reporting as ordered."

"Sir, Corporal Ramirez reporting as ordered."

"At ease gentlemen. I got a call from Major Ennis, your Operations Officer. He told me that you would be reporting in today. He speaks highly of the both of you. I just wanted to personally welcome you to the team and if you have any concerns at all, I have an open door policy. Do you have any questions for me?" Major Anderson asked.

"No sir!" Ramirez and I respond in perfect synch.

"Great! You Marines have a great day. Captain Shaffner won't be in today, so I am sure Gunny Whitfield can direct you to our admin to get your check-in sheet. Once again...welcome."

# Chapter 5: Fear Factor

21 November 1992

"Gunny Thompson, we weren't expecting you until Monday. Captain Shaffner is the Detachment Commander and he is on leave," the Admin Officer said as he collected our original orders.

"So what do we do until then?" asked Corporal Ramirez.

"Well Corporal, I can turn you over to the Company Gunny and you can support the base beatification program...or I can trust Gunny Thompson to keep you out of trouble until Monday...your choice."

"I guess I will go with my Gunny in that case."

As we headed for the car, Ramirez and I concluded this deployment might not be as bad as we initially thought. Aside from the encounter with Corporal Warren and the dependent daughter from Hades, everything was copasetic.

It was nice to have four days off and not be charged leave. I had close friends in Los Angeles and I could have easily spent a couple of days with them, but I had a responsibility. This responsibility soon became my sidekick, everywhere I would go, he was right there alongside. One of the reasons we got along so well was because I wanted to mentor him and he trusted me. In his mind, I had to call in a lot of favors to get him on this deployment. After all, he was a Corporal filling a Sergeant slot. I just made one phone call to the First Sergeant and the deal was sealed. I appreciated his respect and I wanted to do for him what Staff Sergeant Beck, Major Henslee and Captain Gundlach did for me...they gave me a chance to excel.

During the four days off, we never put on our uniform. We ate breakfast and lunch on the base and for dinner we ate at Black Angus near Vista. There was a shopping center in a neighboring town called the Carlsbad Mall. I think we spent the entire weekend going in and out of shops. On Sunday, we saw the movie A Few Good Men with Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson. We both thought the movie was great and thought Jack Nicholson brilliantly played a Marine Corps Colonel. I think Ramirez repeated "Gunny, You Can't Handle the Truth," at least five times before we got back to the barracks. I wasn't worried about the truth; I was worried about something else.

The alarm clock went off at 0630. I had been up since 0300. It seemed so much was at stake. I wanted to set an example for Ramirez but as confident as I was...there was this tiny bit of doubt. The images that CNN broadcasted covering the plight of the Somalians were surreal. Babies dying in their mother's arms from starvation, endemic rapes and kids with AK-47s. I knew this deployment would push me to the limit both mentally and physically. This was going to be uniquely different than anything I could have prepared for. Deep down, I had a fear that I never shared with anyone. A fear that could put me and others at risk in a combat situation. My greatest fear was that while in combat I would be responsible for the death of a woman or child.

In the mid-1980s, I was good friends with a mail courier named Kevin who worked in San Bernardino, about a couple of hours from Twentynine Palms. During one of his morning routes, he drove his mail truck through a red light and killed a woman in her early twenties and her five-year-old son in a car accident. The woman didn't die of her injuries, she died of a fear-induced heart attack as the truck ran through the red light. Her son died on impact as the truck rammed the passenger side. Some speculated the heart attack was not predicated on fear of impact, but fear of surviving her own son. Kev told me that a piece of him died in that accident too. Although he suffered only minor injuries, he was placed on disability due to a severe nervous condition he developed. The trauma aged him physically and he had permanent dark circles under his eyes, probably from not sleeping. As long as I live, I will never forget some of the conversations we had after the accident.

"Clay, as bad as my nightmares are, and they are worse than you could ever imagine, it's the daytime hallucinations that affect me most. Sometimes I see the boy at the foot of my bed when I awaken. Other times I see him as I step out of the shower. He is as real to me as I am to you."

There must have been some transference of guilt on my part because from then on, it became an issue for me. I also knew a Vietnam vet who witnessed children being shot during his tour of duty in the late 1960s...some were hostiles and some were innocent. When I saw kids on TV with their AK-47s, I knew I could possibly face my worst nightmare. I became worried that I might not react like others who could instinctively justify pulling the trigger. After a campaign, conflict or war, you always hear about the acts of valor and courage. Then there are those stories of the "not so courageous." Marines were balanced that way. Just as easily as you could be glorified, you could be demonized. I had a friend who went to Desert Storm who struggled to adjust and made poor decisions. He was marginalized and bullied by Marines junior to him. Upon his re-deployment back to Twentynine Palms he separated with eighteen years of service as a Gunnery Sergeant, forfeiting a lifetime of retirement. How does anyone know how he or she will respond in a fierce firefight where every second is a luxury? For me, the thought of putting a woman or child in the equation complicated the matter exponentially.

# Chapter 6: Internal Affairs

26 November 1992

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Corporal Ramirez reporting as ordered, sir!"

"At ease, at ease," Captain Shaffner responded as he sat behind his desk perusing our Service Record Books. His office was massive and the wall behind him was decorated with plaques and framed pictures of him shaking hands with dignitaries. Captain Shaffner had been in the Corps close to thirty years and was a Criminal Investigator Officer at his last command. He hailed from South Carolina and spoke with a deep Southern accent. He had a crew cut and wore bifocals. He had tattoos on his forearms that were so faded I couldn't make out what they were.

"So what have you boys been up to for the last four days?"

"Not much sir, just getting familiar with the base," I responded.

"Sounds like goofing off to me," Captain Shaffner replied.

"On this deployment, there are no days off. You boys need to get your head in the game...and quick."

Just as Captain Shaffner closed our record books, Corporal Warren poked his head in.

"Skipper, the staff meeting has been moved back to 1000 hours," Corporal Warren said as he recognized Ramirez and me.

"I'll be there, Corporal. And Corporal...I am still waiting for that CID (Criminal Investigator) application package you promised me," Captain Shaffner responded with a smile.

"Skipper, you know I have to be a Sergeant before I can apply."

"Well, you are my man for the next Meritorious Sergeant board, so you better study you tail off."

"Roger that!" said Warren.

Before Corporal Warren walked in, I thought Captain Shaffner was soulless. He did have a heart, and I could see why the MPs respected him. But we were not MPs, we were augmentees.

"Corporal Ramirez, wait outside. I would like to speak with Gunnery Sergeant Thompson in private."

"Aye aye sir," said Ramirez as he excused himself and shut the door.

"In my Marine Corps, no one takes that much time off without a leave chit. You should know better than that, and don't tell me the young lieutenant said it was okay either. I always have problems with augmentees because they lack discipline. No unit ever offers up their top performers. Commands always send us their shit birds. I had an augmentee last year who never even reported in. Instead, he got a full-time job at the local Sears collecting two paychecks. He got away with that for five months until his unit called us about some letters of indebtedness. I ended up taking the heat for that piece of scum."

"Well Captain, I can assure you that Corporal Ramirez and I volunteered and we are not the bottom of the barrel. Corporal Ramirez is a fine NCO and no one can shoot a weapon as steady and accurate as he. He shoots "bull's-eyes" from the 500 yard line."

"So what, a lot of Marines do that," Captain Shaffner countered back.

"Not standing in the off-hand position sir."

"I will be honest with you...during this deployment you will be evaluated with your peers, but you will be marked lower."

"Excuse me sir...If I perform on par with my peers there should be no bias."

"And that's just it. You will be marked with other Gunnery Sergeants who do this for a living and have been for many years. You will never be as competent or as tactically proficient. The same goes for your Corporal, his marks will be lower as well. That Corporal who was just in here, would mop the floor with Ramirez on MP matters."

"Sir, isn't there a better way to evaluate augmentees? Like grade them against other augmentees. That way at least it would be a level playing field."

"I don't make the rules, and if you don't like it, take it up with Headquarters Marine Corps."

It's good thing the Captain wasn't a mind reader. If he was, he probably would have court martialed me on the spot. I wasn't worried about myself so much as I was about Corporal Ramirez. I got him on this deployment and I felt obliged to look out for him. I hated it when he compared Corporal Warren to Corporal Ramirez. I took it personally. I needed to find a way to fix things, to level the playing field. My A-game wasn't going to be enough, but no way was I going to lie down. Almost immediately, my brain went into overdrive searching for a solution. After racking my brain over most of the lunch hour, I experienced an epiphany. I now had a plan in mind...a brilliant one. I needed to get Ramirez on board.

# Chapter 7: Perception Management

28 November 1992

We had just finished unit physical training and we ran just over three miles. I struggled to keep up with the younger Marines but the last thing I wanted was for the formation to have to circle back and pick me up. Corporal Warren sang cadence most of the run session. As much as I disliked him, I could see why his superiors were grooming him for increased responsibility and rank. He was what you would call a poster Marine. He was about six feet two inches, about two hundred pounds with almost no body fat. His military appearance was super squared away and he was clean-shaven. He sang Marine Corps cadence as if he had served multiple tours on the drill field. Either someone spent a lot of time mentoring him, or he was just one of those naturals that you see every now and then in your career.

After we were dismissed from PT, I gave Ramirez a ride back to the barracks. I thought I would discuss my plan with him and see what he thought.

"I am sure you know by now that once we left the Stumps we lost home field advantage. As unfair as it all seems, the deck is stacked against us."

"What do you mean Gunny?"

"We are painted with the augmentee brush, more like tarred with it. But...I think I know how we can swing things around, but I will need your help."

"My help? Okay. What's your plan?" Ramirez responded inquisitively.

"We need to raise your visibility among the staff and officers in the unit. And the way to accomplish that is by changing their perception of you."

"Okay..." Ramirez said waiting for me to explain myself.

"Everyday at 1330 we have a staff NCO and officer pre-deployment briefing. At the end of the briefing it is always the same three questions that no one knows the answer to. Status on the Rules of Engagement, an update on interpreter support, and what non-lethal weapons are we deploying with. No one in the unit knows because, I MAF doesn't know yet...officially."

"Well Gunny, if I MAF doesn't know, we will just have to wait until they get the word right?"

"Nope, I have a very close contact at Headquarters Marine Corps. Trust me; she has more connections than AT&T. If she can't help us, she will point us in the right direction. Her name is Gunnery Sergeant Yolanda Mike and she is my son's Godmother. We go a long way back. Here is her work number, I have been trying to reach her but it just goes to voicemail. I have her old pager number but I think she de-activated it when she transferred to Headquarters."

"So once we get the info, what is the next step?" Ramirez asked.

"Starting tomorrow, I am taking you to the briefings. When the opportunity rises...jump all over it...with both feet."

By the end of the week, Ramirez got in touch with my buddy Yolanda.

During the drive to our favorite restaurant, The Black Angus, Ramirez broke the news to me.

"Hey Gunny T! Gunny Mike says hello."

"What...you talked to her? I had no luck at all."

"She told me to tell you that she and the boys miss you and Clay Junior. Oh yeah...she is getting married soon to a guy name Richard. The reason why you couldn't get a hold of her was because she was on leave all last week."

"Dang, I really gotta call her now...I can't believe she is getting married. That's my girl, I am happy for her. Did you get the info?"

"Yup. She spoke to someone in Plans at JTF headquarters at Tampa and they will probably advise I MAF very soon. You were right, she is super-efficient and very nice over the phone."

Over the next three days, I took Ramirez into the briefings with me and not once were any of the questions raised. In fact on Friday, Captain Shaffner directed me to stop Ramirez from accompanying me as the meeting was reserved for senior staff NCOs and officers. My plan was falling apart right in front of me. Our information had an expiry date on it...the day I MAF got the word. The following day I attended the briefing without Ramirez and I was dozing off, it was almost like Ground Hog Day...every meeting was a repeat of the day before. Then the Provost Marshal raised the questions. Instantly, I became fully coherent.

"Captain Shaffner, so are we gaining any traction on the ROE and the interpreter issues?" Lieutenant Colonel Lawless asked. He was our Provost Marshal.

"That's a negative sir, I was just on the horn with Major Mallory from the G-3, and there is no new information," Captain Shaffner responded.

My heart was pounding in my chest. This was Ramirez's moment to shine but he was nowhere around. I could have looked good and answered the questions, but that wasn't the plan...and after all, it was Ramirez who tracked the info down in the first place.

"Sir, I think Corporal Ramirez may have some info on the issues," I said as I stood from the back of the room.

Immediately Captain Shaffner turned around and gave me an evil stare. I didn't realize it, but I was about to seriously embarrass him in front of everyone. It was too late, I was already committed.

"How is it that a Corporal knows this information and I do not? Go get Ramirez...now please," Lawless said as he looked over his glasses.

Immediately I ran down the long hall and I happened to pass him as he was getting ready to do a mail run.

"Ramirez, the Provost Marshal Lieutenant Colonel Lawless wants your info. Let's go," I said, out of breath.

As Ramirez and I stepped in the briefing, everyone was getting ready to be dismissed, but then the Provost Marshal ordered everyone to sit back down. I was trying not to make eye contact with Captain Shaffner because I knew nothing good could come of this as far as he was concerned.

"Corporal Ramirez, so I heard you know that status on the Rules of Engagement," Lawless said.

"Sir, JTF Headquarters should be notifying I MAF within the next 48 hours about the approved ROE. The first draft was submitted two weeks ago but it was rejected because planners thought it was too restrictive and not flexible enough to carry out the mission."

"Outstanding Corporal! Okay...now we are getting somewhere. What about the interpreter support?"

"Sir, my contact at Manpower Headquarters Marine Corps says there is only one Somali speaker in their database. He is a Corporal and a Somali native. According to Manpower, the linguists are being contracted and will probably arrive shortly after we land."

The room was so quiet. Everyone was focused on Ramirez; they were stunned at the level of knowledge he was spewing. Except for Captain Shaffner, I could tell he was furious as he was wringing his hands nervously.

"And Corporal, if you can answer this last question you can have my parking spot for a week. What non-lethal weapons are we deploying with?"

In a last ditch effort to save face, Captain Shaffner interjected.

"Sir, from what I am hearing unofficially, it looks like rubber bullets," Shaffner said confidently.

Corporal Ramirez responded to the Captain's comments.

"Sir, there was some speculation that it would be rubber bullets, but JTF Headquarters is leaning more towards cayenne pepper spray. But it is possible we may end up deploying with both."

"What...my MPs will be carrying MACE? As I was. Disregard that last comment. Corporal Ramirez, front and center."

Ramirez walked to the head table and stood next to Lieutenant Colonel Lawless.

"Corporal Ramirez, I would like to say the initiative you have demonstrated today far exceeds your rank and level of responsibility. You are a fine Marine NCO," Lawless said as he stood and placed his hand on Ramirez's shoulder. Lawless started to clap and the rest of the attendees quickly followed suit. I was proud of Ramirez and so was everyone else in the room...with the exception of one very angry Captain. As we were dismissed, Captain Shaffner remained in his seat waiting for everyone to leave.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson...sit back down. I want a word with you," Shaffner said in a stern voice.

Corporal Ramirez looked back as he was the last to leave the conference room.

"Gunny, should I shut the door?" Ramirez asked.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," I said, knowing that I was about to enter a one-way shouting match with me on mute.

As soon as the door shut, Captain Shaffner wasted no time in ripping right into me.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. What the hell was that?!" Shaffner yelled as he invaded my personal space.

"No one in their right mind believes that Corporal Ramirez had the initiative to contact Headquarters Marine Corps or even JTF for that matter."

"Sir, for the last week, Lieutenant Favors has responded to those issues, I had no idea you would be on the hook today," I said as I removed my glasses and wiped his saliva off onto my trouser leg.

"Who do you think Favors works for...he works for me damnit!"

"Captain, I was just trying to raise his visibility, that's all."

"Right into my crosshairs. The both of you. I knew you two were bad news as soon as you checked in. I worked my ass off for almost twenty-seven years. I will make Major this next board, you can bet the farm on that. I did not come this far to have some Gunnery Sergeant augmentee screw it up for me. Do not mistake me for someone who will stab you in the back, because I don't operate that way. I will stab you right in your chest. Consider this your first and only warning."

# Chapter 8: Autopsy

30 November 1992

It had been two days since I last spoke to Captain Shaffner and my butt was still sore from the ass chewing he gave me. I felt like a private in bootcamp, there was never a notion of back talk or standing my ground. I knew how embarrassed he must have been. Upstaged by a junior NCO in front of his superiors and his peers. The only saving grace was he didn't berate me in front of Ramirez.

I saw Shaffner early the next morning just before physical training and he was probably pissed off that I was parking in the Provost Marshal's parking spot. I guess that was my way of protesting...passive aggressive behavior.

Immediately following our three-mile run, Captain Shaffner yelled my name as I proceeded to my reserved parking spot.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson! I want to see you in my office ASAP."

Dang. I hate conflict, especially in the work place. I didn't know how much more abuse I could take and I didn't want him to think that I was used to that type of treatment. I knew this was going to be a long deployment. At first, the deployment was about staying competitive. Now it was all about survival.

"You wanted to see me?" I asked as I stood just outside his office.

"The Oceanside Coroner's office called yesterday. It must be that time of year," he said as he thumbed through his rolodex.

"What time of year is that?" I asked.

"Every year, our CID investigators view an autopsy for training. I decided this year to open it up to other Staff NCOs deploying with us...including you. This way troops can get their feet wet before we take the plunge."

"How will attending an autopsy help get our feet wet?"

"Well, I can guarantee you that the corpses we will see in Somalia won't be all purdy and cleaned up. Troops need to smell death and be able to function without getting all queasy inside. I need you to call the coroner's office and schedule an appointment for tomorrow morning," Captain said.

"Sir, I can't make it tomorrow, I have to go to small claims court over a botched engine job my mechanic did."

"Small claims...sounds like personal business to me."

"Well, it is...I got shafted," I replied.

"Then I expected to see a leave chit on my desk before you go."

"But it will just be for one day," I said.

"Don't matter...I want it on my desk. And don't forget to schedule that appointment."

No one puts in for leave for just one day, in my thirteen years of being in the Corps I have never put in for one day leave. The games had already started and I was right in the middle...I just had to play along.

I went straight to the First Sergeant's office to get a leave form because our admin had just run out.

"Hey First Sergeant, I need a leave chit for tomorrow. Can I get it approved by then?"

"Leave chit? When are you returning?"

"Same day," I said.

"What kind of bullshit is that? Who told you to take leave for one day?" the First Sergeant asked as he spit into his Coke can.

"Captain Shaffner directed me to."

"Nobody in my Marine Corps puts in for one day leave. Let me chat with the Executive Officer, standby Gunny."

After about five minutes, the First Sergeant came out of the XO's office with a leave chit. I guessed he lost the battle and I would be taking leave after all.

"Gunny. Here is your leave chit for tomorrow."

Then he surprised me. He ripped it into four pieces, slowly, looking straight at me.

"Now give this to your Captain, all four pieces and tell him the XO gave you the day off."

Wow, what a turn of events. The XO was instantly on my all-time list of favorite officers, right next to Major Henslee and Captain Gundlach.

No way was I going to place the shredded leave chit on his desk. My career would not survive that. It was safer just to take the day off and maybe he would just forget about it. I went back to work to schedule the autopsy for the next day.

"Good afternoon, Oceanside Coroner's office. How may I help?"

"Yes ma'am, I am Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and I would like to schedule a viewing for an autopsy for tomorrow. I am calling on behalf of Captain Shaffner."

"Thanks for returning my call. Can you get here by eight in the morning?"

"Yes, but will you have a body for us to view on such short notice?"

"We don't have a body at the moment. The body you will view tomorrow is probably alive as we speak. But he will make his 8:00 appointment. We will see you tomorrow then."

She was right. Mr. Williams was alive when I made the call that afternoon, but tragically, he was killed by The Gangstas of no Jealousy, in a drive-by shooting as he stepped out of Albertos Mexican Restaurant just outside the rear gate.

I am sure Captain Shaffner was ready to chew the other side of my butt for not having a leave chit on his desk. But...immediately after the autopsy, I MAF got the Execute Order to support Operation Restore Hope in Somalia. We were wheels up in ninety-six hours.

# Chapter 9: I MAF Execute Order

4 December 1992

News of the Execute Order was surreal. Back in 1979, my drill instructors told me training was a dress rehearsal for the real thing. It really hit me when I went to the armory to check out my 9mm pistol and the armorer said "Good luck Gunny, be safe." Then he gave me a box of ammo. That was my first of two awakenings. The second was my trip to the Corpsman to collect my malaria tablets.

"Now Gunny, take these pills as prescribed. You may be tempted to stop taking them but don't fall into that trap," said the Navy Corpsman.

"Why would I be tempted to stop taking them? That sounds pretty dumb," I replied.

"Well there are some side effects and some Marines have a hard time adjusting," the doc said.

"Side effects, what kind of side effects?" I asked.

"Well, to name a few: nightmares, insomnia, nausea, chronic diarrhea, dizziness, anxiety, and then there is depression. But 75% of people on the tablets don't experience any side effects whatsoever."

"What you are really saying is that 25% of the people on the tablets suffer like hell," I replied.

What if the combined side effects of a drug causes more discomfort than the illness? Is it really worth it?

When I saw the flight manifest on the bulletin board at work, I noticed that I was on the first wave and Ramirez was "To be determined." I was bummed. Besides Ramirez, I really didn't know anyone else. It was weird, it felt like I was experiencing a little separation anxiety at the thought of us not deploying together. He was like a little brother to me.

I already knew what my pastime in Somalia would be...cards and more cards. I wanted to see if Ramirez knew how to play. I saw him standing by my car at 1630 waiting for a ride back to the barracks.

"Hey Gunny, I got word you are headed out in a few days," Ramirez said.

"Yeah man, my number came up. I guess you will be right behind me though. I heard we will be on fourteen hour days once we land," I said as I pulled into the Seven-Day store.

"I will be right back, just need to pick up a deck of cards," I said.

"Good, when we get back to the barracks I can school you," Ramirez said.

That was music to my ears. Now I had a card partner.

When I returned from the store, I was surprised to find out he knew how to play all the card games I played and one I never learned.

"So what is your poison?" I asked.

"Spades, Rummy, Poker, Bid and Pinochle," Ramirez answered.

"Now you talkin', I play Spades only if there are no Bid players. But I am surprised that you play Pinochle. The only people I ever knew who played Pinochle, learned while they were in prison doing time."

"That's funny because my uncle taught me...not too long after he got out of jail," Ramirez said lightheartedly.

After evening chow, we played two-handed spades for the rest of the night.

# Chapter 10: Passenger 67

11 December 1992

I had an aisle seat - number 64 D. I was slightly anxious as I buckled up because the flight was twice as long as I had ever flown...twenty hours. I found myself taking deep sighs to relax because I knew life would be very different once I deplaned in Mogadishu, Somalia. I remembered my drill instructor's words and those words seemed to ring true at that moment. My thirteen-year Marine Corps career seemed to be a dress rehearsal for the big show...Operation Restore Hope.

A Captain who sat about two rows in front of me waved at me and I waved back. But then I realized he was waving at someone behind me so I looked back. I recognized the Marine he waved to. I became nervous, extremely nervous. The Marine who sat three rows behind me was Master Sergeant Howard, whom I served with on the Rock (Okinawa, Japan) a few years back. Howard had a secret, a deadly secret that few people were aware of.

Master Sergeant Howard had survived four aircraft/helo crashes during his career. Three mishaps were on land and one at sea. I remembered when his helo fell from the sky and plunged into the ocean during an exercise. It was particularly chilling for me because I was supposed to be on that chopper. I was a Staff Sergeant at the time and I ended up getting bumped onto the next manifest. Staff Sergeant Jones was also bumped, but we didn't think anything of it...at that time. We were supporting a joint exercise just off the coast of Okinawa, conducting a nighttime helo insertion from ship to shore. Minutes before Howard's chopper reached altitude there was engine failure and the chopper fell from the sky and plunged into the ocean in total darkness. Because helos are top heavy, they fall upside down, making survival all the more improbable. Immediately the ship's Captain dispatched a Search and Rescue mission. There were eighteen Marines on the chopper; Gunnery Sergeant Howard (his rank at that time) was the lone survivor. The bodies of the other seventeen Marines were never recovered. I remember when the divers brought him back on board the ship. Two large divers supported him and his feet dragged along on the deck. He was shivering badly and they quickly covered him in green wool blankets. Shortly after the Search and Rescue mission concluded, a Search and Recovery mission commenced. That search yielded negative results...the chopper became a watery tomb for those seventeen Marines.

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

(http://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 shots 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 placing 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.

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 escalated 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: Unconscionable 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.

#  Chapter 19: Mogadishu, Somalia: Me and Mohamed Ali

27 December 1992

During the morning Operations brief, the watch officer charged all patrol units to gather information about the whereabouts of two Somali persons of interest. Apparently, a special task force had been tasked with their capture but the two men proved to be elusive. These two Somali men were identified as Mohamed Farrah Aidid and Semi Osman.

The briefing described Aidid as a warlord and clan leader who was a chief architect in the 1991 coup against President Siad Barre. Semi Osman was identified as an educated wealthy financier who aligned himself with Aidid. Osman's wealth was backed by money from major oil and real estate deals during the Barre regime. Osman was also one of the most prolific arms dealers in the Horn of Africa.

Sub unit commanders on patrol decided to make contacts with local village elders and develop relationships of trust that might lead to the capture of Aidid and Osman.

Our patrol route varied only slightly but I always noticed a particular residence in pristine condition, unscarred by the wrath of war. It was a two-story brick and mortar home surrounded by a four-foot wall. It looked out-of-place compared to the other demolished homes nearby that were still lived-in.

Across the street from the unscathed house, an old man was walking with a grenade in his hand. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an armed lookout hiding behind a pillar in front of the house. I was dispatched to check out the residence while my sub unit commander had a chat with the old man about his grenade.

I didn't feel in danger at all, in fact I felt remarkably calm. Part of the reason I felt so calm was I heard seventies music blaring from the house. The song was "Young Hearts Run Free" by Candi Staton. It wasn't a manly song per se, but it took me back to my high school years and gave me a nice feeling. As I approached the residence, the lookout darted into the house and shut the door behind him. I knocked on the door and a very distinguished middle-aged Somali man opened the door to greet me. He was about six foot tall, maybe thirtyish and he had a lazy right eye. He was dressed in a white linen suit with a tan T-shirt, wearing expensive looking sandals.

"Excuse me, sir. I am..." Before I could introduce myself he invited me in. He spoke perfect English with a slight European accent.

"Please, please make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you some coffee or tea?"

"No sir, but thank you anyway," I responded.

The inside of his house was like one of the homes featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It had marble floors, gold framed paintings and a beautiful crystal chandelier. I knew this man was someone important.

"What are you cooking? It smells delicious," I asked as I removed my helmet.

"It's spaghetti bolognaise. Would you like to join me, I was just about to have some noon dinner?"

I had an MRE packet in the Humvee and it took me a whole two seconds to answer.

"I haven't had a home cooked meal in a long time and I would love to," I replied.

I looked out the window and I saw my sub unit commander and our interpreter still engaged in conversation with their new friend...carrying the grenade.

A very slim fair-skinned Somali lady brought the food out and it was piping hot. I think I set the world record for saying grace before I dove straight into the spaghetti.

"Hmmmmm! Oh yeah....this is the real deal here. What kind of meat is this...it's delicious?"

"I got it fresh from the market this morning. It's camel."

At that point, I didn't care, it was well seasoned and the meat was so tender.

I scarfed down two plates before I knew it and had to loosen my belt afterwards to make room.

"Mr. Thompson, I know why you are here," the man said as he motioned for his servant to remove the plates.

"How do you know my name? I never told you my name."

"I can read," he said as he pointed to my nametag on my camouflaged top.

"You are here to ask if I am storing weapons in my home."

"Okay....and how did you know that?" I asked.

"Because the patrol that was here yesterday asked me the same question. I will be truthful with you. Yes, I have weapons in my home and some of the weapons I have might make your commanders uneasy. The weapons I have here are for my private security staff who protect me and my personal belongings. Take a look at my precious antiques, if you were to disarm my staff, I would be attacked before nightfall and have nothing left. It's not the clan fighting that concerns me as much as the economic opportunists or bandits, as you might call them. They are lurking, just waiting for an opportunity to steal from me."

"Sir, my gut feeling tells me that you are sincere, but I don't make the rules. I just follow them."

"I have a proposition for you. If you allow my staff to remain armed, I can be your eyes and ears and advise you on atmospherics. I was once mayor of Mogadishu under Barre. I know most everything that goes on in this city. As good faith, I will tell you of a road side bomb near the old Olympic Hotel."

"A bomb? How do you know this?" I asked suspiciously.

"I saw it being laid early this morning on the way to market. The bomb is not for US, it is for retaliation against one of your allies for having relations with a Somali woman. She was stoned yesterday not far from here."

"Stoned? Stoned to death?"

"Yes. She brought shame to her family name and to her clan."

"Speaking of clan. What clan do you belong to?"

"Ahh. It is unwise to discuss politics on first date. No?"

"I seem to be making a lot of cultural blunders lately. By the way, what does Assalamu Alaikum mean?"

"In Islam we say   It means 'peace be unto you.' It is a greeting among Muslims. You should respond in kind by saying 'wa'alikum asalaam.' It means 'and peace be with you," he replied.

"Dang. I knew that. How could I have been so stupid?"

"Forgive me. I do not understand," the gentleman said.

"Oh it's nothing. I tried to impress one of our female Somali interpreters and I failed miserably."

"You have failed because you do not understand the Somali narrative and you have no appreciation for our culture...yet. But I can be of assistance. I have five wives and I understand Somali women. You cannot go to her. You must let her come to you. Is she pure?"

"If you are asking me if she is virgin or not...no way am I going down that road."

"No, you silly sausage, pure in blood. True Somali lineage," he replied with smile.

"Oh...I don't know," I told him.

"Alright. My first advice to you is study our people. You have other male interpreters correct?"

"Yes. They all live in the same tent."

"Befriend them all and learn from them."

I looked out the window and I saw my sub unit commander approaching the residence so I knew I would have to end our meeting soon.

Ali stood behind me looking out of the window.

"Is that your interpreter?" he asked.

"Yeah. That's Yusef," I replied.

"He wears your uniform, but yet he is unarmed. Why is that?"

"I don't know. I never really thought about it," I said.

"Perhaps you should. The militias have prices on all their heads. A dead interpreter is more of a victory than a dead US soldier."

As I put on my helmet, I thanked him for the meal and the advice, and told him I would report the roadside bomb he warned me about.

As I exited his front entrance, I shook his hand and asked him his name.

"My name is Mohamed Ali."

#  Chapter 20: Mogadishu, Somalia: Major Intervention

27 December 1992

On the way back to base, I told my sub unit commander about my meeting with Mohamed Ali. He didn't seem interested until I mentioned the roadside bomb near the Olympic Hotel. Within seconds, he raised the command center on the net and gave an approximate location of the device.

As the gate guards waved us through, I was hoping that I could convince Captain Shaffner to allow me to continue to meet with Ali, but more importantly I was hoping that his security staff would not be disarmed. As I walked into the Operation Center, I saw Captain Shaffner engaged on the phone. I waited by his desk until he finished his call to brief him on my meeting with Ali.

"Not only no, but hell no! Sounds like you are going native on me, Gunny Thompson. You can't trust these folks. The ROE says no weapons period. I will have a talk with the Colonel."

I wanted to defend Ali but I had no footing to stand on. I started to imagine Ali sitting in his home drinking tea and being the subject of a house raid. I then began imagining his house being looted by local gangs, leaving him with nothing. Captain Shaffner immediately went into the Colonel's office to report my contact with Ali. I took off my flak jacket and sat on the Captain's desk and then someone tapped me on my shoulder.

"Are you Gunnery Sergeant Thompson?"

"Yes. Am I in trouble or something?" I asked.

"I am Major Strate, the EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) embed and I just want to thank you for the good job you did this afternoon."

"I didn't do anything," I responded.

"We identified the roadside bomb and diffused it. It was a joint effort with our allied partners and it was a major discovery. It would have easily taken out a Humvee."

"Well, the source of that information will probably be dried up by tomorrow if Captain Shaffner has his way. He's recommending we take him down because he has weapons on his premises," I said.

The Major paused and sighed. Without saying a word he vacated the command center in a hurry. About thirty minutes later, Captain Shaffner came out of the Colonel's office.

"We're taking him down tomorrow at first light, and I am putting you on the detail," the Captain said.

I knew why I was on the detail. I knew exactly where the residence was and I could ID Ali. I regretted ever meeting him because now there was a trust between us, and now I was going to break that trust in a major way. Images of the raid in my head were disturbing, but to witness it would be saddening. I had no choice; I was going to follow orders.

Major Strate had returned and overheard my conversation with Captain Shaffner.

"Captain Shaffner, I just met with the J3 and the J2 over at JTF Headquarters and you can scratch that mission. Headquarters respects and values information gained from Somali contacts. This is a force protection issue and we need someone on the inside, someone who is willing to help us and keep troops safe," Major Strate said.

I was relieved that Ali would be able to continue to live as he always had...in peace. I began to look forward to more enjoyable exchanges with Ali over home cooked meals. However, the relief I felt would bear a cost, a greater divide between Captain Shaffner and I. It seemed as though we were on a head-on collision course, scripted by a higher power. I knew I had to watch my back, because Shaffner considered me a threat to his career. I didn't know it at the time, but his perception would soon become my reality.

#  Chapter 21: Mogadishu, Somalia: Presidential Palace

29-30 December 1992

It had been two days since I went on patrol and I was going stir crazy. The work day dragged on the compound. I remember trying to nap just to kill time. On one occasion, I checked my watch to see how much time had passed during my nap. I was disappointed; I had been asleep less than fifteen minutes.

At the end of the normal duty day (1800), I took Ali's advice and visited the tent where the interpreters stayed. They took me in like a step-brother, but not in a bad way. I thought it was funny that three of the eight interpreters had the same name...Mohamed Ali. Six of them had Mohamed as a first name. The other two had first names of Yusuf and Hussein. Hussein was the Marine Corporal interpreter who was in charge. They were eager to teach me about the Somali way and introduced me to a card game that I really enjoyed. The game was called Arpaa Turup and it was similar to Hearts in a way, so I caught on quick. The only thing I thought was strange was you could communicate to your partner with discreet signals to improve your chances of making your book. That is cheating in American circles, but it was standard practice in Arpaa Turup and part of the game.

I enquired about the female interpreter I saw them with on occasion and found out she was based at the University, about a five-minute drive away. They told me her name was Ayan.

I couldn't bear the thought of another day stuck on the compound. I wanted to meet with my new friend Mohamed Ali and challenge him to the new card game I learned. During the noon meal, I saw Master Sergeant Howard in the chow line with his tray. He signaled as if he wanted to speak with me.

"Hey Top! What's up?" I asked as I stood next to him while he ate. (There was no seating, we ate standing. Our plates rested on a shelf-like structure in a tent.)

"Gunny T, there is a mission later this afternoon and I could use an extra body. Wanna come along?"

"Cool. Who is the Sub Unit commander?" I asked.

"Gunner Dalby is the Sub Unit commander. The briefing is at 1600 hours, and we will mount out immediately after," Howard said.

I was stoked about the idea of hitting the streets again, and it was particularly nice that I knew everyone that I would be riding with.

I arrived at the briefing early and Howard and Dalby were right behind me. A three-vehicle convoy supported our mission. Our mission was to scope out the old Presidential Palace to see if militias were storing weapons there.

After a thirty-minute drive to the outskirts of town, we began to see what was once the Presidential Palace. It had suffered serious damage from shelling and mortar fire. The estate gates were bulldozed and the palace looked like a bomb site. The layout was a horseshoe design with the main residence in the middle and adjoining offices on either side. The structure was white and there was only a ground floor. We drove over the unhinged gates and stopped in front of the main residence. There was no sign of anyone...that we could see.

As we entered the main residence, we noticed it was completely looted and bullet holes were all over the walls in zigzag like formations. As we passed through, we observed a courtyard in back with several more outer offices. Then the stench hit us. There were dead bodies in various stages of decay in the rear courtyard and in the outer offices. Most were skeletal remains, but you could tell there were signs of recent attacks because some of the bodies were bloated and on the verge of bursting. Birds and insects were feeding off them. At that moment, I wished I had attended the autopsy back at Pendleton. Maybe it would have helped a little. The smell of rotting flesh and the visual was overwhelming. I saw one Marine from the lead vehicle in constant puke mode. By looking at the death scenes, it was easy to recreate the scenario of how they died. In one office there were skeletal remains hunched over an industrial size shredder. Another corpse was in an office chair with the phone still in his hand. It looked like he was shot while making a call.

Master Sergeant Howard and I began scoping the back courtyard for weapons, trying not to disturb the dead.

"Hey T! Eyeballs on the roof tops!" Howard whispered to me from in front.

"What are we looking for?" I whispered back.

"Lookout for snipers, that's where they will have the best vantage point," said Howard.

"Okay Top," I responded.

Howard checked the right upper flank and I checked the left upper flank. Then I heard a nasty squish sound.

"Son of a bitch!" Howard complained.

A moment later, it was my turn. "Damn it!"

We were so focused on the roof tops we were not watching the ground. We were both standing in a corpse.

We immediately jumped out of the remains and began frantically wiping our boots off on the grassy area. That was beyond nasty.

When we stepped back, it was actually two corpses that were fused together forming a cross-like figure. It was a man on top of a woman lying across her abdomen. He was obviously trying to protect her. You could see she had a tourniquet on her left leg and would have been unable to walk. There was also an empty glass next to the woman's left side. Whoever this woman was, it was apparent that this man loved her enough to die with her. This was a tragic love story right in front of my eyes. There were other tragic stories revealed as we saw other remains, but none affected me like the couple who died together in each other's arms.

#  Chapter 22: Mogadishu, Somalia: Jam Session

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 asked.

"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

6 January 1993

Last night my nightmare returned. I thought I was done with that as it had been a few days since my last one. Mentally I changed channels and began thinking about when Ramirez was supposed to arrive. Rumors were that the next wave was due in sometime this week but no exact date was given. I checked into the Operations Center to see when Ramirez was scheduled to arrive and stumbled upon an interesting debate between Major Strate and Staff Sergeant Sheffield.

"Since when did we start accepting Gays in our military?" Sheffield asked, looking at the manifest.

"What are you smoking over there Staff Sergeant Sheffield?" asked Major Strate.

"Ha, ha ha. Just joking, There is a Major Gaye due in on the next wave and he is assigned to us. Looks like we will have two Majors in the office, one Strate and the other Gaye," Sheffield laughed aloud. (Name Game)

"Well, don't know if you are aware but our new Commander-in-Chief has vowed to let Gays serve openly," Strate commented.

"No freakin way! That is bullshit. The Marine Corps was founded on a strict set of virtues that are tested over time. You can't mess with that," Sheffield lamented.

"Well, it has two major hurdles to clear before it becomes policy and I don't see it happening," Strate said.

"What two hurdles?" Sheffield asked.

"It will have to be supported by the Joint Chiefs of Staff and ultimately Congress will have to sign off on it," Strate said.

"Well, Gunny T. What is your position on Gays in our Marine Corps?" Sheffield asked.

Sheffield put me on the spot and I knew what he wanted to hear, but I felt like I could be honest.

"I only knew one Marine who I found out to be Gay. He was my Executive Officer at El Toro when I was a Sergeant...he was a Major. I didn't know he was Gay until I went to his office and found out that he was being discharged. I did something stupid as a Sergeant and I should have had Non-Judicial Punishment, but he spoke with the Commanding Officer and recommended two weeks of morning and evening colors duty instead. He kept me from getting an adverse Fitness Report (eval) and I think that's why I am still in the Corps now," I said.

"A Gay Major, a Gay XO. A career officer would never out himself. It's political suicide," Strate commented.

"You are absolutely right, sir. He didn't out himself. A positive HIV test outed him. One of his sexual partners was a Petty Officer in the Navy who came up hot on an HIV test. The Navy guy had to give the names of his recent sexual contacts. My XO was on that list."

"Dayum!" Sheffield said.

"Well, the Petty Officer was retested and the test proved to be a false positive, so he wasn't infected after all. Unfortunately, it was too late for my XO, he had to resign. I don't know what happened to the Petty Officer," I said to Strate and Sheffield.

"When I came in my beloved Corps, it was strictly prohibited to be Gay, now it is becoming acceptable. I gotta retire before it becomes required!" Sheffield said.

"I know a lot of officers don't agree with me on this, but personally, I don't care who you sleep with. I just want to know...can you do the job!" Major Strate said.

#  Chapter 28: Mogadishu, Somalia: Waiting Game

6 January 1993

After my mini debate with Major Strate and Staff Sergeant Sheffield, I enquired about Ramirez.

"Sorry Guns, only officers on this list," Sheffield replied.

I started to doubt whether Ramirez was really coming and suspected Captain Shaffner was responsible.

I checked the patrols scheduled for that day and I thought it was strange that all patrols were cancelled.

Then I ran into Master Sergeant Howard as he was entering the office.

"Hey Gunny T, I just got out of a meeting at Headquarters and there is a JTF mission scheduled for some time later today. You up for it?" Howard asked.

"Another Pulse of the City Mission, yeah why not," I replied.

"No it's not. It's a takedown. We had a "walk in" this morning and he's talking. We got locations on an Aidid safe house and apparently one of his strongholds just outside the city," Howard remarked.

"A JTF mission? Hook me up Top," I replied.

"So. Are we hitting the Bakara Market?" I asked.

"No."

"The Spaghetti factory? The Olympic Hotel?"

"No one will know until we mount out. But we are bringing some serious heat, you will see. Bring plenty of ammo."

"Who is the sub unit commander?"

"I am. At the moment it will be myself, you and an interpreter, but I still need a shooter. Maybe I can get someone inbound, maybe from the next wave. Lance Corporal Knox was assigned to ride with us but he is down hard with a nasty infection.

"Okay...you know where to find me," I said.

"Hey Gunny. Did you hear what happened last night?"

"No. What?"

"Two interpreters were shot," said Howard

"Dang. While on patrol?!" I asked.

"No. They were shot by the gate guards. They were trying to sneak back onto the compound through the side gate and the guards shot them thinking they were skinnys. One is in critical condition and the other I am not sure. It looks like they were returning from visiting their families in the city."

"How are the rest of the interpreters handling it?" I asked.

"Not good. Not good at all."

I had just finished evening chow and still there was no word on when we were mounting out. It was getting darker and I doubted the mission would take place. As I walked out of the chow tent, I heard diesel engines near the front of the compound. The next wave had arrived and I was thrilled. I ran to greet the troops as they dismounted off the truck. No Ramirez. In order to cease any further disappointment I conceded that Ramirez was not coming and that was that. I didn't want to think anymore, I just wanted to turn my mind off. I resorted to my new favorite pastime, sleep.

#  Chapter 29: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 1

6-7 January 1993

I was in a deep sleep and I found myself locked in that same nightmare that always had the same outcome...me burning in hell. I was in church and I knew I had to stay awake, but sleepiness began to overpower me. My eyes slowly started to glaze over and my head was starting to feel heavy. Then I saw the same two angels descend on either side of my pew, just watching me and waiting for me to nod off. "Must stay awake." I could feel myself slipping and the angels were poised. My eyes closed. The angels were upon me. I could feel pressure on my chest, but this time I heard a voice.

"Gunny. Wake up, wake up."

My eyes opened, I was not stuck in my dream anymore. It was Ramirez waking me up out of my nightmare.

"We're gearing up to mount out in thirty mikes (minutes)," Ramirez said.

"What are you doing here? I looked for you and I didn't see you."

"I was on the last truck and we got delayed because of the Somalis protesting outside the airfield," Ramirez said with his same old familiar smile.

"So what's up with the shaved head?" I asked as I began to lace up my boots.

"This is my high-speed no drag look. Besides, didn't think they would have barbers here anyway," Ramirez said.

I was glad to see Ramirez and I was particularly pleased he was going on patrol with us.

I grabbed my helmet and 9mm and let out a big sigh.

"Let's rock and roll," Ramirez said.

We saw Master Sergeant Howard and a young Lance Corporal with a video camera in his hand standing by the Humvee. The Lance Coolie was from Combat photo and was along for the ride.

"What's the camcorder for?" I asked.

"Gotta catch the fireworks. This footage will go into the unit archives."

"Top. Who is our interpreter?" I asked.

"There he is...right on time," Howard replied.

It was the Marine interpreter who I had always called by his first name, Hussein. He was also our driver since he had a Humvee license. We mounted the vehicle with Hussein driving, Master Sergeant Howard was up front, Ramirez, myself and the Lance Coolie in back. Howard and I packed 9mms. The others had M-16s.

This mission would be like no other. Everyone was hyped. You could hear a symphony of all the weapons being locked and loaded almost in an orchestrated sequence. I said a silent prayer and immediately thought of the Name Game I recently played, giving me a sense of protection.

I heard the diesel engines start and my adrenaline began to pump. There was a line of about ten Humvees, some were machine gun-mounted hard back Hummers. I remember feeling unimpressed with the firepower we were bringing as we headed out the compound gates.

"Top. I thought you said we were packin' some heat on this mission?" I yelled, trying to speak over the sound of the diesel engine.

Top Howard just smiled as he looked back at me. He didn't say a word.

We were en route to another location where we would link up with Task Force "Imminent Thunder."

After about a twenty-five minute drive, we saw the task force in blackout mode. It was the most impressive display of firepower I had ever seen. The convoy was so long I couldn't see where it ended.

"What the hell?!" said Ramirez in awe as we drove along the convoy to find our designated spot.

All of us were rubber necking in amazement because of all the special types of weapons and high tech gear.

"Gunny, did you see the tanks?" Ramirez asked.

"Yup," I replied. I remember thinking no way will Aidid engage us with this superior show of force. This should be over and done with in no time at all.

Or so I thought.

#  Chapter 30: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 2

6-7 January 1993

It was almost midnight and the moon lit up the sky. Word was quickly passed that no one was to engage or return fire until the command was given. Every day of my Marine Corps career up until that day was a dress rehearsal for "Imminent Thunder," the big show. Our task force was over 400 men strong and there were more attack vehicles than I could count. Our target was Aidid's stronghold where his men were fortified with their own "heat." Supporting Task Force Imminent Thunder was another takedown operation of a safe house nearby. Shortly after midnight we were rolling out. I felt confident in our firepower, but I also appreciated the men I was riding with; Master Sergeant Howard had nerves of steel, and Corporal Ramirez was probably the only distinguished marksman in the entire task force. Also, I liked the idea of our interpreter being one of us. About five minutes away from our destination, the convoy passed an unidentified forward headquarters element. The convoy commander needed to neutralize this threat. He had two options: launch an attack and lose our element of surprise, or dispatch a sub unit to seek "assurances of no retaliation." He elected the latter. We were raised on the net to negotiate the "assurances" because we had the most trusted interpreter...Corporal Hussein.

I was ambivalent about the order we were just given. "Seeking assurances of no retaliation?" How do you have that conversation with the very enemy you are about to attack, at midnight? I thought to myself.

We were middle of the pack and as long as I saw vehicles passing I was calm. Corporal Hussein exited the vehicle and immediately an AK-47 toting Somali came out of the building wondering what the hell was going on. The Somali was in camouflage fatigues, not like the militants we had encountered before. He had a soldierly look about him. Hussein and the armed Somali exchanged words and within seconds it became a shouting match and then a shoving match. Immediately Howard and I exited the vehicle with raised pistols; Ramirez was right behind us with his M-16. I felt we had the advantage at that point, until I saw the last vehicle in our convoy drive past. I kept looking to see if there were any straggler vehicles, but there were none.

After the last vehicle passed, the armed Somali radioed his troops inside the headquarters. Then about ten to twelve of Aidid's men emerged from the building and formed a half circle around our vehicle. All had AKs and some were chewing Khat. One of the Somalis got behind me but I couldn't keep my eye on him and the ones in front of me. For the first time I saw a hint of concern on Howard's face. Corporal Ramirez looked at me with great uncertainty.

"Gunny?"

I remember how important it was to me that Howard did not panic in our previous near death experience so I tried my hardest to keep my poker face for Ramirez. But my hope was fading fast. I was not in control of the situation and I did not have a say in my own destiny. My nerves felt like they were being microwaved inside my body, the adrenaline was past the point of percolation. Then Howard asked Hussein to interpret what was being said.

"You are better not knowing. If you have a God then pray to him now." Hussein said as he joined us in front of the vehicle.

At that point, I was no longer afraid of dying because I was too damn angry. I was angry because I was looking at the guy who was going to take my life and make my son fatherless. At that precise moment I prayed, but not to survive, it was too late for that. I prayed that I could at least get two of them before I took my last breath. If I could just avoid a bullet to the head, I would somehow find a way to squeeze a couple of rounds off. And then I thought "Why not shoot first?" The only reason I did not was because I didn't want to be the reason we all got killed.

Then I heard all of their weapons go off safe, ours were already off safe. I was only seconds away from witnessing our execution, and there would be no witnesses. Hussein yelled something in Somali. Whatever he said, he said it twice. The leader responded by radioing someone. There was a brief conversation on the net and then he gave his radio to one of his lieutenants. He gave a command to his troops and they lowered their AKs and made a path for us. We were free to go. I don't know what Hussein said that saved our lives and I never asked him. We were moments away from a bloodbath but someone on the other end of the radio allowed us to live. Unfortunately, I will never know who that person was, but I am grateful to him.

#  Chapter 31: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 3

7 January 1993

That last encounter affected us all, the mental chatter in my mind was so loud it drowned out any logic I had. I was running on instinct. I didn't know if we handled the situation according to tactical doctrine, but we survived. It took about a full four seconds before we got the hell out of there. Did we accomplish the mission? I don't know, but we would live to tell about it.

We soon caught up to the task force and everyone was in position except our vehicle. We found our assigned spot and turned off the engine. The target was a large warehouse surrounded by a cement wall about four feet in height. We formed a half circle in front of the compound. Scouts were dispatched to spot any side or rear entrances. There were none.

At 0100, I heard one of our interpreters speaking over the PA. His voice was amplified so loud you could probably hear it a quarter mile away.

"What's he saying, Hussein?" I asked.

"He is saying that you have until 0700 hours to surrender or we will smoke you out," Hussein said.

Ramirez and I both responded in perfect synch. "Seven!"

"That's six hours from now, you gotta be freaking kidding me," the Lance Coolie said.

"Thompson, Ramirez you got the rear flank. Kill anyone that is not in a vehicle. You got that?" Howard said in the sternest voice possible.

Ramirez and I both acknowledged Howard's orders, turning around and watching for any movement behind us.

Then I began to lose confidence in myself because I knew my fear of shooting a woman or child was a tremendous liability for me. My worry intensified and my heart rate spiked. Hussein and I swapped weapons so I had the rifle and he had my 9mm. I had the left sector of the rear and Ramirez had the right. We both began scanning our sectors for signs of movement. As I scanned back to my left, I saw two young girls who looked like twins dressed in light colored clothing with multi-colored headscarves. They were just staring at me about thirty feet away. I put them in my sites and asked the Lord to forgive me as my rifle began trembling with anxiety.

"Lord, why ask this of me?"

I took a deep breath and...they had vanished. I was hallucinating. I took my canteen and poured it across my face to get my focus back. My nerves were in unchartered waters and the thought of six more hours of this seemed unimaginable. I felt physically different in my body, in a way that was indescribable. I calmed myself down and the hallucination never returned. We just waited and waited and waited some more.

At six am, I began to get concerned because we had issued an ultimatum with a defined deadline. At 0645 the Lance Coolie performed an operational check on his video camera. At 0658 Howard whispered "Stand by."

"Stand by for what?" I thought to myself.

At 0659, I experienced the longest minute of my adult life.

At 0700 hours, Aidid's men opened fired on our positions with heavy machine gun fire, technicals and anti-aircraft rockets.

I heard someone in the vehicle next to us say "Warm it up Kris!" Lyrics from a song by Kris Kross.

They opened fire on us with tracer (illuminated) rounds, adding to the intimidation factor. I had been on live exercises before, but I remember thinking the bullets were going the wrong way.

The machine gun-mounted Hummers responded first with a blistering burst of firepower. Then the tanks unloaded with thunderous might. Their tracer rounds began spraying us in a slow moving left to right pattern that we could see coming toward us. When it reached us, we braced ourselves hoping not to get hit.

Our left wing mirror got shattered by a burst. And the next burst hit the Hummer to our right, taking out the windshield. No one could see the enemy; to engage, we were just shooting in the direction of the incoming fire. I was watching the front and rear at the same time and so was Ramirez. The camera guy was filming the entire time.

After about five minutes, I heard someone on the net say "Request to return fire!" I thought that was strange because by that time everyone else had responded.

As I focused on our rear flank I saw two attack choppers (AH1 Cobra Gunships) emerge from the buildings behind us. The choppers first launched a lethal heavy machine gun attack that demolished the cement wall. Then it launched a missile. But the missile was off course and we were in its destructive path. I could see the head of the missile and I knew if I jumped out of the vehicle I risked being shot by friendly fire, but that was the safer bet. I bailed out. Master Sergeant Howard was furious.

"Thompson, get back in the vehicle now! Right now!" The missile made a slight right and skimmed right by us.

"Did you see that? Did you see that?" I said as I got back into the vehicle.

"See what?" said Howard.

"The freakin' missile that almost killed us," I said in defense of my actions.

Then Hussein pointed to the long streamer-like tail draped across our right wing mirror.

"What's this?" Hussein asked.

"Damn! That's a wire from a TOW missile. It's wire guided from the chopper. I guess it just missed us," Howard said.

I felt validated by the evidence Hussein was holding. No one saw it but me, and I wish I hadn't because I didn't know it was wire guided. If it had stayed its course, it would have been a direct hit.

Every second of this attack seemed like an eternity. The deafening sound of tank fire and the stench of sulfur weighed heavy on me. The worst part was watching the bursts of machine gun fire shifting towards us and having to brace as it hit. It was like an insane rollercoaster ride that you couldn't get off. The ride was non-stop...for forty minutes.

After forty minutes of engagement, the bursts became more intermittent until they ceased permanently. Although the firefight had ended, I couldn't stop from being overstimulated. Howard looked back at us in the rear.

"Everyone okay?" Howard asked.

Aside from being seconds away from being executed in cold blood, dodging heavy machine gun fire and a near miss from a lethal TOW missile, yeah I was doing just peachy.

#  Chapter 32: Takedown of Aidid's Forces: Part 4

7 January 1993

Imminent Thunder lived up to its bold name and delivered the knockout punch on the backs of the tanks, heavy machine gun fire and attack choppers. Our sub unit was one of the twelve to sweep the compound and help ID Aidid. I saw a number of Aidid's men that were wounded, and a few tried to escape. I heard a few shots but I didn't know if they were kill shots or warning shots. As we dismounted our vehicle inside the compound, I realized we had guests. Journalists and cameramen appeared from nowhere. Major cable news outlets wanted our stories. We had a love-hate relationship with them. They loved writing about us and we hated their stories. I really could not be bothered; I had a job to do. Master Sergeant Howard found some of Aidid's men holed up in a large crate and wanted assistance. On my way there, the interior of the compound was sprayed with sniper fire but we couldn't tell where it was coming from. I saw one of our guys get hit sitting in his vehicle. Ramirez and I hid behind the corner of the building. Howard, Hussein and the cameraman ducked below the cement wall. Someone radioed in for help because the sniper was not visible to us. One of the choppers returned and spotted a sniper and took him out, but we were still getting hit. I was hunched on the ground and Ramirez was scanning both right and left sectors.

"Gunny! I see him! He's in that tall building about 600 yards away."

I couldn't see anything as our side of the building was getting pelted by AK rounds.

"If he would just stay still for a second, I could probably get a shot off," Ramirez said.

I looked up and saw Ramirez aim in, his rifle was steady. His breathing slowed and his body became rigid.

"Sight alignment, sight picture," Ramirez whispered to himself.

He shot.

"Gunny. I got him!" Ramirez yelled.

I looked around the corner and I saw a man hunched over in the window.

The sniper fire ceased.

"Ramirez! You got him, what a shot!" I said as I stood.

At that same time, my elation was stifled at the sound of two other shooters also claiming responsibility.

"Ramirez. I know you got him, and when we get back to base, I will tell the Colonel it was you."

We confiscated a truckload of weapons and detained many of Aidid's men. A few of them spoke decent English. We treated them as the soldiers they were, with respect and dignity. At the conclusion of Imminent Thunder and the safe house take down, we still were no closer to catching Aidid.

# Chapter 33: The Flies Have It

7 January 1993

Our mission was complete around 0900 hours. Everyone was still in high-octane mode as we passed through the safety of our gates. I had a hard time processing what I had just experienced but I felt proud. In my mind, I passed the test. I gave myself a "C," but I gave Ramirez an "A" and I was going to make it my mission in life to see that he got what he deserved. I wrote up my report, handed it in and stood in front of Captain Shaffner's desk.

"Sir. I would like to put Corporal Ramirez in for an award for his actions today. I am sure you have heard about it."

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. Yes I have heard, but I also know that there are two other shooters claiming they made the kill."

"But Captain, you know Ramirez is the only one who could have made a shot like that. He's a distinguished marksman!"

"So what do you want me to do? Recover the body, remove the bullet and do ballistics? You can write up an award if you want to but it won't make it past my desk," Shaffner said with a scowl on his face.

"So can we acknowledge all three of them? That way all could be recognized for their actions?"

"He just did his job! Nothing more! Now get the hell out of my office!" Shaffner shouted as he stood.

I became angry as I walked away. With thirteen years under my belt, I was careful in picking my battles. This would be one of them. I could not walk away in silence. I needed to say my peace. I turned around and spoke my mind.

"Captain Shaffner. The reason why you wear those bars is because of NCOs like Ramirez, who just did their job. Have a good day sir."

The next day I noticed a rash of small itchy red pimples on my left hip. It was painful so I went to the doc. The Navy Corpsman referred me to a medical officer who examined me and gave me a diagnosis.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson, you have developed shingles."

"Shingles? What is that?" I asked as I buttoned up my trousers.

"Shingles is similar to chickenpox and is a member of the same herpetic subfamily. You have an infection in your nervous system."

"I bet I know who gave me this, my ex-girlfriend."

"No, no, no. This is not a sexually transmitted disease. Have you been under some stress recently?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah, you could say that," I responded.

"Well it appears that your immune system has been weakened but not compromised. Normally we see this in much older adults like fifty-ish. In this case it's probably a symptom of traumatic stress."

"Okay. So just give me a shot or pills. It doesn't matter," I said nonchalantly.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. You may have this for the rest of your life. There is no cure for shingles, but we can prescribe medicine to reduce the frequency of attacks. Some of my patients are on suppressive therapy."

"What is suppressive therapy?" I asked, feeling totally uneasy about this freakin' disease that I got that I couldn't get rid of.

"There are two types of therapy. Suppressive therapy is daily medication to minimize the potential for attacks. The other type of therapy is reactive, in response to the viral attacks. I will monitor you to see which type of treatment you will require, but first I need to get you some meds."

The doc then handed me a bottle of blue-colored 400mg horse pills.

"Now let's discuss potential side effects," the doc said.

"Side effects. Doc if this is gonna give me chronic diarrhea or nightmares, I'm gonna struggle to stay on the meds."

"Only 2.2 percent get diarrhea, and there are no reports of nightmares. Eleven percent of patients do complain of an ill feeling, but nothing serious."

"Okay...meds for life. I got it," I said after a big sigh.

Two days later, I found out there were rumors I broke out in hives.

Lance Corporal Knox approached me in passing.

"Hey Gunny. I heard you had hives. I think I do too. Can I show you to see if you got the same thing I have?"

"I don't have hives, it's kind of complicated but you can show me what you have. It might be similar."

He couldn't show me in public so he showed me behind the Operations Center building.

He lowered his trousers and I saw the nastiest boil I had ever seen in my entire life. It was near his inner right thigh. It was huge, full of fluid and there was movement inside.

"What the hell is that? Man you need immediate medical attention." I said in disgust.

Lance Corporal Knox took my advice and went straight to the corpsman. A medic lanced the boil...it was a maggot infestation. He required minor surgery to remove the larvae that burrowed deep under the skin tissue.

When he returned to work, his co-workers gave him a baby shower celebrating the live birth. He saw no humor in the gag. In fact, he spiraled into a mild depression and had his weapon taken off him as a preventive measure.

#  Chapter 34: Mightier than the Sword

8-11 January 1993

The next day I told Ramirez about the Captain's decision not to recognize him for his actions the day before. He wasn't bothered at all.

"Gunny. It's enough for me to know I got the shot off. It will give me something to tell my grandkids one day," he said smiling.

I wrote the award up anyway just so Captain Shaffner had to go through the motions of kicking it back denied. As expected, he denied it.

That night I ran into Staff Sergeant Sheffield at the recreation tent. He was talking to another Staff Sergeant about a JTF Meritorious Sergeant Board. The winner of that board would be promoted on the second of February.

"Sheffield. What's this I hear about a Sergeant Board at JTF Headquarters?"

"Yeah, there are two boards, a Sergeant Board and an NCO of the Quarter Board, both on 11 January. They are looking for a Staff NCO to sit on the boards. I volunteered but they wanted a Gunny. Are you interested?"

I was all over that like a pit bull on a milk bone.

The beauty of the board was, the recommendations were enlisted recommendations. An officer was a senior member of the board but only voted if there was a tie. I could recommend Corporal Ramirez and Captain Shaffner could not block my endorsement. I never once considered NCO of the Quarter because all you got was a handshake and your picture mounted in the corridor. As an NCO, I won a few boards myself and was meritoriously promoted to Sergeant back in 1984, so I knew exactly what needed to be done. I just needed to get Ramirez prepared...in three days.

I sprung the idea on Ramirez that night over two-handed spades. He was excited about it but not very confident.

"Gunny, I'm down with it but you know Corporal Warren will be nominated and he's everyone's favorite son. How can I compete with that?" Ramirez said as he played his little joker on my ace of spades.

"This is a JTF board, not a Security Battalion board. No one knows either of you and my write up for you will be first rate, especially after that shot you made. You can do this!"

"Why are you so intense?" Ramirez said as he took yet another book from me.

"Because a lot is at stake here, and this means a lot to me. It should mean a lot. I have a lot of respect for the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. And this is what Gunnys do. We have two days to get you ready. So when do you want to start?"

"Can we start after I finish busting you up in Spades?" Ramirez said laughing.

I purposely did not tell him I was sitting on the board because I wanted him to earn it and not think I would use my influence to advance him in any way.

We studied custom and courtesies, uniform regulations and tactical maneuvers. We went over and over the same things until I was confident he could pull it off.

"Hey Gunny. What about current events?" Ramirez asked.

I had completely forgotten about current events. We discussed many topics of interest, particularly politics, since we had a new Commander-in-Chief. I hit him with many hypothetical situations and he was exceptional.

The next day was my 32nd birthday. The only thing I wanted for my birthday was to see Ramirez promoted to Sergeant.

The NCO of the Quarter board was scheduled at 1030 and the Meritorious Sergeant board was on for 1130.

On my way to JTF, I saw Ramirez and he waved to get my attention. He looked upset.

"What's up Champ?" I asked.

"Gunny, I just had a chat with Captain Shaffner and he said I was ineligible for the Sergeant board because I had been in the unit less than three months. I am going up for NCO of the Quarter instead."

Ramirez showed me his endorsement. It had been rewritten and signed by Staff Sergeant Sheffield.

I felt hatred at that precise moment and had thoughts that I could never tell anyone.

"Gunny, you spent a lot of time getting me prepared. Because of that, I will do my very best. Why waste all that preparation."

Ramirez was way more mature than I would have been given his position.

I shook his hand and tried to think of a few words of encouragement but I struggled to find any. I just said "You stay focused on the board, I will talk to the Captain later."

I was running a little behind so I high stepped it to JTF to make the two boards.

On the board was a Sergeant Major, two Master Sergeants, a Captain and myself. We waited for candidates for the NCO of the Quarter Board to arrive but Ramirez was the only one in the hallway standing by. The Sergeant Major was angry that no one wanted to support the NCO board, but I knew why no one supported it. There was no real benefit compared to a promotion. At 1045, Marines started to arrive but they were all for the Sergeant board.

Sergeant Major came storming back in the office where we were seated.

"This is bullshit. Both boards need to be supported. Gentlemen, this is how it is going to be. One board, the winner gets Sergeant and the runner up is NCO of the Quarter!"

That perked me right up. It sure did. Ramirez was back in the running. He just had to earn it.

There were nine Corporals vying for Sergeant including Ramirez and Corporal Warren. I had to be objective and put my bias aside. Corporal Warren went first and set the bar at a very high mark. I was impressed. I was particularly impressed with his answer to the question "Why should we promote you to Sergeant?"

"Gunnery Sergeant. You should promote me to Sergeant because my everyday job requires me to interact with all ranks, both officer and enlisted. In those interactions, I must demonstrate courage, knowledge and a high degree of professionalism. I represent the base commander in every encounter and I have to make him look good."

His uniform was impeccable and he could talk the talk. His previous board experience made him a contender, a worthy one at that.

Ramirez was last to be boarded. I was hoping he would be motivated by his second chance. He was, and it showed.

When asked why he should be promoted to Sergeant he responded.

"Master Sergeant. I should be promoted to Sergeant because I am the most technically and tactically proficient among the NCOs here. I realize that these are mere words but I am asking for a chance to prove myself. I will not miss any of your questions and...I am the best damn shot in the NCO Corps."

Board members perused his record book and saw all the documented marksmanship awards. They all noted it on their board sheets. He just needed to answer all the questions right as Warren did. The final question was "What is your basic pay?" He answered it to the penny.

I felt so proud. Ramirez was amazing. But it was up to the board to decide.

"Gentlemen. This is a two-horse race. Who is for Warren?" asked the Captain.

The two Master Sergeants voted for Warren, while the Sergeant Major and I voted for Ramirez. It was up to the Captain to make a decision and the suspense was just too much.

"To be honest, I liked both and would have a hard time choosing one. I have a tie-breaker question and would like to base my opinion on their response."

Corporal Warren went first.

"Corporal Warren. Our new Commander-in-Chief has vowed to let Gays openly serve in our military. What is your personal opinion on the matter?"

Warren looked at each one of us before he answered. Then he cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Sir, my beloved Corps was founded on virtues that have been tested over time. In my opinion the Commander-in- Chief has deviated from the principles that keep our country safe."

Immediately I knew Warren overheard my conversation with Sheffield because his answer was almost verbatim.

Ramirez followed Warren and snapped to the position of attention.

"Corporal Ramirez? What do you think about our President's position on letting Gays serve openly in the US military?"

I was curious about how Ramirez would respond since the topic never came up in conversation.

"Captain. As an NCO of Marines it is not my position to question the judgment of our Commander-in-Chief. However, it is my duty and responsibility to uphold his policies and directives to the very best of my ability."

The two Master Sergeants looked at each other. I looked at the Sergeant Major. We were waiting for the Captain to make his decision.

The Captain called both Warren and Ramirez back in to hear the verdict.

Both marched in and stood at parade rest.

"You have both represented your units admirably and I want to thank you personally for your contribution to this very challenging mission. There are no losers here, just winners. I have made my decision and I don't see any reason to delay. Congratulations Corporal Warren..."

I just hung my head, majorly disappointed.

"You are NCO of the Quarter. And Ramirez...have a seat Sergeant," the Captain said.

How could I contain myself, I was so full of emotion. I wanted to lose my bearing just long enough to do a back flip and get a high five from Ramirez. Nothing else mattered. He pulled it off. He absolutely nailed it. When no one was looking, Ramirez winked at me.

"Corporal Ramirez. Who would you like to pin on your Sergeant stripes?" The Sergeant Major asked.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and...Captain Shaffner," Ramirez responded with excitement in his voice.

"Well I am sure we can arrange that," said the Sergeant Major.

I just needed to break the news to Captain Shaffner...delicately.

Before we made it back to the Operations Center, everyone already knew the verdict, including Captain Shaffner.

He wanted to speak with me in private. He wanted to know what strings I pulled to get Ramirez promoted. He also said that he would try to overturn Ramirez's promotion because he was "not eligible."

"Sir, Corporal Ramirez has requested that you promote him to Sergeant during the ceremony," I said.

"That's cute...real cute. If I get my way there will be no promotion and if there is...I won't have anything to do with it!"

Then the phone started to ring.

Captain Shaffner was so pissed, he just let it ring.

"Just what kind of fitness report do you expect to get from this deployment Gunnery Sergeant Thompson?"

"A fair one," I responded.

"The last Gunnery Sergeant that butted heads with me got promoted to Master Sergeant; apparently I didn't mark him low enough. That won't happen again," the Captain said.

I knew I had to watch my back now. I was just waiting for the Captain's next move. It didn't take long.

The Captain had to be clever in dealing with me. I wasn't stupid enough to let him railroad me without a fight. So he got me the best way he knew how. He took me off patrols and stuck me in the office on nights working 1900 to 0700. Then he re-designated Corporal Ramirez as non-essential personnel and scheduled him to fly out in two weeks. Working nights was impossible in Mogadishu because no one could sleep through the daytime heat for more than a couple of hours at a time. Working nights meant I didn't see much of Ramirez except for when he got off patrol. I had one day off before he left and we played spades for hours. We experienced so much together in such a short time, I knew I was going to miss him. That night, my rash came back, in the exact same place, on my left hip. The morning before he left, Ramirez woke me up and told me he was leaving. I stood up and he gave me a bro hug.

A part of me was leaving too...my sanity. I began to harbor ill feelings toward Captain Shaffner. He was responsible for the heaviness I felt in my heart.

Ramirez saluted me as he left my quarters. He was gone and I had to accept that.

# Chapter 35: The Cover Up

29 January 1993

I was working nights and sometimes I drew comics strips for the day shift to help keep me awake and to lighten things up. Many of us became uneasy because Bosnia was starting to flare up and we needed a break between hostile deployments. Anyways, the Colonel came in unexpectedly and summoned me into his office.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. Over the last week, I have noticed my safe has been unsecured at least three times. I need to know that our classified material is always protected especially during a deployment. I want you to be my witness."

"Witness to what sir?"

"I am removing this confidential document and I will place it in my middle desk drawer. In five minutes, I will recall the entire office and demand an inventory. Maybe this will make them more security conscious," the Colonel said.

Within ten minutes all Operations Center personnel were recalled and sitting in the briefing room waiting for the Colonel to speak.

"Three times this week, I found my safe unsecured. Security has to be uppermost on everyone's mind. I need an inventory conducted right now to make sure nothing has been lost," the Colonel demanded.

Captain Shaffner jumped at the opportunity to conduct the inventory.

"Will do, sir. I have it for action! The Corporal and I will do a thorough inventory and brief you on our findings," Captain Shaffner responded as he stood.

Immediately I approached Warren.

"Warren. If you have any problems come and get me...please," I asked politely.

"Gunnery Sergeant Thompson. I don't take orders from augmentees," Warren snidely remarked.

"If you don't, you will pay and you will pay dearly," I warned him.

"Is that a threat?" Warren asked.

"No. It is a courtesy that you don't deserve," I remarked.

The Colonel saw me speaking with Warren and thought I might be tipping him off.

"Gunny, out of the area! Right now!" the Colonel yelled.

Two hours later the Colonel stopped by my sleeping quarters and advised me that Captain Shaffner was ready to brief him on the inventory results.

The Captain was surprised to see me stroll in the Operations Center with the Colonel.

"Sir. You will be delighted to know that all documents are present and accounted for," the Captain said.

"I would like to see all your destruction reports please," the Colonel replied.

Corporal Warren grabbed the burn report folder and handed it to the Colonel.

The Colonel perused the folder and looked at the most recent burn report dated two days prior. He showed it to me. The document the Colonel stuck in his middle drawer was added to that destruction report and it was signed by Captain Shaffner and Corporal Warren.

The Colonel then went into his office and removed the confidential document that was actually declassified six months prior.

"How is it that this document in my hand is on your destruction report Captain Shaffner, Corporal Warren? Gunnery Sergeant Thompson was my witness. I needed you to give me an honest assessment of my security posture and you both lied to me."

I couldn't believe that Captain Shaffner forged an official document. He took Warren down with him.

As the Colonel left the Operations Center, the Captain pulled me aside.

"You knew. You knew all the time. Why didn't you say something?" Shaffner asked humbly.

"Sir, I tried. I really did but Warren gave me the stiff arm. I am very sorry," I said.

All the things that Captain did to me to make my life miserable didn't matter then. He was going to pay for lying to the Colonel and he knew it. I felt bad for him.

The next day, both Captain Shaffner and Corporal Warren were re-designated non-essential personnel and were banned from the working spaces. Captain Shaffner and Corporal Warren redeployed back to Camp Pendleton one week later. I never saw them again.

# Chapter 36: Revelations

Four Years Later

I was supporting a joint exercise in Korea and there was a crowd gathered around a computer. I was curious and wondered what the fuss was. It was a new phenomenon called the World Wide Web. Tiger Woods had won the Masters his rookie season and people were reading the story on the computer. I was familiar with the internet but at that time, I was only aware of chat rooms and commerce transactions like airline tickets etc. After everyone went to lunch, I took a peek. I was impressed with the new application of the internet. It was an electronic newspaper. After reading about Tiger's impressive victory, I scrolled down to an even more interesting story. "Semi Osman and Son Killed in Ambush." The US was no longer in Somalia so a rival clan must have killed him. I wanted to see what this "Ghost" looked like. After over a year in Somalia we never got Aidid or Semi Osman. I clicked on the link and opened the article.

I wasn't ready for what I saw and it rocked me... it rocked me hard. It was a picture of Semi Osman and his son lying dead in a jeep. I recognized the son, he was my friend Mohamed Ali. I began to reflect on the times we spent together at his residence. The whole time it was his father we were after. I assume that the arm caches he identified were his competitors. I mourned his death, and it was strange because he was the enemy. But I considered him a friend.

#  Chapter 37: LAX Airport: Return to the Rock

1 November 1999

"Hey Gunny T...you okay?" Warrant Officer Barnes asked as he waved his hand in front of my face.

"Sorry about that. Guess I spaced out for a moment," I said.

"The check-in desk just announced they are looking for someone with an escort card. Do you have one?" Barnes asked.

"Yeah I think so. I wonder what's up?" I replied.

I excused myself from Barnes momentarily to enquire at the desk.

"Yes. My name is Gunnery Sergeant Thompson and I have an escort card," I said as I reached in my wallet to retrieve it.

"Well Gunny. We have a prisoner arriving who is AWOL. He is being flown to Okinawa to face a General Court Martial. If you wouldn't mind babysitting we can get you on the flight to Oki."

"Sweet. That will save me a fortune. Sign me up."

I walked back over to Barnes and told him I got a seat on the bird to Oki. He gave me his email address and suggested that I submit for the Combat Action Ribbon supported with a copy of the videotape and his citation for the same firefight on 7 January 1993.

He wished me luck and proceeded to his terminal.

# Epilogue

Present Day

Captain Shaffner was selected for Major; however, he was asked to retire upon his return to Camp Pendleton. He retired after twenty-seven years of faithful service as a Captain.

Corporal Warren was administratively reduced in rank to Lance Corporal for document forgery and decided not to reenlist at the end of his four-year contract.

Corporal Ramirez was meritoriously promoted to Sergeant on 2 February 1993. Eleven years later in 2004, Master Sergeant Ramirez was assigned to the same Air Force base in England as Mr. Thompson (Gunnery Sergeant retired, now a government employee). Ramirez accepted orders to England with his wife of four years and a newborn daughter Luz. Ramirez and Thompson remain in contact...on a first name basis.

Gunnery Sergeant Thompson submitted for the Combat Action Ribbon in December 1999 using the videotape and a copy of Barnes' citation as enclosures. His application was reviewed and denied by a panel in Washington, D.C. In 2000, Thompson retired as a Gunnery Sergeant after serving twenty-one years. In 2012, he began writing his memoirs about his experiences in Somalia.

Mohamed Farrah Aidid was never caught by US/UN Coalition forces. Aidid was assassinated on 24 July 1996 by a rival clan. Leaders of the Aidid's clan (Habir Gidir) named a successor who would become Somalia's next President that same year.

The Habir Gidir Clan appointed the son of Mohamed Aidid as their successor, the former Marine Corps Corporal Hussein Farrah Aidid, interpreter/translator for Operation Restore Hope. According to press reports, Corporal Aidid deployed to Mogadishu in January 1993, and he was forthcoming about who his father was. However, as US/Coalition forces began targeting Aidid's father, Corporal Aidid redeployed back the US.

As Marines, Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen, we are sworn to defend against all enemies foreign and domestic. In upholding that vow, we must put our loyalty to Country above all else. In honoring this commitment, we can be expected to cross many lines...except one.

# Operation Restore Hope Gallery

(Courtesy of the Author)

# Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the US Service members who lost their lives in support of humanitarian relief operations in Somalia from 1992-1993.

(Operation Restore Hope/Continued Hope)

LCPL Domingo Arroyo

PFC Mathew Anderson

Staff Sgt. Brian P. Barnes

LCPL Anthony Botello

CW2 Donovan Briley

SSGT Daniel Busch

CPL James Cavaco

SSGT William Cleveland,Jr

PVT David Conner

Tech. Sgt. Robert L. Daniel

SFC Robert Deeks

Master Sgt. Roy S. Duncan

Staff Sgt. William C. Eyler

SGT Thomas Field

SFC Earl Fillmore, Jr

CW4 Raymond Frank

MSGT Gary Gordon

SPC Mark Gutting

PVT Daniel Harris

SGT. Justin A. Harris

PVT Daniel L. Harris

# Glossary of Terms

Ayan: Pronounced: EYE-AN

Military Leave: Vacation

Chit: Approval Slip

NCOIC: Enlisted Supervisor (usually a Staff Sergeant (E-6) or above

NCO: Corporal or Sergeant

Oorah: A battle cry common in the Marine Corps. It is most commonly used to respond to a verbal greeting or as an expression of enthusiasm.

S-1: Admin Office

Augmentee: Support staff from another unit

MP: Military Police

Skipper: Slang for Captain

Meritorious Rank: Early competitive promotion, gained from a selection board

Marine Cadence: Motivating Marine Corps running or marching songs

ROE: Rules of Engagement

Manifest: Flight roster

Fitrep: Fitness Report Evaluation system for Marines above the rank of Corporal

MRE: Meals Ready to Eat (Field Rations)

J-2: Senior Intelligence Officer in a Joint Staff (Multiple services)

J-3: Senior Operations Officer in a Joint Staff

Lance Coolie:Slang for Lance Corporal (E-3)

AWOL:Absent Without Leave (Unauthorized Absence for extended period)

Garrison: A garrison is the permanent home of a unit. Evening Colors: Retrieval of the flag from the pole during evening hours

Morning Colors: Raising of the flag at 0800

Voluntold: When a superior highly encourages you to volunteer

# About the Author

The author served twenty-one years in the US Marine Corps, from 1979 until 2000. From 9 December 1992 to 21 March 1993, he supported Operation Restore Hope in Somalia. What initially started out as a humanitarian relief effort eventually escalated to a low intensity conflict. The novel Bloodlines is a fictional account based on real experiences.

Front cover image: Echo Co. 2/9 Weapons Platoon USMC, courtesy of Roland Ocampo.

Bloodlines was written in six weeks. Look for the sequel to Bloodlines titled Insider Threat.

www.new-paradigm-publishers.org
