Marjah, Afghanistan, was the financial base and perceived Taliban “heart of darkness” prior to Operation MOSHTARAK in early 2010.1 After a few months, the political perception of the progress of MOSHTARAK was that the reclaiming of Marjah for the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan (GIRoA) was moving too slow. The former Commander, International Security Assistance Force, GEN Stanley McChrystal, USA, even referred to Marjah as a “bleeding ulcer.”2 Marjah needed a turning point, and one manifested in the combined efforts of Marines, the Afghan National Security Forces (ANSF), and, most importantly, grassroots security initiatives. This article seeks to capture the value and success of grassroots security initiatives in Marjah district in early 2011.
The fledgling, unofficial district of Marjah is a heavily populated rural area estimated to be home to 150,000 to 200,000 people. The district is built around a network of irrigation canals constructed by the U.S. Agency for International Development in the 1950s and 1960s. The district was split into two battalion areas of operation (AOs). The southern area, known as “Marjah proper” or “South Marjah,” was organized in blocks created by the 1 by 3 kilometer cultivable tracts cut from the desert and traced by irrigation canals. Marjah proper was essentially already organized into 50 platoon-sized AOs. Following construction of the U.S. Agency for International Development project, Marjah became an American-style melting pot of many different Pashtun tribes that took advantage of government land offers, resulting in intermixed, heterogeneous villages. This tribal dynamic meant the people were accustomed to compromising between tribes to accomplish daily tasks such as division of water usage for their crops.
Friendly forces in Marjah consisted of 2 reinforced Marine infantry battalions (2d Battalion, 9th Marines (2/9), to be replaced by 2/8 and 3/9, to be replaced by 3/6), 2 Afghan National Army (ANA) kandaks (battalions), 2 Afghan National Civil Order Police (ANCOP) kandaks, and 1 large district Afghan Uniformed Police (AUP) force. In the fall of 2010, 2/6 (3/9’s predecessor in South Marjah), under Regimental Combat Team 7 (RCT–7), then RCT–1, began the Interim Security for Critical Infrastructure (ISCI) program. ISCI was modeled after the Combined Forces Special Operations Component Command-Afghanistan (CFSOCC-A) program known as Afghan Local Police (ALP), which was unveiled earlier in 2010. ALP, exclusively partnered with special operations forces, was a GIRoA-sanctioned grassroots security initiative. It centered on locals defending their neighborhoods against the insurgency. Before ALP could operate in a district, the site had to be approved by International Security Assistance Force Joint Command, CFSOCC-A, and the Afghan Ministry of Interior (MoI), which could take months. The authorization and approval for conventional Marine forces to wield ALP in Marjah was uncertain. ISCI was created to provide Marjah the immediate benefits of a grassroots security program. ISCI was to be a transient program until an MoI alternative could replace it. At the time of 3/9’s arrival, 2/6 had recruited and trained between 200 and 300 ISCI members. In North Marjah, 2/9 recruited and trained between 40 and 50 members.
Fight fire with fire. (Photo by author.)
Coalition support of policing in Marjah was distributed across several parties. The primary advisor to the District Chief of Police (DCOP) was an RCT–1 officer assigned to the district government center where the DCOP lived but did not work. In addition to the DCOP’s primary advisor, there was the South Marjah Police Advisor Team (South Marjah PAT) platoon commander based at the Marjah District Police Headquarters (Marjah DPHQ). The platoon commander also worked with the DCOP daily and was primarily concerned with AUP issues in South Marjah. The battalion in North Marjah also had a PAT platoon commander who operated from his battalion CP several kilometers to the north. He was primarily concerned with AUP, ISCI, and ANCOP issues in North Marjah. ISCI issues in South Marjah were run by that battalion’s S–3A (assistant operations officer). Amidst these distributed duties, the DCOP remained the sole Afghan official responsible for all AUP, ISCI, and ALP within the district.
Mission The Marines of Marjah saw the counterinsurgency fight as a numbers game where we sought to achieve the highest ratio of counterinsurgent to population; however, with Marjah’s large population and threat, we could not secure it quickly with the forces provided. We decided to grow our own combat power. The mission was to recruit, man, train, equip, finance, and advise a battalion-sized element to secure the population and link it to GIRoA.
Instructors levied Afghan leaders as troop handlers and, in many instances, assistant instructors. (Photo by author.)We outfitted ISCI with uniforms to integrate supporting arms into their operations. (Photo by author.)
Execution Coalition and ANSF units needed specific roles so we could develop a “combined arms” approach to securing Marjah. Marines and ANA, capable of operating in austere environments, would expand the bubble of security from the center of Marjah to the desert outskirts. ANCOP, comprised of literate former AUP NCOs, were the most developed force and were logistically independent, capable, and reliable enough to accomplish basic tactical tasks. ANCOP served as a highway patrol that secured key lines of communications. The AUP were positioned around key population centers within the security bubble. Coalition forces and ANSF units formed a series of concentric circles centered on the district government center (see Figure 1). The perimeter, key population centers, and routes were secured, but a gap existed: In the bubble, there were still huge tracts of land and small villages lacking significant presence. Grassroots security initiatives were the answer to filling this gap.
The concept was to develop a large police force of local men and then train and professionalize them so they could defend their blocks and augment security forces. The relationship between ALP, ISCI, and AUP was modeled from a typical American county in which there are municipal police, highway patrol, and a county sheriff’s office working within the same AO with different powers. For example, Los Angeles County has the California Highway Patrol, Los Angeles Police Department, and Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, where all forces operate side by side and work closely together on a daily basis.
To realize our concept, we first had to reorganize our advising effort to efficiently develop the Afghans. Advisors are most effective when side by side with their partners 24/7. Marjah’s DCOP spent the preponderance of his time (daily from approximately 0600 to 2200) at his District Police Headquarters (DPHQ). He slept at the district center compound where his advisor resided. Day-to-day business was conducted at DPHQ, yet his advisor did not possess a workspace or consistent transportation to advise the DCOP during daily operations. In addition to the DCOP’s advisor, the South Marjah PAT, S–3A, and North Marjah PAT all influenced parts of the DCOP’s force. The DCOP had four different Marine officer advisors who pulled him in different directions. Most importantly, not one Marine advisor was in a position to appreciate the full responsibilities of the DCOP. The distributed advisors caused confusion and frustration on both sides of the partnership. We had success in consolidating the management of policing under the PAT. The South Marjah PAT, under the command of an RCT–1 officer, assumed control of advising the DCOP, manning, training, and equipping AUP, ISCI, and ALP. There still existed a potential fissure between the North and South Marjah PATs, but the South Marjah PAT provided a considerable amount of legwork in contracting (facilitating weapons and equipment procurement through Afghan processes) so that the relationship between PATs was mutually beneficial. As a result, the DCOP had a dedicated partner who shared the gravity of his responsibilities and became a single source for support. Afghan confusion and frustration decreased and coalition understanding of police capabilities and limitations increased. The good relationship and unity of effort between North and South Marjah PATs reinforced the AUP chain of command and forced the centralization of logistical and administrative support at the district level.
Figure 1. (Figure provided by author.)
PAT organization. PAT organization was simple. The officer in charge handled engagement and advising with key Afghan leaders and issued commander’s intent. The executive officer ran the day-to-day operations of the various sections and developed courses of action for accomplishing the officer in charge’s intent. A training cell managed five training centers and issued guidance to cadres. A finance cell managed the drafting, processing, and organization of multiple contracts to finance ISCI salaries, uniforms, radios, and equipment. Administration of funding streams required several certified paying agents, purchasing officers, and project managers. An administrative cell partnered with AUP finance and personnel officers to ensure police were paid. Each member on the team held at least one collateral duty in addition to his primary mission.
We then organized the battlespace for efficiency. The PAT assisted the DCOP in dividing Marjah into four precincts. ANA, U.S. Marine Corps, ANCOP, AUP, and ALP headquarters were collocated to ease coordination and communication by key leaders.
Man. The recruiting effort was multipronged. The battalion commander down to platoon commanders saturated their conversations with ISCI recruiting messages; however, the DCOP was the pivotal recruiter, as he was crucial in recruiting block leaders. The first core group of ISCI leaders, or “White Kings,” energized recruiting by their example. A newly recruited block leader had to secure approval of his elders, which the DCOP and PAT recorded. The PAT would enter each approved member into the BAT (biometric automated toolset) system and issue an ISCI or ALP identification card. If a recruit was flagged on BAT, the DCOP and ISCI/ALP leadership would determine if he was eligible to serve. The Afghans had the final say. To build combat power fast, the PAT supported mobile registration of ISCI members and held regular registration hours at DPHQ. Within a few months we recruited over 1000 members.
Train. The PAT established and operated 5 training centers to support a 21-day MoI period of instruction for ALP. Cadres were small and included a lead instructor, translator, and an occasional assistant for practical application. Instructors levied Afghan leaders as troop handlers and in many instances, assistant instructors. Each day trainees exercised and recited a pledge of allegiance to GIRoA. Training days began early and concluded before noon so as not to disrupt farming and household business. White boards, tents, and chairs were purchased. Chairs were an important luxury; when a trainee received a chair, he felt that what he was doing was special.
Equip. We concentrated on facilitating the procurement of weapons, ammunition, uniforms, and equipment to the Marjah police. Weapons and ammunition were the most critical. An unarmed policeman was useless. Coalition forces were legally restricted from providing weapons to the police and we never violated those rules. We used the numerous weapons cache finds to our advantage. It became policy to turn over all AK–47 caliber (and below) weapons and ammunition to the DCOP. Once the DCOP possessed reclaimed weapons and ammunition, he could distribute them as he saw fit. The DCOP chose to outfit ISCI members with these weapons. The benefits of arming an ISCI member outweighed the alternative of sending caches away to be exploited as evidence. The PAT also assisted the AUP in pulling on its own supply chains to pick up weapons and ammunition from the provincial supply point in Lashkar Gah.
The PAT assisted the DCOP in dividing Marjah into four precincts aligned to ANA, U.S. Marine Corps, ANCOP, AUP, and ALP. (Photo by author.)
The PAT became experts at wielding the multiple funding streams present on the battlefield. Initially ISCI wore a yellow armband purchased via the Commander’s Emergency Response Program (CERP), but it was hard to see. ISCI and ALP on the battlefield meant limited use of supporting arms since they were difficult to identify, so we outfitted them with uniforms in order to integrate supporting arms into their operations. CERP was used to purchase each member a full uniform, complete with blouse, trousers, belt, beret, boots, chest rigs, and unit patches. The DCOP designed the uniforms based on a prototype ALP uniform. The PAT used local contractors to produce and deliver all 1,200 sets of uniforms. We went to great lengths to transport the uniforms (which were made in Kabul) using both local ground and military air transportation. The PAT installed a tailor shop at DPHQ that produced 700 tactical vests on-site.
ISCI members were dependent on mobile phones for communication. Only one carrier, Afghan Wireless Communication Company, serviced Marjah. Local Afghan Wireless Communication Company towers would shut down daily at approximately 1600 to 1700, leaving no reliable means of communication until the next morning. The PAT set out to purchase GP360 Motorola VHF radios, ultimately delivering over 250 of them and working with the police to devise a basic communications plan. We laid the groundwork for the establishment of radio repeater towers to ensure reliable radio communications throughout the district. We also programmed our PRC–152 radios to talk to police radios. The improved network accelerated reaction times to enemy activity and increased command and control for the DCOP. Alerts could be transmitted quickly to tighten the noose on fleeing insurgents. Once in police hands, the radios and the communications plan took on lives of their own, and soon each leader had a call sign and a series of code words.
Finance. The most challenging task was ISCI’s financial management. CERP rules and regulations became a focal point of the PAT. A finance cell within the PAT, comprised of an officer and NCO, was solely dedicated to mastering CERP. The PAT did not receive training on USFOR-APublication 1–06, Money as a Weapon System Afghanistan (MAAWS-A) (U.S. Forces, Afghanistan, December 2009), or the CERP, save a few classes once in theater. The cell managed the 40 to 50 simultaneous contracts as the program grew in popularity. Each contract contained roughly 16 to 20 pages of documentation. Afghan currency exchange rates would frequently fluctuate, causing on-hand cash shortages right before payday. Fluid timing for approval of new ISCI contracts would always cause instability and frustration for ISCI members. ISCI members relied on their first payday to reimburse the fuel and equipment costs accrued after weeks of standing up against the Taliban. To the enemy, a future ISCI leader waiting for contract approval was no different than an active ISCI leader. Changing interpretations of CERP rules as the scope of the ISCI program grew caused major delays.
Advising. Upon introduction to the DCOP, we met a small, frail, and quiet man in charge of a ragtag band of police. First impressions failed to reveal that the DCOP was an exceptional leader and his police had their priorities straight to fight an insurgency. The PAT advised the DCOP based on his strengths and weaknesses. As a former Mujahedeen fighter, the DCOP was a war hero. His reputation forged strong, effective relationships with key elders. The DCOP, however, was a terrible manager and lacked organization skills, a considerable problem since his responsibilities were those of a battalion commander. The DCOP would be successful if he was paired with an organized and loyal deputy. The PAT identified one of his talented, experienced officers, but the challenge was to get the DCOP to use him, as the concept of delegation in Pashtun culture equates to giving away power. The PAT persisted and began to see the DCOP delegate. The DCOP was an excellent public figure. Like an American county sheriff, he was more politician than law enforcement officer. He had the ability to recruit and mediate problems and disagreements. The PAT advised the DCOP to hold weekly ISCI meetings with district community council members and the district governor. His efforts in holding the police force together with peaceful mediation continually undermined insurgent efforts to divide ANSF in Marjah.
Considering the conditions, the police weren’t bad. Police weapons and ammunition were clean and uniforms were kept in surprisingly good condition. In fact, in some areas, the Afghans were superior to coalition forces. At the platoon level, Afghans were far faster than Marines. The Afghans were lightly armed and equipped, producing short response times. Marines—subject to their many rules and requirements to utilize complex technologies such as electronic countermeasures, radios, MRAPs, mine rollers, and optics—were very safe yet very slow when a required moving part reliably broke or malfunctioned. The police could rally and deploy a platoon-sized outfit within 20 minutes or less. In another few minutes, they could surge and completely saturate an area, which was a formidable capability from the enemy’s perspective.
Transition to ALP. The ISCI program coupled well with ALP. It could be started quickly and did not rely on slow-responding MoI institutions to finance and equip. ISCI whet the public’s appetite for grassroots security programs, but it lacked the authenticity of an MoI institution. ALP was one step closer toward the Afghan government. Once CFSOCC-A and MoI approved Marjah for ALP, we were ready to transition ISCI into ALP.
CFSOCC-A served as the executive agency of the ALP program in Afghanistan, and provided guidance on its shaping. While ALP is an armed police force, it is first and foremost a vehicle to link the people to their government. ALP must be rooted in the shura (meeting) or traditional Afghan council of elders. An ALP site first requires a village stability platform (VSP). In Marjah’s case, the VSP was the district community council.
After a validation shura in which MoI officials approved Marjah’s request for ALP, the district was approved for a 300-man tashkiel (table of organization and table of equipment). The tashkiel included 289 patrolmen, 10 platoon commanders, 1 district leader, 20 Ford Rangers, 30 Icom radios, and 300 AK–47s. The PAT recommended to the DCOP that the 300-man tashkiel be separated into three 100-man companies each to be commanded by an ALP company commander (Marjah would later receive an increase of another 100-man company and would increase to four 100-man precincts). ISCI membership was not a prerequisite to becoming an ALP officer, but the elders preferred to select ALP officers from the large existing pool of ISCI members. Each candidate had to complete the 3-week ALP period of instruction, a biometric scan, a drug test, a yearlong contract, and a taskera. A “taskera” is the Afghan national identification card proving citizenship. The PAT went through great lengths to arrange the most convenient means for ISCI members to receive a taskera. Marjah, as an unofficial district, was a special case since it lacked standard government services (specifically a district taskera office and official). The PAT had to arrange for a taskera official and the provincial recruiting officer to travel to Marjah on several occasions to issue taskera applications. While the PAT continued to train candidates as ALP officers, an MoI/CFSOCC-A in-processing team administered biometric enrollment and drug tests. Candidates were disqualified for opium use only. Marijuana use was common in Marjah. Candidates discovered using marijuana were disciplined by the DCOP and in most cases retained. Multiple infractions brought more severe punishment and severance. Once the candidates were official ALP officers, MoI supplied weapons, ammunition, uniforms, vehicles, radios, and, most important, salaries. We continued to pay ALP an ISCI salary until the government salary (which we also assisted the police with administering) kicked in. The PAT assisted the police with multiple trips to the provincial capital in Lashkar Gah to engage provincial AUP staff officers to requisition and transport ALP supplies.
Marjah’s employment of ALP differed from special operations forces–partnered ALP sites. CFSOCC-A advertised that outlying district areas were to be secured by ALP with other ANSF units securing population centers. In Marjah, outlying areas were enemy-held. The enemy was well armed and not subject to caliber restrictions on weapons as was ALP. MoI supplied ALP with 1 AK–47 and 2 magazines with 30 rounds each. They received no heavier weapons such as rocket-propelled grenades, PKMs (Kalashnikov machineguns), or 25mm grenades. We pursued caliber waivers for ALP, but, even if approved, delivery would have been subject to a slow and corrupt MoI supply system. Instead we (DCOP and Marines) employed ALP in the security bubble, in the gaps existing within the concentric circles of ANSF and coalition forces. ALP operated the same way as ISCI; their policing allowed Marines and ANA to clear and hold outlying areas.
There were many problems with the police but they all could be solved or mitigated. Rivalry between ANSF units was an early problem that took solid partnership from the entire battalion to overcome. We made it clear that the alternative to cooperation was defeat. Conflicts never completely disappeared but were seriously reduced as each ANSF unit settled into solid working relationships. ISCI and ALP were not immune to corruption, but they didn’t break any records either. The corruption levels in ISCI and ALP mirrored those of any other ANSF institutions. ISCI and ALP would break rules and need constant education on their limits of power and responsibility, but that’s precisely why we as advisors were there. Perhaps most of all was the tremendous fear of having a large armed group that would face unemployment once the insurgency was defeated. “Off-ramp” plans for ISCI and ALP involved vocational/technical schools and funneling former members into other ANSF units; however, the PAT noticed a trend of ISCI members voluntarily leaving the ranks to seek employment in the developing bazaars. ISCI was part-time work. Members provided invaluable service as local police officers, but continued to farm and earn income elsewhere. The salary for ISCI may have initially seemed like a draw, but the $150 a month wasn’t that much considering a good AK–47 (a job requirement) cost $800 to $1,000. Most ISCI members would dissolve into the emerging economy and the agricultural life they never left. It was a risky endeavor that had its fair share of problems. Arming a group of folks that didn’t always get along, with agendas that sometimes ran contrary to GIRoA, posed a challenge, but the risks never outweighed the gains.
An Mol/CFSOCC-A in-processing team administered biometric enrollment and drug tests. (Photo by author.)
The failure of previous grassroots security initiatives in Afghanistan, such as the Afghan National Police Auxiliary and later the Afghan Public Protection Force Program, and the memory of complications with the Sons of Iraq program, caused apprehension and, in some cases, opposition to the ISCI program. Opponents saw the program for what it seemed to be on paper: hired U.S. Government security contractors blindly selected and managed by Americans willing to pay anyone to improve security. The design and management of ISCI contained three key principles that set it apart from previous programs:
• First, the ISCI program was Afghan-led. Each block appointed its own leader along traditional lines in which elders selected and approved a man, and that leader reported to Marjah’s DCOP.
• Second, local Afghans managed the ISCI program. Afghan elders and block leaders selected each man chosen for duty in the ISCI program—no man was selected by coalition forces. The DCOP and district governor approved all block leaders and their units.
• Third, the ISCI program provided a critical link for the people to their government. ISCI leaders became elected district community council members. ISCI membership was not a prerequisite for election, but those involved in ISCI already possessed a natural inclination for community and government involvement. ISCI began to fulfill ALP objectives even before a Marjah ALP site was approved.
What Did They Bring to the Fight? Cost effectiveness. The ISCI and ALP programs could accomplish the same tasks with a few scantly equipped men, whereas coalition forces would be forced to use expensive intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance; large vehicles; fuel; and the support structure it takes to put a Marine on the ground. These brave Afghan men were not chaff, but if you look at their results compared to what it costs them to operate, it’s a very convincing argument in times of looming budget cuts.
Credibility. Of specific importance was the credibility of GIRoA’s cause to the local population. There are cultural and religious obstacles that need to be overcome for a fence-sitting local Marjah man to side with a bunch of Americans or ANA or AUP from a different province. It is easier for that same man to side with a neighbor involved in a grassroots security program.
Unique knowledge of physical and social landscapes. Local knowledge from ISCI was used to refine operations whether it was a recommendation on a safe, trafficable route or how a certain neighborhood may respond to a company helo raid in their backyard. ISCI and ALP were consistently included in operational planning. No matter what the tactical yield of the operation, if it was a scheme of maneuver endorsed by the public, it was a victory for the people and for GIRoA. Any instance where the peoples’ will could be manifested in a GIRoA operation was a critical blow to the insurgency. The people want an instrument to provide their needs and will use any instrument available, whether insurgent or legitimate government. It is imperative that the government be the most accessible and easy instrument to provide the needs of the people.
Symmetrical approach to the enemy. Fight fire with fire. The insurgents enjoyed fighting coalition forces asymmetrically. They benefitted from typical insurgent advantages: concealment and logistical support from the population. ISCI and ALP denied insurgent access to the population. An ISCI or ALP member was a “human biometric machine” who could identify insurgent members and supporters. ISCI and ALP turned the tables on the insurgents. The population was teeming with ISCI and ALP. The insurgency was now surrounded uncertainty and danger. The psychological impact was tremendous, as confirmed by reports of Taliban leadership being frustrated by the success of the ISCI and ALP. We learned that the Taliban bounty for ISCI and ALP members surpassed the price tag for an American officer.
Conclusion The measures of effectiveness of ISCI and ALP were simple: Wherever ISCI and ALP were active, there were no significant enemy actions or events. Perhaps the most glaring measure of effectiveness came when we received reports of insurgent leaders issuing calls to prayer in Quetta, Pakistan, specifically against Marjah’s ISCI. The enemy justified the value of grassroots security initiatives. At the risk of seeming like a self-licking ice cream cone, it is important that this story be told. What we ended up building was one of the largest police forces in Afghanistan. Growing our own Afghan-owned and -operated combat power linked to GIRoA was the turning point Marjah needed. Our work was similar to that of Smedley Butler and Chesty Puller and their experiences in the Gendarmerie de Haiti. The efforts of RCT–7, RCT–1, 2/9, 2/6, 3/9, and 2/8 were in keeping with the Marine Corps’ small-wars tradition.
Notes
1. Staff, “British soldier makes ‘ultimate sacrifice’ as he dies in Afghanistan on first day of Operation Moshtarak,” Daily Mail, 13 February 2010, available at www.dailymail.co.uk.
2. Nissenbaum, Dion, “McChrystal calls Marjah a ‘bleeding ulcer’ in Afghan campaign,” McClatchy Newspapers, 24 May 2010, available at www.mcclatchydc.com.
>Originally published in the Marine Corps Gazette, February 2014.The author’s biography is available in the original edition.
Marines have always emphasized high-speed mobility. We place a premium on acquiring equipment that is lighter and faster. But sometimes, particularly during military operations on urbanized terrain (MOUT), a “low-speed, high-drag” and “bigger is better” approach makes the best combat sense. Marine infantry need all the assault breaching support they can get. In preparation for the March 2003 drive on Baghdad, I MEF G–3 engineers anticipated and planned for the worst. Sustained MAGTF operations demanded a robust, armored bulldozer capability for congested towns, such as An Nasiriyah, Highway 7, Al Kut, the Diyala River approach, Baghdad, and later Najaf and Fallujah. Known affectionately as the “Teddy Bear” by Israeli and American forces, the Caterpillar D9 (made in the United States, modified in Israel) clearly fit the bill. It provided the Marine Corps and the U.S. Army with a superb 65-ton armored urban assault breaching machine.
During the battle for Fallujah in November 2004, a Marine infantry platoon is pinned down, taking heavy fire from a three-story, cinderblock construction warehouse across the broad street in front of them. An 8-foot wall with heavy iron doors is in front of the structure. Most of the enemy fire is from the roof. The lieutenant quickly ponders how best to get across this killing zone and reduce a tough obstacle and enemy position.
The gunny takes one look at the lieutenant and both nod, thinking and exclaiming the same thing, “Time for Teddy Bears and tanks. Engineers up!” With that, their closest squad leader calls back to one of his NCOs, who further signals behind them down a neighboring alley to their attached combat engineers. A huge Detroit diesel clears its throat, and a friendly, familiar belch of black smoke signals the move forward. As Shakespeare said in King Henry V, “Once more unto the breach.” Sixty-five tons of Caterpillar D9 dozer, reinforced with its thick Israeli armor kit and other combat modifications, moves forward. A second D9 is not far behind, and their operators call for their flank security of two outboard M1 Abrams tanks. Yes, thinks the senior dozer operator, and he says into his radio, “It’s all about supporting Marine infantry ‘at the tip of the spear.’ Without the grunts, we supporting arms are unemployed.”
As the lieutenant feels the ground tremble and vibrate, he sees the huge, familiar dozer silhouette come around the corner. He breathes a sigh of relief, saying confidently to the gunny, “Now that’s assault breaching support.” Like primordial beasts, the dozers lurch forward confidently into the open crossfire. They are focused on the obstacles ahead and the proven Marine Corps version of the old childhood game, “Knock, knock. Who’s there?” Enemy bullets bounce off the D9s as they close the distance. Several rocket propelled grenades (RPGs) prematurely detonate against the field expedient steel mesh barrier encasing the dozer cabs. The M1 tanks on their outboard flanks are faithfully suppressing enemy fire. The Marine infantry add to their own fire with war whoops and hollers of “Go baby,” “Get some,” and “Take that muj” (mujahideen). With momentum and tons of cold steel, the dozers crush their way through the ineffective gated walls and proceed with demolishing the building. Punching out the main load-bearing support columns, the large structure collapses upon itself. Stunned enemy are easily eliminated. Grinning from ear to ear, the gunny turns to the lieutenant and sums up what they’ve just witnessed, “No wonder Israeli grunts call that machine ‘The Zionist Monster.’”
Marines improvise RPG defensive HESCO screens on USMC D9 dozers, Camp Fallujah, October 2004. (Photo by author.)
Since 1902, when Benjamin Holt invented the first bulldozer in Stockton, CA, it has been a distinctive symbol of our “can do” American nature. And this cultural icon applied to our wars. Reflecting on lessons from World War II, Marine Gen Holland M. “Howlin Mad” Smith, the indomitable architect of American amphibious operations, focused on this machine. In his classic 1948 memoir, Coral and Brass (Charles Scribners & Sons, 1949) he stated:
Often, the bulldozer was well ahead of the combat troops, and developed a rugged personality all its own. The roar of the bulldozer as it tore up palm trees and dug out rocks was as familiar as the noise of gunfire. The bulldozer became a symbol of American efficiency.
Dozers continued to contribute to American war efforts in Korea and Vietnam, and no one paid closer attention to these combat mobility lessons than the Israel Defence Force (IDF).
In spring 1984, LTC Eitan Lidor, of the IDF’s Hadassah Kravit (Combat Engineer Corps), visited 1st Combat Engineer Battalion (1st CEB), 1st MarDiv. A battalion commander and combat veteran (1973 Yom Kippur War and 1982 Operation PEACE FOR GALILEE), Lidor spent time observing and critiquing Marine Corps mechanized assault obstacle breaching exercises by 1st, 5th, and 7th Marines, reinforced by 1st CEB, 1st Tank, and 1st Assault Amphibious Vehicle Battalion. This led to further contacts and friendships. Other liaison exchanges followed. In 1987 I participated in combat exercises at the IDF engineer base at Ado Reem, in the Judean Desert near Hebron. In 1990 Marine Corps reps from Quantico visited Tel Aviv, where now-GEN Lidor (commander of the IDF Engineer Corps) greased the skids for Marine acquisition of Israeli assault breaching gear. By 1991 this equipment was in high demand by U.S. coalition forces in Saudi Arabia focused on liberating Kuwait. The results spoke for themselves when GEN Norman Schwarzkopf made his famous post-DESERT STORM speech praising Marine Corps assault breaching prowess.
USMC grunts with D9, toward end of Fallujah battle, November 2004. (Photo by author.)
A new piece of gear entered the IDF table of organization in the 1990s. Quantities of U.S. commercial Caterpillar D9 bulldozers rolled off the assembly line in Peoria, IL, and were transferred to Tel Aviv for significant modifications by Israel Aircraft Industry’s Ramta Division. Added to the original 50-ton dozer were 15 tons of armor, ballistic glass, machineguns, smoke grenade dischargers, radios, and a two-man crew configuration. To IDF combat engineers, the D9 became something special. First referred to in Hebrew as “Dov” (Bear), this morphed into the more affectionate nickname “Dubi” (Teddy Bear). This would be the same term of endearment used by Marines in Operation IRAQI FREEDOM.
By summer 2002, I MEF held its MEF exercise, focusing on the situation in Iraq. The Marine mission was to “head up the middle” between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers from Kuwait to Baghdad, some 500 kilometers up the historic Mesopotamian plain. Main concern to the MEF G–3 engineers was the terrain—lots of rivers (Euphrates, Saddam Canal, Tigris, and Diyala) and congested urban areas. The MEF needed some special capabilities. The MEF’s Engineer Equipment Shortfall Board was familiar with and recommended the D9. The MEF commanding general (CG) (then-LtGen James T. Conway) agreed. Thus the Marine Corps again turned to the IDF for unique assault breaching combat engineer gear. The U.S. Army also identified a similar need. Efforts to obtain IDF D9s were consolidated, resulting in the delivery of nine vehicles to Kuwait in February 2003. Four of these, together with Army heavy equipment transporters (HETs), were delivered to 1st MarDiv’s CEB (combined 1st and 2d CEBs, commanded by then-LtCol Mike Micucci). For ease of tracking and because of their special nature, the four Marine Corps D9s were named “Golda” (for Israel’s historic prime minister), “Ziva” (after the wife of GEN Lidor, who had graciously hosted Marine engineers in Israel), “Matilda” (from the song of 1st MarDiv), and “Natasha” (John Wayne’s World War II dozer in The Fighting Seabees and a tribute to the I MEG’s SeaBees).
Coiled like a cobra on the northern Kuwait border facing Iraq, the Americans and British were ready. The Navy SeaBees of the MEG gathered an unprecedented 54 bulldozers just north of 1st MarDiv’s Camp Matilda. Their primary focus was crossing the line of departure on 20 March 2003. Their mission was breaching operations and rapid mobility. Mounted on sturdy Army HETs that could handle rough terrain, the four Marine Corps D9s had a definite mobility advantage. The MEG’s 54 SeaBee dozers, together with 12 Marine D7s, would, in the weeks to come, provide essential combat and combat service support to 1st MarDiv and Task Force (TF) Tarawa. But it was the four D9s that were continuously at the tip of the spear. It was TF Tarawa that first put a D9 to the real test at the battle of Nasiriyah in late March 2003. Then-MajGen James N. Mattis (CG, 1st MarDiv) loaned Matilda to BGen Richard F. Natonski (CG, TF Tarawa) under one condition, “That you use her to crush as many of these worst excuses for men and SOBs as possible.” This Matilda proceeded to do so under enemy fire as she cleared obstacles all over Nasiriyah. Natonski recognized her exemplary performance over evening video teleconferences, as Matilda provided crucial support to TF Tarawa all the way north up Highway 7 to Al Kut. The three D9s with 1st MarDiv rapidly advanced northwest up Highway 1 to the Numaniyah crossing of the Tigris River. In early April at the final Baghdad river obstacle on the Diyala River, enemy engineers blew key bridges. The D9s were brought up under enemy fire to cut approaches for the 8th Engineer Support Battalion assault bridging units of 1st MarDiv.
The D9s proved their worth to both the Marine Corps and the U.S. Army in the drive on Baghdad. LtCol Micucci stated, “The D9 was my ‘go to’piece of heavy equipment. It was always there with the faithful HETs, ready and waiting to make things happen.” The U.S. Army agreed and ordered seven more D9s from Israel. They arrived during fall 2003, making a total of 16 coalition D9s in Iraq. All would later be needed.
By 2004 some valuable lessons learned from prior employment of D9s had been lost. Newly arrived staff officers within the coalition simply looked at the assault breaching Teddy Bear as “just another bulldozer.” D9s were scattered “out west” all over Al Anbar Province to the Syrian and Jordanian borders. Little maintenance was done on them, and specialized operator training was nil. The D9 needs a combat operator, not just a driver! This changed in August 2004 with the return rotation of the original I MEF G–3 engineers. By late summer, all Marine Corps D9s were being consolidated at Camp Fallujah. Israeli-based MOUT tactics, techniques, and procedures (TTP) were developed. D9 lessons were also learned during the September 2004 battle for Najaf.
In preparation for the upcoming battle of Fallujah, new assault breach training became a priority. High-intensity combat was coming. The D9 was not a simple dozer or surgical instrument. It was a big sledgehammer meant for a combined arms team. More D9s and HETs were needed, so the Marines asked the theater Army engineers for assistance. This was graciously provided by the Army 420th, and later, 20th Engineer Brigades out of Camp Victory, Baghdad.
Maintenance and repair of the D9 dozers, which were not in the regular U.S. inventory, was a challenge. Caterpillar repair technicians and links with Israeli friends were essential. In combat conditions, “selective interchange” of parts (i.e., cannibalization) took place between D9s.
The real Achilles’ heel of the D9 dozer was transportation. Without dedicated Army HET tractors, trailers, and operators, the Teddy Bears could not be moved. Getting these behemoths into the fight at Najaf took far too long. As MAJ Richard S. Takishita, the Army Multinational Coalition Forces-Iraq (MNC-I) C–7 (engineer plans) officer noted, “What should have been a twelve hour shuttle operation to Najaf took six days. Satisfying the call ‘engineers up’ had to be measured in minutes, not hours or days.” These mistakes could not be repeated at Fallujah.
The buildup for the long anticipated second battle for Fallujah had begun. Fallujah was roughly the size of Tampa, FL. Four Marine D9s were simply not enough. The senior Marine combat engineer colonel in Baghdad thus made his best case to the senior Army engineer general in Iraq. The Marines asked that 12 D9s be consolidated at Camp Fallujah, the main staging area for the upcoming battle. This meant giving up Army D9s to the Marines. This was a tough call for the Army, as their division major subordinate commanders did not want to relinquish this capability. But the Army C–7 engineer at Camp Victory, BG Robert A. Pollmann, backed by his Deputy, COL Joseph E. Chesnut, did the right thing. They even went a step further by offering the Marine Corps all of the 16 D9s in the Iraq theater. The senior Australian engineer at Camp Victory, COL Phillip Van Der Moezel, reminded the C–7 staff of the brutal lessons of Stalingrad in World War II, Hue City in 1968, and Grozny in 1994, 1996, and 2000. Pollmann added, “I’m giving you Marines all the D9s because I know you will use them to win.” With this outstanding support from the Army community, 12 D9s were consolidated at Camp Fallujah, while 4 reserve D9s were prepositioned on HETs at Camp Victory. On the eve of battle, heavy maintenance was performed on the D9s. Pollmann and Chesnut served notice throughout coalition forces that these D9s were no longer “bulldozers”but “urban assault breaching machines.” All other theater engineer bulldozer missions were assigned to standard D7s and D8s.
USMC D9 during battle of Fallujah, November 2004. (Photo by author.)
Extensive coordination took place as the MEF engineer at Camp Victory, Baghdad, channeled these D9s from all over Iraq to Camp Fallujah. It was not simply the challenge of obtaining the D9s but also of coordinating the HETs, maintenance, convoy protection, and operational security. At MNC-I Headquarters, LTC Art Free, U.S. Army engineers, and his Australian engineer deputy MAJ Joel Dooley, made sure this happened. Senior coalition headquarters in Baghdad did not want all of the theater D9s tipping off the enemy by descending at once upon Fallujah. They were brought in one and two at a time, where the MEF G–3 engineers established what became known as the I MEF “Assault Breaching Heavy Equipment School.”
In organizing for combat, the D9s followed closely the TTP shared by the IDF. Each D9 had a two-man crew; both qualified as operators, but with the second Marine focused as an assistant driver, communicator, and gunner. The dozers were to be employed in teams of two with flanking support from a section of M1 Abrams tanks; Marine infantry covered both. Combined arms support teams, breaching teams, and assault teams repeatedly exercised together. Engineers, tankers, and infantry continuously rehearsed together. A “combat town” area (including buildings to be demolished) was established near Camp Fallujah. Specific techniques in collapsing buildings were rehearsed, as were recovery operations by other D9s, M1 tanks, and M88 recovery vehicles. Field expedient improvements were implemented regarding communications, survivability, and mobility. Brilliantly customized 4-inch series square HESCO (Highland Exchange Service Cooperative of Britain) bastion steel cages were added to an angle iron frame around the cab of each D–9. With its standoff distance, this predetonated enemy RPGs. This innovative idea came from two Marine engineer SNCOs from Company C, 2d CEB, GySgt Earl W. Buckles of Sunbury, PA, and SSgt Ronald S. Gillaspie of Crown Point, IN. It worked in combat. Despite multiple enemy RPG hits during the battle of Fallujah, not one D9 operator was lost or one cab penetrated.
Each D9 was given a Marine combat name. To the original Golda, Ziva, Matilda, and Natasha were added a dozen more. Most were given roguish names by their Marine crews—“Lurch,” “Critter,” “Homewrecker,” “Gladiator,” “Scarface,” “Blitzkrieg,” “Apocalypse,” “Wolverine,” and “Earth Pig.” The four “ladies” in the Marine D9 reserve were “Julie,” “Joyce,” “Lynn,” and “Malinda.”
Capt James L. Zepko, the 1st MarDiv engineer, published a concise operational combat engineer plan for the infantry covering D9 tactical use. This was coordinated with pre-Fallujah Operation GRIZZLY and Operation QUEENS FEINT, devised to shape the battlefield by drawing the enemy prematurely into aerial and artillery kill zones. These worked as planned.
On the eve of the battle for Fallujah, two young D9 Marine operators exemplified the pride and motivation they had being Teddy Bear operators. When asked how they felt about taking the D9 into combat, LCpl James Denby, 2d CEB, of Rock Hill, SC, stated, “It feels pretty good. There’s not much that can stop it.” LCpl Daniel B. Gadd III, 2d CEB, shared this, “If anything gets in the way, my D9 will destroy it.” These Marines were primed.
The initial signal for the D9s to move out and attack south into Fallujah was initiated by mine-clearing line charges and joint direct attack munitions—big bangs. The intense tactical pattern over the next month of combat would be the same. Marine infantry moved forward identifying and engaging the enemy. Tanks and D9s were called up to deal with specific enemy strongpoints. Time and again D9s burst through walls to allow infantry the opportunity to safely enter a building at a point of Marine choosing. Enemy improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and most boobytraps were thus avoided, and the enemy within the structure was caught off guard. In one case a D9 penetrated a building and was directly confronted by the enemy. The dozer crushed them while the assistant driver hit them with automatic weapons fire. An enemy RPG detonated harmlessly against the D9.
Unmanned aircraft systems, such as the ScanEagle, documented the precision of these 1st MarDiv combat operations. As the two regimental combat teams (RCTs) (RCT–1 in the west and RCT–7 in the east) fought their way south, photos showed that D9s and M1 tanks stuck together in their predesignated sections and helped Marine infantry reduce Fallujah one block at a time. Throughout this methodical move southward, both of the RCT engineers, Capt Frederick W. Russell III, (Company B, 2d CEB, RCT–1) and Capt Georges T. Egli, (Company C, 2d CEB, RCT–7), did a masterful job of coordinating D9 assets where most needed. As Capt Russell later stated, “We had the D9s everywhere in the city.”
The tank company commander in RCT–1 was Capt Robert J. Bodisch, Company C, 2d Tank Battalion. His tanks were attached to 3d Battalion, 5th Marines (3/5) and 3/1. He stated that without question the D9 became the engineer equipment of choice over the armored D7 and M9 armored combat excavator. The infantry preferred the D9s for support because they could reduce the largest enemy structures in the shortest time and withstand small arms fire. This was particularly appreciated in the area known to Marines as “Queens,” where Capt Bodisch stated that the D9 was the only equipment capable of leveling enemy reinforced concrete structures.
The D9 Scarface saw a lot of action similar to other D9s. Detonating a “daisy chain” series of IEDs as it cleared a breach for RCT–7, the call from the supported platoon commander was repeated, “Scarface, are you okay? Are you okay? I saw you disappear in the explosion, and I thought you were wasted.” Chuckling, the crew calmly responded, “Sir, we are fine. Things are good.” Later in the battle, Scarface got the call from 1/8, “We need a hole in that wall!” Two Marines were casualties inside a building, and their squad was attempting to get them out. Scarface opened up the front of the building, and the Marines were successfully extricated. As the grunts pulled out, the squad leader told Scarface, “Make it a parking lot!” Scarface tore through to the far side of the building, collapsing it. This forced the enemy to flee outside where they were cut down by Marine infantry.
By the conclusion of the battle for Fallujah, many D9s were “down” mechanically (at least 7 of the 12 committed to action) due to the simple fact that the supply system could not get replacement fan belts. Iraqi debris ate fan belts. As one mechanic from Company C, 2d CEB stated, “There are not many places in Iraq that carry 106-inch fan belts and deliver to a frontline battlefield. And once your fan belt goes out, you are left with a 65-ton D9 paperweight.” Through Herculean efforts, Marine Corps mechanics were able to keep at least the remaining seven D9s running. Multiple tight strands of communications wire served as expedient fan belts. This was crucial, as infantry units were constantly requesting the Teddy Bears.
The D9 proved itself to be a robust piece of combat gear. Despite extensive use in horrible combat conditions with minimal maintenance, the Teddy Bears and their crews did their job. They faithfully responded to their fellow infantry and tank brethren who repeatedly called for them, “Engineers up.”
In January 2005, following the battle for Fallujah, MajGen Natonski, a D9 fan since he commanded TF Tarawa in 2003, stated:
The D9 dozer was a critical asset during the battle for Fallujah. Often at the point of our armored maneuver elements, it breached railroad berms, minefields, IEDs, cleared other obstacles, and collapsed countless buildings containing enemy insurgent positions. The D9 helped facilitate our attack and save the lives of our Marines and soldiers on the Fallujah urban battlefield.
The future of the D9 Teddy Bear dozer is uncertain in the Marine Corps. Those infantry, tankers, and combat engineers who have seen it in action love it. But its future will be up to others. As Marine operations focus increasingly on urban/MOUT environments, there will be a corresponding need for an urban assault breaching machine. Much like the M1 tank, when Marine infantry need a D9 dozer, nothing else will do. Col William F. Hatton, the I MEF engineer, reflected in January 2005:
Toward the end of the battle of Fallu-jah, there was considerable interest at high levels to get into the city and start reconstruction. Focus was on cleaning up and removing large amounts of debris. During one MEF staff meeting, the question was asked by the commanding general as to why the mighty D9 bulldozers could not be directed to this huge task of rubble removal. Without hesitating, LtCol Todd Kaminski, the G–3 engineer operations officer stated, ‘Sir, the D9s are not clearing rear area rubble because they are still involved in forward combat operations creating rubble.’
A toast to the venerable combat D9 Teddy Bear armored bulldozer. God bless our Marine infantry and the combat engineers who support them.
On 1 March the Marine Corps Association sponsored a PME session on the role of the Marine Corps in the Gulf War. The Association assembled a team of officers that had held key billets at the theater, division, wing, force service support group, and amphibious brigade levels. This article records their observations and compares them to the way I MEF does business today.
>Originally published in the Marine Corps Gazette, May 2001. The authors biography is available in the original edition.
Manning In 1990, the I Marine Expeditionary Force (MEF) staff was not manned, trained, or equipped to be a warfighting staff. The 1st Division was clearly seen as the main effort of the MEF, and 3d Marine Aircraft Wing (MAW) and 1st Force Service Support Group (FSSG) were seen as simply supporting them. Until August 1990, the division commander was also the MEF commander and the component commander. It was only after the changes of command on 8 August 1990 that the MEF and division had separate commanders. Unfortunately, the MEF commander was dual-hatted also as the base commanding general (CG).
The MEF staff was relatively small and not configured to man the current operations, future operations, and plans cells that are standard in today’s MEFs. In fact, there were only six officers in the G-3 shop.
The professional military education (PME) highlighted three points that summarize the MEF’s lack of preparation to be a warfighting headquarters.
• First, the G-2 was not prepared to deal with a battlespace the size that a MEF has to fight. In fact, the G-2 had never heard of intelligence preparation of the battlespace. A team of Army officers came over to train the MEF—while they were on the ground in Saudi.
• Second, the MEF had no fires cell. They had to build one—mostly by taking Marines from the 2d MAW staff.
• Third, the MEF had never fought with a joint force air component commander (JFACC) running the air war for the commander in chief (CinC). All involved had to learn the procedures for getting the MEF aviation into the fight.
Corps Troops A U.S. Army Corps has “corps troops” that provide the essential command and support functions necessary to fight at the corps level. They include a signals brigade, intelligence brigade, military police (MP) brigade, corps artillery headquarters (for counterfire role), corps support command, and other assets essential in multidivision operations.
In 1990, I MEF had only a single communications battalion, a radio battalion, an intelligence company, no MPs, no force artillery headquarters, and an FSSG that was really configured to provide direct support for the division rather than general support for a corps.
Today, Marines understand the need for corps-level troops and have planned accordingly. However, we have not bought significantly more structure. We can only get the number and type of corps units needed by drawing from all three Active MEFs, Marine Forces Reserve (MarForRes), and the Navy and Army Reserve/Guard units. To execute our operation plans (OPlans):
• MEF-level communications requires both 9th Communications Battalion and 6th Communications Battalion.
• The MEF requires assets from all active intelligence battalions, the radio battalions, Active and Reserve force reconnaissance, unmanned aerial vehicles, and the intelligence elements of MarForRes. Yet, a MEF has significantly fewer intelligence assets than an Army Corps or Numbered Air Force.
• I MEF is working with the Navy to establish a I MEF engineering group led by commander, 3d Naval Construction Brigade (NCB– Seabees). 3d NCB is composed mostly of Reserve battalions with an active duty nucleus. It provides the two star commander and staff necessary to deal with the extensive general support engineering assets (a division-sized organization) the MEF requires.
• The MEF force artillery headquarters is 14th Marines. Although currently configured as a divisional artillery regiment, it is working through the challenges of being the force fires headquarters for I MEF.
• MPs remain in short supply. Although II MEF is testing the concept of forming a single “functional” battalion by consolidating the MPs from the entire MEF, this represents a very small capability compared to the MP brigade assigned to an Army corps.
• The I MEF Augmentation Command Element provides Reserve staff augmentation, liaison teams, and a deployment support group to fill out the MEF staff. In addition, they provide the tactical headquarters for the rear area operations group that fights the MEF rear area battle.
Compositing Compositing was one of the key issues identified by every speaker except the CinC staff member. (Compositing is defined as merging several organizations to make a single command. Task organization is defined as attaching and detaching complete organizations to existing headquarters.) All speakers agreed that in 1990 no doctrine or plan existed for compositing the Marine expeditionary brigades (MEBs). At that time, the Corps thought in terms of fighting MEBs and had full-time MEB staffs that were nearly as large as the very small MEF staff. An even greater problem was that while everyone knew you cannot fight multiple MEBs, they also knew that compositing meant entire units went away. The Marines of each MEB, like all Marines, had become very attached to their organizations. If the MEBs composited, organizational flags had to go away. General officers who had worked an entire career to command at this level were not anxious to see their commands go away just as the war started.
Since there was no plan, Marine commanders and staff were exploring options on the fly. One option, which was actually discussed, was to build a composite Marine division “Saudi Arabia” out of the 3d Marines (Hawaii maritime prepositioning shipping (MPS)) and 7th Marines (Pendleton MPS) with the division staff a combination of the elements of the brigade staffs and augments. In other words, rather than using the existing, organized 1st Marine Division staff, we actually considered building a new staff from scratch. Under such a plan, it is unclear how we would create a headquarters and service battalion and all its elements—communications company, motor transport company, MP company, reconnaissance company, and headquarters company. Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed and the division headquarters was brought over, intact, to conduct the fight.
The wing tried a different approach to compositing. The wing commander decided to beef up his first deployers, the Marine aircraft group (MAG) staff that deployed as part of 7th MEB. Then when the wing CG deployed, he brought only a small staff element with him and fell in on the MAG staff. Unfortunately, by the time the wing CG arrived with only 10 staff members, the augments he had sent ahead with MAG–70 had become critical members of the MAG staff and were fully employed running the MAG. The wing staff had to be rebuilt in theater.
In contrast, task organizing was not as difficult for the squadrons and groups due to Marine Aviation Weapons and Tactics Squadron One (MAWTS–1). MAWTS–1, as the lead trainer and developer of aviation tactics, had developed and taught standing operating procedures (SOPs) and tactics to each class. These standards had spread throughout the Corps. Therefore, it was much easier to composite squadrons into groups and groups into the wing than it was to rebuild the wing staff and headquarters.
The FSSG faced a somewhat different problem. Since they do not fight in their peacetime battalion structure, they must always composite. However, in peacetime, they usually composite from units in their own FSSG to support exercises such as the Combined Arms Exercise.
In Saudi, 1st FSSG had to initially composite from 1st Brigade Service Support Group (BSSG) from Hawaii, 7th BSSG from southern California, and 31st Marine Expeditionary Unit’s (MEU’s) service support group from Okinawa. To smooth the process, the FSSG CG went around and talked to each unit. He knew no one would like compositing, so he thought it was important that he explain the reasons for it. He then had to do it again when 2d FSSG showed up and had to be composited. At that time, 2d FSSG took on the role of general support while 1st FSSG took on the role of direct support to the divisions—obviously the assets had to be redistributed.
The 4th and 5th MEBs, being amphibious, faced even greater problems. They decided that compositing at sea would not work. In the future, Marine forces will have to composite before embarkation or download in theater, composite, and reload. Keep in mind that this will require concurrence from the Navy so that we have parallel Navy commands. This has significant implications for expeditionary maneuver warfare concepts.
A final caution was given for commanders and staff officers involved in a compositing process. Ensure you do not offend the commanders and staff members of the organizations being absorbed. You will have to work with them in their new jobs, and they may well end up on the staff of your next higher headquarters.
The consensus clearly was that compositing did not go smoothly and is not likely to do so in the future.
Today, with the advent of the embedded MEB staff, we do not really composite at the MEF level. Since the MEB is embedded in the MEF, when the MEF moves forward to reinforce the MEB, the MEB headquarters is simply reabsorbed into the MEF. All staff officers return to their regular MEF staff jobs, and the MEB CG becomes deputy CG of the MEF. Just as important, the key elements of communications, intelligence, etc. are reabsorbed into their parent units.
There are still two issues of concern for the MEF headquarters. First, the staff will require extensive augmentation which must be sourced worldwide. Therefore, at the same time the MEF is dealing with deploying and employing forces, it must absorb and train new staff members. In addition to staff augmentation, the Marine Corps will have to provide significant staffing to the JFACC, joint force land component commander, joint force maritime component commander, and the various coordinating boards run at those levels. Fortunately, we train for this during major exercises and have worked out the basic procedures.
Second, given that the MEF lacks sufficient “corps troops,” these elements will have to absorb forces of similar types from the other MEFs, MarForRes, Navy, and even Army Reserve and Guard forces. We practice this selectively in exercises but, unfortunately, we cannot afford to exercise entire units.
Like the MEF, the major subordinate commands will also have to absorb additional staff members to bring their staffs to wartime strength.
For the wing, MAWTS-1 continues to provide a common base to assist with the integration of squadrons and groups. At the wing headquarters level, regular participation in MEF-level exercises identifies the augmentation required. Often these requirements can be filled by Reserves during exercise. However, the regular augmentation normally comes out of the wing units. In wartime, these Marines will deploy with their units, and the billets they fill in exercises will have to be filled by active duty Marines from all over the Corps.
For division and FSSG, task organization remains a challenge. Current strategic lift limitations mean that the division and FSSG will be composed of elements from all four of the divisions and FSSGs in the Corps. The division and FSSG headquarters will flow intact but must be heavily augmented from worldwide sources. In addition, the regiments and battalions working for them will have to task organize based on the forces provided in the force flow.
Amphibious compositing remains a challenge. However, the OPlans designate the headquarters and forces for each plan. Thus we should not embark extra headquarters. The regiments, groups, and logistics elements know who they will be working for in the OPlans and can embark accordingly.
No Deliberate Plan or TPFDD At the time the war started there was no written plan. The CinC had conducted an INTERNAL LOOK exercise early in the summer, but most of the Marines who had participated in that exercise departed in the course of the normal summer rotations. This, combined with the turnover of key commanders, meant the MEF had virtually no one with a good grasp of the plan or the theater.
The lack of a plan meant there was no bed down plan, no force modules, and no time-phased force and deployment data (TPFDD). This created a number of problems. Some are very obvious, such as Marine aviation elements being sent to Saudi with no idea where they would bed down. Others are not so obvious, such as sending too many “gunfighters” and not enough sustainers. Since the forces were not in “packages” that flowed combat forces with their combat support and service support, we had Marines who were thirsty, hungry, and out of gas. In fact, since the CinC stated he wanted gunfighters first, the MPS ships had to supply not only the Marines but the 82d Airborne, elements of the 24th Mechanized, and the 101st Air Assault Divisions until early October. In addition, the Air Force had not planned to provide tanker support for Marine self-deploying aircraft. This created a long delay in the deployment of Marine aviation.
The FSSG commander, who was in-country early, wanted force modules so that the forces arriving could be sustained as they fought, but with the Worldwide Military Command and Control System, it was not possible.
Today we have mature TPFDDs for all current OPlans. Even more important, the forces in the TPFDD can be divided into force modules so, in the event of an unplanned crisis, we can send a balanced, sustainable force immediately.
Operational Planning Once the forces were deployed, the planning process created different challenges for the MEF. The war was being planned in three places—the Secretary of Defense’s office, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs office, and in theater. Complicating the overlapping efforts, the final plan could not be written until November when the National Command Authority finally added VII Corps out of Europe.
Despite extensive planning effort, the divergent philosophies of the air planners and the ground planners resulted in different approaches to the fight. The air campaign was tasked to set conditions for the ground campaign. However, the Air Force planners were working under Col Worden’s “Concept of Five Rings.” Therefore, the Air Force focused on the inner rings with intent to win the war with airpower. It was only Army and Marine complaints that gave birth to the Joint Targeting Coordination Board so that all components got their voice in targeting and the deputy CinC made decisions for CinC, not for JFACC.
The consensus of the participants in the PME was that there probably should have been a ground component commander with Marine and Army staffing to coordinate the ground campaign.
A major deficiency from the Corps’ point of view was a lack of Marine planners at the CinC level. GEN Norman H. Schwarzkopf brought in a team of U.S. Army School of Advanced War‑
fighting graduates to plan the ground campaign. The Air Force brought in a plans cell to plan the air war. There were no Marine planners in either cell.
Today, there are Marine planners on the CinC staffs. In addition, the component and the MEF send liaison teams to the next higher headquarters. Finally, the joint community has come a long way in both planning and execution with future operations cells, plans cells, and joint boards for targeting and intelligence collection.
Component Lessons In 1990, the MEF commander was dual-hatted also as the component commander; however, the Corps had no doctrine, tables of organization or equipment for a component commander. Quite frankly, we did not know exactly how a component should function.
Early on, the Marine Corps had no representative at the CinC’s forward headquarters in Riyadh. Unfortunately, key decisions were made during this period. One of the outcomes was that I MEF had no battlespace assigned. It had a strip of land 12 kilometers wide along the coast of Saudi Arabia but did not own the airspace above it. In addition, host-nation support was divvied up before Marines had a significant say in the process with the obvious results. The MEF would spend the rest of the time in Southwest Asia trying to recover from this early oversight.
Even when I MEF did send a team to the CinC’s headquarters, it consisted of a single brigadier general, his aide, his driver, and one Arabic speaking major. Due to the culture of the other Services, the MEF still could not participate in the key decisions because all key decisions were made at the three star level. In the other Services, it is rank not billet that gets one into key discussions. Both the Army and Air Force had three star generals to attend. I MEF could not get to the three star table until LtGen Walter E. Boomer arrived in country.
Fortunately, we have come a long way in learning what componency entails. CG, Marine Forces Pacific (MarForPac)/Marine Forces Central Command (MarForCent) is the Marine component commander for the current major theater war OPlans. This will give us a three star officer and his staff at the component level from the very beginning of any conflict. Further, this staff participates in peacetime exercises and as a result knows their counterparts at MEF and the CinC staffs.
Unfortunately, the MarForPac/MarForCent staff remains a very small staff with very limited assets for such a major task. They will require extensive augmentation to execute both their deployment functions (working for CinCPac) and employment functions (working for CinC United Nations Command [Korea] or CinCCentCom).
One major improvement came as a direct result of the Marine Air-Ground Task Force Staff Training Program (MSTP) and the evolution of the MEF as a warfighter. Staff officers at the component and MEF level understand the MEF requirements for battlespace, logistics support, communications assets, etc., and are prepared to engage the CinC staff from the very beginning of any crisis.
FSSG Lessons One of our deficiencies prior to the Gulf War was the lack of recognition of the requirement for two levels of logistics—tactical and operational. Prewar, Marines focused on tactical logistics—direct support to the division and wing. Unfortunately, we had not considered the operational-level requirement to coordinate and execute logistics across the theater.
During DESERT SHIELD, the FSSG worked it out on the ground by developing direct support and general support organizations. Since the war, this concept has been refined with the designation of a Marine Logistics Command (MLC) for each OPlan. The MLC will work directly for the component commander and be responsible for Marine logistics up to the MEF rear boundary. While planning and preparation are light years ahead of 1990, creating an MLC still requires taking an FSSG structured for tactical logistics and reorganizing it for operational-level logistics.
Compounding the FSSG’s problems in 1990 was the fact that our supply system simply did not work. The Supported Activities Supply System (SASSY) was a demand-based system and drew its information from peacetime databases. Clearly, demand changed entirely during the high-tempo training of DESERT SHIELD and the short but intense operations of DESERT STORM.
Today, the Corps is attempting to resolve the supply problems with the introduction of the Asset Tracking Logistics and Supply System II+, commonly known as ATLASS II+. Unfortunately, the system is currently funded only for II MEF. In addition, we have not resolved the problems of interfacing with the Marine Integrated Maintenance Management System and SASSY. The Corps hopes to solve these problems by transitioning to a web-based system.
The MPS concept proved brilliant in providing sustainment stocks immediately. Unfortunately, the concept was not executed well. We had no asset visibility for the stocks offloaded. It was taking one full manday to pull an item from the stocks. Marines literally had to open containers and find out what was in them. As a result, FSSG had to shut down supply operations for 10 days to rewarehouse the material from the containers to warehouses.
Even worse, the supply system was not credible to the Marines of the MEF. No one trusted it, therefore, everyone created their own parts block. When MPS units left southern California, they took most of the SL–3 components, tools, sets, and chests because they didn’t believe they would be there when they arrived. This not only greatly increased the lift footprint but also gutted the remain-behind equipment (RBE) that is an essential part of mobilization. Once in country, the hoarding continued. This resulted in shipping in more of everything because each unit kept extensive unit-level stocks.
Another point stressed during the PME was that there are things we do in garrison that we cannot do in the field. In combat, the FSSG must focus on getting fuel, water, ammo, and chow forward. We did not do as well on services such as post exchange (very important to tobacco users) and mail (up to 130 tons a day that would not have been delivered without the 60 doctors and nurses from Fleet Hospital who volunteered to help sort mail). Commanders must be ready for this deficiency.
A critical shortage was line haul transportation. While inter-Service agreements state the Army will provide this support, they are short of transportation assets themselves. Fortunately, the FSSG was able to contract “Saudi Motors” to fill this deficiency.
PME participants thought we should never do a major rebuild in the field—it creates too many problems. Instead, we must evacuate the component from the forward area to a support area with permanent buildings and rebuild it there. This will actually be faster and more reliable. The key requirement to execute such a plan is the availability of intratheater air.
The final comment was that we had too much equipment, too many echelons of maintenance, and too much stuff automatically delivered to the theater via the prepositioned war reserve program. To reduce these problems, we need to first reduce the number of echelons of maintenance. Next, we need to develop better logistics command and control in FSSG so we can see what we need, request only the needed material, and then track it in transit.
Today, the MLC remains one of the biggest unresolved questions in our OPlans. The functions it provides are vital, yet it is an additional duty to an already overtasked FSSG. We have developed the concept but are just beginning to test it in exercises.
Wing Lessons In 1990, the 3d MAW was very good at deploying squadrons in support of the special operations capable MEU, or MEU(SOC), and unit deployment programs (UDPs). This was the wing’s mission, and they focused on it. Frankly, the wing did not train as a wing. At the time, the wing staff did not practice operating out of the tactical air command center (TACC). In fact, the wing G–3 stated that only the 7200s understood the TACC and what went on inside. Upon arrival in theater, the wing had to levy a tax of two officers per squadron to man the TACC. The DESERT SHIELD period provided absolutely essential time for the wing to train to fight as a wing.
The wing deployed with no intention of using an air tasking order (ATO). Quite simply, no one had used a theater ATO to run a war plan up to this point. Needless to say, the CinC’s decision to use the JFACC as his executive agent for the air war and the ATO as the primary tool caused some significant friction between the JFACC staff and the wing staff.
Some of the friction arose from the simple fact the Marine Corps had neither the manning to participate in the JFACC process nor the equipment to receive the ATO in digital form. 3d MAW developed work arounds to both problems but, again, the long preparation period prior to the war was essential.
One of the key inter-Service disagreements was how to measure success in use of aviation assets. The Air Force tends to measure efficiency and expresses it in terms of number of sorties generated. The Marine Corps measures effectiveness in terms of targets eliminated and sorties executed in support of the MEF. During the war, this created friction when the Air Force planners complained that the Marine sorties scheduled for close air support (CAS) but not flown should have been declared excess to the JFACC. The Air Force planners did not accept the idea that keeping aviation available for immediate response to the maneuver commander’s needs may be the most effective use of aviation.
A partial solution was the use of a CAS stack over each division. Aircraft moved to the CAS stack and loitered until employed. If not employed, they waited until relieved by the next section of CAS. They then moved forward to the “kill box manager,” who was fighting part of the MEF deep battle. While the Air Force agreed with the kill box concept, they did not like the idea of a kill box manager. They saw this as a diversion of aviation assets since the aircraft were controlling rather than striking. In contrast, 3d MAW saw the kill box managers as a very efficient and effective use of the sorties. The F/A-18D crews maintained situational awareness over the battlefield where they could quickly guide other Marine aircraft onto targets.
As mentioned in the section on componency, airspace was apportioned before I MEF arrived in theater. Therefore, I MEF did not own airspace over the divisions. To ensure Marine aviators were still able to respond quickly to Marines on the ground, 3d MAW kept aircraft airborne just off the coast. This was clearly a point of pride for Marine aviators.
Some other anomalies that created problems for the wing were:
• Separate rules of engagement (ROE) for over land and over water. The CinC never established a single theater ROE for aviation.
• A high-density airspace control zone was created to give Marines airspace over the divisions. However, JFACC would change it arbitrarily—3d MAW operators had to look at the special instructions each day to find out exactly what the altitude was.
• The “green” computers did not work. Since they were much slower, more expensive, and used proprietary software, they were not used in garrison. Therefore, they couldn’t be used in the war. Fortunately, the “white” computers worked very well. Bottom line recommendation was that when you deploy, use the gear you use in garrison.
• Best dressed, first out! Those squadrons with the most capable aircraft were requested first in the flow.
• The TAVB (aviation logistics support ship) is a great capability but was poorly used. Again, a lack of planning and exercising at the MEF level reduced the effectiveness of this exceptional asset.
• Since this was pre-MSTP, the Corps had not developed the single battle manager concept. As a result, many in the wing had the genuine feelingly that the MEF was “meddling in the fight.”
Division Lessons The 1st Marine Division had a change of command on 8 August—6 days after the invasion of Kuwait. The heavy summer turnover also transferred almost all key staff members that had participated in INTERNAL LOOK.
Complicating the division’s deployment was the lack of a plan, lack of a TPFDD, the departure of the old MEF CG (which meant there was no base CG to supervise the absolutely critical base deployment support functions), and the uncertainty of whether the division was even going to deploy.
Like the wing, the division was also skilled in deploying battalions and detachments in support of the MEU(SOC) and UDP programs. They had not planned or trained to deploy the whole division. In the haste to get out of town, the division left the RBE in bad shape. Unfortunately, stripping the RBE slowed the deployment of the Reserve elements which had to draw the RBE as their “going to war” gear.
One thing the division discovered quickly was that Marine and Navy wives were critical to solving problems. Many Marines left their families without cars, driver’s licenses, paychecks, etc. The fact that there were no disgruntled Marine wives on TV complaining about the lack of support was due to efforts of other wives.
Upon arrival, the 1st Marine Division was given time to train in the desert. While the division headquarters finally deployed as a unit, the regiments had to task organize. Tanks, assault amphibious vehicles, light armored infantry (LAI), and engineers had to be integrated into regimental-sized tactical organizations. In addition, most infantry regiments had battalions from other regiments assigned to them. Each organization had to refine its SOPs and ensure that those battalions/companies joining from outside the regiment were familiar with them. The 51/2 months of training made the forces very tight. In fact, the relationship between LAI and the Cobras saved the lst Marine Division’s headquarters the night of the counterattack.
One tool the division commander used to smooth the integration of battalions into other regiments was a task force name. While the Marines from 1/5 might not think of themselves as part of 7th Marines, they did think of themselves as part of Task Force Ripper.
The divisions had to work out SOPsand procedures for tactical evolutions not addressed in peace-time training such as a regimental-level breach of an obstacle belt. Even the mechanics of terrain management for force lay down had to be worked out—for both sides of the breach.
The panelists cautioned today’s commanders to make sure they have air/naval gunfire liaison company (ANGLICO)-type units with any coalition forces next to them. In 1990, Special Forces provided liaison teams to the Saudis but were suddenly pulled out for “higher priority” missions. Fortunately, ANGLICO teams were with the Saudis the entire time so there was no break in communications between the Saudis and us.
Other items the presenters felt might be helpful to future commanders were:
• The use of artillery raids covered by Marine air, conditioned the Iraqis to be afraid of Marine air.
• The biggest problem in-country was communications. 1st Marine Division was spread out over 100km from nose to tail during the fight. 3d MAW provided a C–130 for communications relay. In addition, the division put a lieutenant colonel from division staff, who was intimately familiar with the plan, in the aircraft and invited the C-130 crew to all division sand table briefs.
• Commands must practice mobile command post (CP) operations. 2d Marine Division needed 2 trucks and 38 other vehicles for their forward CP.
• Once the fight started, 3d MAW provided the only reliable information from outside division concerning what was in front of the divisions.
• Do not bypass company-sized units, they caused too much disruption for CPs and logistics units following. Bypass platoon and below.
• Artillery units can not lift basic allowance (BA) of artillery ammunition with the designated ammunition trucks. The batteries had to take everything else out of every vehicle to move the BA.
• Personalities count! Don’t create friction by the people you place in key roles.
• The best intelligence the divisions received prior to the start of the war was a brief by LtGen Bernard E. Trainor, USMC(Ret). It was based on his observations of Iraqi forces as a journalist during the Iraq-Iran War. The key observation was that Iraqi units will fight if you attack from the front. They would not fight if you attack their flank or rear. Combat engineers were the Iraqis best combat arm. Artillery was the next best. Iraqi tactics called for building obstacles to keep the enemy in a fire sack then destroying them with artillery. The divisions used this information to develop their plans.
From left to right: LtGen Trainor, Gen Dake, LtGen Brabham, MajGen Jenkins, MajGen Myatt, LtGen Keys, and Gen Neal.
Amphibious Forces The presenter noted that only 13 amphibious ships were provided per MEB. This is the same number for a MEB in today’s OPlans. As a result, each MEB needed an additional five foreign roll-on/roll-off ships to load the assault follow-on echelon. Then, since they had no instream offload capability, the MEB had to download in Jubayl and reload on MPS ships that had been withheld from the common user pool. This process took 6 weeks.
To simplify operations, big deck amphibs were designated for specific aircraft types—Harriers, CH–53s, CH–46s, and AH/UH–1s. This greatly improved both operations and maintenance.
The full MEB and amphibious group headquarters would not fit on an LPH or LHA. As a result, they had to create alpha and bravo command groups on different ships.
The MEBs never received an initiating directive or establishing directive. They were just told to load and go. They could not be combat loaded because they didn’t have a mission. Further complicating the planning was the fact that 4th MEB had to transit in three different groups because only four ships at a time could load at Morehead City, NC. Finally, the commanders could not communicate between groups as they crossed the ocean.
Command relations created additional problems. 4th MEB, 5th MEB, and 13th MEU had to work for the naval component (Fifth Fleet). Unfortunately Fleet staffs have very few amphibious sailors or Marines on the staff. The planning process simply did not go smoothly until the Marine Corps put a general officer and six-man staff at Navy Central Command (NavForCent) headquarters. Even this did not solve all of the problems since that general and his very small staff were also the liaison between MarForCent and NavForCent.
Summary Since 1990, the concept of the MEF as the warfighter has matured in our Corps. The combination of the MSTP and major exercises such as ULCHI FOCUS LENS and INTERNAL LOOK havetaught our MEFs to function as single battle managers. The same factors have driven the learning and growth of our Marine components. Out of necessity, I MEF has integrated the Reserves into all major MEF exercises and is a better warfighter because of it. Finally, the Corps is now a full player in the deliberate planning process and ensures Marine forces have the lift to get to the fight and the battlespace to fight as a MAGTF when they get there.
Clearly our doctrine is good and getting better. Our training has improved dramatically. Yet this PME reminds us that we still have areas that need work. Our Corps has solved many of the problems I MEF encountered in 1990 but not all of them. The speakers at the PME provided the guidance and the challenge, it’s up to today’s Marines to accept it.
>At the conclusion of the PME, LtGen Trainor, as moderator, asked each presenter to provide a single piece of advice to Marines who may have to fight a MEF in the future. This is what they said.
• Gen Richard I. Neal: Be doctrinally sound but not bound. Flexible and adaptable. Know doctrine of guys on right and left.
• LtGen William M. Keyes: Small unit leadership remains heart of Corps. NEVER think we will get another fight with so few casualties.
• MajGen James M. Myatt: Study your profession. Don’t try to do other guy’s job. Trust each other.
• MajGen Harry W Jenkins: Teach Navy brothers.
• LtGen James A. Brabhams: Relationships between commanders are more important than command relations.
• Gen Terrance R. Dake: It’s come as you are. Be ready for it.
>Originally published in the Marine Corps Gazette, September 2001. The authors biography is available in the original edition.
‘Me and Somalia against the World, me and my clan against Somalia, me and my family against the clan, me and my brother against my family, me against my brother.’
-Somali Proverb
From 1992 to 1994, U.S. forces deployed to the African nation of Somalia to conduct humanitarian and peacekeeping missions as part of Operations PROVIDE RELIEF and RESTORE HOPE. Initiated during the Bush Administration and continued under the Clinton Administration, the United States undertook these operations in support of a greater United Nations (U.N.) effort. The United States’ primary role evolved into providing security for various humanitarian relief units and agencies while attempting to rebuild the nation’s infrastructure. In short, the United States assumed responsibility for providing the muscle for the operation. An overly ambitious U.N. mandate, coupled with an exceptionally poor command and control apparatus, eventually inhibited the operational commander’s ability to properly shape the battlespace for the introduction of forces at the tactical level. A skilled Somali tribal warlord capitalized on this weakness by confronting U.S. military power asymmetrically, bringing U.S. forces into the close confines of a city he largely controlled. This resulted in an embarrassing, though arguably successful, tactical mission that, in turn, produced a strategic defeat for both the United States and the U.N.
Figure 1. Somalia.
Strategic Setting and Conflict History Somalia is a landmass of approximately 250 square miles on the Horn of Africa—the northeast coast of that continent. (See Figure 1.) It is 24 hours away from the United States by air, and several weeks away by sea. Mogadishu, the nation’s capital, is a typical Third World city. Normally a city of about 500,000, it had grown to as many as 1.5 million by 1992, due to a refugee problem generated by drought, civil war, and an accompanying humanitarian crisis. The city’s infrastructure is largely inadequate for the size of its populace. Densely filled with poorly constructed concrete buildings, Mogadishu’s overcrowding and poor sanitation have created a breeding ground for disease. Lines of communication (LOC) within the nation are virtually nonexistent. Mogadishu contains the nation’s largest airport, while the entire nation contains just seven other paved airstrips. No functioning telephone or communications system exists in the nation.
Food and water in Somalia are scarce due to the drought that has stricken much of east Africa during the last decade. The situation has generated an
attitude of hopelessness among most of the inhabitants, many of whom seem only to wait for death. Many Somali men are addicted to khat, a mild amphetamine. While some Somalis fish in an attempt to provide for themselves and their families, most seem to have forgotten how to work altogether. Looting and black market activities are commonplace.
Since 1988, a savage civil war between approximately 14 clans and factions that make up Somali society has severely exacerbated the food shortage. For more than a decade, the area was at the forefront of Cold War competition and, as a result, large numbers of individual and heavy weapons were available to the clans. Although Somalis are devout Muslims (in many of the war-ravaged locations, mosques were the only buildings left standing), Somali culture stresses the unity of the clan above all else. Alliances are made with other clans only when necessary to elicit some gain. Weapons, overt aggressiveness, and an unusual willingness to accept casualties are intrinsic parts of the Somali culture. Women and children are considered part of the clan’s order of battle. People of western culture and heritage typically have great difficulty in accepting the Somali view of life. As MG Thomas M. Montgomery, who served as Commander, U.S. Forces, Somalia (USForSom), stated, “It’s impossible for an American mother to believe that a Somali mother would raise children to avenge the clan.”
The most powerful of these clans in Mogadishu, and the largest in all of Somalia, was the Habr Gidr, led by warlord Mohamed Farrah Aideed. Aideed had been educated in both Italy and the Soviet Union. He had served Somalia’s dictator, Mohamed Siad Barre, as Army chief of staff and then as ambassador to India, before leading a coup against him in 1991. Siad Barre had ruled a united Somalia by terror for 20 years. Aideed had worked with other clans to overthrow Siad Barre, but following the successful coup, the Habr Gidr could not consolidate power. Several of the northern clans attempted to secede. With drought conditions worsening and starvation setting in, clan warfare and banditry became commonplace. Pillaging and looting became methods of survival, and most of the young Somali men were “guns for hire.” Somalia sank into total anarchy. By early 1992, more than one-half million Somalis died of starvation with at least one million more threatened.
Recognizing the human tragedy ongoing in Somalia, in April 1992, the United Nations Security Council adopted Resolution 751, establishing United Nations Operations in Somalia (UNOSom). UNOSom was tasked to provide humanitarian assistance and to “facilitate” the end of hostilities in Somalia. It soon became evident, though, that not enough food, water, and medicines were making it to the people who needed it. Instead, bandits and the warring Somali clans were stealing and confiscating the relief supplies. The 50 UNOSom observers could not fulfill their mission alone, prompting the U.N. to request assistance from the United States. The Bush Administration responded by initiating Operation PROVIDE RELIEF that lasted from 15 August through 9 December 1992. This operation, predominantly an Air Force effort, airlifted food into Somalia from the neighboring nation of Kenya. Commanded by BGen Frank Libutti, PROVIDE RELIEF brought more than 28,000 metric tons of desperately needed supplies into Somalia.
Nevertheless, by December 1992, it was clear that the combined U.S. and U.N. effort was still insufficient to protect the humanitarian effort as bandits continued to inhibit relief distribution. In order to mitigate the disaster, the United States would need to commit ground forces to provide security for international relief distribution points. Subsequently, on 3 December 1992, the U.N. passed Resolution 794, stipulating that the United States would both lead and provide forces to a multinational coalition titled the United Task Force, or UniTaf. To fulfill this role, on the following day President Bush announced the initiation of Operation RESTORE HOPE, under the command of Marine LtGen Robert B. Johnston. The UniTaf and RESTORE HOPE combined the humanitarian relief mission with purposeful, limited military action to ensure the security of the relief effort. Both the United States and the U.N. intended that these operations would be of short duration and that the United States would pass its responsibility back to UNOSom once the situation was stabilized.
UniTaf remained in existence from 9 December 1992 through 4 May 1993, and involved more than 38,000 troops from 21 nations (including 28,000 Americans). Leading the UniTaf, U.S. Marines initiated the operation with an amphibious assault as a show-of-force demonstration. The effects of this highly publicized, predawn landing were somewhat compromised by the barrage of western reporters spotlighting Marines on the beach. Nonetheless, the Marines followed up with a series of quick, decisive, and largely unopposed air and ground tactical maneuvers that seized key terrain in and around Mogadishu. The fact that the major warring factions agreed to an armistice within 2 days of the initial landing proved the Marines’ effectiveness in establishing operational dominance in the region.
On 13 December 1992, the Army’s 10th Mountain Division (Light) joined the Marines in Mogadishu and along with other U.N. forces, moved to secure relief distribution facilities in established humanitarian relief sectors (HRS). The UniTaf created the HRS to provide command and control boundaries between the participating units. Within these HRS, U.N. forces were responsible for supporting and providing security to various nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). The focus during this period was to disarm the Somalis, to include locating and seizing arms caches, as well as encouraging the Somalis to voluntarily turn in their weapons. As a result, increasing amounts of relief supplies were successfully distributed throughout the nation, curtailing starvation in many areas.
The UniTaf, under the leadership of LtGen Johnston and U.S. Ambassador to Somalia, Robert Oakley, made it a point to actively work with the various clan leaders as the only recognized leadership in the country. Then-MajGen Anthony C. Zinni, who served as UniTaf’s director of operations, later explained UniTaf’s reasoning when he stated:
Everybody with some degree of authority, even if it’s out of the barrel of a gun, you’d better give them a forum in which to bring their case. When they’re isolated, there’s no recourse other than to violence.
They ensured that their disarmament efforts were done in such a way as to avoid embarrassing or provoking them. During an interview, MajGen Zinni further noted:
Our headquarters was in [Aideed’s] area, Mogadishu, our main logistic lines and bases, the air base and the airfield, and the port were in his area of control, so it was very important that we had him cooperating, especially in the beginning.
Zinni recalled that, because the U.S. actively engaged Aideed, he often assisted U.S. operations by offering advice:
… he would tell us, ‘Don’t just go out to the hinterlands unannounced. You may have an unintended clash with the militia or a group out there. Make sure they know you’re coming and the purpose of your visit. It will prevent any unintended violence. Come with NGOs … with food, so they look at you as not just another gun club out there, but associate the food and medicine with you so you’re there for some positive purpose.’
Largely because of this engagement strategy, the UniTaf succeeded in its missions of stabilizing the security situation to facilitate humanitarian relief. Prior to its departure, the UniTaf also worked with the 14 major Somali factions to agree to a plan for a transitional or transnational government. Realizing the importance of the large U.S. contribution, U.N. Secretary-General Boutros Boutros-Ghali repeatedly delayed the termination of UniTaf in hopes of effectively disarming the Somalis and creating conditions conducive to nation building. Ali Mahdi, leader of the Darod clan (the clan of former dictator Siad Barre), and several other leaders of smaller clans were enthusiastic about the U.N.’s nation building efforts, but Aideed was determined that power would not be shared. Aideed felt that his Somali National Alliance (SNA), comprised of the Habr Gidr and three allied Somali clans, had earned the right to rule the country since they had borne the lion’s share of risk and pain in overthrowing Siad Barre. The Habr Gidr was highly distrustful of Boutros-Ghali. A long-time enemy of Aideed, Boutros-Ghali had worked against the SNA’s revolutionary movement when he was an Egyptian diplomat. Accordingly, the Habr Gidr believed that Boutros-Ghali was attempting to restore the Darod to power. Thus, many Somalis questioned Boutros-Ghali’s legitimacy from the beginning.
With the United States impatient to withdraw its forces, Boutros-Ghali finally acquiesced, and Security Council Resolution 814 formally created UNOSom II on 26 March 1993. This resolution comprised the first U.N.-directed peacekeeping operation under the Chapter VII enforcement provisions of the U.N. Charter. It required the UNOSom II forces to disarm the Somali clans while providing humanitarian relief and conducting significant nation building and peace enforcement tasks. Special Representative of the Secretary-General Jonathan Howe, a retired U.S. Navy admiral, headed UNOSom II, while Turkish Gen Cevik Bir served as the commander of the U.N. multinational contingent. The majority of American forces within Somalia soon redeployed home. Just 4,500 American troops remained in the country, now under the command of MG Thomas M. Montgomery, USA, as Commander, USForSom. Over 3,000 of these troops were logistics support personnel, but they also included approximately 1,150 soldiers from the 10th Mountain Division who were designated as UNOSom II’s quick reaction force (QRF). The QRF would assist UNOSom II in military operations that were beyond the latter’s capabilities. MG Montgomery operated under two chains of command, serving as the U.N. military forces’ deputy to LtGen Bir, while remaining under the command of the commander in chief, U.S. Central Command (CinCUSCentCom), Marine Gen Joseph Hoar.
ADM Howe and LtGen Bir adopted a philosophy and operational strategy very dissimilar from that employed by their UniTaf predecessors, Ambassador Oakley and LtGen Johnston. Instead of engaging the clan leaders, Howe attempted to marginalize and isolate them. ADM Howe ignored Aideed and the other clan leaders in an attempt to decrease the warlords’ power. Disregarding the long-established Somali cultural order, the U.N. felt that, in the interest of creating a representative, democratic Somali Government, they would be better served by excluding the clan leadership. The policy reeked of arrogance coupled with cultural ignorance.
Consistent with this strategy, U.S. operations became increasingly aggressive under the U.N. mandate. American and other U.N. forces conducted several air assault operations to deny the warring factions freedom of movement by securing key points in and around Mogadishu. U.S. force protection concerns escalated when a sniper killed a U.S. soldier. When a convoy of technicals (civilian pickup trucks mounting machineguns) attempted to enter a restricted area in the town of Kismayo, the Army used firepower as a means of force protection by destroying it with a flight of AH-1 attack helicopters. Many Somalis began to view the U.N. forces, and particularly the U.S. forces, as a direct threat instead of an impartial mediator and legitimate stabilizing force. As Aideed saw it, ADM Howe was subordinating the U.S. forces to his nemesis, Boutros-Ghali. Somali antagonism toward the Americans grew proportionally with the increasing U.S. willingness to restrict native movement and enforce these restrictive policies with lethal fires. U.S. forces, highly concerned with force protection, began to adopt a siege mentality within their HRS. Maintaining a working relationship with the local populace in Mogadishu and other urban areas now took a backseat to force protection concerns.
Tensions continued to escalate as the United States began to redeploy its forces and gradually turned command and control over to the UN. Since the U.N. did not replace many of the Americans responsible for controlling access within the HRS, several warlords, no longer operationally isolated, made their way back into the urban areas. In February, a Somali faction led by Col Morgan seized Kismayo. Fighting rapidly broke out with another Somali gang led by an ally of Aideed, Col Jess. Four Marines were wounded before Morgan was persuaded to withdraw. The U.N. blamed this incident on Aideed and soon labeled him the biggest obstacle to creating an environment within Somalia that was conducive to long-term conflict resolution. From Aideed’s viewpoint, the ambitious U.N. peace enforcement and nation-building mandate ultimately threatened his power base.
Under ADM Howe’s direction, U.N. forces then began conducting operations, such as armory inspections, without giving the warlords advance warning. On 5 June 1993, they conducted an inspection on an Aideed militia armory in Mogadishu. Aideed’s militia feared that the U.N. was actually moving to seize control of their clan radio station, “Radio Aideed.” They reacted by killing 24 Pakistani soldiers and injuring several more during an ambush as the U.N. forces returned from the inspection. The angry Somali backlash was so spontaneous and violent that Pakistani soldiers in the area guarding feeding stations were also attacked. Women and children, who were often rifle carrying combatants, opened these attacks. These tactics shocked the U.N. troops, who were unaccustomed to Somali culture. The Pakistanis were later heavily and unfairly criticized because they opened fire on the women and children. This incident led to a U.N. resolution calling for the arrest of those responsible for the ambush, thus adding the apprehension of Aideed to UNOSom II’s mission. The U.N. mission effectively transitioned from a neutral, peacekeeping role into a counterinsurgency campaign oriented at eliminating a specific clan’s influence. In hindsight, this resolution ignored the fact that the clans were the most deeply imbedded aspects of Somali society and culture. It would prove to be the decision that set the stage for strategic failure.
The day following the SNA ambush of the Pakistanis, ADM Howe began lobbying the Clinton Administration for special forces to assist in capturing Aideed. Initially unable to obtain this support, ADM Howe and LtGen Bir directed 3 days of AC–130H and AH–1 helicopter attacks and QRF raids on Aideed’s weapon storage sites and radio station. On 12 July 1993, ADM Howe directed an AH–1 attack on an SNA headquarters building, known as the Abdi House, in an attempt to eliminate the more radical members of Aideed’s clan. The raid resulted in several deaths and caused the more moderate members of Habr Gidr to lean further against the United States. ADM Howe then reversed course, halting his offensive and labeling Aideed a war criminal. He put a bounty of $25,000 on Aideed’s head in hopes that members of his clan would be persuaded to betray him. Because the amount was considered so small, however, the SNA actually viewed it an insult. All the while, the American presence in Somalia continued to decrease as U.S. forces redeployed home.
Analyzing the American and United Nations Campaign Plans The shared U.N. and U.S. strategic objective in Somalia was to create conditions within the nation that would facilitate humanitarian relief and promote a lasting resolution of the conflict. During the UniTaf period, Ambassdor Oakley and LtGen Johnston believed that the best means of pursuing this objective was by working with the leaders of the various clans—the center of Somali society that they correctly identified as the Somali operational center of gravity. With a robust ground force, they demonstrated their resolve while playing the role of an honest broker. Conversely, during UNOSom II, U.N. Special Representative Howe began to view a single clan, Aideed’s Habr Gidr, as the center of gravity blocking mission progress. Similarly, he saw Aideed’s personal security as a critical vulnerability. If Aideed could be captured and brought to justice, he would be isolated from his public support, and the Habr Gidr could be persuaded to share power with their rival clans.
After ADM Howe’s repeated political cajoling, the Clinton Administration, although still committed to withdrawing U.S. forces from Somalia, finally agreed to deploy a special operations unit to begin strike operations to capture Aideed and other key leaders of the Habr Gidr. This decision was made against the advice of Gen Hoar, CinCUSCentCom. The special operations unit—Task Force Ranger (TF Ranger) commanded by MG William F. Garrison—would conduct a three-phase operation. Phase I, from 23–30 August, would constitute a preparation period immediately following their deployment. During Phase II, which would last until 7 September, TF Ranger would locate and capture Aideed. Finally, during Phase III, they would target Aideed’s command structure. Despite the fact that ADM Howe’s overzealousness in conducting attacks on Habr Gidr headquarters and posting a bounty on Aideed’s head had long ago forced the warlord into hiding, U.S. officials optimistically felt that the Habr Gidr leadership could be removed within the month.
Analyzing Aideed’s Campaign Plan Aideed’s objective remained to consolidate control of the Somali nation under his leadership. This required him to defeat the competing warlords, but he could not do so given the presence of the U.N. and U.S. forces. The U.N.’s operational center of gravity was clearly the superbly trained and technologically advanced American military forces, which Aideed knew he could not attack directly. Yet, Aideed had a clear understanding of the difference between western culture and his own. This understanding helped him identify a potential American vulnerability. Aideed knew that Americans had a profound distaste for casualties and doubted their resolve with regard to the humanitarian effort in Somalia. If he could convince the American public that the price for keeping troops in Somalia would be costly, or that their forces were hurting as many Somalis as they were helping, he believed that they would withdraw their forces. If they left, the powerless U.N. would leave soon thereafter, leaving him free to pursue his goal of consolidating Somalia under SNA leadership.
Accordingly, Aideed’s strategy centered on Mao Ze Dong’s asymmetric, or “indirect,” approach. He would attack the American public’s desire to remain involved in Somalia. By drawing U.S. forces into an urban fight on his home turf in Mogadishu, Aideed believed that the city’s noncombatants would make it difficult for U.S. forces to employ their robust firepower (upon which they relied heavily) without serious strategic repercussions. In the close confines of the city, much of America’s technological superiority would be moot. (See Figure 2.) If the Americans were unwilling to risk harming civilians, his forces would inflict heavy casualties on U.S. servicemen, thereby degrading U.S. public support for operations in Somalia. If, on the other hand, the U.S. forces were willing to fire indiscriminately as a means of self-preservation, the Somali casualties produced would likely have the same intended effect.
Aideed had approximately 2,000 loosely organized SNA militia at his disposal. The SNA were well armed with large quantities of assault rifles, rocket propelled grenade (RPG) launchers, antiaircraft guns, mortars, and light artillery, as well as a small number of tanks. It also had a significant number of technicals. In the wake of UniTaf’s departure, Aideed reentered Mogadishu and quickly rearmed and reorganized while seeking to regain his control over the populace. Together with Col Sharif Hassen Giumale, an officer familiar with guerrilla insurgency tactics and likely the SNA’s senior tactical commander in Mogadishu, Aideed recognized that the American helicopters were potentially a critical tactical vulnerability. The warlord sensed that if he shot down a helicopter, it would cause the U.S. forces to consolidate around the helicopter, thereby allowing the Somalis to pin them in one area. This would inhibit “quick in, quick out” U.S. tactics and, instead, the Americans would be forced to remain in the confines of the city for longer periods of time where the SNA could extract a price. Accordingly, he brought in some fundamentalist Islamic soldiers from Sudan, who had experience in downing Russian helicopters in Afghanistan, to train his men in RPG firing techniques. Complementing his strategy, Aideed paid and threatened civilians to participate in “rent-a-crowds” that would cover his militiamen.
Figure 2. Mogadishu.
Campaign Execution By the time TF Ranger deployed to Somalia, Aideed was in hiding. MG Garrison was forced to rely heavily on paid Somali informants to locate and track Aideed and others in the Habr Gidr. This intelligence collection technique met with mixed results and several embarrassments, as they experienced great difficulty in locating Aideed. As a result, Phases II and III of the planned operation merged, and they sought to capture Habr Gidr leaders whenever and wherever they could find them. On TF Ranger’s first mission, poor human intelligence (HumInt) caused them to greatly embarrass Washington by inadvertently arresting a group of U.N. employees. A later raid similarly proved disastrous as they stormed the residence of Somali Gen Ahmen Jilao, a close U.N. ally and the man they were grooming to lead the Somali police force. Operational security remained difficult. In one of their first “top secret” missions, the troops of TF Ranger were surprised to see themselves on CNN before they had even removed their gear. Because the Rangers employed the same aerial raid techniques repeatedly, they largely forfeited the advantage of tactical surprise. Meanwhile, Washington continued to grow impatient with MG Garrison.
The United States’ inability to locate Aideed turned him into a folk hero. TF Ranger’s violent surprise attacks were also causing Somalis outside the Habr Gidr to question the legitimacy of U.S. forces in the country and further swayed the moderates toward Aideed. It was fine to intervene in the country to feed the starving and even to help establish a peaceful government, but purposefully targeting Somali leaders as criminals was a different thing entirely. TF Ranger’s aggressive employment of firepower during a number of surprise raids caused several noncombatant casualties and created a general fear and hate of the Rangers.
On 3 October, TF Ranger prepared to strike a target within Somalia’s Bakara Market district, where two of Aideed’s lieutenants were reported to be in hiding. Since the Marines had pulled out of Mogadishu with the end of UniTaf, the U.N. forces, comprised mostly of Pakistanis, had refused to enter the Bakara Market area. It was well known that this area was filled with weapons and that very aggressive Habr Gidr militia units protected the weapons trade there. As a result, Aideed controlled his own fiefdom within the city.
The tactical plan for the raid was one that TF Ranger had employed several times before. First a Delta Force team would insert by helicopter directly onto the three-story target building while four Ranger teams isolated the building by securing the four street corners immediately around it. (See Figure 3.) Once Delta secured the prisoners, a convoy of cargo trucks, escorted by assault-configured HMMWVs, would arrive at the target building from the American base just 5 minutes away and pick them up. All the while, attack helicopters would loiter in the area to provide rotary-wing close air support if needed. Simultaneously, OH–58 observation helicopters, P–3 spy planes, and satellites would ensure that MG Garrison could watch the situation unfold on the video screen in his command post. The raid was to take no longer than 1 hour.
Even as the Blackhawk helicopters were approaching the target buildings, Somalis could be seen setting tires ablaze—a technique they used to mobilize the SNA militia. The Somali’s had witnessed six TF Ranger raids now and knew what to expect. As the Delta troops inserted, throngs of Somalis began to crowd toward the target building. The rules of engagement (ROE), which stipulated that the Rangers were to shoot only when someone pointed a weapon at them, quickly became unrealistic. The SNA fired from crowds filled with women, children, and the aged and infirm. In one instance, a Somali
shooter had the barrel of his weapon between the women’s legs, and there were four children actually sitting on him. He was completely shielded in noncombatants, taking full cynical advantage of the Americans’ decency.
The Rangers had to decide between killing all those in the crowds or watching their fellow soldiers be killed. They logically chose the former.
Figure 3. TF Ranger’s Bakara Market raid.
The situation became increasingly confused as friction came into play. A young soldier fell from his fast rope as one of the Ranger teams was inserted at the wrong intersection. Some Rangers began firing at Delta Force soldiers. Others were immobilized with fear. Ground RPG fire struck one of the loitering Blackhawk helicopters, causing it to crash. Within just a few minutes, a second Blackhawk crashed. Several other helicopters were disabled. Aideed’s strategy was working. The convoy was forced to split to deal with casualties. One portion of the convoy got lost while attempting to move to the site of the first downed helicopter under intense Somali fire from all directions. Excessive layers of control prohibited the P–3 spy planes from communicating directions directly to the convoy, causing a delay of instructions that caused the convoy to miss turns. The convoy literally circled through the most dangerous part of the city, repeatedly stumbling into kill zones. Casualties continued to mount. The second downed helicopter site was overrun. All but one American pilot at the site, CWO Michael Durant, were killed. CWO Durant became a prisoner, and the Habr Gidr later paid the rival clan that captured him so that they could use him as a bargaining chip with the United States.
Because Secretary of Defense Les Aspin had denied an earlier request by MG Montgomery to deploy U.S. armored forces, it took precious hours to augment the U.S. light infantry QRF with Malaysian and Pakistani armored units. The QRF had not trained with the Malaysians and Pakistanis. Twenty-four hours after TF Ranger was initially inserted, the QRF was finally able to rescue them near the first helicopter’s crash site.
The United States suffered 91 casualties during the Battle of Mogadishu, to include 18 killed and 73 injured. The task force also lost five downed Blackhawk helicopters and numerous damaged vehicles. SNA militia losses during the battle are unknown but, by all estimates, collateral damage was significant. U.S., U.N., and SNA estimates all indicate that 3,123 Somalis were killed and another 814 injured during TF Ranger’s raid. According to one of Aideed’s lieutenants, just 133 of these casualties were members of SNA militia.
Despite the fact that TF Ranger had accomplished its original tactical mission by capturing 24 Habr Gidr clansmen, the American public viewed the price as far too high. By the next day, pictures of dead American soldiers being brutalized and dragged through the streets of Mogadishu were being broadcast on television screens throughout the world. The Congress, sensing a backlash in public opinion, pressured the President to end U.S. involvement. Accordingly, the President decided that the United States would withdraw not later than the end of March 1994. President Clinton brought back former U.S. Ambassador Oakley to negotiate Durant’s release. Ambassador Oakley told Aideed that TF Ranger’s mission was over and that U.S. military involvement was to end in March, but the President wanted CWO Durant released immediately without conditions. A strong U.S. force was deployed to the region to reinforce America’s intention of rescuing Durant if Aideed refused. The warlord released the pilot almost immediately. Within a few weeks, U.S. Marines escorted Aideed to renewed peace negotiations. As a result of those negotiations, President Clinton ordered the release of every man previously captured during TF Ranger’s missions. Soon after the U.S. withdrawal in March, the U.N. mission failed. Without U.S. muscle, the U.N. could not hope to build a government in Somalia without Aideed’s assistance, and Aideed would not accept sharing power with other clan leaders.
Operational-Level Assessment Tactically, one might argue that the battle of Mogadishu was a success. TF Ranger succeeded in capturing 24 suspected Aideed supporters, to include two of his key lieutenants. Given the appropriate response at the strategic level, some even argue that it had the potential to be an operational success. After accompanying Ambassador Oakley to a meeting with Aideed soon after the battle, MajGen Zinni described the clan leader as visibly shaken by the encounter. He believed that the SNA leadership had had enough of the fighting and was prepared to negotiate. Unfortunately, the Clinton Administration failed to shape the strategic battlespace for operational success from the outset by neglecting to inform and convince the American public—and its elected members of Congress—of the necessity for employing American forces to capture Aideed. The President was left with little recourse after the battle in Mogadishu but to avoid further military confrontation.
Despite this strategic failing, the operational commanders might nonetheless have avoided the casualties in Mogadishu, and the subsequent public and congressional backlash, had they better communicated among themselves and worked with unity of effort. Recognizing the complications created by the separate U.S. and U.N. chains of command and missions, ADM Howe, along with Gen Hoar and MGs Montgomery and Garrison should have established the architecture needed to facilitate integrated planning and execution for each mission conducted. These commanders failed to “operationalize” their plan. They did not properly link U.S. strategic objectives and concerns to the tactical plan. The TF Ranger mission was an ill-conceived, direct operational attempt to obtain a strategic objective in a single tactical action. Yet, apparently neither Gen Hoar nor MG Garrison considered the implications of a failure given the lack of strategic groundwork. Were they to have made such an assessment, it is doubtful that they would have elected to pursue such a high-risk evolution. In this light, U.S. military operations in Somalia during the UNOSom II phase must be viewed as an operational failure.
Command and Control MajGen Zinni summed up UNOSom II’s command and control failure well:
We had a U.N. operation. We had General Bir in charge of the U.N. forces. The U.S. forces were really under his deputy, General Montgomery, but then General Montgomery [didn’t have] operational command authority [of those forces]. The CinC, General Hoar, provided the forces in some sort of tactical control, but obviously never relinquished command. That’s another myth; the command was never relinquished to U.N. forces, so all but U.S. forces were under this U.N. command and control. I think there were forces on the ground that were under Chapter VI instructions. I think you might find the Germans and others that were there under Chapter VII. There were forces off the coast that would come in and react that had another chain of command, Marines and naval forces. You had the special operation forces and Task Force Ranger there that had another kind of direct chain of command that really weren’t under Montgomery even though they were U.S. forces. It became very confusing, and in part I think caused a problem with intelligence, whose intelligence was being used, how the reporting chain went. There is a principle of war that says unity in command is desirable in any kind of conflict; it certainly was not there between U.S. and U.N. and even within the U.S. structure.
During a recent lecture to the students of the Marine Corps Command and Staff College, Gen Zinni described his efforts to coordinate among the various military headquarters prior to accompanying Ambassador Oakley into Mogadishu to negotiate with Aideed for the release of CWO Durant. The general wanted to ensure that no military actions took place to compromise the Ambassador’s efforts. Despite the fact that then-LtGen Zinni coordinated with five separate commands within the theater (each of whom referred him to another), a helicopter still dropped propaganda leaflets declaring Aideed a war criminal in the middle of the negotiations. The general later discovered that this particular propaganda effort was directed by yet another command. His point was clear: you could not coordinate with a single commander in charge of all operations in the theater because no such single commander was given that authority.
There simply was no unity of command or effort in Somalia during UNOSom II. Command and control was further complicated by the fact that the U.N. lacks standardized doctrine, training, and equipment. This made coordinating the efforts of the numerous participating international militaries, as well as the 49 international agencies—including U.N. bodies, NGOs, private voluntary organizations (PVOs), and humanitarian relief organizations—exceptionally difficult. Adding to the difficulty, no effective host-nation government existed since Somalia was in a state of general anarchy. Finally, unity of command was jeopardized by U.S. attempts to operate independently outside of the UNOSom II command structure. As a result, the logistics components of USForSom were under U.N. operational control, while the QRF remained under the combatant command of USCentCom. TF Ranger operated in the theater independently of the QRF and, like the QRF, answered directly to USCentCom. Their instructions required them only to coordinate with the 10th Mountain Division “as needed.” Had there been a single commander controlling both TF Ranger and the QRF, Americans may have never seen the bodies of their dead sons dragged through the streets of Mogadishu.
Operational command was vested in Gen Hoar as CinCUSCentCom, and he must bear some responsibility for the lack of unity of effort between his two immediate subordinates in Somalia, MGs Garrison and Montgomery. Gen Hoar and his staff did not adequately integrate the operations of these two subordinate commanders. Beyond CinCUSCentCom’s initial reservations concerning TF Ranger’s deployment to Somalia, he and his staff appear not to have recognized or questioned the vulnerability of the TF and its helicopters given the Somalis’ ability to adapt to its tactics and techniques after repeated missions. Even at the tactical level, within MG Garrison’s TF Ranger itself, there were dual chains of command between Delta Force and the Rangers. It is clearly imprudent to create dual or multiple chains of command along functional lines within a single urban environment.
The UniTaf successfully met the span of control challenges through two innovations. First, they created a civil-military operations center to facilitate unity of effort between the NGOs, PVOs, and the military forces. This was exceptionally important in light of the fact that many of the private relief organizations had hired local security forces from the clans dominant in their areas of operations to protect their individual efforts. Secondly, they divided the country into nine humanitarian relief sectors that facilitated both relief distribution and military areas of responsibility. Where unity of command was not feasible, Gen Hoar reinforced unity of effort by requiring liaison officers from each of the multinational contingents supporting RESTORE HOPE to report to USCentCom for coordination before dispatching their forces to the theater. As LtGen Johnston emphasized, “Unity of command can be achieved when everyone signs up to the mission and to the command relationship.”
UNOSom II, however, proved incapable of exploiting the advantages of these arrangements as the scope of the mission expanded. Instead, U.S. impatience and U.N. resistance regarding the withdrawal of U.S. forces from Somalia compromised UNOSom II’s efforts. U.S. forces were withdrawn on schedule despite the fact that the handoff between UniTaf and UNOSom II remained incomplete. Only 30 percent of the UNOSom II staff had arrived in country by the time the mission was launched. Moreover, despite their vastly more ambitious mission, the UNOSom II and USForSom headquarters were not built around a standing, well-organized nucleus, trained and equipped to serve as a joint battle staff. (A standing Marine expeditionary force headquarters performed this function during the UniTaf operation.) Instead the USForSom staff was built largely from officers recruited from Army commands worldwide who had never before trained together as a battle staff.
MG Montgomery addressed the unity of purpose problems among the UNOSom II forces when he stated:
The nations didn’t all agree with the policy, and many of them were just not happy with the way the course of the mission was going. …Gen Bir could not turn to the Italian commander or the French commander, or somebody and give him a mission and expect that it would be done. It doesn’t happen in a U.N. context.
As it was, the QRF commander, MG Montgomery, had to negotiate with hesitant Malaysian and Pakistani forces for armored support while TF Ranger was trapped in Mogadishu. Documented accounts of the Italian contingent commander opening separate negotiations with Aideed, with the full approval of his home government, serve as a case in point concerning the unity of effort problems among U.N. forces. When the U.N. requested that this officer be relieved of command for insubordination, the Italian Government refused. The Somalis fully recognized the lack of unity of command and effort among the UNOSom II forces and sought to exploit it. One of Aideed’s militia commanders in Mogadishu stated in an interview that:
What we did is to concentrate our attacks on the Americans, and the forces who were taking their order(s) directly from the Americans, such as the Pakistanis. And we had some understanding with the other forces not to attack us and that we would not attack them.
Following TF Ranger’s catastrophic mission in Mogadishu, the command structure was complicated even more with the creation of a new Joint Task Force (JTF) Somalia. USCentCom designed this JTF to protect American forces while facilitating their complete withdrawal. JTF Somalia came under the operational control of USCentCom, but fell under the tactical control of USForSom. While the JTF headquarters was formed around the Army’s 10th Mountain Division, that unit lacked the staff structure needed to support joint operations. To further complicate matters, neither the JTF nor USForSom controlled the naval forces that remained under USCentCom’s operational control. The American experience in Somalia, therefore, suggests the need for standing JTF headquarters specifically trained to facilitate operational control of joint forces in complex environments. Arguably, campaigns that include urban operations are always complex.
The lack of operational communications infrastructure in Mogadishu and elsewhere in Somalia caused the operational commanders to rely extensively on satellite communications as a means of control. There was never enough equipment to facilitate this effort given the inordinate number of headquarters. Moreover, MG Garrison and his staff did not tailor TF Ranger’s communications architecture to facilitate decentralized execution. Employing the joint operations center as an intermediary between the P–3 giving directions overhead and the ground reaction force convoy, for example, significantly contributed to the confusion that prevented the convoy from successfully maneuvering to the crash sites. The intensity and tempo of urban operations demand a flattened communications architecture that maximizes lateral force communications without depending on retransmission at each level of the traditional chain of command.
Finally, the ROE, among the most useful command and control measures in urban military operations other than war, were unrealistic in Mogadishu. Logically, the soldiers on the ground violated the ROE in order to survive. Operational planners who understand the Somali culture should have recognized the potential for the SNA to use the women and children as shields. Accordingly, they should have avoided entering the densely populated Bakara Market district with such restrictive ROE. As legitimacy was a concern (in fact, it should have been more of a concern), TF Ranger should have employed non-lethal weapons, to include riot control gas, as an alternative to killing innocent civilians or dying themselves. In this case, the operational commander was responsible for making such weapons and munitions available and encouraging their use.
Intelligence The nature of the mission in Somalia initially complicated identifying a single threat, thereby creating a focus of effort dilemma for the intelligence architecture. As is typical in urban environments, HumInt served as the most timely and useful collection resource during the campaign. Unfortunately, because no reliable U.S. HumInt network existed in Somalia prior to the operation, much of the information had to be obtained through the bribery of largely unknown sources. Thus, its reliability was always in question. In these instances, it is critical to verify the information via multiple sources. Additionally, the operational commander must coordinate between his joint and coalition forces as well as the PVOs and NGOs in his area of operations in order to ensure consistent policies for dealing with local informants. In Somalia, units from several different nations rotated responsibility for specific geographical areas, and the means used to garner information differed among the various units. Some armies paid local nationals for information. Later, when a less wealthy unit assumed responsibility for the area, the locals became vindictive when they were not offered the same bribe.
The best HumInt sources were the gang leaders themselves. The UniTaf met on a regular basis with Aideed and other clan leaders. As LtGen Johnston stated:
You may not like the characters you have to deal with but you are better able to uncover their motives and intentions if you keep a communications link open.
UNOSom II and USForSom, on the other hand, abandoned all interaction with the Habr Gidr once the manhunt for Aideed began.
The unreliability of HumInt sources among the Somali populace contributed significantly to the most obvious intelligence failure—the inability of the U.S. and U.N. forces to locate Aideed. The initial plan for TF Ranger’s mission called for the Central Intelligence Agency’s lead Somali spy to present Aideed with a hand-carved cane containing a hidden homing beacon as a gift. This plan ended when the spy shot and killed himself while playing Russian roulette. TF Ranger and UNOSom II intelligence sections also significantly underestimated the quantity of rounds in Aideed’s RPG stockpiles, possibly influencing the commander’s decision to keep the helicopters loitering in the target area. A serious shortage of people proficient in the Somali language in the U.N. and U.S. forces further complicated the effort to gather HumInt. Especially troubling is that the HumInt effort apparently did not warn the commander about the dramatic change in the perceived legitimacy of U.S. forces among the Mogadishu populace.
Collection via signals intelligence (SigInt) was severely hampered by the fact that the Somalis are not a technology dependent society. Upon learning that U.S. forces were monitoring his communications transmissions, Aideed effectively thwarted U.S. SigInt collection by merely turning off his radios. He relied on messengers, again taking advantage of the U.S. HumInt failure. Well-trained, but high-technology dependent U.S. forces were confounded by a foe with absolutely no technological tools of his own. You cannot jam or intercept enemy communications without an inside HumInt resource when his communications system is word of mouth.
The multiple and confused command structures in Somalia severely inhibited intelligence dissemination. Although USCentCom established an intelligence support element to facilitate dissemination of information gathered from U.S. sources, protection of those sources necessitated several filters before the information could be shared with other U.N. forces. The lack of communications infrastructure in Somalia further complicated dissemination from USCentCom headquarters to the theater with all of the links relying on limited satellite communications.
Nonetheless, intelligence was not a complete U.S./U.N. failure. The UniTaf used aerial photography of the authorized weapon storage sites to inventory them and ensure that Aideed and other warlords were not withdrawing weapons from them. Although maps were initially outdated or available only in scales inappropriate to urban fighting, satellite imagery and aerial photography rapidly remedied the problem. TF Ranger planned their raid on instant photomaps relayed from the aerial observation platforms. Timely intelligence on the port facilities in Mogadishu also greatly facilitated the initial employment of maritime prepositioned shipping.
Far and away, the chief intelligence failure lay in the inability of some operational commanders to appreciate the nuances of the Somali culture. While this knowledge was available, and used extensively during the UniTaf phase, ADM Howe and MG Garrison chose to ignore it. According to Gen Zinni, what the U.S. intelligence effort lacked most was:
… the ability to penetrate the faction leaders and truly understand what they were up to, or maybe [the ability to] understand the culture, the clan association affiliation, the power of the faction leaders, and maybe understanding some of the infrastructure … [that] maybe led to things like not understanding where a particular individual was, or who he was, or what his relationship was, and maybe caused mistargeting in some cases by those that were after Aideed or his lieutenants.
Thus, the greatest operational intelligence failure was one of net assessment. MG Garrison did not accurately assess the SNA’s capabilities or intent with regard to his own plan and capabilities. He underestimated the number of SNA militia and its supporters as well as its determination.
Maneuver TF Ranger’s mission resulted in a strategic failure largely because neither USCentCom nor UNOSom II employed operational maneuver to isolate the urban objective area. TF Ranger did not have the force structure to perform this task alone. During the UniTaf phase, U.S. forces kept the Somali warlords out of the populated areas and their people disarmed. With the Americans’ hasty departure and responsibility for those areas passing to other U.N. forces and a Somali coalition, the warlords returned to the urban areas, reorganized and rearmed.
During the UniTaf mission, LtGen Johnston and Ambassador Oakley went to great lengths to shape the battlespace at the operational level to facilitate tactical maneuver. The initial combined amphibious and air assaults to seize key terrain and control the region sent a clear message and were highly effective. U.S. forces rapidly gained control of Mogadishu and the surrounding area and forced the major factions into a cease-fire. Recognizing the primacy of the clan, Ambassador Oakley and LtGen Johnston then actively engaged the clan leaders and openly advised them of when they would conduct tactical missions and for what purpose. When conducting armory inspections, for example, the UniTaf advised the clan leaders of the time and place of those inspections, and then monitored the armories via SigInt to ensure the clan leaders did not remove weapons in bad faith prior to the inspection.
Conversely, during UNOSom II, U.S. operational maneuver and fires actually jeopardized their legitimacy with the Somali people. The diplomatic nature of U.N. operations required the U.N. leadership to issue a formal resolution announcing that it was their intent to arrest Aideed. This announcement forfeited one of the strongest advantages in operational maneuver—surprise. Moreover, by targeting Aideed, ADM Howe and LtGen Bir effectively took sides in the conflict, compromissing the legitimacy of the force.
Finally, TF Ranger failed to develop and execute an operational maneuver plan that protected its critical tactical vulnerability—its helicopters. Instead, they kept their most vulnerable helicopters, the MH-60 Blackhawks, loitering for 40 minutes over the target area in an orbit that was well within Somali RPG range. No crisis on the ground existed that required any more fire support than that which could have been provided by the smaller, faster, and more maneuverable AH-6s and MH-6s. TF Ranger underestimated the enemy’s ability to shoot down its helicopters even though they knew the Somalis had previously attempted to employ massed RPG fires to bring them down during earlier raids. In fact, the Somalis had succeeded in shooting down a UH-60 flying at rooftop level, and at night, just 1 week prior to the battle. Since the greatest threat to any TF Ranger mission was a scenario with multiple downed helicopters, planners should have provided ready ground reaction forces at the start of each mission. The task force’s mission failed when the second helicopter crash site was overrun. This permitted the Somalis to use the captured pilot and the dead Americans as political weapons. As a result, the news media opened what was supposed to be a covert operation to the scrutiny of the American people and the world.
Fires Operational fires throughout the U.S. involvement in Somalia focused too greatly on lethal options and promoted Somali hostility toward U.S. forces. The UNOSom I helicopter attack on the Kismayo technical convoy and the employment of AC–130s against Aideed’s suspected locations serve as examples of how not “to win friends and influence people.” While lethal fires were somewhat balanced with a non-lethal approach during UNOSom I and the UniTaf, the lethal approach became increasingly dominant during UNOSom II. The 17 June attack on an Aideed stronghold, for example, incorporated a helicopter gunship attack that killed at least 60 Somali noncombatants. U.S. forces’ overreliance on firepower during UNOSom II alienated the Somali populace and forfeited the perceived legitimacy of the U.S. presence. In the densely populated urban confines of Mogadishu, UNOSom II lived by lethal fires and it died by lethal fires.
Because ADM Howe and LtGen Bir largely discounted information operations, they did not establish significant public affairs and psychological operations (PsyOp) initiatives. U.S. forces participating in UNOSom II lacked a public affairs organization altogether. In contrast, the UniTaf countered Aideed’s own PsyOp campaign, which he conducted primarily through Radio Aideed, by creating its own radio station. This technique proved so effective that Aideed called MajGen Zinni over to his house on several occasions to complain about the UniTaf radio broadcasts. MajGen Zinni responded that “if he didn’t like what we said on the radio station, he ought to think about his radio station and we could mutually agree to lower the rhetoric.” This technique worked. ADM Howe’s technique of shutting Aideed’s radio station down did not. The warlords had both the weapons and the popular support. Thus, the U.N. would have been better served by making them the target of an information campaign as the UniTaf had done.
Logistics Despite other failings during U.S. operations in Somalia, the U.S. logistics effort was well executed. This was a significant achievement, since the infrastructure within the country was almost completely destroyed and the logistics environment was exceptionally austere. This is typical of most Third World urban areas to which U.S. forces can expect to deploy in the future. U.S. and U.N. forces had to transport virtually all of their materiel support into the country by sealift or airlift. During Operation RESTORE HOPE, military and commercial aircraft moved more than 33,000 passengers and over 32,000 short tons of cargo into Somalia in 986 airlift missions. Additionally, 11 ships moved 365,000 measurement tons of cargo, 14 million gallons of fuel, and 1,192 sustainment supply containers into the country. Receiving these supplies required U.N. forces to rebuild and repair airfields and ports. Finally, the humanitarian mission required U.N. forces to use extensive wheeled transport assets to distribute the supplies to both the populace and friendly forces along difficult internal LOC. Security along these LOC necessitated the diversion of troops from other responsibilities. Finally, given the lack of adequate port facilities, Marine Corps maritime prepositioned shipping proved invaluable in bringing essential supplies and equipment ashore early in the deployment.
While very successful, the logistics effort in Somalia should not be viewed as flawless. A number of “hiccups” were experienced. The excessive drafts of Army prepositioned ships, for example, made it impossible for them to enter Mogadishu’s shallow harbor. Additionally, the weather impeded their attempts to offload supplies “in stream.” The logistics effort was also complicated by international and inter-Service rivalries. This could have been eased by a more efficient operational command and control structure. U.S. forces should anticipate special logistics challenges unique to operating with or within the U.N. One unit after-action report described the U.N. procurement system as “cumbersome, inefficient, and not suited to effectively support operations in an austere environment.”
Force Protection U.S. forces relied far too heavily on lethal fires for force protection in an environment where maintaining perceived legitimacy was critical to mission accomplishment. Instead of moving about Mogadishu in an effort to promote relations and keep in touch with the attitudes of the local populace—as was the case during the UniTaf phase and with several other national military units within the U.N. force—U.S. forces during UNOSom II adopted a siege mentality. As a result, they lost the support of the Somali populace and effectively turned themselves into the enemy.
Despite the American forces’ unwillingness to leave their base in Mogadishu without assuming an aggressive and provocative posture, the base was poorly protected. Open to public view and with Somali contractors moving freely about the premises, the American base was an operational security nightmare. Somalis had a clear view, day and night, of U.S. forces in their hangar barracks. The U.S. billets were subjected to routine mortar strikes from the SNA. Whenever they would prepare for a mission, the word would go out throughout the city that TF Ranger was preparing to move. During an interview with PBS’ Frontline, Capt Haad, a sector commander for Aideed’s militia in Mogadishu, said of TF Ranger’s mission, “As soon as the aircrafts (sic) took off from the air bases we immediately knew.” He also pointed out that they knew when and where U.S. forces landed:
We knew that immediately after their arrival because we were in all the places where they would have arrived, say in the port, airport, the American compound, some people of us were always there, and the minute they arrived we knew that they were there.
Some evidence suggests that the Italians of the U.N. force also warned the Somalis of U.S. troop movements. MG Garrison’s failure to provide an armored, rapid reaction force capable of immediately moving to reinforce TF Ranger and a second airborne rescue and recovery crew, in the event that the first crew was lost, proved to be additional serious errors in operational force protection.
Rampant disease was also a force protection concern in Somalia and one that U.S. forces can expect to encounter in most Third World urban environments. American servicemembers were constantly exposed to the sick and dying. When U.N. forces operated earthmoving equipment to repair the infrastructure in and around Mogadishu, tuberculosis spores that lay dormant in the soil were released into the air. Medical intelligence and preventive immunizations are vitally important in these locales.
Conclusion and Lessons Learned U.S. operations in Somalia provide a clear example of how “thin” the operational level can become while battling urban guerrillas. During UNOSom II, special operations forces were employed tactically, in an urban environment, to achieve a strategic objective (seizing Aideed) in a single decisive action. This operation failed because U.S. commanders did not establish favorable operational conditions prior to committing those tactical forces. U.S. involvement in Somalia further illustrates the limitations of both military force and of the U.N. in managing ethnic urban conflicts. In the immediate post-Cold War era, the world deceived itself into believing that the U.N. could become more decisively involved than was actually possible. Until structures are created within U.N. military forces that afford a far greater degree of unity of effort and command, Chapter VII peace enforcement operations—particularly in urban environments—will continue to be difficult if not impossible.
One should be careful, though, in drawing lessons from this conflict. First, it would be wrong to look upon the military as a completely ineffective tool in such environments. When used as a complement to other elements of national and international power, the military can be productive in these circumstances. These elements, however, must be well coordinated. In Somalia, they were not. Second, there is a danger that tactical force protection measures will inadvertently outweigh strategic and operational mission accomplishment. This very tendency contributed to the U.S. failure in Somalia. The best form of force protection is shaping the battlespace at the operational level. Relying extensively on lethal fires and entering urban areas in a provocative manner cost more than they gain if they alienate the populace. Finally, despite Congress’ initial assumption, recent evidence seems to indicate that American resolve for capturing Aideed in hopes of bringing peace to Somalia was stronger rather than weaker after viewing the images of American soldiers being mutilated. As Gen Zinni has stated:
The lesson and the effect as it relates to casualties isn’t that the Americans can’t take casualties … it’s they can’t take casualties for causes and reasons that aren’t understood and clearly laid out before you get in.
The Battle of Mogadishu and U.S. operations in Somalia overall suggest several operational considerations for urban areas. The Somalia experience reemphasized several lessons learned in Hue, among them, the importance of crafting suitable ROE and of maneuvering to isolate the urban area. The Somalia experience also suggests the following additional considerations:
• dhering to the principle of unity of command is critical to success in urban conflicts. Where unity of command cannot be established between different agencies (U.N. bodies, NGOs, PVOs, etc.), the operational commander must make special arrangements to ensure unity of effort. These arrangements may range from regular coordination meetings to the establishment of a civil-military operations center. In all cases, tactical operations must be thoroughly coordinated among all operational commanders.
• JTF headquarters formed to execute missions that include urban operations should, at a minimum, be formed around cohesive, standing Service component staffs. The complexity of urban operations suggests the need for standing JTF headquarters.
• The communications architecture for operations within cities should facilitate the direct transfer of information from supporting forces to the decentralized tactical forces on the streets, without successive transmissions through the chain of command.
• Consistent with the U.S. experience in Hue, HumInt was the most effective collection means within the urban areas of Somalia. The nontechnical nature of the Somali clans severely restricted the value of other collection means. Methods used to recruit HumInt collectors from local urban populations should be consistent among all forces in the coalition. To do otherwise can compromise the legitimacy of one or more of the forces involved. In cases of urban ethnic conflict, maintaining open communications links with faction leaders involved in the dispute can be the most important HumInt source. • ultural assessment is a critical step in the intelligence preparation of the urban battlespace. Often, it will disclose enemy critical vulnerabilities or means to influence the actions of the noncombatant populace.
• Maintaining the support or neutrality of the noncombatant population is critical to success in urban fighting. The operational commander and staff must keep this in mind when planning both operational and tactical fires.
• Non-lethal fires, to include information operations, are important means of separating the adversary from noncombatants without creating casualties among the latter. Non-lethal weapons and munitions can make ROE more flexible, giving tactical forces an option between compromising legitimacy and accepting unreasonable risk. Civil affairs and media campaign plans can be vitally important to shaping conditions for tactical success in the urban battlespace. Likewise, PsyOp can effectively and favorably influence the actions of the noncombatant populace.
• Third World urban areas, with poor infrastructure, present enormous logistical challenges to U.S. forces. Strategic and operational lift as well as procurement systems must accommodate combatant and civilian needs well beyond those in other environments.
>Editor’s Note: This article is the second case study from Maj Cooling’s treatise on MOUT written when he attended the Marine Corps Command and Staff College in 1999–2000.
Humanitarian and Security Assistance in Northern Iraq
>Originally published in the Marine Corps Gazette, November 1991.
The multinational relief effort to aid Kurdish refugees in southern Turkey and northern Iraq was a “joint” operation in every sense of the word. Here the commanding officer of the principal Marine unit involved, the 24th MEU(SOC), details the events that triggered this humanitarian mission.
Hoping to take advantage of the allies victory over Iraq in DESERT STORM, dissident factions within Iraq seized on the moment to launch a courageous, but unsuccessful attempt to topple Saddam Hussein from power this past March. In the aftermath of his army’s defeat, Saddam Hussein unleashed the still-capable remnants of his battered force against the Kurdish population of northern Iraq, triggering a desperate human exodus towards sanctuaries in the bordering nations of Turkey, Iran, and to a lesser extent, Syria.
As the media of the world focused on the developing human tragedy of the Kurdish people fleeing by the hundreds of thousands before a vengeful Iraqi Army, worldwide outrage galvanized allied coalition support. From the moment the decision was made to air drop supplies to the fleeing refugees on 7 April, it was clear that there was yet another chapter to be written about DESERT SHIELD/DESERT STORM. It would become known as PROVIDE COMFORT.
As the situation unfolded during March and early April, the Kurds’ flight ended in the mountains of southern Turkey, where an estimated 500,000 refugees were massed, having been pushed over the border and herded into so-called “sanctuaries” by Turkish forces. To the east and south, an estimated 1.3 million Kurdish refugees huddled in similar camps along the Iranian border. The fate of this group has yet to be determined.
It was during the last few days of March that BGen Richard Potter, USA, was ordered to insert his 10th Special Forces Group into the refugee camps. At this time there were 12 such camps with an average population of approximately 45,000. Conservative estimates had approximately 600 people dying of exposure, malnutrition, and disease daily. In this area of the world, March is still a winter month and many camps abutted snow-capped peaks. The many trails from Iraq were littered with abandoned possessions that no longer served any utility—broken-down cars, appliances, family heirlooms, furniture, suitcases that had become too heavy to carry, and tragically, people who were unable to withstand the rigors of the march and simply stopped walking, waiting for the cold to end their suffering.
Within days of its insertion, the 10th Special Forces Group organized and identified camps and drop zones, provided medical assistance as needed, and made plans for security requirements. The 10th Special Forces Group formed the first element of what became Joint Task Force Alpha (JTF-A), whose principal mission was resupply of the Kurdish refugees. JTF-A was based in Incirlik, Turkey, along with the headquarters for Combined Task Force (CTF) PROVIDE COMFORT, initially commanded by MGen James Jamerson, USAF, and subsequently by LtGen John M. Shalikashvili, USA.
On 9 April, the 24th Special Operations Capable Marine Expeditionary Unit (MEU(SOC)) was into its third month of a planned six-month Mediterranean deployment when the call went out to respond to the rapidly developing situation in northern Iraq. Embarked aboard the USS Guadalcanal (LPH 7), USS Austin (LPD 4), and USS Charleston (LKA 113), the 24th MEU(SOC) was in the midst of a landing operation in Sardinia, Italy, when the commander, U.S. Sixth Fleet, ordered the amphibious ready group to begin backload, depart the waters of the western Mediterranean, and proceed to the port of Iskenderun, Turkey, for duty with CTF PROVIDE COMFORT. The backload was completed the next morning and the three ships arrived on station on 13 April. The following morning, the 24th MEU(SOC) and Amphibious Squadron 8 (PhibRon-8), commanded by Capt Dean Turner, USN, reported to MGen Jamerson and his deputy, BGen Anthony C. Zinni.
The mission was clear. The 24th MEU(SOC) was to establish a forward support base at Silopi, Turkey, from which helicopters could begin to carry supplies to refugee camps in the mountains. Implied in the mission was the establishment of a forward arming and refueling point (FARP) and a Marine air control detachment to run the airfield. By 15 April, HMM-264, the aviation combat element of the 24th MEU(SOC), had displaced itself 450 miles inland, set up its base, and had begun its humanitarian mission with 23 helicopters in support of BGen Potter and JTF-A (see “Into a Sea of Refugees”). During the following two weeks the Squadron would deliver over 1 million pounds of relief supplies and fly in excess of 1,000 hours without mishap.
Rapidly changing events revealed that the entire 24th MEU(SOC) would be required ashore in short time. Within a few days, the unit was operating out of Silopi, Turkey, preparing to be part of the security force that was to enter northern Iraq. On 19 April, Marines provided the security element for a meeting between LtGen Shalikashvili and an Iraqi delegation at the Habur Bridge border crossing in Iraq. At that meeting, Iraqi representatives were informed that coalition forces intended to enter Iraq on 20 April; the mission was to be humanitarian; there was no intent to engage Iraqi forces; Iraqi forces were to offer no resistance; and a Military Coordination Committee would be formed for the purpose of maintaining direct communication with both Kurdish and Iraqi authorities.
While plans to cross the border to the west of the city of Zakhu were being finalized on 19 April, allied coalition forces received instructions from their respective governments to proceed towards the Turkish-Iraqi border. CTF PROVIDE COMFORT responded to the orders of the Supreme Allied Commander Europe, Gen John R. Galvin, USA, the unified commander in Germany who had cognizance over all operations in the area, to proceed into northern Iraq and establish security zones to expedite the safe transfer of refugees from their mountain havens to the countryside they had originated from. LtGen Shalikashvili quickly activated Joint Task Force-Bravo (JTF-B), which would be responsible for this part of the mission. Its focus would be to neutralize the Iraqi Army in the northern region of Iraq and implement a plan to reintroduce 500,000 Kurdish refugees back into that country.
The problem for JTF-B was in creating conditions in Iraq that would entice the refugees to return voluntarily to the region. Climatic conditions are such that there are only two seasons in the region—winter and summer. Coalition forces were already witnessing winter’s last gasp. Soon the mountain streams, which were the main source of water for many of the refugees, would dry up under the intense heat of summer. For obvious reasons, it was critical that the refugees be out of the hills before this occured.
On 17 April, MajGen Jay M. Garner, USA, arrived in Silopi from his post as deputy commanding general, V Corps, in Germany, with the lead element of what was to become the JTF-B staff. At the outset his troop list consisted of the 24th MEU(SOC), which was given the task of conducting a heliborne assault into a valley to the east of Zakhu on the morning of 20 April. Overhead U.S. Air Force A–10s, F–15s, and F–16s provided air cover, while the Iraqi Army watched precariously from the high ground surrounding Zakhu. Previously inserted force reconnaissance Marines and Navy SEALs had established observation posts along the main avenues of approach and key terrain around the city. Assault helicopters were deployed carrying Marines from Battalion Landing Team 2/8 (BLT 2/8), commanded by LtCol Tony L. Corwin, to designated zones near the city. Reports from the recon units confirmed the presence of a significant number of Iraqi reinforcements billeted near the MEU command element. Consequently, LtCoI Corwin sent emissaries to the Iraqi positions with clear instructions concerning the movements he expected the Iraqi Army to make in withdrawing from the region and the city of Zakhu. As a demonstration of humanitarian intent, Marines erected 12 refugee tents before nightfall on 20 April in what was to ultimately become one of the largest resettlement camps ever built. Patience and firmness paid off within a few days as the Iraqi Army issued orders to withdraw. By nightfall on 23 April, Marines occupied the key positions and road network around the city.
MajGen Garner and his JTF-B staff were headquartered along with the command element of the 24th MEU(SOC) in the deserted headquarters of the Iraqi 44th Infantry Division. Garner immediately directed the bridge and road leading from the border to Zakhu to be opened for traffic. This was particularly significant as the Habur Bridge at the border would become the only means by which surface convoys could pass from Turkey into Iraq.
On 22 April, LtCol Jonathan Thompson, commanding officer, 45th Commando, Royal Marines (United Kingdom), and LtCol Cees Van Egmond, 1st Air Combat Group, Royal Netherlands Marines, reported for duty to MajGen Garner, who placed both units under the tactical control of the 24th MEU(SOC). With a total force of 3,400 Marines from three nations, MajGen Garner lost no time in developing a plan to rid Zakhu of Iraqi oppression
Zakhu, a city of 150,000 under normal times, was a ghost town when coalition forces arrived there on 20 April. Fewer than 2,000 inhabitants remained. Those missing were still in the mountain camps of southern Turkey. Their homes had been looted and vandalized by the Iraqi Army, which continued pillaging local towns and villages as it retreated south.
Despite agreeing to withdraw his army, Saddam was not about to surrender Zakhu without a last effort to retain control of the city. He did so by ordering 300 “policemen” into Zakhu to maintain law and order and protect coalition forces from Kurdish rebels. Clearly, the few residents left in Zakhu were still being terrorized. Something had to be done.
Col Richard Naab, USA, the recently assigned head of the Military Coordination Committee, met daily with BGen Danoun Nashwan of the Iraqi Army to explain coalition intent and expectations. After several meetings, a demarche was drafted and released on 24 April. Its key points are listed below:
• Iraqi armed forces will continue to withdraw to a point 30 kilometers in all directions from Zakhu (in other words, out of artillery range).
• Iraqi police will be immediately withdrawn from Zakhu.
• Iraq will be allowed no more than 50 uniformed policemen in Zakhu at any one time. They would have to be indigenous to the region, carry only one pistol, and display coalition force identification badges at all times.
• In 26 April coalition forces will enter Zakhu for the purpose of verifying compliance and would begin to regularly patrol the city.
• Coalition forces will establish a security zone complete with checkpoints within a 30-kilometer radius around Zakhu. No weapons other than those of coalition forces will be permitted in the zone.
• No members of the Iraqi Army will be permitted in the security zone—in or out of uniform—without approval from the Military Coordination Committee.
Shortly after the issuing of this de-marche, the Iraqi police were observed boarding buses headed south. While the full impact of the demarche was being studied by the Iraqis, LtGen Shalikashvili and MajGen Garner lost no time in directing the 24th MEU(SOC) to establish this security zone, which it was thought would permit the Kurds to consider coming out of the mountains without fear.
During the hours of darkness on 25 April, BLT 2/8 cordoned off the city from the south, east, and north, while Dutch Marines sealed off the western approaches and ensured the integrity of the bridges at the border. British Royal Marines from 45th Commando, having just arrived from Northern Ireland, were tasked with patrolling the streets of Zakhu, sending what few Iraqis remained scurrying for an escape route. By nightfall on 26 April, Zakhu enjoyed its first taste of freedom.
During this time, the resupply effort continued. On 26 April alone, HMM-264 delivered 24.5 tons of relief supplies to the refugees. They were soon augmented by helicopter assets from other coalition forces that had begun to arrive in the area, making operational the Combined Service Command (CSC) at Silopi, Turkey. Other reinforcements were forthcoming as well. On the morning of 27 April, the 3d Battalion, 325th (3/325) Airborne Combat Team, commanded by LtCoI John Abizaid, was placed under the tactical control of the 24th MEU. The 18th Engineer Brigade, commanded by Col Steven Windsor, USA, reinforced by Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 133 (SeaBees), also arrived during this same timeframe, providing much needed relief for the Sailors and Marines of the 24th MEU(SOC) who, alone, had raised 1,100 tents in 10 days.
Another capability of critical impor-tance throughout PROVIDE COMFORT was the presence of the U.S. State De-partment Disaster Assistance Relief Team headed by Fred Cuny, a former Marine. This team was critical in help-ing coordinate the actions of the many multinational government and nongov-ernmental organizations that played a role in the operation. Bolstered by years of expertise in such matters, Cuny was invaluable in prosecuting a humanitarian campaign that ultimately relocated 500,000 Kurds in 60 days.
24th MEU(SOC)’s MEU Service Support Group (MSSG-24), commanded by LtCoI Richard T. Kohl, also showed its mettle early on by installing a reverse osmosis water purification unit and establishing medical/dental civic action projects in Zakhu. Almost overnight, the local hospital sprang to operating capability. Coalition engineers sought to restore electricity and water to a city that had been without for months. Stores slowly reopened and people once again took to the streets, (see “Pushing Logistics to the Limit”). These initiatives were key in convincing the citizens of Zakhu that this was an army, perhaps the first in memory, that only meant them goodwill.
It didn’t take long for the message to reach the mountains. Local community leaders and Pesh Merge chiefs began arriving in Zakhu to verify for themselves the changes underway and to give proper guidance to their people in the mountains. The allies referred to Zakhu and its growing refugee camp to the east as the coalition security zone. As the demarche noted, it was to be free of visible weapons, rules which were meant to apply to Kurds as well as the Iraqi Army.
At first, only a trickle of refugees dared to leave the camps to begin the trip back to Zakhu. Soon, however, as news of a secure city inside Iraq spread to the mountains, many residents slowly began to return to their former homes. A large number of refugees, however, still refused to budge from their hilltop havens. They were waiting to see what coalition forces would do next.
As Zakhu was being repopulated, coalition leaders decided that the next move should be to the east. Already, British and French forces had probed in that direction and plans to extend the zone eastward were put into effect. First, 45th Commando pushed to the town of Batufa, a small but strategically important city, then onto the airfield at Sirsenk, another important objective, and finally to the city of Al Amadiyah, a veritable fortress dating back some 3,000 years; this became the eastern limit of what was referred to as the British sector under the 3d Commando Brigade, commanded by BGen A.M. Keeling, OBE. Again, the instruction to the Iraqis via the Military Coordination Committee was clear and unequivocal—back off and let us do our job. Compliance occurred shortly thereafter.
One area that received special consideration was Saddam Hussein’s palace complex, which was a series of partially completed mansions intended for use by Iraq’s elite. These modern structures, erected on choice properties, were guarded by elements of the Iraqi army. Iraqi negotiators did not want coalition forces to take possession of these properties and an agreement was reached that allowed Iraq to retain control of the palaces, maintain a small numerically controlled security force on the grounds, and that coalition forces would not enter the properties.
Of far greater value to coalition forces, however, was the airfield at Sirsenk. The airfield was a DESERT STORM-damaged runway, which, when repaired, could accommodate C–130 aircraft. The airfield was being looked at as the key supply point for JTF-B in northern Iraq. Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmen worked feverishly for six days to repair the damaged runway. By 14 May, the airfield was operational, and a key logistical forward base in Iraq had been established.
Another key element in PROVIDE COMFORT’S logistical network involved Marines and Sailors from the 3d Force Service Support Group (FSSG), which was based with III Marine Expeditionary Force on Okinawa. Early in the operation it became apparent that additional skills resident in the landing support battalion of an FSSG would be needed. Consequently, a request was sent from CTF headquarters asking for two companies to meet combat service support requirements. As the flow of relief supplies grew, the need for this unit became greater. In response, Contingency Marine Air-Ground Task Force 1–91 (CMAGTF 1–91), under the command of LtCol Robert L. Bailey, was formed and flown in theater from Okinawa, setting up initially at Silopi. CMAGTF 1–91 organized CSS detachments that were spread out over the entire CTF operating area. Throughout the operation, CMAGTF 1–91’s element remained headquartered in Silopi, providing combat service support detachments to various nodes in the relief supply network that had been established.
Gen Danoun Nasituan of the Iraqi Army meets with two of his counterparts in the JTF, Col Richard Naab, USA, and MajGen Jay Garner, USA.
The expansion of our security zone, however, was still incomplete. Coalition forces continued to press eastward, beyond Al Amadiyah. French forces, under the command of BGen Xavier Prevost, pushed out to the town of Suri, which was to become the easternmost point of advance for the allies. The famous 8th Regiment Parachutiste d’Infanterie de Marine, reinforced with medical and humanitarian capabilities (not to mention a field bakery capable of producing 20,000 loafs of bread per day), formed the centerpiece of the French sector.
By this time, the skies of northern Iraq were becoming crowded. French Pumas, British Sea Kings and Gazelles, Dutch Alouettes, Italian and Spanish Hueys, Spanish CH–47s, and American transport, cargo, and attack helicopters of every type and variety contributed heavily to the humanitarian and security missions. The 4th Brigade of the 3d Infantry Division, commanded by Col Butch Whitehead, USA, reported for duty on 26 April. This maneuver element gave Gen Garner the “eyes” he needed—day and night—to see exactly what the Iraqi Army was up to in the south. To this day, these units still patrol the skies of the coalition zone, reminding both Kurds and Iraqis that there will be no repeat of last winter’s human tragedy.
By 10 May 1991, the coalition security zone, from east to west, was 160 kilometers in length and was secured by the physical presence of allied forces. This was an important point for the Kurds who maintained that they would only return to those areas that were physically occupied by coalition forces. As dramatic as it was, the expansion of the zone to the east did not have the desired effect of launching a human exodus from the camps back into Iraq. By now, however, the reason was becoming clear. The majority of refugees in Turkey came from the city of Dahuk, the provincial capital located 40 kilometers south of the allies security zone. Kurds were willing to use resettlement camps as temporary way stations en route to their former homes, but they were unwilling to accept these camps as a permanent solution. Thus, moving toward this city became the key to resolving the refugee problem in southern Turkey where approximately 350,000 refugees still remained.
In early May, overflights of Dahuk revealed that the city was abandoned except for elements of the Iraqi Army. During normal times, Dahuk is a bustling city of 350,000, modern by contrast to most other villages or cities in the security zone. Two major roads intersect just west of the city, one going to Zakhu, the other toward Al Amadiyah. Built for the efficient movement of Iraq’s army, these roadways were also the economic lifeline of the region.
The remaining refugees in the mountains were getting restless, waiting and watching for any sign that coalition forces would move south. On the 12th of May, perhaps celebrating their new found freedom, 1,500 Kurds demonstrated in Zakhu calling for allies to move toward the city of Dahuk.
Tent camp east of Zakhu, Iraq.
Soon after, JTF-B ordered the 24th MEU(SOC), reinforced by the 3d Battalion, 325th Regiment, Airborne Combat Team, to move south and establish checkpoints to the west and east of the city at the edge of the allied security zone (see “BLT 2/8 Moves South”). Ongoing negotiations between the Iraqis and the Military Coordination Committee resulted in an agreement that would allow humanitarian and logistical forces to enter the city along with United Nations (U.N.) forces and nongovernment organizations. Combat forces were to advance no further beyond their present positions. In return, Iraq agreed to withdraw all armed forces and secret police from Dahuk and take up new positions 15 kilometers to the south of the city. On 20 May, a small convoy of coalition vehicles entered Dahuk and established a forward command post in an empty hotel in the heart of the city. The security zone now extended 160 kilometers east to west and 60 kilometers north to south below the Turkish-Iraqi border.
Although there was considerable doubt as to whether this would be enough to attract refugees from the camps, the presence of an airborne combat team to the east of Dahuk and BLT 2/8 to the west, the patrols of the 18th Military Police Brigade throughout JTF-B’s main supply routes, the increasing capabilities of Italian and Spanish forces around Zakhu, and the presence of British, Dutch, and French forces nearby, all seemed to convince Kurdish leaders that the time was right to repopulate the security zone. Thousands of Kurds began leaving their temporary shelters heading for Dahuk.
All available transportation was used during this movement. Many refugees walked, but once on the roads and footpaths, they helped one another using cars, mule-driven carts, buses, tractors, motorcycles—whatever could be found. Coalition forces sent teams of mechanics and fuel trucks into the mountains to provide assistance to those attempting to return home. Intermediary way stations were set up by civil affairs units under the command of Col John Easton, USMCR, JTF-B’s chief of staff, to provide food, water, and medical assistance at various points along the journey.
By 25 May, the movement of refugees reached its peak. 55,200 refugees sought temporary refuge in what had become three camps in the valley east of Zakhu. The activity was feverish, but incredibly well controlled. People who had never dreamed of an operation of this magnitude were thrust together to make critical decisions. They overcame language, cultural, and ethnic barriers. Nongovernmental workers from all parts of the world joined with military forces to make this effort successful. Even U.N. representatives joined in the race against time to get the Kurdish people out of the mountains. By 2 June, the U.N. had taken over the administration of both refugee camps from coalition forces, which by this time numbered over 13,000 personnel.
At the 90-day mark, it was clear that coalition objectives were achieved. Kurdish refugees were out of the mountains and either back in their villages of origin, on their way there, or in camps built by coalition forces. In the Mediterranean, the USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN 71), which had flown air cover over northern Iraq for much of PROVIDE COMFORT, was relieved on station by the USS Forrestal (CV 59). At Silopi, Turkey, the Combined Support Command, under the direction of BGen Hal Burch, USA, was now functioning as the logistical pivot for all supplies flowing into Iraq.
On 8 June, JTF-A was deactivated and BGen Potter’s troops began their retrograde out of Turkey. On 12 June, the Civil Affairs Command was also deactivated.
The remaining days of coalition presence in northern Iraq were devoted to continuing to stabilize the region and reassuring Kurdish leaders that although coalition forces would soon be leaving, this act would not signify a change in the resolve of the allied forces to support the Kurdish people. It was also a period of planning for the allies, who were now tasked with retrograding their forces and material from northern Iraq. At this time the unannounced date for coalition forces to be out of Iraq was 15 July. A second demarche was drawn up and presented to the Iraqi government outlining the type of conduct coalition forces expected of Iraq in the future. In essence, its terms were as follows:
• Iraqi fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft were not to fly north of the 36th parallel, which is approximately 60 kilometers south of Dahuk.
• The Iraqi Army and secret police were not to enter the security zone.
• Coalition ground combat force, composed of forces representing several nations, would be maintained across the border in Silopi, Turkey.
• Coalition aircraft, both fixed- and rotary-wing, would continue to patrol the skies above the security zone.
• The Military Coordination Committee would continue to monitor the security zone and Iraqi compliance of the terms of the demarche.
In the ensuing days, coalition forces continued their drawdown. On the morning of 15 July, Marines from BLT 2/8 along with paratroopers from 3/325 Airborne Combat Team were the last combat elements to withdraw from northern Iraq. In the early afternoon, the American flag was lowered for the last time at JFT-B headquarters at Zakhu. Minutes later, U.S. military leaders, who had entered Iraq on 20 April, walked across the bridge over the Habur River, leaving Iraq for the last time. Two Air Force F-16s followed by two A-10s made low passes over the bridge as the group made its way across the bridge. On 19 July, the 24th MEU(SOC), now back aboard amphibious shipping watched as the city of Iskenderun and the Turkish horizon slipped into the sea. After a six-month deployment, it too was finally on its way home.
Dahuk, Iraq
>The author wishes to thank SSgt Lee J. Tibbets for his assistance in preparing this article.
A company grade officer’s memoir of duty in Vietnam and his reflections on how the Corps adjusted and responded to battlefield challenges quite different from those for which it was specifically organized and trained.
>Originally published in the Marine Corps Gazette, April 1994. Editor’s Note: The authors biography is available in the original edition.
We are taught by the book. That is, we are taught the basics of individual and unit discipline and movement under combat conditions. But some have said that we do this so that when the balloon goes up and the lead begins to fly we can throw out the book and play it by ear—but in a disciplined sense, a sense shaped and tempered by all that book learning and training. In Vietnam perhaps we ran across all too many occasions to throw out the book and play it by ear. We were, at least in the beginning, in a new kind of war for us, one for which the book had not been definitively written. But I wonder if we were wise to have thrown the book out with such regularity. On the other hand, I wonder if we had the flexibility—the professional sharpness—to reassess our course against what turned out to be an extremely resourceful enemy.
This article deals with some of the foolishness and perhaps the lack of flexibility that occurred in I Corps during the early part of the Vietnam War, and suggests lessons learned that may still have some application today. I was a first-hand participant in the events described, as the combat intelligence officer/briefer in the 3d Marine Division intelligence staff, and later as the commander of Company A, 1st Battalion, 9th Marines. However, in order to reduce personal references as much as possible, I use third-person (e.g., “the company commander” and “the company”) throughout. The perspective and conclusions presented are the result of considerable reflection over time; by no means was the apparent interrelatedness of events clear at the time. That might be a lesson in itself.
By the spring of 1966, combat elements of the 3d Marine Division seemed to be carrying out two strategies at the same time: the strategy of counterinsurgency that had been developed recently by American forces in collaboration with the guerrilla-savvy British and French, and a hybrid offensive strategy featuring scattered deployment and saturation patrolling coordinated with elaborately plotted “H & I” (harassing and interdiction) artillery fires. This more offensive strategy received the most emphasis, understandably so since it was more familiar than the land-control, pacification-oriented strategy of counterinsurgency, which in a three-pronged approach employed population control and assistance simultaneously and equally with the more combative counterguerrilla effort. Perhaps saturation patrolling and H & I fires were emphasized also because the first major Marine effort of the war—Operation STARLIGHT in the Chu Lai tactical area of responsibility (TAOR) during the summer of 1965—had been a conventional offensive operation against Viet Cong (VC) forces that stayed to fight instead of employing the more elusive strategy they emphasized later, particularly in the Da Nang TAOR. That is, perhaps the patrolling and H & I strategy was employed in the anticipation that we would regularly meet or “catch out” larger, more-fixed enemy units like those encountered in STARLIGHT. Did our approach work? That is, did it allow us to accomplish our objective?
Whatever may have been the merits of either strategy, it was obvious that the VC were not fools; in fact, they seemed to be quite capable of keeping us at bay while they seemingly moved at will. We knew that the VC were intently and shrewdly watching us. Stories of sand-table mockups of Marine positions painstakingly fashioned by the VC began to be reported by intelligence sources and were also reflected in captured documents, which included precise sketches of our positions. To us, this indicated an impressive knowledge of our overall order of battle. It was soon obvious that the VC had both the means and the moxie to make mines and booby traps out of just about anything that could be induced to explode.
These and other capabilities were determinable very early in the war. Three stark events in the summer and fall of 1965 if examined together could have given a clue not only of particular tactical capabilities but perhaps something more ominous. In September, one of the battalions of the 9th Marines set up a command post on Hill 55, southwest of Da Nang, and began patrolling in the sector surrounding the hill. One morning—just before the daily 8 a.m. briefing of the division commander was to take place up in Da Nang—the battalion commander, during a short reconnaissance near the north slope of the hill, tripped a booby-trapped 155mm artillery shell that exploded with a roar and blew the colonel to pieces. The tragedy was immediately reported to division, and the intelligence desk officer ran the grim information over to the conference room just as the G-1 portion of the briefing commenced. The G-2 briefer hastily noted the information and silently slipped it to the commanding general immediately before taking his turn on the platform. The general was visibly shaken by the report. He read the note silently, then handed it to the officer beside him and bowed his head. There was utter silence in the room as the note moved up and down the table, then the general grimly nodded for the briefing to continue. Following that incident the division intelligence staff began a careful study of the incidence of mines and booby traps, and information on that aspect of the war became a priority feature in future intelligence briefings.
About a week later, a VC force of estimated battalion size snuck up on and assaulted the Marine company occupying a remote outpost on Hill 22, on the division’s defensive salient northwest of Hill 55. The VC penetrated the perimeter and got all the way to the command bunker before the Marines were able to beat back the attack in desperate hand-to-hand fighting. Later, it was reported that the VC had made an elaborately detailed sand-table mockup of the outpost, then had shrewdly attacked at about 0245 when they knew the Marines were least likely to be fully alert. Though repulsed, they came precariously close to overrunning the outpost. The episode sent a shock through the division.
A few days later, the VC ingeniously employed a mine ambush; that is, they wired together several mines in an elongated “L” shape, sat in wait, then simultaneously exploded all the mines—probably with a hand-operated electric detonator—when a Marine patrol walked into their trap. The ambush was quickly investigated and briefed, and once again a shock went through the division staff.
If nothing else, these incidents pointed to the fact that we were up against a smart, as well as vicious enemy. But had we been alert enough to see it, they also clearly indicated that the VC had developed a strategy of their own, one designed precisely to counter our scattered deployment and aggressive tendencies. “Strategy” is the “science and art of military command exercised to meet the enemy in combat under advantageous conditions.” Could these seemingly unprofessional VC commanders have developed such a “science and art”? Could they have assembled a “book” on our tendency to dash aggressively about the countryside in small units aching for a fight? It seems in retrospect that they had. Sad to say, however, the matter never came up for discussion at division intelligence, and over the next several months, Marines kept to their strategy even though they seldom if ever had a significant meeting engagement with a sizable VC force. While at the same time, fully 90 percent of our casualties were being caused by mines, booby traps, and ambushes.
Early in the spring of 1966, a platoon on patrol north of Hill 55 walked into a massive ambush and was annihilated with the exception of two wounded Marines who survived the slaughter by feigning death as the VC poked about among the bodies collecting weapons and ammunition. Investigation revealed that the platoon, by repeatedly patrolling over the same ground, had established a pattern that the watchful VC had been able to spot and for which they prepared a devastating response. By now it should have been painfully obvious that the enemy was employing effective countermeasures and that the aggressive patrolling strategy needed to be reassessed in that light.
In particular, the aggressive part needed to be rethought. Far too many officers were inclined to aggressively maneuver against every known enemy sighting. Even the commanding general had demanded that his intelligence briefings include reports of every contact with the VC, including, in his exact words, “one-shot misses.” Demanding exacting information about the enemy is one thing; blindly chasing after shadows is another. An aggressive strategy is one thing; an overly aggressive strategy under the conditions we experienced is another. In the case of I Corps in 1966, a one-shot miss, or even a fusillade from a tree line, should not have necessarily demanded an immediate frontal assault, especially in light of the knowledge that the enemy was taking advantage of such a proclivity. In conversations between officers, aggressiveness was often the topic of discussion. Not unlike Custer, some seemed to think that it was up to them to end the war then and there, and with dash and flair. In one conversation with a battalion commander the question was put: If a unit was to draw fire from the far side of a wet rice paddy, would he order an assault across the paddy? Without hesitation he said that he would. Not often discussed was individual and unit security, particularly individual dispersion and unit point and flank security. Although such basic concerns may have been taken for granted, failure of senior commanders to continually warn of the crucial nature of unit security in a strategy emphasizing constant aggressive movement was extremely shortsighted. These aspects of the early war—the strategy of saturation patrolling; the counterstrategy of mines, booby traps, and ambushes; the tendency to be overly aggressive; and underemphasis on individual and unit security—were sure to lead to trouble, and the Marines in I Corps continually walked into that trouble.
On 21 May 1966 several weeks after the above-mentioned ambush, another company was assigned to carry out a County Fair counterinsurgency operation at the little village of Thai Cam (2) also in the area north of Hill 55. The counterguerrilla aspect of the operation went off without incident, and by noon the troops had little or nothing to do as the attached medical and other relief and assistance people did their work. But gunfire began to crackle off to the west, and the company saddled up for possible action in that direction. Minutes later the battalion commander, who was located at his command post on Hill 55, radioed for a platoon to be detached and flown by helicopter to join the adjacent company, which had become engaged by fire with an enemy force across the river that marked the boundary between the two companies.
Now at least some of the company were perhaps going to have a taste of real war, the old-fashioned kind with which we were the most familiar. Two large cargo helicopters flew in and picked up the 3d Platoon (with a section of machineguns attached), and within the hour the entire company was ordered to move directly to the scene of the battle and engage the enemy in support of the other company. The troops climbed onto the two battle tanks and two amphibious tractors at hand (attached for use in the County Fair) and moved due west to the river, jumped off, formed a skirmish line with two platoons abreast, and proceeded to move north.
The company was no sooner organized and moving than it met headlong a large group of VC almost nonchalantly streaming south, obviously out of ammunition and unaware of what they were blundering into. A slaughter commenced during which every VC soldier was killed, most by the withering enfilade poured into them and some by hand-to-hand fighting. It was thrilling. For once it was hard-nosed Marines in a classic skirmish assaulting straight into and vanquishing the enemy—like at Saipan or Inchon. Somewhat ironically, the company, in its assault up the river, recovered from the vanquished foe the very M1917A4 machineguns lost in the ambush (described above) that had earlier annihilated the Marine platoon that had patrolled the same route once too often. (It was later determined that the VC unit involved in both incidents was the RC-20th Company.) But the story is not yet complete, nor is the irony.
As the company thus proceeded up the river bank doing its dirty work, a pathetic voice came over the battalion tactical net. “Help,” he pleaded weakly. “I’m dying, and I’m the only one left,” or words to that effect. The battalion commander broke in, told the company commander to concentrate on the battle at hand, and addressed himself to the caller. What followed was a wrenchingly sad but at the same time eloquent conversation between the two. The colonel, like a father talking to his injured child, soothingly began, “Now, son, we hear you, and we’re going to help you.” Thence proceeded the necessary communications between the commander and the badly wounded young Marine (his shoulder had been shattered by machinegun fire) to effect a rescue. The Marine had no idea where he was, but the colonel was able to ascertain that he had an unspent white-star cluster with which he could signal his location. With the colonel gently and patiently telling him what to do step by step, on the count of three the flare popped only a few hundred yards from the assaulting force’s position. The company commander, having heard the entire communication, entered the net and told the colonel that he had the position in sight, and since the battle was well in hand, he could move there immediately by amtrac. Worried about the 3d Platoon and anticipating that was where they were, he turned over command of the skirmishing force to the senior platoon commander, and with several slightly wounded men in the belly of the amtrack who volunteered to fight if they had to, moved off in the direction of the wounded Marine. The thrill of battle quickly evaporated.
The scene was sickening. There indeed was the 3d Platoon, or what was left of it. The two helicopters had landed in a large, dry rice paddy—right in the middle of the RC-20th. The battalion commander, the one who had shown such kindness to a single wounded Marine, had little more than an hour before ordered that Marine and many others straight into the fray by helicopter without any effort to secure a landing site. He put them, not behind or alongside the company to which they were to be attached, where security for the landing and at least some semblance of mission orientation could have been established, but across the river from that company where they were to operate as a separate maneuver element. Essentially, in his zeal to aggressively close with the enemy, the battalion commander chanced everything on a blind guess. Unfortunately, he could not have guessed more wrongly.
The RC-20th immediately turned its attention from the Marines across the river and poured fire point-blank into the 3d Platoon as the Marines desperately scrambled out of the helicopters. In the frantically confusing situation, the helicopter crews had only one option—to abandon the already scattering troops and escape as best they could. With the troops running in every direction to get away from the helicopters and many men falling from the hail of fire, regathering everybody proved impossible. Six Marines were killed outright—most as they attempted to exit the helicopters. An additional 25 Marines and corpsmen were wounded, among them the platoon commander. The irony was made complete by the fact that the VC had at least two “old” Browning M1917A4 light machineguns that fired well, and both of the 3d Platoon’s brand-new M60s had immediately jammed. (Marine infantry units had begun replacing their M1917A4s with M60s in the early spring of 1966.)
Marines from Company B, 1st Bn, 9th Mar recover the bodies of their comrades from the 3d Platoon who lost their lives during the action on 21 May 1966.
When the company commander and his party arrived, only two pockets of men remained unhurt. Eleven were cowering in one bomb crater, and five more were grimly awaiting the end in another nearby crater. Then there was the wounded Marine on the top of the ground by himself. No person in any group knew if anybody else remained alive. The platoon sergeant, who was with the group of 11, later explained that they had attempted to maneuver, but with their machineguns jammed, there was little chance of gaining a balance of fire. Further, every time someone lifted his head above the edge of the crater the VC raked him with fire. Neither the group of 11 nor the group of 5 had a radio, and with the platoon commander and his radioman being shot down, all command and control were lost. From the moment the platoon landed to the moment the wounded Marine finally made his feeble appeal, the platoon was entirely cut off. They never had a chance.
There were, fortunately, some magnificent displays of professionalism, courage, and compassion by individual Marines and Navy corpsmen—displays by young enlisted men that in a way saved the bacon for us supposed “professionals” who had precipitated this shameful affair. Splendid leadership and heroism were displayed in the group of five, for example. Upon interview, four of the Marines, all Caucasians, reported how, as they crouched there, a young black machinegunner calmly said he would take charge. Assuming that they would be assaulted and killed or captured, he ordered each man to inventory his ammunition and trade around so that each had an equal share; each man would save one round to kill himself if necessary, and all would stand at the ready, back to back, and await the expected assault on their hole. Then they would go down fighting, taking as many VC with them as they could. Melodramatic stuff, but the Marines who told the story were deadly serious.
Earlier, and at the height of the bedlam, one of the corpsmen ran to one wounded Marine and gave him lifesaving first aid, then ran to the next fallen Marine, then to the next, and on to the next. Surviving Marines told that the corpsman, while attending the fifth wounded Marine, was shot down, a bullet through his head. He had knowingly sacrificed himself to do his duty. (He was still alive when evacuated but probably died on the way to the hospital.)
Somehow, probably from information reported by the helicopter crews that had taken the 3d Platoon into the fray, a helicopter medevac team arrived on the scene while the situation was still in chaos. The crew flew into the bloody field seven times—several times directly into enemy fire. During the first sorties they took so many rounds into and through their helicopter that they had to replace it in order to continue. Just after the detachment with the company commander arrived, the medevac crew returned for the sixth time and picked up the remaining wounded, including the lone Marine who had called for help, and then came back once more to pick up the dead. Wanting every able-bodied man to concentrate on the possibility of another attack, the company commander ordered them to stick to their weapons and proceeded alone to help the corpsman/crew chief load the dead on the helicopter. It was a gruesomely difficult task: the dead Marines, their bodies drained of blood, handled much like what might have been large sacks of potatoes that had been smashed by a sledgehammer; like so much mush they flopped about heavily and awkwardly in the effort to half heave, half yank them up into the helicopter. The bodies filled the belly of the helicopter and the crew chief had to sit atop the mound of corpses for the return flight. As the helicopter lifted off, the two men’s eyes met. On the crew chiefs face was an unforgettable look of shock and anguish. He seemed to be expressing, though without words, how terribly sorry he was that he could not have saved them all.
More melodrama, perhaps, but these descriptions, at the risk of pushing too hard to make the point, are inserted here to convey a sense of the human tragedy that more likely than not occurs when officers throw out the book, play it by ear, and cavalierly hasten to order other men into terrible situations.
What foolishness! Under the conditions, there was no clear reason to have been so hasty and to have risked so much. Had the 3d Platoon been dropped into that horrible trap sooner it would likely have suffered far worse, since the VC company that engaged them would have had more ammunition with which to finish the platoon off. Those who survived were extremely lucky; the VC did run out of ammunition and withdrew—south down the river bank and to their destruction at the hands of the skirmish line moving north.
Chance destruction of the RC-20th aside, should we have been dashing about looking for a fight so recklessly? Should any unit be dropped into an unsecured landing site unless the situation is desperate? In the case of the company to which the 3d Platoon was to be attached, their situation was not desperate. They were merely exchanging fire with the enemy across a river and had plenty of room to maneuver. The words “was to be” are intentional. The 3d Platoon never saw, nor was it ever seen by, the company to which it was supposed to have been attached; nor is it apparent that anybody in that company attempted to establish contact beyond perhaps trying to contact them by radio. One has to wonder why, when that medevac crew kept coming in across the river in plain sight and hearing, somebody in the company did not at least warn battalion that the to-be-attached unit might be in trouble. On the other hand, why should they have? Technically, the 3d Platoon was not yet an attachment under the company’s responsibility; it was still a separate command under battalion responsibility. Did the other company commander even know they were there? Owing to the sensitivity of the episode, such things were not discussed later. Whatever the whole story might have been, obviously the 3d Platoon was sacrificed for no other reason than a chance that through aggressive maneuvering in the blind they might keep a VC unit in place. That is insufficient justification for blindly jeopardizing the lives of a reinforced rifle platoon and several helicopter crews. The entire incident simply should not have happened, and it would not have happened had we better balanced our stewardship to our men with our disposition to aggressiveness. But then Marines are always aggressive, and commanders had little time to learn their trade and make their mark.
Returning to the saturation patrolling strategy, the troops derisively called the incessant patrols “activities.” Although in a few instances a single “activity” probably flushed out an enemy unit, and a few others may have deterred an enemy attack, the continuous employment of patrols around the clock kept the troops in a constant state of exhaustion while at the same time offering easy targets for an enemy that, as already indicated above, had the capability and cunning to take advantage of the opportunities that the strategy presented them. Didn’t this strategy violate or misapply any number of the principles of war, those principles that are considered the “enduring bedrock of doctrine”? Arguably, such a strategy can be justified under the principles of objective, maneuver, and offensive. But what about mass, economy of force, unity of command, security, simplicity, and surprise? The enemy always knew right where we were, and they knew that we would constantly present ourselves in vulnerable little pieces and that those little pieces would wander about seemingly willy-nilly over the same terrain day after day and night after night. And complicating the issue, all patrolling had to be orchestrated, lock step, around those elaborately plotted and timed H & I fires. All the VC had to do was observe, plant mines and booby traps, and use the hit and run tactics that they often employed in coordination with deadly ambushes. That is, the Marines seemed to be employing a strategy that in violating most of the principles of war all-too-easily accommodated the strategy consistently being employed against them by enemy commanders who took advantage of every element as if they had conceived those bedrock principles themselves. Add to that a tendency on the part of Marine commanders to be overly aggressive and the conditions for disaster were ripe.
Moreover, still another factor mitigated against us—our general disdain of the enemy. Were the VC equal to the challenge? By all means they were. They probably were as adept at employing mine warfare as any military force in history. We saturated the battlefield with little patrols and chased after every burst of fire; they saturated the battlefield with traps, baited us with scattered fire, and waited for us in ambush. The VC were not merely a bunch of stupid little people in black silk pajamas, conical straw hats, and shower shoes made from old tires. They were intelligent, cunning, able, well trained, largely professional, and relentless. And they were fanatically determined killers. They hated us passionately and would never rest until we were gone from their homeland forever, dead or alive. Having no mass, no fighter planes, no artillery or tanks or naval guns or B-52s with which to pulverize the landscape with arc lights, they dug ditches, tunnels, and caves, and planted barbed wire, booby traps, and mines—all brilliantly and perfectly adapted to counter the strategy of aggressive saturation patrolling. The so-called ambushes we claim to have employed in tandem with patrols were nothing more than patrols that stopped longer at one of their checkpoints. In fact they were a joke; it is likely that Marines never closed a successful ambush against the VC, since the VC always knew where the ambushes were. Perhaps one of the lessons we seemingly never learned is that we were fighting a smart and dedicated—and sophisticated—enemy.
The RC-20th VC company made only one mistake on 21 May: It abandoned an extremely effective strategy and fought for too long in one place. Nevertheless, up to the moment of destruction it had been enormously successful; it annihilated one platoon and almost annihilated another in addition to killing several more with mines and booby traps (including a battalion commander) before succumbing to their own annihilation. Regardless of their relative success, the other VC in the region probably learned well from the RC20th’s one big mistake. We, however, seemingly never learned. Rather than learning, our revenge on the RC-20th and recovering our weapons may even have been seen as a vindication of our strategy, not a lucky stroke owing to a VC mistake that was not likely to be repeated.
In an engagement shortly before the action described in this article, Marines from 3d Bn, 9th Mar engage VC forces during Operation GEORGIA, south of Da Nang in April-May 1966.
After the incident of 21 May, the company took up defensive duty for the southern part of the battalion command post perimeter at Hill 55—with the usual additional responsibility of saturation patrolling. The company was so short of personnel that squad patrols (the commonly employed patrol was squad size) consisted mostly of about eight men under the command of a lance corporal or corporal. That is, those maneuver elements that were supposed to be able to fix and destroy a fanatic enemy were little more than glorified fire teams often led by newly arrived junior NCOs barely older and better trained than the youngest and least trained men under them. It seemed little short of suicidal to send these weak little units out on the extended “activities” expected under division policy. In early June the battalion commander at Hill 55 was urged by subordinates to beef up offensive patrols to platoon size for several reasons, among them leadership and experience, firepower, maneuver capability, and sheer size sufficient to resist an ambush. The battalion commander naturally hesitated making a decision that might be considered contrary to division policy, but on the other hand, he could not dismiss the rationale presented. On the merits, and possibly somewhat influenced by the tragic results of his decision of 21 May, he approved increasing the size of offensive patrols from squad to platoon.
What about troop strengths? In 1966 the 3d Marine Division was chronically short of personnel. The above-described company is a good case in point; it averaged about 150 men on any given day. Casualties totaled 100 between March and July, and 4 of them were lieutenants. These painful losses were in addition to the normal attrition that arised as a result of the single-year rotation policy that prevailed throughout the Vietnam War. This policy resulted in a steady drain of experienced men, often at times when units could ill afford to lose them. These endemic shortages in both numbers and experience, in combination with the requirement to saturate the operations area with patrols around the clock and the Marine Corps’ “can do” spirit, created an extremely dangerous, sometimes almost debilitating situation. It appears that the Corps’ personnel administration structure was not geared to keep up in 1966. Is it now? If not now, or if always fighting shorthanded is taken for granted, are field commanders prepared, either by
training or philosophy, to make the necessary operational adjustments to keep the fighting machine healthy enough to carry out the mission?
Combining enemy mines, booby traps, caves, tunnels, wire, dikes, ditches, ambushes and selected attacks with our willy-nilly “activities” carried out by exhausted and understrength units and the VC’s uncanny ability to orchestrate the mix to their advantage, the early part of the war was hell. It was nasty, humorless, exhausting, and terribly discouraging. In another kind of bitter irony, an awful incident occurred in late June 1966 that seemed to neatly but searingly bind up the whole ugly mess.
Near the river that flows past Hill 55 on the south, the rice paddies did double duty by yielding rice during the northeast monsoon and corn during the dry season. By June the corn stood about 7 feet high, just the perfect addition to the dikes, ditches, wire, and mines to present patrolling Marines with bad situations. Late one afternoon the 1st Platoon while on patrol entered one of those rice paddy/cornfields. At the far side of the field the point squad came abruptly upon a high dike behind a ditch and topped by barbed wire. The squad leader halted his unit and radioed the situation to the platoon commander, who decided to come up to see for himself. He unwisely brought with him the platoon sergeant, platoon guide, and the platoon’s complement of radiomen and corpsmen. They approached, then intermingled with the squad, which had already become badly bunched up—first because of the dense growth and then from piling up on the fenced dike. The platoon commander looked the situation over and ordered the squad to move around the obstacle and continue on the previously assigned heading. And to his credit he ordered everybody to spread back out since they were so dangerously bunched up.
It was too late. The first man to move tripped a large mine planted at the base of the dike. Two Marines, including the platoon sergeant, were killed instantly. The platoon commander was saturated with shrapnel, the man who tripped the mine had both feet blown off, and 14 others were also wounded, most of them seriously. It was probably the worst mine tragedy in the war up to that point.
The physical evidence of the tragedy was starkly clear upon inspection the next morning. Shrapnel had cut a swath through the com, and the broken stalks lay in an arc away from the point of the blast. Thick puddles of coagulated blood marked the place where every Marine had fallen, and the puddles were close together. When the report of the tragedy reached division, a formal investigation was immediately launched with both the company and battalion commander being named as parties. The investigating officer was a lieutenant colonel who had just arrived in country and was being assigned to the 9th Marines. Fortunately, before he came down to Hill 55 he took the opportunity to interview the wounded before they were airlifted out of country. Most or all who were able to speak reported that before the incident strong measures—to include a 10-pace minimum interval—had been consistently carried out to avoid just such a tragedy, and the investigation concluded without culpability being assigned. Not that this in any way ameliorated the tragedy that had occurred.
With the exception of the events of 21 May, every casualty suffered by the company between March and July 1966 was due to mines, booby traps, and VC ambushes while the men were carrying out “activities” during which they never saw the enemy.
Did our approach work? Did it allow us to accomplish the objective? Two years after returning home I bumped into a classmate from The Basic School at the Camp Pendleton post exchange. He had just returned from Vietnam. He had been a rifle company commander in the vicinity of Hill 55. He recalled that it was nasty, humorless, exhausting, and terribly discouraging. And his company suffered many casualties on mines and booby traps while hardly ever setting eyes on the enemy. His was at least the 12th rifle company to have patrolled Hill 55 (at least four battalions had been assigned in that vicinity between 1965 and 1967). How many more companies bled there and to what end? Was it all in vain?
Suffice it to say, in conclusion, that battle commanders should stick by the book (the basics) as much as they can—at least as regards individual and unit security—and play it by ear only when the conditions absolutely dictate. But at the same time we must be flexible enough to reassess and respond, intelligently and quickly, boldly even, to whatever strategy the enemy may employ to counter us. Battle commanders must be ever vigilant regarding the condition of their men, and allow that condition to influence their approach to the mission. It is true, whether we like it or not and “can do” spirit notwithstanding, Marines can easily be pushed to exhaustion and can absorb bullets and shrapnel just as easily as any other foot soldier. If they are killed or maimed because of constant exhaustion, or while on details that foolishly play into the hands of the enemy, it is not their fault; it is their commander’s fault. And surely, one of the deadliest ways to play into the hands of the enemy is to blindly drop troops into unsecured landing zones.
Lastly, the commander’s responsibility as the guardian of the welfare of his men must take precedence over any personal motive. How often are decisions on the battlefield entirely consistent with the real mission, and how often are they influenced by the urge, for example, to be dashing, aloof, and cavalier? In the final analysis, the best battle commanders, in addition to being highly competent, are—consistent with the mission—also highly dedicated to the welfare of their men. That any Marine’s vanity be the cause of another Marine’s death is more than tragic; it is criminal.
During the months after Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and other Asian targets, the United States was driven from the Philippines, the British surrendered Malaya, Singapore, and Hong Kong, French Indochina fell, and the Dutch lost the East Indies.
This dire threat led to the Battle of the Coral Sea in May 1942, where Japanese and U.S. Navy carrier forces fought to a tactical draw, resulting in a strategic victory, albeit temporary, for the United States and its allies. The Battle of the Coral Sea was also important for the subsequent Battle of Midway, which occurred the following month, as it diminished Japanese carrier forces available for the attack on Midway.
The Japanese also landed on Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands in May 1942, and there they began to build an airfield.
The location of this new Japanese airfield at Lunga Point on Guadalcanal was a serious threat to the security of Australia and New Zealand. So, the United States, as a matter of great urgency and despite not being fully prepared to go on the offensive in the Pacific theater, conducted its first amphibious landing of the war. The 1st MarDiv landed on Guadalcanal on the morning of 7 August 1942 and secured the Japanese airfield under construction without difficulty.
However, holding this airfield—to become Henderson Field—over the next six months was one of the most contested campaigns in the entire Pacific war. The high stakes fight for control of Guadalcanal, along with the surrounding waters and airspace of the Solomon Sea, was an important turning point in the Pacific War. Ultimately, the U.S. victory at Guadalcanal completely halted further expansion of the Japanese defensive barrier and enabled the Allies to go on the offensive.1
Why did the 1stMarDiv face so little opposition during the first few days on Guadalcanal? It was not just luck, though there was some of that, too. A large part of the answer is provided by MG George C. Kenney in his book Air War in the Pacific.2 Here, Kenney, in a succinct, contemporaneous style, describes the U.S. Army Air Force’s (USAAF) actions against the Japanese stronghold of Rabaul, located on the island of New Britain, to coincide with amphibious landing operations on Guadalcanal:
Twenty B-17s flew [from their Australian base] to Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea [on 6th August to refuel] and eighteen took off on the big strike on the morning of the 7th August. Twenty Jap fighters intercepted our bombers about twenty-five miles short of the target, but the kids closed up their formation and fought their way to Vunakanau [airfield at Rabaul] where they dropped their bombs in a group pattern that was a real bulls-eye. The Japs still had the same 150 planes lined up wing-tip to wing-tip on both sides of the runway. The [post-strike reconnaissance] pictures looked as though we got at least seventy-five of them, besides setting fire to a lot of gasoline and blowing up a big bomb dump on the edge of the field. In the air combat we shot down eleven of the twenty Jap fighters that participated.3
We lost one B-17 piloted by Captain Harl Pease …. During the combat coming into Rabaul, Pease was on the wing that bore the brunt of the [enemy fighter intercept] attack. By skillful handling of his airplane, in spite of the fact that the bad engine by this time had quit entirely, Pease held his place in the formation and his crew shot down at least three of the Jap fighters. Shortly after he had dropped his bombs on the target, another wave of enemy fighters concentrated their attack on his airplane which they evidently realized was crippled. The B-17 burst into flames and went down. No parachutes were seen to open.4
I recommended Pease for a Medal of Honor; General MacArthur approved and forwarded the recommendation to Washington. The next day, a wire came in from the War Department confirming the award. Carmichael [commanding officer, 19th Bombardment Group and the B-17 flight leader] was given a Distinguished Service Cross, while a number of lesser decorations were awarded to outstanding members of the group.5
The Marines landed at Guadalcanal with practically no opposition. Tulagi was also taken … There was no Jap air interference. Admiral Ghormley wired General MacArthur a congratulatory message on the success of our attack on Vunakanau and the fact that it had broken up the possibility of Jap air interference with his landing in the Solomons. General MacArthur added his congratulations and I sent both messages to the 19th Group with my own.6
During the day [of 7th August], we intercepted several Jap radios which were appeals by the Nips in the Solomons for help from Rabaul air units. The Jap commander at Rabaul replied that he couldn’t do anything for the boy[?] in the Solomons on account of our heavy air raid on his airdrome. The next day [8th August] we intercepted another message which showed that only thirty bombers were serviceable at Vunakanau [post attack]. Jap prisoners, taken at Guadalcanal airdrome (Lunga), confirmed our observation that the day before there were approximately 150 bombers at Vunakanau at the time of our attack.7
Following this highly successful early morning attack on Rabaul on 7 August by the USAAF’s 19th Group, the Japanese hurriedly reconstituted and managed to launch an attack of 27 G4M Betty horizontal bombers that arrived in the Guadalcanal area in the early afternoon. Fortunately, a heavy cloud cover in the target area disrupted these bombers’ aim, and all their bombs fell harmlessly into the waters off Guadalcanal. This flight of Betty bombers was met by eighteen U.S. Navy F4F Wildcat fighters attacking in two waves. A flight of eight Wildcats from the VF-5 squadron based on the aircraft carrier Saratoga attacked first. Then, a second flight of ten Wildcats from VF-6 squadron based on the carrier Enterprise joined the attack. Five Betty bombers fell to Wildcat guns. However, nine of the eighteen Wildcats fell to the seventeen superior-performing A6M Zeroes escorting the Bettys. Some of the downed Wildcat pilots were rescued from the waters off Guadalcanal.8 Later in the afternoon of 7 August, nine D3A Val dive bombers attacked. However, these aircraft managed only one bomb hit—on the aft deck of the destroyer USS Mugford. Again, F4F Wildcat fighters rose from the two USN carriers to shoot down five of the Vals, with the other four ditching during their return to Rabaul. Wildcats also bagged two of the escorting Zeroes.9
The next day, 8 August, the Japanese again sent a horizontal bomber force of 27 Bettys south to Guadalcanal escorted by 15 Zeroes. However, the U.S. Navy was ready. Wildcat fighters again launched from carriers Saratoga and Enterprise to meet this new attack, shooting down 22 of the Bettys while also downing two of the escorting Zeroes. The Bettys did severely damage a U.S. Navy destroyer and sink a transport ship; however, no American aircraft were lost, and no bombs fell on Guadalcanal.10
Clearly, the USAAF’s perfectly timed, preemptive attack on the Japanese redoubt of Rabaul greatly spared the 1stMarDiv and U.S. Navy’s amphibious shipping off-shore Guadalcanal from far larger air attacks. Credit for this major accomplishment goes to MG George Kenney, who foresaw the need for a heavy, early morning surprise attack on Rabaul to coincide with Guadalcanal operations.
Kenney, who had only arrived in Australia the month prior, vigorously assumed command of all Allied air operations in the Southwest Pacific Area theater under GEN Douglas MacArthur and insisted on quickly building up the combat capability of the 19th Bombardment Group. This foresight was crucial to staging a highly effective attack on Rabaul with its large concentration of heavy bombers based on the island of New Britain, located at the northern end of the Solomon Sea.
Of course, the primary credit goes to the courageous 19th Bombardment Group. The eighteen aircrews flew their B-17s without fighter escort all the way to Rabaul and delivered a knockout blow to an enemy air threat. The 19th Group’s surprise attack destroyed or damaged roughly 80 percent of a Japanese bomber force that would have contested amphibious operations at Guadalcanal to a much greater extent.11
Subsequent Japanese air attacks on Guadalcanal were perforce significantly smaller. Indeed, the reduction in Japanese air power caused by this one USAAF attack enabled U.S. Navy fighters protecting Guadalcanal to counter the residual Japanese bomber aircraft that did attack Guadalcanal early on.
As a nod to the 1stMarDiv’s motto of “No Better Friend, No Worse Enemy,” one can rightly say that in those first days on Guadalcanal, the 1stMarDiv had very good friends in both the USAAF and U.S. Naval aviation. On those fateful days, they went after the division’s worst enemy in a very big way.
>Col Karch served from 1966 to 1992. A Naval Aviator, he flew the F-4 Phantom II operationally over three decades. He was also a Test Pilot, Advanced Flight Instructor, and a Ground Forward Air Controler with the South Korean Marines in Vietnam.
Notes
1. Wikipedia Editors, “Guadalcanal,” Wikipedia, n.d., https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guadalcanal.
2. George Kenney, Air War in the Pacific: The Journal of General George Kenney, Commander of the Fifth U.S. Air Force (N/A: P-47 Press, 2018). George Churchill Kenney (6 August 1889–9 August 1977) was a USAAF general during World War II; he is best known as the commander of the Allied Air Forces in the Southwest Pacific Area, a position he held between July 1942 and August 1945. He was the first commander of the Air Force Strategic Air Command.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
8. Richard B. Frank, Guadalcanal: The Definitive Account of the Landmark Battle (New York: Random House, 1990).
9. Ibid.
10 Ibid.
11. Ibid. MajGen Kenney was soon promoted to the rank of lieutenant general upon the personal recommendation of MacArthur based on the excellence Kenney displayed in staging the Rabaul raid of 7 August and in subsequent SWPA air operations by the Fifth U.S. Air Force.
To compete globally in the 21st century, the U.S. military must rely on civilian contractors to manage vital logistical systems. However, war does not discriminate between uniformed combatants and civilians. This tragic fact became all too real for the Marines and construction contractors on Wake Island in December 1941. The Battle of Wake Island offers valuable operational and legal lessons for civilian contractors in combat scenarios.
At the outset of World War II, Wake Island was occupied by the understrength 1st Marine Defense Battalion, 46 Pan American (Pan Am) Airline employees operating the commercial runway, and 1,145 engineers contracted by the Navy to develop Wake into an advanced base.1 Hours after Pearl Harbor was attacked—2,000 miles to the East—the first Japanese bombs fell onto the tiny atoll of Wake.2 After two weeks of aerial and naval bombardment, the Japanese finally captured the island on their second amphibious assault.3 The defenders of Wake fought heroically, inflicting over 1,000 casualties, sinking two destroyers, damaging eight other ships, and downing 21 aircraft. The 1942 movie, Wake Island, memorialized the heroism of the Marines but downplayed the role of the civilians.4 However, dozens of civilian volunteers assisted the Marines in preparing defenses and directly engaged the Japanese in combat. Several Marine officers even recommended their attached civilian volunteers for decoration.5
This article examines how the civilians were incorporated into the defense of Wake Island. First, it will examine the command relationship between the Navy and contractors, then analyze how the Marines incorporated the civilians into the fighting, review legal considerations, and recommend lessons learned for contemporary military leaders. These lessons are: Account for combat situations in contracts, incorporate local contractors into combat contingency planning, and educate contractors on how the Law of Armed Conflict affects them.
Military-Civilian Relationship on Wake The Marines and civilians on Wake Island had functionally and legally unique, segregated roles. The first group to permanently occupy Wake was employees of the Pan American commercial airline, which used the atoll as a stop for its seaplane service ferrying passengers and mail to the Philippines. Although Pan Am had Navy approval to operate from Wake, the Navy exercised no control over its operations.6 After the initial assault from the Japanese on 8 December 1941, all but three of the Pan Am employees evacuated Wake on a civilian aircraft.7 The largest contingent on the island was the 1,145 civilian workers under the construction conglomerate, Contractors Pacific Naval Air Bases (PNAB), who started arriving on the island in January 1941.8 While PNAB was under contract to the Department of the Navy, the engineers were only legally allowed to perform the construction work according to Contract NOy-4173, which called for the construction of a naval air station.9 As shown in Figure 1 (on the following page), the PNAB workers directly answered to a naval responsible officer-in-charge of the 14th Naval District. However, much like a modern contracting officer representative, the responsible officer-in-charge could only ensure the workers were living up to the terms of the contract, not issue them orders.10 When the Marines of the 1st Defense Battalion, commanded by Maj Devereux, arrived on 19 August 1941, they were under strict orders to keep their activities separated from the civilian workers. In fact, the PNAB civilians were even prohibited from refueling military aircraft, taxing the understrength Marine Battalion even more.11 Navy CDR W.S. Cunningham was the Wake Island commander in charge of both civilians and military personnel, but his role was more like a modern-day garrison commander. CDR Cunningham had no authority to order the civilians into combat, and Maj Devereux was in charge of the defenses overall.12 Despite this strict segregation, a looming war against Japan forced the Marines to bridge this gap.
Figure 1. Command structure on Wake Island, 1941. Full lines represent a direct operational control or tactical control relationship (by modern doctrinal terms), while the dashed line represents coordination for the contractors. (Source: LtCol R.D. Heinl, The Defense of Wake (Washington, DC: Historical Section, Division of Public Information, Headquarters U.S. Marine Corps), Appendix V.)Figure 2. Defense installations on Wake Island. (Source: U.S. Marine Corps History and Museums Division–U.S. National Park Service website A MAGNIFICENT FIGHT: Marines in the Battle for Wake Island.)
Civilians in the Defense The Marines at Wake Island incorporated contractor volunteers into both non-combat and direct combat roles. Construction contractors fit more naturally into non-combat roles such as creating earthworks, aiding the wounded, and moving heavy equipment. Maj Devereux praised the efforts of the civilians in this regard, but it was too little, too late. The civilians only deviated from working on the construction stipulated in the contract after Wake was bombed.13 Aside from the more obvious engineering tasks, necessity demanded that the civilian volunteers directly engage in combat. The Marine 1st Defense Battalion only had about a third of its authorized manpower, which meant most of its heavy weapons and fighting positions did not have full crews.14 Figure 2 shows Wake’s defensive strong points and indicates unmanned weapon systems. All too aware of this shortfall, the Marines began training civilian volunteers on heavy weapons three months before the attack.15 Civilian volunteers helped to occupy some but not all of these vital strong points.16 Notably, Sgt Bowsher led an all-civilian crew of 16 volunteers on Battery D’s three-inch naval gun located on the island’s northeastern end.17 To coordinate the civilian volunteers, Maj Devereux coordinated directly with the contracting superintendent, Dan Teeters, a World War I veteran who organized requested civilian work parties.18 Often left out of posters and movies, the civilians on Wake Island who did volunteer to aid the Marines deserve just as much recognition. The Japanese certainly treated them the same.
Legal Considerations Civilians engaging in combat alongside soldiers do so at their own legal risk. Although Japan did sign the 1929 Geneva Convention, the Japanese military became notorious for its mistreatment of prisoners.19 For a modern perspective, the currently in effect Geneva Convention III, ratified in 1949, is best for analyzing the legal status of the fighting contractors on Wake. Geneva Convention III stipulates that civilians accompanying combat forces, such as civil engineers, enjoy the same prisoner of war (POW) status as soldiers. This distinction is important because POWs are entitled to extra rights, such as limits on the type of labor they perform.20 However, if the civilians decide to fight, then only certain criteria grant them POW status. Article 4 states that militias must have a clear commander, have an insignia, must carry arms openly, and must respect the laws and customs of war.21 On Wake, one could argue that the contractor volunteers constituted a militia, but they lacked an official uniform or insignia distinct from the PNAB civilians who did not want to fight. The civilians did have a right to self-defense, but if they were captured after fighting instead of immediately surrendering, then under the Geneva Convention, they would not have to be treated as POWs. Furthermore, the civilian volunteers would not have combatant immunity, meaning they could be charged with murder by the government whose territory any killing took place in. Seeing how Wake Island was a U.S. territory, not surprisingly, no civilian ever saw their day in court. Although helpful for future cases, the Japanese did not weigh these considerations. The Japanese who captured Wake Island treated (and mistreated) all the civilians, even those not participating in the defense, the same as the Marine prisoners of war.22
Conclusion The Marines and civilian defenders of Wake Island still have lessons to teach the force today. As contractors become increasingly enmeshed with soldiers in the modern operating environment, commanders should consider how to manage or even employ them in combat situations.23 First, unlike at Wake, military contracts should have some stipulation on when and how civilians report to commanders in a combat situation. Even if the contractors cannot fight, the commander should be able to keep their accountability. Second, military units should identify which civilians would be willing to assist in combat and provide necessary training. Contingency plans also should have provisions for how the contractors are either employed or protected. Then the commander should leverage the existing civilian chain of command as much as possible. Lastly, civilian contractors should be made fully aware of the legal repercussions if they choose to fight and be provided distinct insignia if they make that resolution. It is not a decision to be taken lightly, but as the experiences of Wake proved, the alternative could be worse. Out of the 1,145 contractors on Wake Island in December 1941, 34 were killed in battle, 98 were massacred on the island in 1943, and 114 died in Japanese POW camps.24 Contractors supporting the military cannot always choose if they are suddenly in a combat zone, but they can be more prepared by those who make preparing for war their profession.
>Maj Thomas is an Army Special Forces Officer with several combat deployments to the Middle East. He recently graduated from the Marine Corps School of Advanced Warfighting and is currently serving as a Plans Officer in I Corps.
>>Maj Malapit is a Judge Advocate Officer who deployed to Latvia during her time as an Engineer Officer. She recently earned her LLM from the Judge Advocate General’s Legal Center and School and is currently serving as the Chief of Justice for the 7th Infantry Division.
Notes
1. Bonita Gilbert, Building for War: The Epic Saga of the Civilian Contractors and Marines of Wake Island in World War 2 (Havertown, PA: Casemate Publishers, 2012); and James Devereux, Report on the Defense of Wake Island (Quantico, VA: Marine Corps Archives, 1945).
2. Report on the Defense of Wake Island.
3. Ibid.
4. Devereux, The Story of Wake Island (New York: Charter, 1947).
5. Woodrow M Kessler, Battery BReport to LtCol Devereux (Quantico, VA: Marine Corps Archives, 1945); and George Kinney, Report to Lt Col. Devereux (Quantico, VA: Marine Corps Archives, 1945).
6. Building for War. See specifically, Chapter 2, “Opportunity Knocks.”
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid.
9. National Archives, Federal Register Volume 6, Number 21 (Washington, DC: 1941).
10. R.D. Heinl, The Defense of Wake (Washington, DC: Historical Section, Division of Public Information, Headquarters U.S. Marine Corps, 1947).
11. Report on the Defense of Wake Island.
12. The Defense of Wake.
13. The Story of Wake Island.
14. The Defense of Wake.
15. Building for War.
16. Report on the Defense of Wake Island.
17. Building for War.
18. The Story of Wake Island.
19. Utsumi Aiko, “Japan’s World War II POW Policy: Indifference and Irresponsibility,” The Asia-Pacific Journal May 2005, https://apjjf.org/-Utsumi-Aiko/1790/article.html.
20. Final Record of the Diplomatic Conference of Geneva of 1949, Vol. I, Federal Political Department, Bern, Section III, https://ihl-databases.icrc.org/en/ihl-treaties/gciii-1949?activeTab=undefined.
21. Final Record of the Diplomatic Conference of Geneva of 1949, Vol. I, Federal Political Department, Bern, Section I, Article 4; https://ihl-databases.icrc.org/en/ihl-treaties/gciii-1949?activeTab=undefined.
22. Building for War.
23. Mark F. Cancian, U.S. Military Forces in FY 2020: SOF, Civilians, Contractors, and Nukes (Washington, DC: CSIS, 2019).
24. Building for War. See specifically Appendix II.
Commemoration address for the Combined Action Platoon memorial at Marine Corps Museum We who fought in the villages six decades ago have gathered here to dedicate this memorial to our fallen brothers. We thank LtGen Ron Christmas and MajGen Jim Lukeman for honoring their sacrifice.
Historians remark upon the sheer audacity of the Combined Action Platoon (CAP). In the midst of a war with millions of combatants, twelve-man squads led by sergeants lived and died in villages amongst thousands of Vietnamese. Their mission: drive out the enemy, protect the villagers and train the farmers to defend themselves.1 In theory, those tiny squads, vastly outnumbered and isolated, should have been wiped out. In fact, they succeeded. Of the 209 villages protected by CAPs, not one reverted to enemy control.2 The CAP stands unique in America’s wars, never duplicated before or since.
From 1966 through 1970, across hundreds of hamlets every mosquito-filled night, patrols of about five Marines and five farmers sneaked through the bush, with no night vision or on-call fires. To survive, they relied on stealth, laying down grazing fire, pitching grenades, and pulling back when incoming fire was too intense. Firefights were sudden and short, green and red tracers zipping past like dancing Christmas lights. Afterward, no one ventured into the kill zones. Only the next day might they hear from the villagers about enemy bodies carried off. No CAP ever relaxed. The peril of each night focused every Marine.
During the day, CAP grunts ambled through the hamlets, eating duck eggs and bananas and peanuts, laughing and bartering with the villagers, respected but not feared. The ‘nghia quans’ (the farmers called PFs, or Popular Forces) patrolled and lived side by side with the Marines. Spending month after month inside the same few kilometers, the Marines and villagers came to know one another as human beings, with individual quirks. Six of the CAP Marines in this 1966 photo were killed in the besieged village of Binh Nghia.
The village chief wrote a letter to the parents of Sergeant White, the CAP leader. Here is a direct quote:
To Sgt. J.D. White Family … My name is trao, second village chief working with Sgt. White and Sq. Our people thank him very much, because he is very good man. Every day he is few to sleep he works too much … My people are poor and when they see a marine they very happy. When V.C. come to people, people come to talk to Sgt. Whte so Sgt. White can talk to P.F. and marine to fight V.C. Maybe die … I’ll say a Happy New Year to you. Jod bless you all …. Your friend always, Ho Yan Trao.3
The cost was high. Of the 450,000 Marines who served in Vietnam, three percent were fatalities,4 rising to six percent among the combat battalions. In the CAPs, the fatality rate was above ten percent. The reason was that on average a CAP conducted a thousand patrols in a year. There was no embedded chain of command to ensure these patrols went out, no gunny, no first sergeant, no company commander. Instead, there was peer pressure. There were no nights off. In every CAP, sooner or later death called.
Over five years, 540 CAP Marines were killed, while accounting for 4,900 enemy killed by rifle fire and grenades, with almost no employment of supporting arms.5 You don’t call in fire on the village where you live. Inflicting casualties on the enemy was only a means; the end objective was providing security and training the nghia quans (PFs). The CAPs weren’t interlinked; they were scattered across several thousand kilometers. Each CAP staked out five to seven square kilometers of paddies, shrubs and hooches, then fought to protect it.
The ultimate test of the program came when the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army (NVA) launched the 1968 TET offensive. In the Marine area in northern I Corps, tens of thousands of NVA left the mountains to assault the cities. To get there, they had to pass through the hamlets guarded by CAP patrols. The CAPs absorbed fully 47% of all the enemy attacks.6 Forewarned through the network of villagers, for eleven straight days the CAPs held firm in daily combat. The NVA found no way through.
At its peak, CAP platoons (squads really) extended across 800 widely scattered hamlets, protecting 500,000 villagers.7 This was accomplished by 2,200 CAP Marines, three percent of the Marine total force. Given that CAP was a force multiplier, why wasn’t it expanded into a countrywide strategy?
The CAP focus upon population protection collided with the directive from the high command in Saigon to search for and destroy the NVA forces in the mountains. To quote from the official Marine history of 1968, “The problem was a lack of a warfighting (overall) strategy. There was no yardstick for measuring the amount of resources dedicated to Mission X vs Mission Y. The CAP was seen as a drain of manpower. In fact, it saved Marine lives.”8
The high command in Saigon opposed the CAP program. Yet no top-level meeting with the subordinate Marine command was ever convened to resolve the conflicting strategies. The top commander in Vietnam, General William Westmoreland, criticized Marine tactics. His command disparaged the CAPs as “too manpower intensive and too slow in pacifying.”9 The command also consulted the British, whose top counterinsurgency expert, Sir Robert Thompson, concluded the opposite. He said CAP was “the best idea I have seen in Vietnam.”10
After our troops left in 1972, Congress slashed aid to the South and forbade all air strikes. In 1975, South Vietnam fell to North Vietnam. Artillery and armor provided by China and the Soviet Union plus massed infantry caused the defeat, not some fantasy about a Marxist revolt in the villages. Quite the opposite. When the North Vietnamese troops poured in, they changed the names of CAP villages, symbolizing their frustration with the farmers who had staunchly resisted. A history of the CAP program in the Military Review magazine concluded, “The Battle for Hue City and the siege at Khe Sanh dominate the literature about the Marines in Vietnam. CAP, however, was the Corps’ greatest innovation during the war.”11
Is the CAP concept useful in the future? My bookdescribing the lives and deaths in a typical CAP, entitled The Village, was deleted from the Commandant’s Reading List because CAP seemed irrelevant. In Iraq and Afghanistan, the tribal and Muslim insular cultures did make it impossible for Marine squads to live inside isolated villages. Unlike in Vietnam, as outsiders (and unbelievers) Americans were not accepted, let alone warned of danger. On the other hand, CAP is relevant for the new antiship mission. Although Marines no longer read about the CAP, the small units training to deploy on remote Filipino islands will need its tactics.
Regardless of where Marines next fight, there will be civilians and local forces. Marines don’t have the manpower to support a stand-alone advisory regiment. We will always seek the support of the local forces. The CAP proved that our infantry squads can adapt on any battlefield, due to the Marine ethos and training.
>Mr. West, an assistant secretary of defense in the Reagan administration, served in CAP Lima-One in Chulai in 1966. He has written a dozen books about Marines in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. His forthcoming book is entitled:Who Will Fight for Us the Next Time?
4. https://www.usni.org/magazines/naval-history-magazine/2015/april/marines-vietnam-commitment; and https://www.history.navy.mil/browse-by-topic/wars-conflicts-and-operations/vietnam-war0/human-cost.html
6. Weltsch, Michael D (1991). “The Future Role of the Combined Action Program” (PDF). U.S. Army Command and General Staff College. Archived from the original (PDF) on 8 February 2012. That PDF was retrieved 12 December 2007.
>Originally published in the Marine Corps Gazette, February 2016.
Editor’s Note: The authors biography is available in the original edition.
Lieutenant O’Bannon and Marines advancing toward Tripoli. (Image from Merrill L. Bartlett and Jack Sweetman, The U.S. Marine Corps: An Illustrated History, (Naval Institute Press, Annapolis, MD: 2001), 30–31.)
Preface On 7 April 1805, William Eaton, one midshipman, and eight United States Marines under the command of Presley O’Bannon stood at the Egyptian frontier and looked up toward the hills that would take them into hostile territory.1 Accompanying them was a collection of several hundred mercenaries and followers of the exiled ruler of the Barbary State of Tripoli, Hamet Qaramanli. Having crossed 280 miles of desert, the war party still had to advance 180 miles into Tripoli to capture the port city of Derne, the capital of Cyrenaica. In the weeks that followed, Eaton would succeed beyond expectations, earning his place in history. While much has been written about the Barbary Wars—including the Derne victory—discussions on the social dynamics at work in Tripoli largely have been missing. Yet those dynamics, which may be described as “cultural intelligence,” played an important role.2 Failing to understand that is to fail to fully understand the war itself. This article is an attempt to introduce that history as an argument for a greater focus on cultural intelligence in military planning.
“A Country Not Your Own”3 For four years, the United States waged desultory naval combat with Tripoli after its leader, Bey Yusef Qaramanli, declared war on 14 May 1801. The conflict stemmed from a refusal to offer tribute, a dubious scheme where America paid not to have their ships robbed or seized by the Bey’s pirates. In June 1803, a frustrated President Thomas Jefferson authorized a land attack and appointed Eaton, an experienced North African diplomat, as commander (Naval Agent for the Barbary Regencies). As Washington never contemplated sending an army abroad and the few Marines proved inadequate, the need for local forces became critical and the ability to rally fighters to oppose his brother Yusef made Hamet indispensible. Under Eaton, Hamet’s “army” would conduct the first land campaign led by the young United States on a foreign shore.4
On 27 April 1805, some 400 soldiers under Eaton assaulted Derne, defended by twice their number. A charge by a handful proved decisive: the Marines and midshipmen, a company of 26 Greek mercenaries and 24 artillerymen. The fight was a short, if bloody, affair; Eaton suffered a shattered wrist from a musket ball, and two Marines died with another wounded while Hamet emerged unscathed during the subsequent capture of the Governor’s palace. Within three hours, Derne fell and the Stars and Stripes waved for the first time over a distant battlefield. Why was a mixed and meager force under American generalship able to defeat a superior force located deep within their homeland?5 The courage of Eaton and his men won out, but a number of social factors worked to their advantage. Tripoli was riddled with social fissures stemming from the nature of the Barbary States and the local political situation in Tripoli.
In 1805, Ottoman Barbary consisted of the provinces (eyalats) of Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli. Barbary came from the Arab barbar (Berber), describing North Africa’s inhabitants. The term became misleading after the 11th century as the Arabian Banu Hilal tribes migrated across North Africa, halting only at Morocco’s border. Over the course of their migration, they swept away much of the Berber farming population, something that had two lasting effects. The Arabs and the Berbers formed a mixed race and two societies were created, one sedentary, clustered around the remaining coastal cities and farmlands and the other consisting of semi-nomadic Bedouin tribes. This also divided economic life between inland pastoralism with the caravan trade and littoral agriculture linked to sea commerce. The society fractured further with the rise of the Barbary States in the 1500s.6
Around 1505, Hayreddin Barbarossa moved his pirate fleet from the Aegean to Algeria and began raiding European shipping. In the process, he made a great fortune and his forces grew in strength. Simultaneously, the Spanish Reconquista spread into the Maghreb. In 1517, Barbarossa traded submission to Ottoman authority for military aid and Sultan Selim I obliged by sending forces while elevating Barbarossa to beylerbey. In 1551, the Ottomans recaptured Tripoli from the Maltese Knights of Saint John and the Spanish were driven from Tunis in 1574.7
With the crisis averted, the Porte dismissed the beylerbey and divided its holdings into the three eyalats, each ruled by a commander (bey) appointed by the Sultan and, if successful, promoted to pasha. Together with the bey and a Turkish administrative staff, Janissaries were dispatched along with a naval contingent. The three capital ports were turned into fortified bases. Ideally, the eyalats should have been divided into sanjaks (districts headed by sanjak-beys) to solidify control, but Ottoman rule was too tenuous to expand inland. This created additional societal strains as the Turks, Janissaries, and sailors disturbed the status quo. The Ottoman legal tradition also created friction; it followed the Hanafi Sharia while most peoples of the Maghreb adhered to the more conservative Maliki school. Acknowledging the limits of its authority, the Porte never forced the Hanafi system on the local population, but the result heightened the barrier between the governed and those that governed.8
The Janissaries—lifelong soldiers—were also a breed apart. Most had been taken as boys as a “blood tax” on Christians dwelling in Ottoman Europe. Moved to Anatolia, they were reared as soldiers and volunteered or coerced to convert to Islam. Despite these hardships, Janissaries were well paid, held a respected position in society, and were free to elect their own leaders, the deys. Finally, sailors, the most alien and profitable contingent, were able seamen recruited from anywhere and, if not Muslim, became converts. Motivated by the promise of privateering spoils, they were singularly mercenary and of limited loyalty but brought much needed cash to the States. Pirate rule soon reigned.9
The Ottoman conquest ended in the imposition of an alien government that never fully integrated with the people. Tripoli suffered most from these internal disconnects. Because of geography, it had only two enclaves able to support agriculture: the plateau south of the port of Tripoli and the ancient Pentapolis in Cyrenaica with Derne on the eastern extreme. The Bedouin tribes were economically self-sufficient and dominated the rest of the country, allowing them to stand apart from the Bey. This made rule tenuous in the best of times and the war with America did not come during the best of times.10
Tripoli was ostensibly part of the Ottoman Empire, but the power yielded was far from that of the 16th century. When Tripoli was recaptured, the Sublime Porte installed Aga Murad as bey and as an indication of the importance of Tripoli as a naval base, named Admiral (Reis) Turgut the second bey in 1553. For the next half century, Tripoli was ruled directly by the Porte. In 1609, the local Janissaries selected Suleiman Safar as dey who overthrew Bey Ahmad Pasha, and the Porte subsequently acceded to the elected deys as rulers. In late 1709, Bey Halil Pasha died without a successor and over the next two years, Tripoli witnessed five different self-professed governors attempting to take and keep power.11
During this crisis, the Janissaries chose as dey the capable sipahi (cavalry) leader Ahmed Qaramanli. Qaramanli was not a pure-blooded Janissary but a khouloughli (children of soldiers), the descendants of earlier Janissaries who had married into the local elite in Tripoli. In July 1711, Ahmed seized control and the Sublime Porte recognized him as bey and awarded him the rank of pasha. Although he continued to refer to himself as Dey, Ahmed ended the dey elections and the Qaramanli became hereditary leaders. The Qaramanli were able to expand their control into the Fezzan to the south and Cyrenaica to the east. A succession of Qaramanlis ruled effectively for most of the 18th century until the physical decline of the long serving Ali Pasha in the 1790s set in motion an internecine power struggle. The troubles began when Ali designated his eldest son, Hassan, as his successor in 1790.12
In August, Yusef, the youngest son, lured Hassan into the Bey’s harem under the ruse of reconciling their differences. The harem was a refuge whose protections exceeded that of a mosque. Once there, Hassan disarmed as required and greeted his mother. A hiding Yusef then cut him down. Hassan was able to recover his saber and slightly wound Yusef before dying. This murderous outrage threw the country’s leadership into turmoil. Bey Ali refused to recognize Yusef as regent and a civil war erupted with Yusef besieging Ali in the Tripoli fortress during the spring and summer of 1793.13
In early July, Ali died after naming Hamet, the middle son, as bey. Amidst this chaos, the Turks acted. On 29 July 1793, an Ottoman fleet under Ali Benghul arrived in the harbor. He declared himself ruler and both Hamet and Yusef fled to Tunis. Benghul’s rule ended in failure when the brothers, with the assistance of the Dey of Tunis, regained power in 1795. Yusef then pushed aside Hamet, sending him to Derne as Governor of Cyrenaica—an internal exile. Yusef also took Hamet’s family hostage. In fear for his life, Hamet fled first to Tunis and then to Egypt. Yusef sat uneasily on the throne, knowing that the Porte and his brother awaited an opportunity to overthrow him. Those were not his only problems.14
Tripoli was the poorest of the Barbary States and the government’s survival had become dependent on extortion, namely the tribute and wartime privateering policy. Even Yusef acknowledged that reality, stating in 1797 that his aim was to declare war on one nation as soon as he made peace with another. Internal conflicts made matters all the worse. When Americans had paid tribute to avoid trouble, the Barbary silver piaster was interchangeable with the U.S. dollar, except in the case of Tripoli. Yusef had so badly bankrupted Tripoli’s finances that its piaster had been reduced to a small copper coin. By the outbreak of war, one U.S. dollar was trading for 800 Tripolitanian piasters.15
In this environment, the American blockade worked exceptionally well as it affected little outside the Port of Tripoli. There was no hardship in the agricultural regions, a reality equally true for the pastoral tribes and their caravan trade. For the United States, the war became a conflict limited to Yusef and his followers, and the blockade cost Yusef his primary source of income, forcing him to raise taxes, an act that alienated the population under his control. As if the economic and political difficulties were not enough, Yusef could not count on his military for much help as the situation within the ranks of Janissaries and amongst the ships’ crews was nothing short of dire.16
Lt Presley O’Bannon. (Photo credit: Naval History and Heritage Command.)
Tripoli was a feeble military power in the early 1800s. When Yusef declared war on the United States, his navy had seven ocean-going corsairs: 2 frigates, one of 32 and one of 28 guns, plus 5 barks or sloops of 10–18 guns each. The only bright spot was the fleet commander, Admiral Murad, a competent commander who sailed on the seized American vessel Betsy. This compared with 13 corsairs held by Tunis and 18 by Algiers. By the time of the Eaton Expedition, Murad’s diminished fleet was trapped in port and the U.S. Navy’s Mediterranean Squadron under Commodore Samuel Barron containing 6 frigates (220 guns total), 2 brigantines (16 guns each), 3 schooners (12 guns each), and the 10-gun sloop Hornet, sailed offshore.17
The exact size of Tripoli’s Janissary-khouloughli corps during the war is not known. Given its poorness and the fact that Tunis had an army of 6,800 badly trained and equipped soldiers, Tripoli may have been able to field half that force. Further, because Yusef had alienated himself from the Porte, he could not count on Turkish reinforcements. This limited his ability to defend the country from a land attack. By the spring of 1805, excluding fortress cannoneers, the port of Tripoli garrison was approximately 900 sipahi Janissaries with another 90 each at Misurata and Benghazi. Derne had an estimated 800 defenders, both Janissary and untrained local Arab levees.18
Derne was an enclave on a coastal plain and passage into town followed the Roman road that was used by Hadj pilgrims traveling to and from Mecca, providing a source of income and information. The Mediterranean coast ran before Derne roughly from east to west with a sloping point jutting slightly into the sea to the northwest and the sheltered port just to the east. To either side of the open shore that abutted the Derne plain, the beaches were shallow and pinned between sea and rocky cliffs. Rising hills surrounded the plain, starting approximately one and a half miles inland from the coast. In the 1800s, the wadi system that had formed the plain consisted of a seasonally dry riverbed that passed Derne to the southeast and emptied into the port along with the main wadi that passed west of town en route to the sea. It contained an aqueduct system that provided water to Derne and the surrounding fields. By 1805, Derne was known as a fertile region, rich in fruits and grains as well as wax, honey, and butter.19
The population was approximately 7,000 people and represented the social upheavals of the Mediterranean world. Originally a 7th century B.C. Greek settlement, it fared well during Roman times, becoming a bishopric by the 5th century. Following the 7th century Arab conquest, Derne fell into decline and its people were swept up in the Banu Hilal migration during the 11th century. Refugees from Moorish Spain, the moriscos, resettled the abandoned city in the 15th century. As sedentary settlers, communal ties, not Bedouin bloodlines, formed the basis of morisco society. Communities were tied to the farmland, the town, and as it grew, by its quarters that formed de facto sub-tribes. The Bedouins regarded the inhabitants of Derne as outsiders, a people without a tribe, well into the 20th century.20
The Bedouin tribal leaders were more opportunists than adherents of the Qaramanli regime. Their focus was on herding and trading with Derne and the caravans that operated far from the court intrigues in the Port of Tripoli. They acknowledged the Dey’s authority but were disinterested in politics so long as it did not interfere in their livelihoods. The relationship between the town’s community and the Bedouins was one of uneasy tension. This made Derne’s population dependent on the protection of the Dey, to feel the hand of his rule or misrule, and by 1805, their loyalties were divided between the competing Qaramanli heirs.21
In Egypt, Eaton formed an “army” after the Ottoman Viceroy provided a letter of amnesty on 17 December 1804. The letter granted permission for Hamet and Eaton to pass the Turkish garrison without interference during what was in essence an invasion of Tripoli. This was a blow to Yusef who had sent an envoy to the Viceroy with the aim of keeping Hamet in Egypt. The envoy returned to Tripoli and upon hearing of Hamet’s plan, Yusef ordered the dispatch of a Derne relief column, a decision that stretched his army to its limit, leaving only 600 sapahis at the port fortress. The column was augmented by Bedouin horsemen and untrained soldiers from tribes of questionable loyalty and, as Derne was on the pilgrimage route to Mecca, Yusef could not keep the movement secret.22
In February 1805, several hundred Hamet loyalists assembled in the Egyptian desert nearly 300 miles from the frontier. To transport the necessary supplies and weapons, Eaton was forced to hire some 200 camels with drivers from a venal and troublesome Bedouin sheik named Tayyb, who would bring several dozen armed horsemen for protection. This allowed the expedition to travel relatively unmolested and trade with the local tribes for food from the time it departed on 6 March until the 21 April Battle of Derne. The American victory had an immediate and profound impact on the course of the war.23
Yusef immediately sued for peace. The demand for tribute and a $200,000 ransom proposed ironically on 21 April was withdrawn for a new one with three conditions: first, a $60,000 payment; second, the ending of aid to Hamet; and third, the evacuation of Derne. Tribute would end and Yusef also agreed to the release of Hamet’s family upon the return of Derne, but there was a secret provision that allowed him to keep Hamet’s family hostage for four years even if Hamet quit Derne. The American negotiator, Tobias Lear, agreed and the treaty was signed on 4 June and the secret provision, the day following. The war was over.24
The expedition was a marked military success. While achieved by the heroics of those who fought there, it was made possible by Tripoli’s social fissures. Culturally, the bifurcation of the society in the 11th century created the caravan system and made the expedition logistically viable, and the Turkish insertion of foreign coastal colonies deepened fault lines and formed a Bedouin society that would indifferently accept outsiders like Hamet and Eaton. Militarily, Tripoli’s poorness and the limits of the Janissary-khouloughli system put Yusef at a disadvantage. Divided loyalties at Derne also meant that Eaton would be sufficiently strong in relative terms. Victory was not certain but not by the risky undertaking indicated by Eaton’s small numbers. Politically, had Yusef not risen bloodily to power or had Hamet not escaped, the entire enterprise would not have been possible. Yusef’s illegitimate rule in the eyes of the Porte also helped, as demonstrated by the lack of aid for Yusef coupled with the Viceroy’s support of Hamet.25
By themselves, none of these factors ensured success, but together they leveled the battlefield. It was equally true that, had any factorial combination been different, victory at Derne may have proven impossible. The point for military planners is that cultural intelligence or regional knowledge and experience can prove invaluable, and formally integrating cultural intelligence into the planning process can make a difference between success and failure.
Notes
1. The Ottoman’s named provinces for their capital, to avoid confusion; this article uses “Tripoli” to denote the Barbary State of Tripoli. The capital will be referred to as the Port of Tripoli.
2. The author first heard the term “cultural intelligence” in 1993 during a lecture by Gen Anthony Zinni on his experiences during Operation Restore Hope in Somalia.
3. William S. Shaw, The Life of the Late General Eaton (Brookfield, MA: E. Merriam, 1813), 315.
4. Shaw, Eaton, 256; United States Department of the Navy, Naval Documents Related to the United States Wars with the Barbary Powers: Naval Operations including Diplomatic Background, 1785–1807, 450.
5. Shaw, Eaton, 306, 338–340. The ships were the brigantine Argus, schooner Nautilus, and sloop Hornet. Derne was the name used at the time of the battle. Other versions include Darnis (the name given by its Greek founders) and Darnah. Today’s name, Derna, dates from the Roman Era. Its name in Arabic is virtually identical: Dernah.
6. Ramzi Rouighi, “The Berbers of the Arabs,” Studia Islamica, new series, 1, (2011): 81; Albert Hourani, A History of the Arab Peoples (New York: MJF Books, 1991), 103–104.
7. Hourani, 215. Beylerbey means “commander of commanders.”
8. Hourani, 228; Rifaat Abou-El-Haj, “An Agenda for Research in History: The History of Libya between the Sixteenth and Nineteenth Centuries,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 5, No. 3 (August 1983), 306–307. “Pasha,” pronounced “bashaw” in North Africa, came from the Persian “padishah” roughly meaning “master king.” Within the Sublime Porte, it was a rank superior to Bey, but in the Barbary States, the local title of Dey or Bey was often retained.
9. Noel Malcolm, Bosnia: A Short History (New York: Macmillan, 1994), 45–46. The Turks referred to the “blood tax” process as devserme or collection.
10. Chai-lin Pan, “The Population of Libya,” Population Studies 3, no. 1 (June 1949), 101; K.S. McLachlan, “Tripoli and Tripolitania: Conflicts and Cohesion during the Period of the Barbary Corsairs (1551–1850),” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, New Series 3, no. 3, Settlement and Conflict in the Mediterranean World (1978), 287.
11. Navy, Documents, Volume 1, 207; see World Statesmen-Libya at http://www.worldstatesmen.org (accessed 29 January 2012).
12. Helen Chapin Metz, editor, Libya: A Country Study (Washington: GPO for the Library of Congress, 1987), See “Karamanlis,” paragraph 1. Available at http://countrystudies.us/Libya (accessed 15 January 2012). Ahmed Qaramanli was of Albanian descent.
13. Shaw, Eaton, 339; Richard Tully, A Narrative of a Ten Year Residence in Tripoli in Africa (London: Henry Colburn, 1817), 231–233, passim, 329. Accessed at http://books.google.com, 1 February 2012.
14. Tully, 336–337; Chapin, Libya, see “Karamanlis,” paragraph 2; Richard Zacks, The Pirate Coast: Thomas Jefferson, the First Marines, and the Secret Mission of 1805 (New York: Hyperion, 2005), 110–111.
17. Navy, Documents, Volume 1, 300, 315, 368; Louis B. Wright and Julia H. Macleod, The First Americans in North Africa: William Eaton’s Struggle for a Vigorous Policy Against the Barbary Pirates, 1799–1805 (New York: Princeton University Press, 1945), 89; Joshua E. London, Victory in Tripoli: How America’s War with the Barbary Pirates Established the U.S. Navy and Shaped a Nation, (Hoboken: Wiley, 2005), 191. Murad, a convert to Islam, had been born as Peter Lisle in Scotland. The USS Enterprise took the 14-gun corsair Tripoli out of action on 1 August 1801.
18. Shaw, Eaton, 98, 330, 335–336, 348. Misurata is also known as Misrata or Misratah. The composition of the Derne forces was not cited. To crush a similar rebellion by his son in 1817, Yusef deployed fewer than 500 Janissaries (See Della Cella’s Narrative, 8).
19. Hourani, 480–481; Shaw, Eaton, 306; Paola Della Cella, Narrative of an Expedition from Tripoli in Barbary to the Western Frontiers of Egypt in 1817, translated by Anthony Aufrere (London: John & Arthur Arch, 1822), 176, available at http://books.google.com (accessed 28 January 2012); John W. Norie, New Piloting Directions for the Mediterranean Sea (London: J. W. Norie, 1831), 338. Accessed at http://books.google.com/books (accessed 23 January 2012).
20. Della Cella, 177; R.G. Goodchild, “Mapping Roman Libya,” The Geographical Journal,Volume 118, No. 2 (June 1952), 143, 150; Hourani, 106; Vladimir Peniakoff, Popski’s Private Army: A Legendary Commander’s True Story of World War II Commando Combat (New York: Bantam Books, 1950), 106.
21. McLachlan, 292; Shaw, Eaton, 337, 348, 358.
22. Shaw, Eaton, 283, 293; Joseph Wheelan, Jefferson’s War: America’s First War on Terror, 1801–1805 (New York: Public Affairs, 2003), 267; Shaw, Eaton, 306, 348, 358.
23. Shaw, Eaton, 311, 316–317, 326–327, 336; Navy, Documents, Volume 5; for examples of difficulties associated with Tayyb, see 405, 456, and 470–472.
24. Navy, Documents, Volume 6, 1, 81–82. The ransom was for the safe return of the crew of the USS Philadelphia that had been taken prisoner after the ship ran afoul of a reef off the port of Tripoli on 31 October 1803.
