On the twenty-eighth of February, we began the fourth phase — the final withdrawal.
That morning, we took control of the port; and the UN contracted ships which were to evacuate the Bangladeshi Battalion arrived. The condition of the ships was appalling. Yet when I raised this issue back up the line, I was told that they were the best available. Still, I was bothered that these fine soldiers were subjected to such horrible conditions. The Pakistanis, it turned out, were going to get a worse deal.
Appalling conditions or no, the Bangladeshis began their move out.
As they were boarding the ships, we began to receive sporadic firing at our positions guarding the port, and the crowds at the gate started to get more restless, hostile, and threatening.
We meanwhile evacuated the final group of 112 noncombatants to our ships — UN contract employees, non-pool media requesting evacuation, and a few civilian relief workers — for transport to Kenya. Our normal procedure is to search such people before we bring them on board our ships, but in this case I waived that requirement. After we dropped them off, however, I learned that a few of them were carrying drugs, illegal wildlife, and other contraband that had to be confiscated by Kenyan customs. This taught me a lesson about trust.
When these operations had been completed, the time had come for the passage of lines of the Pakistani unit and their move from the airport to the port. Because this operation was sure to unleash the hordes into the airport, I wanted to get the ship carrying the Pakistanis loaded and gone as soon as possible. That way we could quickly leave the port and collapse our lines to the beach south of the airport for our pullout. If everything worked according to plan, we’d be on the beach by nightfall.
The Pakistanis executed a flawless passage of lines and closed on the port in good order. We recovered their equipment and very quickly loaded it on our ship. We then waited for the ship, which the UN had contracted to carry them to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, from where they would fly back to their country. The ship arrived late, having nearly run aground coming into port. When the ship finally pulled in and tied up pier side, it was clear it was too small for the number of troops it was to carry. Worse, the first officer was reporting that the master of the ship was drunk and there was no food or water aboard. It was to be a trip of several days.
It was easy enough to transfer pallets of MREs and water from our ships to the UN ship, but the careless treatment of brave and highly professional troops by the UN was unforgivable.
We were now way behind schedule, and a flood of people, technicals, and looters was pouring onto the airport dangerously close to our lines. There was firing everywhere as friendly militias attempted to take control and chase off the looters. Though the police had taken effective control of the port, we were now taking fire all along our lines. Somali translators shouted warnings and our snipers fired warning shots. This got the attention of the militias, and they started to gain control.
Late that afternoon, Aideed suddenly showed up to claim the airport, breaking an agreement among the warlords to share control. He simply blew in with his people and grabbed it; and the other warlords could do nothing to stop him.
Meanwhile, my hopes to be on our exit beach by dark were fading. It looked like we wouldn’t be moving there until later that night.
As dusk set in, Aideed was not yet in full control of the airport, and rogue gunmen with rifles and RPG launchers were taking up hiding places behind abandoned container boxes and other piled material scattered around, then popping up to take potshots at us. Though we called out warnings with loudspeakers, and close-aimed shots from our snipers were driving them back, my Marine commander, Colonel John Garrett, reminded me that we couldn’t let them stay nearby into the night; it would be very tough to track them then.
He was right, and I had to order the snipers to take them all out. They did. Later, when the press got wind of the story, they wanted to know how many were killed. My response got a lot of coverage. “I don’t count bodies,” I told them. “This isn’t Vietnam.”
Meanwhile, the Marine units holding the last exit beach to our south reported increasingly heavy fire from the militia there. Though helo gunships helped cover the beach area, the militia fighters were well hidden. Because it was growing ever more clear that the last troops off that beach would have a hell of a time, I decided that I would have to leave that night with them.
During the move down to the beach, we put obstacles prepared by the engineers in place behind us. They had also created huge sand dunes that covered our large air-cushioned vehicles rapidly moving our forces and equipment out. At the beach, we evacuated all but the last two companies; these would pull out by amphibious tractor.
Around midnight, I joined Lieutenant Colonel Phil Tracey, the battalion commander of these troops and an old friend. The intensity of the firefight was picking up. The militia was now sending squad-sized units at our lines, but the Marines were instantly cutting them down. I listened on the company tactical nets as young lieutenants and captains directed their troops in the fight — taking me back to Vietnam. One of these voices on the radio net sounded familiar, and Phil confirmed that it was the son of a close friend, a fellow Marine general. Another generation had come to take our place and go through our passage to manhood.
The plan for the final pullout called for the troops on signal to rapidly board the tractors, our AC-130 and helo gunships would keep up their covering fire, and the armored amphibians would make a quick rush for the water before the bad guys could react. Though we had rehearsed this maneuver many times, I worried that a lucky RPG shot could hit a tractor racing for the water. The close quarters fight that followed could be messy.
As the signal flare was fired, my aide, my chief of staff, and I jumped into the back of a nearby tractor. The hatches quickly closed, and the tractors raced in a line to the water. Soon the rumbling down the beach gave way to the gentle ride through the waves. Though the track seemed to jerk and shudder as we rumbled down the beach — as if the transmission had problems — I didn’t worry about it once we hit the water.
I’d heard no explosions, but I told my chief of staff, Colonel John Moffett, to check on the tracks.
“They’re all in the water,” he reported, “and none have been hit by fire.”
I sat back in relief.
By that time, we found ourselves in huge swells, and the swaying of the track and the water pouring through the overhead hatches started to make the Marines sick. A helmet they passed around soon filled. I think I was the only one who did not silently “donate” to the pot. I guess the tremendous feeling of relief kept me straight.
Earlier, I hadn’t worried much when the track hesitated and stuttered as it roared down the beach. But now we were losing power, and smoke was starting to fill our track. John poked his head up into the commander’s cupola, then came down and reported that we had a transmission problem and were going to be taken under tow by another track. I put my hand down on the deck: if incoming water was kept no more than about a foot deep, the bilge pumps were working… It wasn’t and they were.
Soon we could feel the tow, and we all relaxed some. But then it stopped. John poked his head back into the cupola, soon reporting that the tow vehicle was now also dead in the water, and we were both drifting back to the beach.
I stuck my head out and could see the headlights of the technicals back there.
Just then, Corporal Deskins, the track commander, stuck his head down into the troop compartment. “Sir,” he said to me, “here’s the situation. We are on fire and drifting back to the beach. The track that’s towing us is also on fire and drifting back with us. The other tracks have headed back to the ship and we can’t raise anybody on the radio. We have fired flares but have not seen any safety boats. We can see the enemy on the beach.” He then paused and smiled. “But don’t worry, sir. Our machine guns work better on the beach.”
We then popped the overhead hatches and all the Marines climbed on top of the tracks. It was very tricky there, with the swells crashing over the vehicles, but, eventually, a small Navy safety boat responded to the flares, spotted us, and came alongside. Moving troops in high seas from the track to the cramped boat was a sporty event. It was quickly overloaded, and a larger craft had to come to help. After the troops were safely
