Operation Restore Hope Part IV
The one where I meet interesting people from around the world.
Last time I continued my recollections of my time in Somalia during Operation Restore Hope. Click below if you missed it.
Today I’ll continue with more recollections of that strange and interesting time and place.
The Marine Corps’ infinite wisdom.
In December 1993, just as I was shipped off to 3/9, word came down from Headquarters, that since this would be a humanitarian mission, 3/11 wouldn't be bringing our artillery and we were being reclassify as “Provisional Infantry”. However, no one thought that 3/9 didn't need a F/O team if there wasn't going to be an artillery fire to call in, and we were sent there anyway. Then UNITAF decided that 3/11 wouldn’t arrive in Somalia with the first wave of troops, they would be part of the second wave of units entering the country. It turns out that I went to Somalia two months earlier than I would have had I not been picked for the forward observer team. Thanks a lot! Some time in late January, when 3/11 finally joined me in Somalia, the Forward Observers and I were sent back to 3/11. UNITAF also decided that 3/11 would not be based at the soccer stadium like most of the other US units in country. We were sent to a different part of the city, an area closer to the Green Line that separated the Aidid and Ali Mahdi forces. In my view, as someone with almost two months experience in Somalia, a much more dangerous place, especially for a unit that was just pretending to be an infantry unit.1
We occupied a partially destroyed hotel, that we ended up calling the Sandbag Hilton. Nearly an entire side of the building had been blown away, and there were many other large holes, that all had to be filled in to make it livable for us. So, everyday three dump trucks would pull up, and deposit a huge pile of beach sand outside our building. Half of us2 would start filling sandbags while the other half would put them in place. It is very hot in Somalia and it was even hotter with helmets and flak jackets on. Every day after working a while in all that gear, we would ask to take them off, but that only lasted as long as there wasn’t gunfire in the area, which was never long enough. We did this for a week straight, all day, every day. I don’t remember the exact number of bags we filled but it was over 25,000, hence the name, Sandbag Hilton.
Guns to left of me, guns to right of me, into the alley of death drove the 25.
We conducted the same kind of patrols and checkpoints as I had with 3/9, just not as proficient as a real infantry unit. The Green Line was always a more tense environment, with Aidid forces on one side and Ali Mahdi forces on the other, and sometimes we would get caught in the middle. I remember one incident that happened not long after I rejoined 3/11. The officers had planned out a vehicle patrol route that wound through the eastern part of the city, crossing and recrossing the Green Line multiple times. The idea was to remind both factions that US forces were neutral, and we could, and would, go wherever we wanted. The problem turned out to be, that while the Somali factions might view the US as neutral, they still were fighting their rivals, and they didn’t care who was in the way. The patrol was comprised of two armored humvees and two with canvas covers over the cargo/troop area along with 25 Marines.
Everything was going fine as we snaked through the city looking for technicals and weapon caches. There was a portion of the route that ran right down the Green Line for three blocks. When we got to that section of the route we found that the two Somali factions were having quite a battle along that three block stretch. They were an unknown number of gunmen on both sides firing rifles, machine guns, RPGs and throwing hand grenades. The patrol commander, another 2nd Lieutenant, decided that was the route that had been planned out and that was the way we were going to go.3 He believed that the Somalis would stop firing if an American convoy drove between the combatants, boy was he wrong! He vetoed the concerns of the sergeants and told us to quit complaining and drive on. We hunkered down, and the drivers put their gas pedals to the metal, and down the street we drove. Not only did the Somalis not stop firing, I think they deliberately started shooting at us, kind of like people on a golf course driving range when the ball picker goes out. When we got through the three block section and turned down out next road, we stopped to make sure everyone was ok. By some miracle no one was hit, but some of us had real close calls. I was in one of the unarmored humvees and when I sat up I saw that there was a bullet hole 1/4 inch above where my head had been and there was another Marine who had a bullet hole in his pant leg! Needless to say we were all very mad that this 2nd lieutenant put us in danger for no good reason. He was given a written reprimand for his decision, and that pretty much was the end of his career although he wouldn’t know that for a few years yet.4
Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water.
Another close call for me was when a group of us were allowed to go down to the beach by the airport and go swimming in the Indian Ocean. I love the water, and love to go body surfing whenever the chance presents itself. That day I could see that there was a reef about a 1/4 mile off shore and could see some good waves breaking there. I decided to go out there and see if I could catch a few. Another one of the radio operators, Corporal Coco (yes, that is his real name) asked if he could come with me and I agreed. We started off just walking through the water until it was up to my shoulders (I’m 5’6” and he was just a little shorter than me) then I started bouncing off the bottom until it was too deep for that and I started swimming. By then I had about 50 yards before I would reach the reef and I wasn’t concerned. However, from behind me I heard a panicked voice yell “are you touching the bottom?” I turned around and there was Cpl. Coco 75 yards behind me, trying to stay above the water.5 I asked him what he was doing and his reply shocked me, “I thought we could walk all the way out there, I can’t swim!” This shocked me on two levels, 1. every Marine is required to pass a series of swimming tests in order to graduate from boot camp, and how did he make it through? 2. If he can’t swim, why the hell did he come out here with me? I could see that he was getting tired and even more panicky and I knew I was going to have to get him back to where he felt comfortable. I swam back to him, told him to relax and float and I would drag him back in. In his state I figured I’d need to get him to waist deep water before I could let him go. He wasn't fighting me, in fact he was doing exactly what I asked of him, just floating and letting me do the work, but I was getting tired and all I could think was, how mad I would be if I drowned trying to save some dumb corporal while swimming for fun, in a combat zone. That didn't happen and we both made it back to the beach safely. When the communication platoon commander got wind of what had happened, no one was allowed to go more than waist deep in the water the rest of their time there. However, I would dodge that rule later in my stay in Somalia.
Michigan Marine and the Raiders of the Hidden Ammunition.
3/11 was also responsible for the single largest seizure of weapons and ammunition during Operation Restore Hope and I was in the thick of it. It was just dumb luck, but it still counts. On January 30, 1993, we were conducting a routine patrol in the northeastern area of the city. It was an area that hadn't seen a lot of UNITAF activity. The patrol was two five-ton trucks with 30 Marines and I was in my usual post at the .50 cal. It was boring for most of the ride, no kids were around, no one shot at us and we weren't caught in any donkey-caused traffic jams. As we turned to return to the Sandbag Hilton, we drove past a large fenced in area of warehouses. The chain-link fence was covered with plastic so we could see the roofs of the buildings but what else was inside was hidden. As we got to the gate, which was uncovered, I looked over and saw a 20mm antiaircraft cannon, just sitting there, just like the one in the Aidid compound earlier in the month. I couldn't believe my eyes and pounded on the roof of the cab, yelling for them to stop and tell the other truck. We stopped, backed up, and there it was, the antiaircraft cannon, plain as day. The lieutenant came back and also couldn't believe his eyes. We didn't need orders or permission to enter the compound, so we cut the lock on the gate and drove in. There was one Somali guard and a Boran cow inside the compound, both giving us dirty looks.
The guard was anywhere between 60 and 160 years old, and didn't speak English. We didn't speak Somali or Italian of course, but we got our point across that we were going to be searching the warehouses. There were twelve in all, we started at one end and cut the locks one at a time to search each building. The guard and his cow followed us down the line and at each building we would point to our weapons then the warehouse and he would shrug his shoulders and shake his head no. That's the way it went for the first ten warehouses. When we got to the eleventh building the guard got really nervous, but still shook his head no when asked about weapons. When we opened those doors we were flabbergasted at the amount of weapons and ammunition inside. We quickly opened the other warehouse and found that it was full almost to the rafters just like the last one. None of us had ever seen that much ammunition in one place. There were boxes of Chinese hand grenades, Russian mortars, American machine guns, rifles from around the world, handguns, RPGs and thousands of rounds of ammunition. The strangest thing I saw in there was a US jeep with a Sidewinder air to air missile mounted on a rail in the back. No one knew if that would even work, but there it was and it looked kind of cool. I called in the massive discovery and before we knew it there were a hundred people, including Major General Charles Wilhelm, the commander of all Marine forces in Somalia, there to check it out. All of whom were in awe of the size of this cache. The man and his cow were questioned as to who owned the warehouses but he was not able to provide much information.6
The two warehouses contained 1,872 155mm howitzer shells,1,780 81mm mortar rounds, 90 60mm mortar rounds, 1,932 hand grenades, 20 heavy machine guns, 15 light machine guns, as well as assorted rifles, submachine guns and hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition of various types. The newspaper article I found from the New York Times, did not mention the missile jeep, probably because no one thought it would work. It took the rest of the day for the all the ammunition and weapons to be loaded onto trucks and taken away. It ended up being 18, 5-ton truck loads, around 90 tons in all.7 You will notice that I didn't say that we found any artillery pieces or mortars to go with all that ammunition. Another unit found two howitzers two days later across town. They weren't going very far, both howitzers had flat tires and the Somalis didn’t have any trucks big enough to tow them. The mortars were found scattered across the city.
Just when you thought I was back where I belonged.
A week or so after that crazy day, I was back at the Hilton, waiting for a patrol to go out, when the lieutenant called for me, never a good thing. As I approached, he said “Grenda, I've got an assignment that you'll be perfect for.” Now I'm really freaked out because, if you have been “hand picked”, it must be really bad. He continues by saying “I think, you have the right temperament for this, you always keep your composure, you can think on your feet and you're one of my best radio operators.” All of this was true but, I knew it must be a truly horrible assignment, if he's buttering me up this much. I also knew that I didn’t get a say in this, so it really didn't matter what I thought.
I said “what is it sir, quit trying to make sound good and just tell me.” He sat me down and told me he had been tasked with providing a radio operator to be part of a two-man liaison team for one of the other UNITAF countries. He said that I would be paired with a Marine officer that spoke the language of that country if it wasn’t English, and that was pretty much all he knew. I asked if he knew what country I’d be assigned to, but he did not. He said that I would find out when I got the UNITAF HQ at the airport. I asked if he knew how long this assignment would last, and again he said I would find out at the airport. I gathered all my gear, said goodbye to everyone and was dropped off at the UNITAF HQ. I went inside and reported for liaison duty, I was told to go back outside and someone would grab me. As I waited I thought about what country I’d like to be assigned to. The UK, Ireland, New Zealand were at the top of the list because I like accents, and we spoke the same language. Next were the Canadians, Swedes, Norwegians, Italians, Germans, Spanish and Belgians. I didn’t want to go to the Australians because they were in Baidoa and I didn’t want to go back there. I also didn’t really want to be assigned to one of the North African, Sub-Saharan or Middle Eastern countries as I thought the cultural differences would be too great and it wouldn’t be fun. After waiting for a while a Marine Corps captain came up to me and asked if I was Lance Corporal Grenda, when I said I was, he introduced himself as Captain Hassan and told me we were being assigned to be the liaison team for the United Arab Emirates (UAE).8 I was less than pleased but once again, it didn’t matter what I thought.
I was assigned a humvee and I drew a pair of TA-312 field telephones from stores, and we drove to the UAE compound. It was situated at the old oil storage facility between the airport and the port. When we arrived, Captain Hassan and I were introduced to the commander of the Al Wajeb Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Alkethi, and his staff.9
Colonel Alkethi spoke English with a British accent, and he welcomed us to his unit. His staff was also very welcoming but it seemed the farther down the ranks you went, the less English they spoke.10 I shook hands with all of them and greeted them as Captain Hassan had taught me, “as-salaam ʿalaykum”, to which they responded with “wa ʿalaykum as-salaam”.11 Captain Hassan gave a little speech in Arabic informing everyone that we were here to coordinate anything they needed from the Americans and to rely any messages that needed to be transmitted. I was shown to an 18 man tent that I had all to myself, and the captain was going to stay in the building the staff officers were staying in, until something else could be arranged. The building had been some kind of administration building for the company that ran the fuel storage and pumping station.12 My first full day with the UAE, the captain wanted to find a more permanent place for him to stay. After searching the area, we found a 15’X15’ stone building on a small rise overlooking the Indian Ocean. Because this was Somalia, the building didn’t have a roof. I don't know what it was when things were working in Somalia but it had a great view and was away from the main living areas of the UAE troops. Captain Hassan was able to appropriated some tarps, from the US Army base next door, to make a roof, and I put one field phone in his hooch and ran wire down to my tent and the other phone, so he could reach me whenever he wanted.
Seeing how the other half lives.
The captain and I got to go on a quick patrol with the UAE guys in their vehicles, Land Rover Defenders. They were painted desert camo and had a military radio set, but were otherwise civilian versions, with carpets, air conditioning and a CD stereo. This was also when I noticed the first big cultural difference between the US and the Arab world. I saw two fully armed UAE soldiers walking down a street holding hands. In my world of 1993 men did not hold hands13 , but in Arab culture, two men holding hands was not considered a sign of homosexuality, but rather a sign of friendship and strong camaraderie. It’s not strange to them at all.
A few nights later I was invited to meet with a group of enlisted UAE soldiers. Colonel Alkethi himself informed me of the invitation, adding that most of his soldiers had never met an American and were very curious about us. He told me that they would probably ask a lot of questions and I should do my best to answer them all. He also said his troops had specifically asked that none of the officers attend the gathering, he thought that they might be worried about the reactions the officers might have to some of the questions they wanted to ask, but added he didn’t think there would be any problems at all. It was a strange meeting, I only knew the two phrases of Arabic taught to me by Captain Hassan, and only a few of them spoke English. I sat on the carpeted floor of a tent, part of a large circle of 40 UAE soldiers, all looking at me. We drank tiny cups of boiling hot black Arabic coffee, the cups must have been 1000 degrees, it was almost too hot to hold.14
A senior sergeant, who spoke the most English, asked the questions and translated the answers as best he could. The first question he asked was “What religion are you?”. This was the question I was dreading, and it was the first one! My answer was that I’m not really religious and didn’t belong to any specific church. When the sergeant translated my answer the looks I got from the soldiers looked like I just announced that I’m from another planet and breath water. It just didn’t compute for them. Religion is so enmeshed in their culture, that to have someone say that the aren’t religious was just out of their realm of possibility. They weren’t mad just incredulous. There were a couple of follow up questions, were they asked if I believed in God and they were relieved that I did, but they still had a problem understanding that I didn’t follow a specific religion. After that they asked about why I had joined the Marines and if the rumors they had heard during the Gulf War were true. I said that I had always wanted to be a Marine because I wanted to be the best. I also assured them that the rumors were not true, what I didn’t have to kill a member of my family to join the Marines and that officers did not have eat a live baby.15 I told them that these were things invented by Saddam Hussein to inspire the Iraqis to fight us in the Gulf War.16 There were other question about my life in America and if I was married, things like that. It was a pleasant evening and I hope I was a good representative of America.
We’ve reached the end of today’s post, since I’m right at my self-imposed limit of 20-25 minutes reading time. Hopefully, next time I’ll finish up my Somalia stories. I didn’t realize I had so many, until I started to write them down. I hope you are enjoying this inside look at an operation that ended up having such a large impact on US military and foreign policy.
Chris
What about the “every Marine a rifleman” ethos? Sure, in principle, that was true, but in practice, a non-infantry unit spends exactly zero time training for that role and it was a steep learning curve for my 3/11 Marines. I would put 3/11 against any other artillery unit in the Marine Corps for their skills at shooting and moving large pieces of artillery, but they can’t hold a candle to a unit that lives, eats and sleeps infantry. The officers used a mix of trial and error, and asking for advice, both from actual infantry officer and little old me. That allowed me to play an outsized role for a lowly Lance Corporal.
When I say half of us, that means half of the enlisted guys. The officers would watch and “supervise” our efforts.
2nd Lieutenants are the lowest form of officer life and the most dangerous. They have been in the real Marine Corps (opposed to in Officer's candidate school or their military occupation specialty school) for less than six months and don't really know what they're doing yet. A good 2nd Lieutenant will know what he doesn’t know and listen to his sergeants, a bad one will think that because he’s an officer and a college grad he knows what’s best.
He would not be promoted past captain and might have been transferred out of a combat role to another job, like personnel or morale officer.
Apparently, he did not know the bouncing technic and as soon as the water was close to his neck he began to panic.
The cow was not forthcoming when questioned. Eventually she was released into the custody of the old man and they went on their way.
As far as I know we didn't receive any commendations or anything other than a “good job” from our lieutenant, for the largest single weapons and ammunition seizure in the history of Operation Restore Hope.
The United Arab Emirates is a country in the Middle East at the eastern end of the Arabian Peninsula. It is a Federal Constitutional Monarchy, composed of seven emirate, with Abu Dhabi as its capital. It shares land borders with Oman to the east and northeast, and Saudi Arabia to the southwest. As of 2024, the UAE has an estimated population of over 10 million.
I was able to look that information up in a paper called “Restoring Hope: In Somalia with the Unified Task Force 1992-1993” by Marine Corps historian Colonel Dennis P. Mroczkowski Marine Corps Reserve (Retired).
I’m not saying they should have spoken English, just making an observation.
As-salaam ʿalaykum means “Peace be upon you” and wa ʿalaykum as-salaam means “and Peace be upon you”. It is the standard formal greeting in the Muslim world.
That building had the only flush toilet in the entire country because the UAE had brought a plumber with them and he fixed it. I was allowed to use it and after 2-1/2 months of not seeing a flush toilet it was really neat.
Unless you were from San Francisco or South Beach.
Arabic coffee is called gahwa in the UAE and infused with flavors like cardamom. I was served first, which marked me as the most important person present. I found out later that the server is required to hold the pot with his right hand, while using the left hand to hold the cup, and I, as the guest should receive and returned the cup using the right hand. Good thing I’m right handed!
The Iraqis were told that just to join the Marines you had to kill a member of your immediate family and that to become an officer you had to eat a live baby. They gave us the nickname “Satan’s Angels”, which is our best nickname if you ask me, certainly better than Jarhead or Gyrene.
It didn’t work, nor did taking their boots away. The Iraqis just surrendered en mass to anything or anyone that looked Western. Helicopters, news crews and a Marine supply convoy were my favorites.