Black Hawk Down (16 page)

--This is Uniform Six Four [McKnight]. I am ready for exfil. . . I am loaded with
everything I can get here and I am ready to move to the crash site, over.

--Roger, go ahead and move [this from Lieutenant Colonel Gary Harrell, the Delta Squadron
commander in the C2 Black Hawk.] The streets are fairly clear. We have been getting
reports of sniper fire from the north of the crash site. --Roger. We'll take a right out
of here and we'll head down to the crash site to the east, over.

It sounded simple enough. Two blocks north, three blocks east. The convoy started
rolling, six Humvees and the two remaining flatbed trucks. There were three Humvees in
front of the trucks and three behind them. The trucks had big fluorescent orange panels on
top to help the surveillance birds track them. The helicopters would be their eyes in the
sky, guiding them through the city.

They were driving into tic bloodiest phase of the battle.

-13-

Black Hawk pilot Mike Durant had seen a Little Bird ascend from the crash site as he swung
Super Six Four back south on its holding pattern. Straight ahead was the bright white
front of the Olympic Hotel, one of the city's few tall buildings, which was across the
street from the target building. In the far distance was the darkening green of the

Indian Ocean. Smoke rose and drifted over the rooftops around the hotel, marking the
fight. B1ack Hawks and Little Birds moved through the dark predatory insects, darting and
firing down into the fray.

Then he heard the expected radio call for Super Six Eight, the CSAR Black Hawk. He
watched it swing away south.

His own summons from Lieutenant Colonel Matthews in the command bird came moments later.

--Super Six Four, this is Alpha Five One, over.

--This is Super Six Four. Go ahead.

--Roger, Six Four come up aid join Six Two in his orbit.

--Six Four is inbound.

Moving in fast and low over the city, Durant caught glimpses of the action beneath his
chopper's chin bubble through the swirling clouds of smoke and dust. The neat
box-structure they had outlined earlier, with Rangers positioned on all four corners of
the target block, had completely broken down. It was hard to make sense of the action
below. He could see the general area where Elvis's bird had gone in, a dense neighborhood
of small stone houses with tin roofs in a crosshatch of dirt alleyways and wide cross
streets, but the crashed Black Hawk was in such a tight spot between houses he couldn't
spot it. He caught glimpses of small Ranger columns moving up the dusty alleys; crouched
defensively, rifles up and ready, taking cover, exchanging fire with the swarms of Somalis
who were also running in that direction; Durant flipped a switch in the cockpit to arm his
crew chief's guns, two six-barreled 7.62 mm miniguns capable of firing four thousand
rounds per minute, but warned them to hold fire until they figured out where all the
friendlies were. Durant fell into Elvis's vacant place in a circular pattern opposite
Super Six Two, the Black Hawk piloted by Chief Warrant Officer Mike Goffena and Captain
Jim Yacone, and began trying to get in sync with them.

--Six Four, say 1ocation Goffena asked.

--We are about a mile and a half to your north.

--Six Four keep a good eye on the west side.

--Roger.

The idea was to maintain a “low cap,” a sweeping circle over the battle area. On the
radio Durant heard that the CSAR bird had been hit, but had managed to rope in the rescue
team and was still flying. On the radio Goffena and Yacone were already pointing out
targets for Durant's gunners, but it was hard to get visually oriented. Durant's seat was
on the right side of the airframe, and he was lying counterclockwise, banking left, so
mostly be was seeing sky.

It was maddening. When he leveled off, he was flying so low and fast that the view down
through the chin bubble was like peering down through a tube. Flashing fast beneath his
feet were rusty tin roofs, trees, burning cars and tires. There were Rangers and darting
Somalis everywhere. He couldn't tell if he was being shot at. What with the roar of the
engines and the radio din Durant could never tell for sure if he was being shot at. He
assumed he was. Two birds had been hit already. He was doing all this and listening and
also varying his airspeed and altitude, trying to make his Black Hawk a more challenging
target.

It was on his fourth or fifth circle, just as things were starting to make sense below,
that he felt his chopper hit something hard.

Like an invisible speed bump.

-14-

After they had delivered Private Blackburn, the Ranger who had fallen from the helicopter
to the small rescue column that would return him to base, Sergeants Jeff McLaughlin and
Casey Joyce had get off north on Hawlwadig to rejoin their element, Chalk Four. They
hadn't gotten far. They were distracted by a gunman down an alley who would pop out to
shoot and then duck back before they could return fire. McLaughlin covered the alley so
Joyce could scamper across. Then they both got down on one knee at opposite sides of it
waiting to nail this guy. From a distance, all the Somali fighters looked the same, skinny
black guys with dusty bushes of hair, long baggy pants, and loose, oversized shirts. While
most of them would wildly spray bullets and then run, some were fiercely persistent.
Occasionally one would run right out into the open, blazing away and invariably be mowed
down. This one was smart. He would lean out just long enough to take aim and shoot, then
duck back behind the corner. McLaughlin tried to anticipate him. The shooter's head would
appear, the sergeant would squeeze off a well-aimed round and the man would duck away
again.

McLaughlin was determined to get him. He stayed down on one knee around a corner trying
to hold his M-16 perfectly steady, drawing a bead on the spot down the alley where the
shooter would briefly appear. Sweat stung the sergeant's eyes He grew so absorbed in this
fruitless duel that he lost track of time and place and was startled when a platoon
sergeant yelled his name.

“Hey, Mac! Come on!”

The convoy was moving on the street behind him, rolling north on Hawlwadig. Everybody
seemed to be on it except him. He looked over for Joyce and he was gone, too. He had
already climbed into a vehicle. McLaughlin crossed the road and trotted along on the far
side of one Humvee, past the contested alley. The Humvee was full.

“Jump on the hood!” shouted one of the men inside.

McLaughlin got one long leg up before it occurred to him that this was a had idea.
Vehicles were bullet magnets. He pictured himself threading through this deadly madness
spread-eagled on top of a Humvee. It was had enough to be in one of these streets, and
quite another to be a six-five Ranger bull's-eye mounted on top. He ran round the vehicle
and opened the door and insisted that Private Tory Carlson shove over. Carlson did, and
McLaughlin crawled on the seat and set his M-16 on the rim of the open right window.

About a hundred yards farther up, the convoy came upon the remainder of Sergeant
Eversmann's beleaguered Chalk Four. Eversmann and his men had been pinned down ever since
Blackburn fell from the chopper. They had seen the helicopter crash. When he pulled
himself up to his considerable height Eversmann could see the wreckage of Super Six One
from one of the angled alleys leading east. Captain Steele had radioed with orders for the
sergeant to move his chalk down to it on foot.

“Roger,” Eversmann had said... meaning like, yeah, right. There was little chance of
their moving anywhere. In the distance he could already see men In helmets and flak vests
and desert uniforms around the wreckage, so he knew Americans had gotten there. They were
near enough for him to instruct his men to hold their fire in that direction. He was down
to only about four or five men who could still fight.

The convoy arrived like an answer to his lift off Hail Mary. Eversmann saw his friend
Sergeant Mike Pringle in the turret of McKnight's lead Humvee, working the .50 cal hard
with his head down so far he was actually peering out under the gun. It brought a smile to
Eversmann's face in spite of everything. “Hey, Sergeant, get in! We're driving to the
crash site”, shouted McKnight.

“Captain Steele wants us to move over on foot; it's right down there,” said Eversmann,

“I know,” said McKnight. “Get in, we're driving over.”

Schilling provided covering fire up Hawlwadig as Eversmann and his men moved across the
road. The chalk leader herded his men aboard the crowded vehicles, loading the wounded
first, literally piling them in the back on top of other guys, then finding room for the
others. He was the last man standing on the street as McKnight shouted for him to hurry
up. Eversmann checked off the list of names in his head; determined to account for every
man in his chalk. He'd lost track of McLaughlin and Joyce and the medics he'd sent off
with Blackburn, but they were not at his intersection or down the block. The column was
rolling again. There was nothing for him to do but leap on the back of one. He landed on
somebody, and found himself flat on his back looking up at the sky, moving through the
streets with Somalis still shooting at them, realizing what a terrific target he was and
that he couldn't even return fire. I'm going to get shot and there isn't a damn thing I
can do about it. As helpless as he felt, he was relieved to be back with the others and
moving. If they were together and rolling it meant the end was near. The crash site was
just blocks away. Then he would position himself better for the ride out.

While Eversmann had been loading his men, Schilling ran out to the middle of the road to
gather up Chalk Four's two fast ropes, which were still stretched across Hawlwadig. The
task force had been drilled to recover the three inch thick ropes, which were hard to
replace. Despite the gunfire, he fetched one. It was hard work hauling it back and he was
already sweaty and dirty and tired, so Schilling asked John Gay, a SEAL in the Humvee
behind his, if he'd help him with the other. Gay was crouched behind cover returning fire.
He gave Schilling a shocked stare and then rolled his eyes.

“Forget the fucking ropes!” he shouted.

It dawned on Schilling that he'd jut risked his life for a long strand of braided ny1on.
He got back into the Humvee wondering at himself. As the convoy started up again, the
gunfire was heavier than ever. Rounds pinged off the armored sides of the vehicles, and
every few minutes the wobbly smoke trail of an RPG would zip past. Schilling spotted a
donkey tied to an olive tree in an alleyway. The animal stood perfectly still in the
maelstrom, clearly distressed, long ears folded back and tail pointing straight down. He'd
seen the donkey when they first pulled up and assumed it would eventually be hit. As they
pulled away he caught another glimpse of it, still standing stock still, unscathed.

Nobody in the rear vehicles knew where they were going. Many of the men didn't know that
a helicopter had been shot down. One who did not was Eric Spalding, the Ranger who had
designed the successful rat trap back in the hanger. Spalding was in the passenger seat in
the cab of the second truck, the one with the prisoners. He assumed when they began
moving, that was it. The mission was over. They were on their way home. Driving was
Specialist John Maddox. They had the front windshield flipped up and out so Spalding could
shoot forward.

He leaned his M-16 out the truck window. Although an expert marksman, he was no longer
just squeezing off one careful round after the next. There were too many targets, too many
people shooting at him. It was as if “Kill-an-American Day” had been declared in Mog. It
seemed like every man, woman, and child in the city was out trying to get them. There were
people in alleyways, in windows, on rooftops. Spalding kept shooting his rifle dry. Then
he would shoot with his 9 mm Beretta pistol with one hand while be replaced the rifle
magazine with the other. He just wanted to get the hell out of there. When the column took
a turn to the right, he wondered what was up. The mission is over. Why aren't we going
back? There wasn't enough time to find somebody to ask.

After going two blocks east, the convoy made a right turn. They'd lost track of the men
moving to the crash site on foot. Now the convoy was bearing south, heading toward the
back end of the target house and toward National Street, the paved road they'd come in on.
At least Spalding thought that was where they were headed. Most of the streets in
Mogadishu looked the same, rutted orange sand with big gouges in the middle and
treacherous mounds of debris, shabbily mortared stone walls on both sides, stubby olive
trees and cactus bushes and crisscrossing dirt alleys. The intersections were the problem.
Every time the truck approached an alley Spalding would lie out across the warm hood and
just open up as they rolled through. He could hear nothing but the sound of automatic
weapons fire and bullets snapping around him and pinging off the truck.

A woman in a flowing purple robe darted past on the driver's side of the truck. Maddox
had his pistol resting on his left arm, pretty much shooting at whatever moved.

“Don't shoot,” Spalding shouted. “She's got a kid.”

The woman abruptly turned. Holding the baby in one arm, she rinsed a pistol with her free
hand. Spalding shot her where she stood. He shot four more rounds into her before she
fell. He hoped he hadn't hit the baby. They were moving and he couldn't see if be had or
not. He thought he probably had. She had been carrying the baby on her arm right in front.
Why would a Mother do something like that with a kid on her arm? What was she thinking?
Spalding couldn't get over it. Maybe she was just trying to get away, saw the truck,
panicked, and raised the gun.

There wasn't time to fret over it.

-15-

Black Hawk pilot Mike Goffena was coming up behind Mike Durant's Super Six Four when the
grenade hit. It blew a chunk off the tail rotor. Goffena saw all the oil dump out of it in
a fine mist, but the mechanism stayed intact and everything seemed to still be functioning.

--Six Four, are you okay? Goffena asked. The Black Hawk is a heavy aircraft. Durant's
weight about sixteen thousand pounds at that point and the rotor was a long way from where
he sat. The question came before he had even figured out what happened. Goffena explained
that he had been hit by an RPG and that there was damage to the tail area.

“Roger,” Durant radioed back, coolly.

Nothing felt abnormal about the bird at first. He did a quick check of all his
instruments and the readings were all okay. His crew chiefs, Cleveland and Field, were
unhurt in the back. So after the initial shock, Durant felt relief. Everything was flue.
Goffena told him he had last his oil and part of the gearbox on the tail rotor, but the
sturdy Black Hawk was built to run without oil for a time if necessary and it was still
holding steady. Matthews, the air mission commander, had also seen the hit from his seat
in the orbiting C2 bird. He told Durant to put the Black Hawk on the ground, so the pilot
of the stricken chopper pulled out of his left-turning orbit and pointed back to the
airfield, about a four-minute flight southwest. Durant could see the base off in the
distance against the coastline. He noted, just to be safe, that there was a big green open
area about halfway there, so if he had to land sooner he had a place to put it. But the
bird was flying fine.