In Somalia, U.S. Troops Wrestle With Emotions

At an intersection in a besieged neighborhood known as the Bermuda Triangle, Marines with M-16s scanned the rooftops for snipers Monday while Navy Lt. Mark Roback stood on a flatbed truck and peered deep into the open mouth of Howa Mohamed.

“It’s completely bombed out,” Roback said, shaking his head. “There’s decay all the way through. We’ll have to take that tooth out.”

As a Somali-American interpreter in camouflage fatigues held the woman’s hand and looked away, Roback deadened the patient’s mouth and yanked out the tooth.

“That’s 15 so far today,” said Roback, a Navy dentist from Chicago. Howa Mohamed smiled weakly. Asked by other Somali women waiting anxiously in line whether it hurt, she said: “Yes. But it was worth it.”

U.S. forces are trying desperately to restore order to Mogadishu, the only still-untamed front in the country. The mean streets are clogged daily with several dozen military patrols looking for snipers and trouble. And, every day, one little-known patrol manned by the Marines, the Army and the Navy carries out a more subtle mission: winning the hearts and minds of Somalis.

After nearly six weeks in Somalia, young American troops patrolling Mogadishu are wrestling with an array of often-conflicting emotions. To be sure, some still believe their mission is a noble one; they are heartened by the many Somalis who smile and wave as the troops pass. But many others are angry that snipers continue to fire on them and are irritated by youngsters who throw rocks and insults at them and brashly steal sunglasses, canteens and other items from the hefty, heavily armed American visitors.

Concern about growing frustration among the troops led Maj. Gen. Charles E. Wilhelm last week to urge the forces to take an “attitude check.”

“The newness of this deployment is wearing off,” he said, acknowledging that many Marines and Army soldiers had been shot at, had been injured by rocks or fallen ill. “And, if we are not careful, we will start thinking that we’re at war and . . . forget that our mission here is one of peace and humanitarian assistance.”

Wilhelm asked troops to ask themselves: “Am I still waving to Somali children? If the answer is no, we aren’t accomplishing our mission.”

Although most troops still wave at children, they would have a hard time giving Wilhelm’s preferred answer to his other questions: “Am I swearing at Somalis or blowing the horn of my vehicle when I get caught in a traffic jam or a crowd? Am I treating the (relief) workers with respect? When I’m on patrol and a crowd forms, am I pushing Somalis or pointing my weapon at them?”

Those scenes can be seen at any hour of any day in Mogadishu. Frustration levels vary among American forces here, as was apparent on several patrols through the city in recent days. But rare is the soldier, sailor, airman or Marine who hasn’t lost his temper. And, given the difficulties of operating in Mogadishu, from the gaps in language and background, it is no wonder.

“We’ve been here six weeks, and a lot of people are wondering if we are making a difference,” said Lance Cpl. Daniel Valdez, 24, of Barstow. He is among more than 1,000 Marines camped in a heavily fortified local soccer stadium that has been raked by nighttime gunfire several times. During the day, those Marines conduct combat security patrols through the roughest neighborhoods while baking in the midday heat.

“I thought we were going to escort food, and now we’re just looking for bad guys,” Valdez said.

But even the task of distributing relief food to hungry Somalis and providing medical care--what one Marine officer calls the “fuzzy, feel-good” part of the mission--has been frustrating and dangerous for many of the troops.

“The Marine Corps has a mission, and it’s combat,” said Sgt. Doug Anderson of Peoria, Ill. Fighting crowds at food distribution centers “takes us away from that,” he said. “And when you’ve got rounds whizzing overhead every day, it’s hard to remember that this is a humanitarian effort.”

Those mixed feelings were evident Monday when a 10-vehicle convoy of relief food, medical officers and security forces pulled out of their beachside encampment promptly at 8 a.m. for what the military calls a “renaissance mission.” Leading the way was a Humvee with a loudspeaker, part of “Psy-Op,” the Army’s psychological operations unit.

Hodan Nur, a tiny Somali-American college student from Dallas, held the microphone, her face disappearing in her large helmet. “We’re here to help you,” she said in Somali, her voice echoing through the streets. “You have nothing to fear from us.”

With those words, the convoy roared into the Bermuda Triangle, which got its name because of the thousands who disappeared there during the two-year civil war. Hundreds of Somalis emerged from the bombed-out buildings as the convoy divided in two, sending the doctors and dentists to one intersection and the trucks with bags of wheat to another.

The food contingent parked its trucks side by side in the middle of the street, and almost 1,000 Somalis surged toward them. Marines, often shouting and pushing the crowd with rifles, tried, without success, to form a working line for the food. Dozens of women and children who broke through the line were grabbed and hauled to the back.

“Believe it or not, this is pretty controlled,” said Lt. Bob Shaner, the Marine officer in charge. Shaner, a 24-year-old from Detroit who is stationed at Camp Pendleton, has participated in 35 food distributions in Somalia; every time, Marines have been forced to shout and shove throngs of Somalis. That experience has not given him a rosy view of this country.

“It seems like everyone is for themselves here,” he said. “No one gives a damn about anyone else. It truly amazes me that they still want to hurt each other.

“If a disaster like this (civil war) happened in the States, you’d see people cleaning the streets, trying to make things work, like they did in South-Central L.A.,” he said. “But maybe these people have just been beat on so bad.”

When the food was gone, Hodan Nur was back on the loudspeaker. “Please clear the streets,” she said. “We will be back tomorrow.”

A few hours later, a Marine foot patrol was dispatched to the area to discourage looters from taking the five-pound sacks of grain from the 40 Somalis fortunate enough to receive them.

A few blocks away, at the medical and dental operation, the scene was more relaxed. About 100 Somalis had turned up seeking medical care, and they formed an orderly line in the eerily quiet neighborhood. “We’re the biggest show in town,” said Lt. Louie Arevalo, 35, of San Diego.

Military officials admit that the one-day clinics can’t hope to make a dent in Somalia’s health problems. Patients with serious illnesses or injuries, or those requiring follow-up treatment, were turned away with the suggestion that they seek care at one of the two understaffed, overcrowded hospitals in Mogadishu.

The doctor in charge, Navy Lt. Bill Leininger, 28, stationed at Camp Pendleton, acknowledged the limits of his mission. “In all of medicine, there’s the precept: ‘Do no harm,’ ” Leininger said.

“But doctors aren’t what this country needs. It needs clean water and a sewage system. That would take care of 90% of the cases we’re seeing.”