REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK : Pure Fear, Pity Haunt a Visitor to Somalia

It was a fleeting scene, glimpsed in a blur from a passing truck.

Miles outside of Mogadishu, on a narrow dirt lane in a hungry village, a father slowly walked beside his little son. He looked down, adoringly. The boy twisted his face upward. His legs were withered like the bony branches of a sapling. Starvation and disease had destroyed them. Painfully, he pulled himself along beside his dad, walking through the dirt on his hands and gnarled knees.

The wrenching scene vanished in an instant, lost amid all the filth, the incessant flies, the loud bursts of bullets and the sickening stench of the shallow-buried dead.

Somalia.

Thousands of U.S. Marines, most from Camp Pendleton and bases at El Toro and Twentynine Palms, moved around cautiously in their dust-caked desert camouflage. With one hand, they waved back to the countless children and women who cheerfully greeted them everywhere. With their other hand, the Marines clutched their M-16 rifles, index fingers poised on the trigger guard.

It was a stark and often heart-rending change of scene from the Southern California the Marines left weeks ago when they took off from bases in Orange, San Diego and San Bernardino counties. From a homeland of considerable wealth and plenty half a world away, they came to a starving nation and a war zone where the front line is all around them.

Some are expected back stateside within the next month, although it remains uncertain when the deployment will end.

Daily and nightly gunfire raked corners of the cities and villages as Somali clansmen savagely killed one another. Marines quickly got used to sleeping peacefully through the shots. But they also learned how suddenly this cruel land could turn terrifying.

One afternoon, a mortar platoon of edgy Camp Pendleton Marines patrolled Mogadishu’s Green Line, a no-man’s-land divided by rival gangs. The Marines were fired on here the day before, and had volleyed back at a sniper and a “technical” vehicle armed with a .50-caliber machine gun.

Now the Marines were mincing through the bullet-pocked Parliament building, their boots crunching on broken glass and tiles. They crouched beside the blown-out windows and waited for renewed gunfire. Shots sounded nearby all afternoon, but this time warring Somalis were shooting at one another, not the Marines.

At 5 p.m., as daylight waned, photographer Bob Grieser and I caught a ride back toward relative safety with two lance corporals. No journalists in their right minds stayed out after dark.

One Marine drove the truck while the other sat in the open back with us, nervously scanning the passing dark windows for snipers. Suddenly, streets that had been deserted an hour before were teeming with Somali boys and men, AK-47s and other Soviet rifles held at the ready.

The driver slammed on the brakes and the second Marine lifted his rifle to his shoulder and ordered a teen-ager to drop his weapon. He complied and we raced on, hearts pounding. Next block, a teen-ager menacingly held his AK-47, and again, the driver halted for a confrontation.

In a harrowing few seconds, the Marine and the youth intensely stared at each other. Twice the Marine ordered the defiant youth to drop the gun. The seconds passed in slow motion until the Somali finally blinked. The gun clanked on the sidewalk.

But then the Marine grabbed the weapon and handed it to me--me, who once wore peace beads and flower-power shirts. He pointed, signaling that he wanted me to cover the truck’s right flank while the other Marine kept his rifle trained toward the other side.

In a flash of self-awareness, cradling the AK-47, I felt like a fool--a scared and a dangerous fool.

*

Every day, emotions bounded back and forth between pure fear and pity for one of the saddest places on earth.

Hungry Somalis had swarmed into Mogadishu. Crowded settlements of tiny, dome huts made from branches, cardboard and plastic sprang up in empty lots. Thousands of destitute people huddled at a huge graveyard where those who starved to death are buried. A recent rain had washed away the soil and exposed their decaying bodies. The graveyard emits an awful stink and Somalis cover their faces with cloth when they pass.

There is no end to such haunting pictures.

At the feeding centers outside Baidoa, children lie listlessly on the ground. Flies swarm around their faces. Their limbs are like thin canes, their eyes are big and vacant. Grieser, a cheerful man known for his redoubtable ability to bark like a basset hound, did his dog rendition and the children laughed and smiled. It was incredibly uplifting.

But then I came upon a tiny child curled up in a big, open tent and I asked a relief worker whether the malnourished boy would survive. The worker didn’t answer and he somberly put a blanket or some canvas over the child’s body. I drifted away to another tent, and now, two weeks later, I am troubled because I did not know for sure whether the little boy was dead or only sleeping. I keep seeing him.

*

Most Marines believed that coming to Somalia was part of a noble cause, but it carried a price. The suffering children made them miss their own families. And the danger and the oppressive tropical heat made Somalia almost more miserable than fighting an actual war.

The Marines lived in the dirt. They dug latrines, took canteen showers and ate field rations. Although they discussed their conditions, few seemed to complain. They talked about muscle cars and going to the beach back home, and pined to receive mail from their families.

The Marines were amazingly polite to one another and helped me out of trouble more times than I deserved. One teen-age Marine told me I looked dehydrated. He gave me water.

Many more were memorable.

There was Gunnery Sgt. Andrew Sutzko of Marine Wing Support Squadron 372 from El Toro and Camp Pendleton, barking at his men one minute, then clowning with them the next. I watched him shave his entire head without a mirror.

There was Chaplain Duane Purser of El Toro sitting on his cot, alternating between devouring Christmas cookies and telling the Marines they were doing God’s work.

And there was Sgt. Nelson Guzman of the same unit, one of the kindest men I’ve ever met, driving around in his Humvee, giving people a lift and encouragement, pausing with a tear on Christmas while he thought of his wife and children opening presents back home.

Of course, this is not to say the Marines are the world’s most peace-loving folks. One day, some Air Force guys stole a Marine Corps truck, which they intended to rig up to provide showers for airmen. Bare-knuckled Marines forcibly recaptured their vehicle.

Another time, with a more tranquil outcome, the same unit of Somalia-bound Marines stopped over for refueling at an air base on the East Coast. They asked for some meals to take with them on the plane, and the Air Force obliged, but insisted on billing the Marine Corps for the grub.

A certain Marine, whose identity all have sworn to protect, didn’t know the correct accounting code to give so the Marines would be billed. So he gave the Air Force a series of bogus numbers that, when translated into letters, spell “C-YA-USMC.” The Marines laughed over it for days.

In retrospect, other experiences are suddenly amusing. Idiotically amusing.

One morning, Grieser and I told our hired Somali driver and armed guard that we wanted them to take us to a remote camp so we could interview veteran troops and inspect some “technicals.” We went to a rural camp outside Mogadishu, where some militiamen clearly seemed to favor either killing us or robbing us.

But their colonel agreed to talk, so we were safe--unless you consider that rival troops were firing into the camp. After an hour, I wanted to get the rip out of there in the worst way, but Grieser was having a swell time photographing the gun-toting locals and their equipment.

Finally, I yelled at Grieser that the camp had gotten too dangerous. He explained rather lightly: “I believe in destiny. If something’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.”

I sputtered--not sparing any expletives--my outlook on life. I told him that I believe when people shoot, I should run.

It was a lively exchange of philosophical views, which a Somali finally arbitrated by telling us flatly to get out.

A few days later our driver and guard took us inland for a story about the growing fear of disease. Our guard was chewing on qat, the ever-present local narcotic, and was in a blissful state during the drive back to Mogadishu.

Naturally, the car broke down. It always did, especially in the middle of nowhere. A herd of wild boar grunted along but didn’t stop as we exited the car.

As he examined the spastic engine, I asked our guard, whom we were paying $200 for the day’s services, whether I could look at his semiautomatic rifle--which we depended on in case we were attacked. He handed over the weapon, happily buzzed from the qat. I examined it closely. It was rusty. And it rattled like marbles.

My fear was casting a giant shadow, but I decided to go all the way and check whether the rifle was loaded. I removed the magazine and peered down at some cartridges that had been hibernating so long, the brass casings were darkly tarnished. I counted three bullets. Yes, our guard was carrying three bullets. It was like being protected by Barney Fife.

So I asked him about the three lousy bullets and he said: “I don’t like, I don’t want to kill anybody.” It then dawned on me that I had hired probably the only pacifist in Somalia.

*

After two weeks in Somalia, we were sick of the violence, the filth and the hockey puck-sized insects. We waited inside the small passenger terminal at the shot-up airport on Mogadishu for our blessed flight home.

Just as I was thinking that joy was finally about to return to my life, a dozen or more shots rang out 50 feet away. An armed Somali was robbing a British cameraman, but a Marine literally stopped him dead.

Grieser dashed over and got a Page 1 photo. After emerging from cover, I took my time walking over to view the body. The Somali was young and barefoot. I watched as he was zipped into a body bag. I didn’t care that he was dead. Maybe, in time, I’ll feel something for him. But Somalia, especially the children, has filled my emotions. I don’t have room for anything else.