The good captain, p.13
The Good Captain, page 13
First, I had to get kitted out. As directed, I met with the Marine headquarters commandant, explained my situation, and asked for an issue of basic equipment, beginning with a weapon. He indignantly refused. Clearly, inter-service cooperation had its limits. Suddenly inspired, I looked up the Army Special Forces staff element attached to the headquarters, where a very non-bureaucratic sergeant squared me away with some boots and uniforms.
That still left the problem of a weapon. Gunfire crackled non-stop around Mogadishu and to go around unarmed was crazy. I returned to the USLO compound, where the caretaker, an ex-French para named Raymond, listened sympathetically. He was something of a legend. Raymond carried an M79 grenade launcher and a Glock pistol everywhere, accompanied by a dozen fanatically loyal Somalis, all veterans of many years of street fighting. “Did you bring any cash?” he inquired. “About $300,” I replied. “Bon. Give it to me and I’ll be back in an hour.” True to his word, he left for a quick visit to the Bukhara arms bazaar downtown, returning shortly with a 9mm Beretta handgun and a brand-spanking new Israeli Galil assault rifle and three magazines. (I gave them both to Raymond when I returned home, as he probably knew I would. That may explain the discount price!) I felt safer already.
That night, I attended the nightly briefing at UNITAF as usual, when a Marine colonel confronted me. “That is a non-standard weapon. I’m confiscating it. Hand it over.” Still smarting from my earlier reception at the hands of the Marines, I resisted. “All due respect, Colonel, but I don’t work for you. I’m assigned to the ambassador. And since nobody around here will issue me a weapon, I’m keeping this one.”
And so, the adventure began. USLO was staffed with about 25 State Department and USAID staff members. Most were young and hungry but experienced in the region. Many were women. All, it turned out, were fearless and committed. The team slept side by side on cots in a large common room, sharing a single bathroom and coming together for communal meals and staff meetings. I quickly settled into a regular “battle rhythm,” attending morning and evening staff briefings at the former U.S. Embassy compound, now occupied by I MEF/UNITAF, coordinating Ambassador Oakley’s movements and travel with the military staff, and then briefing Oakley and his staff on the military situation afterwards.
On the ground, Lieutenant General Johnston and Oakley worked closely to coordinate political and military efforts to rush humanitarian assistance to threatened areas. I MEF provided senior, experienced liaison officers to meet regularly with USLO and with UN and relief agencies (one, Colonel Mike Hagee, went on to become the 33rd commandant of the Marine Corps). Both military and civilian representatives worked together in Civil-Military Operations Centers in the capital and in outlying areas to plan and execute humanitarian assistance operations. Somalia was organized into large Humanitarian Relief Sectors, each placed under a capable coalition unit, to ease coordination and command and control challenges. Somali leaders were brought together frequently to hammer out solutions to local conflicts in meetings brokered by Oakley in the neutral setting of the USLO compound.
One of my duties was to facilitate these meetings of local leaders. Mogadishu was more or less partitioned into two armed camps. Aidid’s Habr Gidr clan controlled the south. Ali Mahdi and his Abgal fighters ruled the north. The so-called “Green Line” divided the city down the middle. Almost daily I would head off across town accompanied by a young Foreign Service officer and a Somali driver, who carried an AK47 and chewed constantly on the narcotic khat, a ubiquitous Somali stimulant. Interestingly, both driver and vehicle were rented from Mohammed Farah Aidid, victor in the civil war and ruler of south Mogadishu, whose compound was located only 100m from ours. He would later become our nemesis. For now, he was a partner.
Looking back, these excursions seem utterly harebrained. Mogadishu was extremely dangerous, and we traveled about protected by little more than American flags taped to the windshield and our good intentions. On one trip a Somali male in a crowd, missing a leg and leaning on a crutch, pulled out a .45 caliber pistol and fired at me from no more than 10m away. Why he wanted to kill me, or how he missed, I’ll never know.
On another occasion we were stopped by a primitive roadblock north of the Green Line. A “technical”—a Toyota pickup truck mounting a heavy machine gun and carrying some eight militiamen—appeared from a side alley. I got out, along with my State Department colleague, leaving my rifle in the vehicle and my pistol holstered. Suddenly a Somali male dismounted and came towards us on foot, brandishing an RPG7 rocket launcher on his shoulder. My diplomatic sidekick yelled something in Somali, but still he came on. At about 50m—“can’t miss” range—he brought it up to firing position with his finger on the trigger. I quickly ran through my options. I could shoot him, but he could pull the trigger faster than I could get my weapon out, and his friends would kill us if the rocket didn’t. We could run, but my driver would likely be killed (he was Habr Gidr and definitely on the wrong side of town) and we would be cut off, on foot, and isolated. We could try and talk our way out, but my colleague had been doing that for several minutes with no effect. As a crowd formed, I found myself desperately wishing I had about a hundred U.S. paratroopers with me. But I didn’t.
Thoroughly frightened, I watched in amazement as an elderly looking Somali man pushed through the crowd to confront the gunman. Carrying a long slender stick, he shouted at my adversary, beating him across the arms and shoulders with the stick. In the distance, his friends laughed merrily. After a moment the gunman sheepishly lowered the launcher and ambled away. Clearing away the roadblock, we continued on our way. That night, Oakley chuckled as I told him the story. “Aw, he was just having fun with you. These boys aren’t going to take on the USA unless the big guys tell them to, and that’s not going to happen.”
Both Aidid and his number two and financier, Osman Atto, participated regularly in these meetings, along with Ali Mahdi and his chief lieutenants. Aidid was tall, lanky, with sharp features and a cunning and intelligent if not intellectual air. Atto was more heavy set, a multimillionaire who nevertheless had a reputation for ruthlessness (he once crossed the Green Line into enemy territory to recover a prized vehicle, a Toyota Landcruiser, stolen from him, killing the thieves personally). At the outset, Somali factional leaders were told politely but firmly that, while the intention was not to impose any particular ruler or system of government in Somalia, no armed threat would be permitted to challenge U.S. or UN troops. All “technicals” were required to be stored in monitored cantonment areas, and no weapons could be carried visibly in public.
The results were immediate and dramatic. By the end of December, massive amounts of food aid were flowing freely and the death toll from starvation had dropped exponentially. Armed clashes between warring factions had declined precipitously and U.S. casualties were low. Although nominally a UN operation, Operation Restore Hope was clearly a U.S.-led effort. Both Aidid and Ali Mahdi, anxious to position themselves as future national leaders with U.S. backing, generally cooperated with U.S.-sponsored initiatives to encourage local and regional cooperation. In Mogadishu and elsewhere, joint councils actually emerged to manage port operations, police functions and other forms of public administration. The process was not smooth. Simmering clan tensions and occasional clashes persisted and attempts to encourage cooperation between rival factions failed as often as they succeeded. Still, the primary task of “stopping the dying” was a major success. Throughout December and January, the U.S. approach was consistent and focused: don’t take sides, focus on the humanitarian mission, and avoid direct confrontation where possible—and when not, act forcefully and directly.
Early on, it became clear that the port operations, the lifeline of the relief effort, were in chaos. As might be expected, the Navy had assumed control at the outset, but running a large civilian port was actually far outside their expertise. In a planning meeting, I mentioned that I was not a subject matter expert but understood that the Army Reserve included harbor masters for this very purpose. A call went out, and in short order, Chief Warrant Officer Eddie Johns arrived to take charge.
In civilian life, Chief Johns was a harbor master at the Port of Baltimore, where coping with fractious city officials, difficult union bosses, and local organized crime were part of the job description. His transition to our environment in Mogadishu was rapid and high impact. In very short order, Johns had sorted out the local clan dynamics, wage structure, porterage and lighterage, warehousing, stevedore work gangs, port security, customs and excise, pilotage, marine safety inspections, and a hundred other details. He brooked no interference from senior military officers and ran his domain with a cold competence that was awesome to behold. Pilferage declined dramatically and port throughput jumped almost immediately. Here was a very special professional.
As UNITAF expanded out into the countryside, Oakley often preceded military units by flying in the day before to coordinate with local leaders. He traveled with almost no security, but was often accompanied by two young FSOs, John Fox and Don Teitelbaum. Both were incredibly brave. (Teitelbaum was named ambassador to Ghana in 2008.) I developed a lifelong admiration for U.S. diplomats and aid workers, willing to go into dangerous environments with little or no protection. In later years, I would often remind military colleagues, complaining that “State just won’t get into the fight,” that seven U.S. ambassadors had been killed in the line of duty since the 1960s, though no U.S. generals or admirals had been.
On December 23, several intelligence officers struck a mine just outside Bardera, in the Juba River valley east of the Kenyan border. Three were wounded and one, former special operations soldier Lawrence Freedman, was killed. We learned about the incident from CNN, which frequently moved more quickly than the military or intelligence agencies in passing real-time information. Back home, Beverly was at work with an engineering firm in Washington when a colleague told her, “There’s a report that the ambassador’s military assistant was just killed by a landmine in Somalia.” For six hours she thought she was a widow, until I was able to place an INMARSAT phone call to reassure her. This incident marked the first U.S. fatality in Somalia. It would not be the last.
Meals at USLO seemed to materialize at regular intervals, but I never learned who prepared them or where they came from. At noontime one day, as I returned from a meeting, I noticed an adorable baby goat tethered to a tree in the courtyard. I began to pet and play with the kid until Raymond happened by. “Don’t get too attached, mon ami,” he warned me. “That’s your lunch there!”
Christmas Eve 1992 was spent memorably on the compound roof with Fox, Teitelbaum and a group of other young FSOs determined to celebrate regardless of conditions. Though a military officer, I was assigned to the U.S. diplomatic mission and so did not fall under the famous “General Order No. 1” which proscribes alcohol on operations. Though I was careful not to overindulge, we made merry over red wine and cigars late into the evening, as Mogadishu lit up—like every night—in a sparkling crescendo of tracer fire and explosions. We could not be sure what tomorrow might bring. But that night, we enjoyed being young and alive.
A few days later I visited a small village about 40km north of Mogadishu with several USAID officers. There I met Valerie Place, a young aid worker working with Irish Concern, a relief agency focused on delivering food and medical assistance to impoverished Somalis. Valerie was young, energetic and committed, but seemingly oblivious to the dangers of working virtually alone in the middle of a war zone. During a tour of the small village, she said, “Look around. What’s missing?” I noted, “Children—there are almost no young children.” She said, “That’s right. Probably a third die before age five due to disease. And when food is short, the adults eat first. That’s Somalia.” Seeing my reaction she added, “Don’t be too judgmental. People here live close to the edge of survival. In this culture, you can always have more children when times get better. You can’t if you’re dead.” I pondered that for a moment. Though not a Western sentiment, I had to admit that in a curious and maybe twisted way, there was a certain logic in that.
Once a week Valerie would drive down to Mogadishu to pick up the payroll for her Somali employees and consult with her bosses. I warned her that traveling without security was unwise. The cash and her vehicle and radio alone made her a tempting target. She laughed off my concerns, but on February 22, 1993, she was ambushed and killed by bandits on her weekly money run. Valerie was a pure soul, the kind of person you remember long after others fade from memory. But her purity was not enough to protect her in a place like that.
After a few days, Ambassador Oakley began to involve me in more substantive things. More and more often I was asked to draft cables and summarize intelligence reports. We began to see more and more reporting about a shadowy Islamic extremist group trying to establish a foothold in Somalia. One report in particular identified a Saudi Arabian jihadi named Osama bin Laden as a key figure in the movement of more than 5,000 RPG launchers and rounds into the country. Most intelligence agencies discounted these reports on the grounds that the Somali brand of Islam was fairly casual and not receptive to extremist groups. That may have been true at the time. But six months later U.S. and coalition troops began to encounter the RPG in massive numbers.
I also began to attend meetings at UNITAF and to interact with more senior figures. One was Brigadier General Anthony Zinni, the UNITAF J3 or operations officer. Zinni was jovial, a short, square, physically powerful officer with arms like Popeye and a sharp mind (he would move with light speed from one to four stars and would be named commander in chief of U.S. Central Command, overseeing the entire Middle East, only four years later). Zinni was clearly the center of gravity of the military effort, a leader with boundless energy, real charm—and the ability to hide a steel fist in a velvet glove.
Early in January, I attended a meeting of all the major and minor clan leaders in the Mogadishu area at UNITAF headquarters. Zinni politely greeted the Somali leaders before coming to the point. “Gentlemen, we’ve asked for your cooperation, but several of our convoys have been fired upon in the past few days.” He held out an open hand. “Here are some of the bullets taken from our vehicles. We know your young men do not do this without your permission. Please have no illusions. If this continues, we will be forced to act.”
On January 7, after another incident, the Marines put up a flight of four Super Cobra attack helicopters and destroyed a cantonment area, killing and wounding more than 30 Somali militiamen. I remember the incident well, as the helos hovered just above our compound while the spent casings rained down around us. The target was in Aidid’s part of town, but the incident might well have been carried out by rival tribes hoping to provoke a response. In the surreal logic of Somalia, all understood the deal. The warning had been fairly given. Aidid was expected to control his turf and his men. Unquestionably he had failed to do so, and the response was within the rules. Life was cheap, and a few dozen foot soldiers were easily replaced.
On January 10, things became more personal. Among other duties, I supervised the Marine security detail at USLO, six Marines under a young sergeant, usually posted on the compound roof at night. They relished this detail, as CNN rented the compound next door; the Marines often watched, with excellent night vision gear, the urgent, late-night couplings of amorous reporters and staff on the compound roof. I usually slept topside in the open air, while the ambassador slept in a bedroom below, guarded by four more State Department security officers for close protection.
At about midnight our world exploded when a fusillade of shots erupted, sending dozens of bullets into Oakley’s bedroom wall. The Marines hit the ground as concrete chips flew around us, the rounds tearing past just over our heads. The young sergeant screamed, “Two shooters, west side!” I knew that in seconds, one or both would have to reload, and with seven rifles we could put some heavy lead down on them. But the adjacent courtyard would likely have civilians in the line of fire (servants often slept outside). I peeped over the retaining wall encircling the roof, to be answered by a furious burst of fire. “Okay,” I shouted, “single shots only. I’ll call the QRF.” UNITAF maintained a small Quick Reaction Force of four-gun jeeps that could roll in 10 minutes. Moments later I was on the radio to the Operations Center. As our Marines returned fire, bobbing and ducking, I radioed, “This is USLO. We’re taking direct fire from close range. Request QRF, over.”
A calm voice replied, “Acknowledged. ETA in 20 minutes. QRF call sign is DAGGER 63. Stay on this push. If you need something quicker, contact Marine Sniper Team positioned at K7 on frequency Fox Mike 76:28. Call sign PITFALL. Standing by.”
A Marine sniper sounded like just the ticket at a time like this. I changed frequencies and called PITFALL. “You know where we are?” A laconic voice answered, “Negative. It’s a big city, Mac.” I said “Okay. We’re one klick northwest of the K4 traffic circle. Marking my location. Stand by.” I had a couple of chemlites stashed in the cargo pocket of my fatigue pants. Cracking one and lashing it to the long whip radio antenna, I waved it frantically. “My signal is out. Can you identify?” PITFALL came back quickly. “Oh yeah. Got you solid.” I continued. “See the muzzle flashes just to my west?” “Roger roger.” “Great. Please shoot them.”
A few seconds later a shot rang out from the roof of the building code-named K7, 800m away, followed by two more. My laconic Marine came back on the radio. “Targets eliminated. Have a nice day.” I called UNITAF to cancel the QRF, and hustled downstairs to brief Oakley. He appeared to have slept through the whole thing—or at least, his sangfroid was very convincing. The next morning, we found two bodies lying outside on the dirt road, an 18-year-old male, shot in the chest, and a 16-year-old, shot in the head. I felt bad. These were only kids. Still, they came at us, in the dark, with guns in their hands, trying to kill us. They didn’t leave us much of a choice.
