Black Hawk Down (48 page)

the door.

Stephanie opened it to two men from her husband's unit.

One was a close friend. This is it. He's dead.

“Randy is missing in action,” he said.

So it was better news than she expected. Stephanie was determined not to despair. Randy
would be okay. He was the most competent man alive. Her mental image of Somalia was of a
jungle. She pictured her husband in some clearing, signaling for a chopper. When her
friend told her that Randy had gone in with Gary Gordon, she felt even better.

They're hiding somewhere. If anybody could come through it alive, it was those two.

News came rapid-fire over the next few days, all of it bad. Families learned of the
deaths of Earl Fillmore and Griz Martin. Then there were the horrible images of a dead
soldier being dragged through the streets. Then word came that Gary's body had been
recovered. Stephanie despaired.

When proof came that Durant was alive and being held captive, her hopes soared. Surely
they had Randy, too. They just weren't showing him on camera. She prayed and prayed. First
she prayed for Randy to be alive, but as the days went by and her hopes dimmed, she began
to pray that he not be someplace suffering, and that if he were dead, that he died
quickly. Over the next week she went to several funerals. She sat and grieved with the
other wives. Eventually all the missing men except Shughart had been accounted for. All
were dead, their bodies horribly mutilated.

Stephanie asked her father to stay with her. Her friends took turns keeping her company.
This went on for days. It was hell.

When she saw a car pull into her driveway with several officers and a priest inside, she
knew.

'They're here, Dad," she said.

“The Somalis have returned a body, and it's been identified as Randy,” one of the
officers said.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “We're sure.”

She was discouraged from viewing Randy's body-and, being a nurse, Stephanie could imagine
why better than most. She sent a friend to Dover, Delaware, where the body had been flown.
When he came back, she asked, “Could you tell it was him?”

He shook his head sadly. He hadn't been able to tell.

-21-

DeAnna Joyce had been feeling lucky. On Friday night, two nights back, they'd held a
lottery over at the lieutenant's house on post at Fort Benning to see when the wives would
get to talk to their husbands. They hadn't seen the men for months, ever since they'd left
to train at Fort Bliss earlier that summer. Eighteen of the women would get to take phone
calls Saturday night, eighteen more Sunday night, and two on Monday. DeAnna had gotten
stuck with one of the Mondays, but as she was leaving another of the wives had wanted to
switch, so she'd gotten to speak to Casey Saturday night. Then all the calls for Sunday
and Monday were canceled.

There had always been that good fortune in Casey's smile. She'd met him at a mall in
Texas. DeAnna was working as a saleswoman for a clothing store chain, The Limited, and
this guy she knew stopped in to ask her a question about a girl. He'd introduced her to
Casey. They must have said all of two words to each other.

“Hey.”

“Howyadoin'?”

Like that. Only, she learned later, on his way out of the store Casey had informed his
friend, “I'm going to marry that girl.”

They started dating, and then Casey transferred from the University of Texas to North
Texas University in order to attend the same school as DeAnna. He was studying journalism.
But he didn't like going to class and wasn't doing that well and told her one day in 1990
that he was going to leave school and join the army. Actually, he asked her. She'd said,
“Do what you want” So he'd gone through basic, then airborne school, where he'd gotten
this horrible fist-sized tattoo on the back of his right shoulder. It was supposed to be a
Rottweiler, but it looked more like a wildcat. It sported an airborne unit maroon beret.
Then he decided to push on through the Ranger Indoctrination Program.

Casey's father, a retired lieutenant colonel, had never won a Ranger tab, so it was
something Casey was bound and determined to do. It wasn't easy. He and his buddy Dom Pills
had both just about decided to quit-Casey called and asked DeAnna if she'd think less of
him, and she'd said no-but then Casey and Dom had talked each other into staying. They'd
both made it. He returned home a Ranger, making plans to get the maroon beret on his
tattoo recolored with the black beret of the Rangers. They were married on May 25, 1991.

DeAnna started crying when she got on the phone with him Saturday night, and couldn't
stop. It upset Casey, too. They both just sobbed back and forth how much they loved each
other. She was desperate for him to come home.

All the wives were invited over to the lieutenant's house that Sunday, where they learned
that the company had been involved in a firefight. All of them, even the cooks. All the
women were panicky, but DeAnna was feeling lucky. The more experienced wives explained
that for guys who got injured, there would be a phone call. For those who were dead, there
would be a knock at the door. DeAnna lay awake that night thinking about that.

There was a knock on the door at 6:30 A.M. DeAnna threw on her robe, and ran down to the
door. He's dead. Casey is dead. She opened the door, but instead of finding soldiers there
were two neighbor children.

“Our mother's father died last night and we have to leave, and we wanted to know if you'd
take care of our dog.”

As DeAnna dressed to go next door, she kicked herself for having even had such a morbid,
terrible thought about Casey. How could you even think that? She was next door, getting
instructions for minding the dog and consoling her friend, whose father had died in
another state, when one of the other neighbors present mentioned that she'd heard eleven
Rangers had been killed in Somalia.

When DeAnna got home there was a message on the machine from Larry Joyce, Casey's dad,
asking her to call. Larry knew DeAnna would get word first if anything had happened, and
he'd phoned her when he'd seen the TV

report. She called him.

“President Clinton has already been on TV expressing condolences to the families,” her
father-in-law said. The president had used the expression “unfortunate losses,” and voiced
continued, determined support for the mission. DeAnna said she'd heard nothing. They
agreed that this was probably good news.

She was about to make another call when there was a new knock on the door.

She started down the stairs again, figuring it was the next-door kids with more dog
instructions, only this time it was three men in uniform.

“Are you Dina?” one asked.

“No, I'm not,” she said, and shut the door.

The men pushed the door open gently.

“Are you Mrs. Joyce?”

Sometime in the first week of shock and grief, DeAnna received Casey's effects. With them
was a letter he had been writing her just before leaving on the fatal mission. DeAnna knew
that the experience in Somalia had shaken Casey, and that in the months he was away he had
brooded over minor problems in their relationship.

“I miss you so much,” the letter said, speaking now from beyond the grave. “I've said it
probably a thousand times, but I want things to be different, and I know they will be. I
love you so much! 1 can't say it stronger. I want you to love me with all your heart. I
think you already do, but just in case I want to prove to you that I'm worth it. I'm not
going to come home and be a total nerd slush, if you know what I mean, but I'm going to be
myself. I'm going to make you into the most important person in my life. I'm not going to
lose sight of this ever again. I want you to know that I want to grow old with you. I want
you to realize this because I can't do it all by myself. I know most of the problems are
me and I want to change. I want to go to church. I want us to be happy. Anyways, I can't
say it enough, but I want to start doing things about it. I can't do anything until I get
home.... By the time you get this letter I might be on my way home, or real close to it”

-22-

Durant's fear of being executed or tortured eased after several days in captivity. After
being at the center of that enraged mob on the day he crashed, he mostly feared being
discovered by the Somali public. it was a fear shared by Firimbi.

The propaganda minister had grown fond of him. It was something Durant worked at, part of
his survival training.

He made an effort to be polite. He learned the Somali words for “please,” pil les an, and
“thank you,” ma hat san-e. The two men were together day and night for a while. They
shared what appeared to be a small apartment. There was a small balcony out the front
door, which reminded Durant of an American motel.

The woman who owned the house where Durant was staying insisted on fixing the pilot a
special meal, as is the custom for guests in Somalia. She slaughtered a goat and made a
meal of goat meat and pasta. The meal was delicious, and huge. Durant thought the chunk of
meat and bone in his bowl could feed five people. But the next day both the pilot and his
captor had diarrhea. Firimbi helped keep the bedridden pilot clean, which was
uncomfortable and embarrassing for both men.

Firimbi kept trying to cheer up the pilot.

“What do you want?”. he kept asking.

“I want a plane ticket to the United States.”

“Do you want a radio?”

“Sure,” Durant said, and he was given a small black plastic radio with a volume so low he
had to hold it up to his ear. That radio became his lifeline. He could hear the BBC World
Service, and reports about his captivity. it was wonderful to hear those English voices
coming from his own world.

In subsequent days, they laughed and teased each other about the flatulence that followed
the worst of the ailment. The mood of his captivity lightened. Durant's leg had been
splinted, but was still swollen and painful. Day and night he lay on the small bed.
Sometimes it would be silent for hours. Sometimes he and Firimbi would talk. Their pidgin
“Italish” got better.

Durant asked Firimbi how many wives he had.

“Four wives.”

“How many children?”

Firimbi lied.

“Twenty-seven,” he said.

“So many?” the pilot asked.

“I'm a businessman,” Firimbi said. “I used to have a flour and pasta factory,” which was
true. He also had grown son who had left Somalia and sent money, he said. (Firimbi
actually had nine children)

Durant told him he had a wife and a son. Firimbi tried to explain to the pilot why
Somalis were so angry at him and the other Rangers. He talked about the Abdi House attack,
how the helicopters had killed scores of his friends and clansmen. Firimbi complained
about all the innocent people the Americans had killed, women and children. There were
hundreds, perhaps thousands, he said. He explained that Aidid was an important and
brilliant leader in his country, not someone the UN or the Americans could just label an
outlaw and carry off. Not without a fight anyway. Firimbi considered Durant a prisoner of
war. He believed that by treating the pilot humanely, he would improve the image of
Somalis in America upon his release. Durant humored his jailer, asking him questions,
indulging in his whims. For instance, Firimbi loved his khat. One day he handed cash to a
guard and sent him to purchase more. When the man returned he began dividing the plant
into three equal portions, one for himself, Firimbi, and another guard.

“No,” Firimbi said. “Four.”

The guard looked at him quizzically. Firimbi gestured toward Durant. Durant quickly
figured out what his jailer was up to. He nodded at the guard, indicating a cut for
himself.

When the guard left, Firimbi scooped up the two piles for himself, winking at Durant and
flashing an enormous grin.

Firimbi identified so strongly with the pilot that when Durant refused food, he refused
food. When Durant couldn't sleep because of his pain, Firimbi couldn't sleep, either. He
made Durant promise that when he was released he would tell how well treated he had been.
Durant promised he would tell the truth.

After five miserable days in captivity, Durant got visitors.

Suddenly the room was cleaned and the bed sheets were changed. Firimbi helped the pilot
wash, redressed his wounds, gave him a clean shirt, and wrapped his midsection and legs in
a ma-awis, the loose skirt worn by Somali men. Perfume was sprayed around the room.

Durant thought be was about to be released. Instead, Firimbi ushered in a visitor. She
was Suzanne Hofstadter, a Norwegian who worked for the International Red Cross. Durant
took her hand and held on tight. All she had been allowed to bring along were forms with
which he could write a letter. In the letter Durant described his injuries and noted that
he had received some medical treatment. He told his family he was doing okay, and asked
them to pray for him and the others. He still didn't know the fate of his crew or D-boys
Shughart and Gordon.

He wrote that he was craving a pizza. Then he asked Firimbi if he could write another
letter to his buddies at the hangar, and his jailer said yes. He wrote that he was doing
okay, and told them not to touch the bottle of Jack Daniel's in his rucksack. Durant
didn't have much time to think. He was trying to convey in a lighthearted way that he was
okay, to lessen their worry for him. At the bottom of this note he wrote, “NSDQ.”

Later, Red Cross officials, concerned about violating their strict neutrality by passing
along what might be a coded message, scratched out the initials.

After Hofstadter left, two reporters were ushered in. Briton Mark Huband of the Guardian
and Stephen Smith from the French newspaper Liberation. Huband found the pilot lying flat
on his back, bare-chested, obviously injured and in pain. Durant was still choked up from
the session with Hofstadter. He had held her hand until the last moment, unwilling to see
her leave.