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 Olym
pic 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.<
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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