Part 1
† Mercutio †
“This is she! This is she!”
“Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.”
“What’s the matter with you, Marine?!” said the man from Naval Investigative Service. Dust blew
all around us. He snatched the goggles from my face. My left side went numb. I opened my mouth
to speak but no sound came out. There was only a sucking noise.
I fell to the street, just 500 meters from the gate of our compound at the edge of Mogadishu city. I
watched the sky roll by while men carried me. I heard the rotors of a CH-53 Sea Stallion. Someone
placed an oxygen mask over my face. Gunny had finally done it, he’d killed me.
****
I opened my eyes, gasping, punching with my fists. The Humvee was empty. I opened the door and
stepped out into the pre-dawn. I rubbed my hands over my face. It was zero dark-thirty. The beach
and the city behind me were quiet now.
A shot was fired near the fence-line, by 7th motor T. The air smelled of salt.
On the other side of the compound sat a beach-front country club. The USS Carl Vincent aircraft
carrier dropped anchor 1000 meters offshore. Colonel Reap and the admiral crested a hill of sand.
They walked to the first tee of the 9 hole golf course. Their silhouettes moved across the rising sun.
I straightened out my cammies.
I reached back into the Hummer for a clipboard, initialed a box at the bottom of one of the new duty
forms, and slung my M-16 over my shoulder. I walked onto the green.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, saluting.
“Outstanding morning, devil dog,” said colonel Reap. “Excuse me admiral. Sergeant, our interpreter
is down there with the zodiac. Help him stow his gear then get him to the morning brief.”
“Aye, sir,” I said.
I saluted then walked down a decline of sand. A sport fishing yacht flying an American flag floated
offshore. Men in uniform moved about her deck. A dingy rested on the beach up ahead. A dark
green marine in desert cammies threw his seabag ashore.
“Welcome to Somalia, corporal,” I said.
“I was born here, sergeant,” he said. We shook hands. His were soft.
“Welcome home then, corporal,” I said. I looked at his name tag then grabbed his pack. “You drive,” I said, “I’ve been on duty all night. I’ll probably kill us.”
A cluster of gunfire erupted in the distance. Corporal Fahrad and I crossed the green to the dirt road
that led back to the compound and to reality. We put on flack jackets and kevlar helmets then
climbed into the Humvee, I checked the safety on my M-16
“Take the dirt road all the way to the beginning of the razorwire,” I said, “When it becomes paved,
take that road all the way to camp. There’s a command det. with colors flying out front. Park behind
any of the vehicles, then wake me.”
“Okay, sergeant,” said corporal Fahrad, “How long will it take to get there?”
“About two minutes,” I said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all you’ll ever get around this place,” I said, “5 to 10 minute power-naps at various intervals
throughout the day and night. No one sleeps for any consecutive periods of time.”
“Are you serious?”
“Ask me that three nights from now,” I said.
We drove. I watched the Indian Ocean through Fahrad’s window. I didn’t want to look at the city
just yet. I nodded.
“Wake up Wagner!”
I opened my eyes. Gunnery sergeant Higgle thrust his head through my open side window. Corporal
Fahrad stood behind him at parade rest.
“And just like that you’re a dead man,” said Gunny Higgle. He opened my door. “Come on,
sergeant. Lock it on a bit for the corporal here. Don’t teach him how to get killed his first day in this
god-forsaken place.”
“He’s from here,” I said. I climbed from the vehicle then elevated the muzzle of my M-16.
“Well twist my balls in a bow,” said Gunny, “Ain’t that kind of a conflict of interest there,
corporal?”
“I don’t understand,” said Fahrad.
“He’s the interpreter,” I said.
“Fair enough,” said Gunny, “Not trying to offend, just situation awareness, devil dogs. Gotta keep
her tight before the money-shot. Follow me, boys, you’re late.”
We followed Gunny. It was 05:40 hrs. March 28th, 1994. We entered a tent full of officers and
enlisted men. Thousands of Marines from the 15th MEU (Marine Expeditionary Unit. Part of the Marine Air Ground Task Force from Camp Pendleton, California) hit the beaches back in December. Gunny and I’d been here since August. We’d lost 18 men and two Blackhawk helicopters in October. A
thirty thousand-man media circus called Operation Restore Hope didn’t do much to help matters. President Clinton ordered all U.S. Forces to withdraw from Somalia by the 31st of the month. Everyone was going home. Everyone except for us.
“Alright, listen up!” said a Major in desert cammies. “Eyeballs!” The tent fell silent. “Let’s just talk security for a moment,” said the major, “Since General Aidiz continues to defy the United Nations, even though we are pulling out, we will still utilize all necessary means-”
“Ooh-rah!” said a sergeant in sunglasses.
“Easy, hard-charger,” said the major, “all necessary means to ensure the protection of the relief
efforts. That includes this compound.” His eyes searched the faces of the men standing in the tent.
“Gunnery sergeant Higgle?”
“Sir,” said Gunny.
“I want security det. to commence building to building sweeps and disarm the local population
around the perimeter of the-”
“Country club?” said someone.
“Supply Det,” said the major, “And do not take this lightly, devil dogs. Just because you’re short
and ready to go home does not necessarily mean you will make it there. Plenty of marines in this
room have seen what kind of price there is to pay for those who fuck around.
We have snipers in the buildings behind 7th motor’s fence-line again. I want that shit suppressed
before the final convoys arrive.”
“Aye sir,” said Gunny.
We all looked to one another.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” said the major, “We’re meeting our final relief flights at the airport for
one last tango in Paris. We’ll run six 5-ton trucks loaded with supplies then a Humvee with a 50cal.
on its roof in escort. Another six trucks then a Hummer and so on. The convoy will travel past the
Bermuda Triangle and down the green line. That means crossing the territories of two warlords, four militant sub-factions, and the generally pissed-off local population. The route ends right here at
the Supply depot."
(Bermuda Triangle: A triangular area inhabited by General Aidiz's Abgaal rivals, in the middle of south Mogadishu. Vehicles go
in but seldom come out.)
(The Green Line: The demarcation line between north and south Mogadishu, between Aidiz's forces and Ali Mahli's.)
“Rules of engagement sir?” said a captain in the front.
“We come in peace, if you fuck us we will kill you,” said the major, “That’s pretty much the policy
for the moment. But remember, gentlemen, you will still be under the all seeing eye of the
Associated press, CNN, the BBC, and fucking Telemundo. The media is everywhere, Marines. Do not make me have to grab my ankles in front of the old man because you did something stupid on TV. Cause if I’m grabbing mine then you’re definitely grabbing yours, understand me?”
“Yes sir!” we all said.
“Situation awareness, gentlemen,” said the major, “This general Aidiz is a real piece of shit,”
Corporal Fahrad swallowed.
“Anticipate and stay focused on the task at hand. If you get killed on my watch, marines, you will
be in a world of shit.” The major stood at attention.
“Atten-tion!” Said a first sergeant. We all complied. He saluted the Major.
“Carry out the plan of the day,” said the major. He saluted then left. We filed out of the tent behind
him, putting our helmets back on.
“You’ll need a weapon,” I told corporal Fahrad.
“Slow down, devil dog,” said Gunny. “He doesn’t need anything yet. Gather the troops behind the
command post. I’m gonna take a dump in the new porta-johns then meet you in five minutes.” He
walked off.
“Is he always like that?” said corporal Fahrad.
“Only if he’s had plenty of rest,” I said, “So you’re the only marine in the entire corps who speaks
Somali then.”
“Yes,” said Fahrad, “I never realized, I’m, well I’m a reservist.”
“and?”
“And I just do this stuff on the weekends, man.” His chest heaved. He looked around our perimeter.
“I was in my engineering class at Long Beach State,” said Fahrad, “Two marines showed up and
told me to follow them. We, no one told me I was going to be...” Fahrad’s eyes glistened.
“Come on, devil dog,” I said. “ Pull it together.”
Maybe I should have stayed in school after all, I thought. I envied corporal Fahrad for a moment,
then I didn’t envy him at all. “Could always be worse,” I said. “Let’s go, we’ve got about two
minutes to get squared away.”
“Two minutes?” said corporal Fahrad.
“Like I told you,” I said. My thumb clicked the safety on my M-16 to the fire position. “Ready...
Move!” We jogged down a row of cargo pallets stacked in columns. I watched the buildings on the
other side of the fence-line as we ran. Empty windows flashed in between the rows. I looked back at
corporal Fahrad. His eyes were wild, staring straight ahead.
