Remembering Hell

It's hard to believe it's been 15 years since we were in Somalia but it has been. Time sure flies when you're safe and sound. I was poking around on the internet today and found an online book called Basement of Hell. The memories just keep flooding back like everything happened yesterday after reading some of this stuff. It was a life changing experience that I'll never forget. I can almost feel the stink of the place in the back of my throat. I've never smelled anything like it since. It's a bizarre combination of sewage, death, decay, garbage, dust, sweat and sunscreen. I'm pretty sure Calvin Klein won't be coming out with a cologne that smells like Mogadishu. It was an experience I could have lived without but then again I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. There's nothing quite like seeing the extreme poverty and desperation of the Somali people to appreciate what I have here. The people I met from all over the world and learning exactly how Americans are viewed in a lot of countries. At least how we were viewed back in 1993-94. Our image has changed somewhat since then I fear.

It wasn't all awful. While alcohol was forbidden for Americans it wasn't for everyone. A buddy and I snuck over to the Israeli PX one evening and ended up getting rip roaring drunk with a couple soldiers from Zimbabwe. I traded unit patches with soldiers from Kenya and had tea with an Irish platoon in the mid-day heat. I learned to play pinochle and built friendships that will never be forgotten. I even created a small international incident when I punched a Pakistani soldier. Now there's an interesting story!

My Lieutenant and I were filling our fuel cans at the fuel point and 3 Pakis asked him if they could have a picture with us. He was all for it but I was leery. LT assured me nothing bad would happen. Well as we were getting ready for the picture one of the Pakis threw his arm around my shoulders and grabbed my left breast. I decked the guy. LT freaked and says, "What the f&$% did you do that for, Mallory?" I looked him in the eye and said, "He grabbed my tit, sir." LT's eyes got HUGE and he blushed and said, "Carry on." We filled the rest of the fuel cans and left. I thought it was pretty much over after that but the next day I was sitting in the maintenance van and a Colonel showed up asking for me. LT tried to cover for me, he was convinced I was going to get busted. I could hear him outside stammering, "Um...Sir...um...Mallory is on a service call I think....maybe she's in her tent...umm..." I decided to bail him out. I stepped outside and said, "I'm Mallory." The Colonel proceeded to tell me that the CO of the Pakistani soldier that grabbed me wanted to know if I wanted to have the guy whipped. I told him no, unless I can do it. The Colonel said, "That's probably not an option." So I said, "Okay, just let him know that he'll get a beatdown any time he grabs an American woman." The Colonel left and I thought the Lieutenant was going to faint!

It wasn't normally fun though. Seeing a partially decomposed body is awful. That's not something you see growing up in coastal Maine. The nightly sniper fire and mortar attacks went from being frightening to just being annoying. I'll never forget the fear of seeing tracer rounds wizzing by about 5 feet above my head. The disgusting living conditions, vermin, disease and death that surrounded us those months are impossible to ever describe much less put completely behind you.