home. Othic's dad worked as an agent for
the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and he planned to try for a job there when he
got out of the army. He told Spalding his dad might help fix him up, too. They were hoping
to get back to Missouri in time for fall deer season.
Both were jealous of the D-boys. The Rangers had spent their downtime in Mog flying out
to shooting ranges, going on five-mile “fun” runs, pulling guard duty, etc., while the
operators had serious fun. Take the pigeons. When the force had first moved in, the
pigeons had owned the hangar, crapping at will all over people, cots, and equipment. When
one of the D-boys got nailed while sitting on his cot cleaning his weapon, the elite force
declared war. They ordered up pellet guns. The birds didn't have a prayer. The D-boys
would triangulate fire and send a mess of blood and feathers plopping down on somebody's
cot. Did these guys know how to kill time on deployment or what? They all had custom-built
weapons with hand-rifled barrels and such. Gun manufacturers outfitted them the way Nike
supplies pro athletes. Some days Delta would commandeer a Black Hawk and roar off to hunt
wild boar, baboons, antelope, and gazelles in the Somali bush. They brought back trophy
tusks and game meat and held cookouts. They called it “realistic training.” Now there was
a flicking deal and a half. One of them, Brad Hallings, had been strutting around the
hangar with a necklace made of boar's teeth. Stocky little Earl Fillmore had taken the
tusks and glued them to a helmet, and he'd strutted around naked striking poses like some
Mongolian warlord.
Black Hawk Down
There was no big game on the horizon for Othic and Spalding, so they had found something
of their own to hunt. Spalding was a sharpshooter, and most nights his job was to squat up
in a hide high in the rafters, peering out over the city with a night-vision scope through
a grapefruit-sized hole in the wall. Othic would spend time up there with him, talking to
pass the time. Up in the hide they'd gotten a closer look than most of the guys at the
rats that were always scampering across the rafters. Mogadishu was rat heaven; there
hadn't been a regular trash pickup in recorded history. Othic and Spalding rigged an
ingenious snare out of two Evian water bottles, some trip wire from their booby traps, and
the contents of an MRE. Othic recorded success in his journal: “.....Good news, The Great
White Hunters (me & Spalding) caught a big ole nasty rat in one of our traps (his really,
but this is a joint operation). The capture of the rat brought cheers from all.”
What Othic wanted most, more even than to go home, were more missions. They had come to
fight. There had been a flurry of action in the beginning, but by late September the pace
had slacked off. Othic wrote:
“1830 hours. Another day without a mission & I'm starting to get pissed. We did go out to
the range & shoot though, as if that's any kind of consolation for us. We also blew more
demo, so I'm starting to become pretty adept at making different charges and firing
systems.. . . We get mail tomorrow (knock on wood!). I know these entries have been
getting more & more boring, but everything is starting to get too familiar, which is bad
because it will lead to laxness that can be dangerous. It's hard to keep sharp when
everything gets routine, you know?”
On the night of September 25, the Skinnies shot down a 101st Division Black Hawk. Three
crew members were killed when the downed chopper burst into flames, but the pilot and
copilot escaped. They exchanged fire with gunmen on the street until friendly Somalis
steered them to a vehicle and got them out.
Othic had been on guard duty that night.
“When I came on guard duty at 2 am me & another guy saw a flaming orange ball moving
across the sky. It went down & there was a big
the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and he planned to try for a job there when he
got out of the army. He told Spalding his dad might help fix him up, too. They were hoping
to get back to Missouri in time for fall deer season.
Both were jealous of the D-boys. The Rangers had spent their downtime in Mog flying out
to shooting ranges, going on five-mile “fun” runs, pulling guard duty, etc., while the
operators had serious fun. Take the pigeons. When the force had first moved in, the
pigeons had owned the hangar, crapping at will all over people, cots, and equipment. When
one of the D-boys got nailed while sitting on his cot cleaning his weapon, the elite force
declared war. They ordered up pellet guns. The birds didn't have a prayer. The D-boys
would triangulate fire and send a mess of blood and feathers plopping down on somebody's
cot. Did these guys know how to kill time on deployment or what? They all had custom-built
weapons with hand-rifled barrels and such. Gun manufacturers outfitted them the way Nike
supplies pro athletes. Some days Delta would commandeer a Black Hawk and roar off to hunt
wild boar, baboons, antelope, and gazelles in the Somali bush. They brought back trophy
tusks and game meat and held cookouts. They called it “realistic training.” Now there was
a flicking deal and a half. One of them, Brad Hallings, had been strutting around the
hangar with a necklace made of boar's teeth. Stocky little Earl Fillmore had taken the
tusks and glued them to a helmet, and he'd strutted around naked striking poses like some
Mongolian warlord.
Black Hawk Down
There was no big game on the horizon for Othic and Spalding, so they had found something
of their own to hunt. Spalding was a sharpshooter, and most nights his job was to squat up
in a hide high in the rafters, peering out over the city with a night-vision scope through
a grapefruit-sized hole in the wall. Othic would spend time up there with him, talking to
pass the time. Up in the hide they'd gotten a closer look than most of the guys at the
rats that were always scampering across the rafters. Mogadishu was rat heaven; there
hadn't been a regular trash pickup in recorded history. Othic and Spalding rigged an
ingenious snare out of two Evian water bottles, some trip wire from their booby traps, and
the contents of an MRE. Othic recorded success in his journal: “.....Good news, The Great
White Hunters (me & Spalding) caught a big ole nasty rat in one of our traps (his really,
but this is a joint operation). The capture of the rat brought cheers from all.”
What Othic wanted most, more even than to go home, were more missions. They had come to
fight. There had been a flurry of action in the beginning, but by late September the pace
had slacked off. Othic wrote:
“1830 hours. Another day without a mission & I'm starting to get pissed. We did go out to
the range & shoot though, as if that's any kind of consolation for us. We also blew more
demo, so I'm starting to become pretty adept at making different charges and firing
systems.. . . We get mail tomorrow (knock on wood!). I know these entries have been
getting more & more boring, but everything is starting to get too familiar, which is bad
because it will lead to laxness that can be dangerous. It's hard to keep sharp when
everything gets routine, you know?”
On the night of September 25, the Skinnies shot down a 101st Division Black Hawk. Three
crew members were killed when the downed chopper burst into flames, but the pilot and
copilot escaped. They exchanged fire with gunmen on the street until friendly Somalis
steered them to a vehicle and got them out.
Othic had been on guard duty that night.
“When I came on guard duty at 2 am me & another guy saw a flaming orange ball moving
across the sky. It went down & there was a big
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