The Road to Unafraid

ROAD TO UNAFRAID

© 2006 Jeff Struecker

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Jeff Struecker is represented by The Nashville Agency, P.O. Box 110909, Nashville, TN 37222.

Dean Merrill is represented by Mark Sweeney & Associates, 28540 Altessa Way, Suite 201, Bonita Springs, FL 34135.

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from The Holy Bible, New Living Translation (NLT), © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

Other Scripture references are from the following sources:

The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV). © 1973, 1978, 1984. International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

The New King James Version (NKJV), © 1979, 1980, 1982, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers.

Editorial Staff: Greg Daniel, Acquisitions Editor, and Thom Chittom, managing editor.

Cover Design: DesignPoint, Inc.

Page Design: Walter Petrie

The views presented are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of Department of Defense or its Components.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Struecker, Jeff, 1969–

The road to unafraid : how the Army’s top ranger faced fear and found courage through Black Hawk Down and beyond / Jeff Struecker with Dean Merrill.

  p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-8499-0060-0 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-5955-5132-0 (trade paper)

1. Struecker, Jeff, 1969– 2. United States. Army—Commando troops—Biography. 3. United States. Army—Officers—Biography. 4. United States. Army—Chaplains—Biography. 5. Baptists—United States—Clergy—Biography. 6. Fear—Biblical teaching.

I. Merrill, Dean. II. Title.

U53.S778A3 2006

355.0092—dc22

[B]

2006012964

Printed in the United States of America

08 09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Dawn,

an awesome wife

and my best friend.

CONTENTS

Introduction: Fearless?

1. A Small Problem

2. Questions in the Night

3. Into the Unknown

4. First Blood

5. Iowa Bride

6. Follow the Rules

7. Round Two

8. The All-Nighter

9. Survivors

10. Slap in the Face

11. The Best?

12. A Hard Right Turn

13. In Search of Daily Bread

14. On Edge

15. The Anchor

Endnotes

Introduction

FEARLESS?

U.S. ARMY RANGERS DON’T GET SCARED. WE’VE MADE A name for ourselves as the fearless ones. We’re a tough, disciplined, quick-strike force that parachutes or helicopters into nasty situations, kicks down doors, captures the bad guys, and forces openings for the rest of the army to follow—hence our motto, Rangers Lead the Way.

Give us the hardest, most dangerous, most challenging mission you can think of. We’ll take it on. We’re the elite—fewer than half a percent of all active-duty soldiers. We go where others are not able or not trained to go. We instinctively run toward the fight, not away from it.

At least that’s the mystique. Line up any one hundred guys who have served successfully in the Ranger Regiment and ask if they’ve ever been afraid. You’ll get no takers.

We stand in the long, proud line of those Rangers who first pushed onto Omaha Beach on D-Day back in 1944. It was Rangers who scaled straight up the ninety-foot cliffs of Pointe-du-Hoc that day to knock out a nest of 155-millimeter German cannons that were holding off the Allied invasion.

It was Rangers who jumped onto the airfields of Grenada (1983), taking on the enemy with no backup for hours. We Rangers did the same in Panama (1989). We were the ones who came oh-so-close to breaking the back of Somali warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid and restoring sanity to that desperate country (1993)—until our government pulled us out. If you’ve read Mark Bowden’s excellent bestseller Black Hawk Down or seen the Academy Award–winning movie, you know all about that. In this book, I’ll give you my take on what happened there.

Along the way I may surprise you by admitting that I’ve been afraid more than once or twice during my thirteen-plus years in the Ranger Regiment. That may upset some people. But it’s true.

I’ve felt the same fears as those who’ve never worn the uniform. Fear of death. Fear of losing your most valued relationships. Fear of running out of money. Fear of getting sick. Fear of violence. Fear of embarrassment. These happen all across the human spectrum.

How we handle our fears makes a huge difference. We can let them paralyze us, or we can find the courage to rise above them. Through my experiences, I share some extreme examples of facing threats and overcoming the panic they generate inside. My hope is to encourage you in your private battles.

A U.S. military firebase somewhere in Afghanistan during the Global War on Terrorism.

One

A SMALL PROBLEM

IT WAS A SUNDAY AFTERNOON, BUT I CAN ASSURE YOU nobody was taking a nap. Earlier thoughts about organizing a volleyball game in the warm sun at our Mogadishu airport compound by the ocean were long forgotten. Intelligence was now saying we had a golden opportunity to catch not one but two high aides to Mohamed Farrah Aidid, the warlord who was basically ruining Somalia.

This desert country on the tip of northeast Africa didn’t just have a bad government, it had not had a functioning government at all for the past two years. If you wanted to mail a letter, there was no postal system to accept or deliver it. If you had a child who needed schooling, there was no such public institution. If you were in trouble and needed a police officer for protection, you’d better have a bribe ready.

It was such a shame, because as I had looked around Mogadishu, I couldn’t help thinking it had the potential to be one of the world’s great resort cities. The gentle breezes off the Indian Ocean, the sandy beaches, the warm sunshine—it all compared to the French Riviera. Instead, it was currently shot to pieces, totally trashed, the most violent place on earth. Only the mosques seemed to have been spared.

Aidid and his competitors ran daily life through sheer force, controlling the drug trade and choking off the world’s food aid as soon as it arrived in the port. He had a sinister scheme for getting and keeping fighters. His policy was simple: free drugs if you’ll join my militia. As a result, he had recruited thousands of desperate young men who stayed high much of the time. The average Somali lived in daily fear—more than two million had been driven from their homes, and three hundred thousand had starved to death.

The United Nations had commissioned us, along with troops from several other nations, to take care of this bully once and for all, ushering him toward a trial for crimes against humanity. In the two months Task Force Ranger had been in Mogadishu, we’d already conducted six raids into the dusty, chaotic city, nabbing key players in Aidid’s militia each time. Cooperative Somalis who wanted a better life for their country fed us tips on where to look. Soon our small helicopters swooped down from the sky to drop special operators on the designated rooftop or in alleys nearby. They kicked in the doors, immediately threw flash-bang grenades to stun everyone inside, and then handcuffed them with flexbands before the targets knew what hit them.

Meanwhile, Rangers were already arriving on the larger Black Hawk helicopters, which hovered thirty feet or so over each of the four corners of the block. Three-inch ropes were flung downward, and Rangers slid down to the street like firefighters descending a station pole—a maneuver called fast-roping. The instant the Rangers hit the ground, they took control of the intersection, thereby setting up a controlled perimeter that no one could penetrate.

This rectangle stayed in place until a column of vehicles rolled up to the door of the target building to load up the captured. Normally this was my mission to lead. The Rangers at the four corners, on receiving a radio signal, collapsed back in our direction to jump on the convoy themselves, along with the special operators. We raced out of the neighborhood before most people even had a clue what was going down.

TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE

On the afternoon of October 3, 1993, we received word that a high-level meeting was under way at a certain three-story building on Hawlwadig Road, just a block north of the Olympic Hotel. Sunday was a normal business day in this Muslim country; their day of worship is Friday. At this meeting, not one but two of the big shots were supposedly present: Omar Salad, Aidid’s top political adviser, and Abdi Qeybdid Hassan Awale, his interior minister. What a lucky break!

Yes, it would have been nicer not to have to go in during the late afternoon, when crowds of people were around and paying attention. We’d rather have done this raid during the night or early morning, of course. But the opportunity for a two-fer was too good to pass up.

Struecker, you know how to find this place? Lieutenant Colonel Danny McKnight asked as we stood in the JOC (Joint Operations Center). By studying satellite maps, I had become something of an expert in the geography of the city. It was a challenge, since no street signs existed, and you definitely weren’t going to get help from MapQuest or AAA. But gradually I had built up my memory bank of local landmarks and what streets led where.

Yes, sir, I replied. I’ve driven by there several times. It’s just a few blocks east of the Bakara Market, which is not the most pleasant neighborhood for us, as you know. But we can definitely get there. This was the heart of Aidid territory, where open-air booths sold everything from cucumbers to rugs to rifles.

Okay. We’re moving out in ten minutes. Birds lift off first, and you’ll be heading up the road almost immediately after. That was the way it usually ran for Ranger missions; we had to be ready to go on very short notice.

While the helicopters were loading up, I lined up the ground column at the gate. My Humvee (army-talk for HMMWV, High Mobility Multi-Wheeled Vehicle—in other words, the prototype for what eventually became the Hummer in today’s auto marketplace) would lead the way, with young Private First Class Jeremy Kerr as my driver. He was getting all kinds of new experience here in Somalia—first time to drive a military vehicle, first time to wear night goggles. Everything was a steep learning curve for Jeremy.

In the back, behind a metal bomb protection plate, was Sergeant Dominick Pilla, the best machine gunner I’d ever seen. He was a big, funny guy from New Joyzee, whose practical jokes and skits kept the entire battalion entertained. Beside him was young Specialist Tim Moynihan, a bongo-playing guy with thick black hair who could have grown a great-looking beard had regulations allowed. He was well-liked and popular among all the guys.

Up on top in the turret was Private First Class Brad Paulson manning the big .50 caliber machine gun. He was a small-sized fellow from the Midwest who almost looked young enough to still be in high school, except for his high-and-tight military haircut. I thought of him as a kid brother.

Right behind our vehicle was the other half of our squad in a second Humvee, led by my right hand, Sergeant Danny Mitchell. His super-slow Arkansas drawl made some people assume he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, which, in fact, was opposite of the truth. I soon realized he was qualified to fill in for me at any time. We’d worked together a long time and could almost read each other’s minds. He was incredibly loyal and would do anything I asked.

Next came more Humvees and three five-ton flatbed trucks for holding lots of people—a total of twelve vehicles in all. I was the lead navigator, while Lieutenant Colonel McKnight, farther back in a Humvee, would be calling the main plays.

We roared out of the gate as soon as the signal came that the helicopters, already in the air, were about to launch their assault. The distance to cover was no more than a four-minute drive into the sandy, garbage-littered streets of Mogadishu. We dodged burned-out vehicles along the way and swerved around piles of loose tires, old furniture, and wood scraps that residents had set on fire to draw attention to previous gun battles. I found it odd that instead of running away from trouble, the residents almost seemed magnetized by it, coming out of their crumbling houses to get in on the action.

As we got close to the hotel, I instructed Jeremy Kerr to turn right. Actually, I spoke a block or two too soon. It was the only wrong turn I took during my whole time in Somalia. The confusion was quickly remedied, however, and the whole convoy reassembled behind the hotel—a five-story white building with lots of balconies—to await our next move.

We heard shots in the distance; it was clear that the Rangers at the four corners were taking fire from Aidid’s hidden militia. They weren’t about to let us capture their leaders unchallenged. Battered pickup trucks with their backs full of rifle-waving militia began screeching around corners.

But at the target house, things were progressing smoothly. The time for extraction of the bad guys was almost here. The main point of this mission—getting the two men—was nearly wrapped up.

JUST A MINUTE . . .

Then came the fateful moment when I first heard about a small problem: Hey, Struecker, we’ve got a casualty, came Danny McKnight’s voice through the radio. You need to go get him, put him on your vehicle, and take him back to base.

I got out and walked back to his Humvee. Sir, what’s up? I asked. What’s going on?

I don’t know who it is, but his condition doesn’t sound too good. You need to get him out of here. I’ll give you one of the cargo Humvees [the military version of a pickup truck], and your two with your squad can escort him back to the airfield.

Who are we talking about, sir? And where is he?

I don’t know the name, but he’s one of the guys in Sergeant Eversmann’s chalk just up ahead. You can ask Captain Steele if you want—he’s right by the target building.

Steele was our overall Ranger company commander, a big man who had played football at the University of Georgia. I walked in his direction. The closer I got, the more the hostile fire seemed to increase. The Somalis weren’t hitting much of anything, as usual, but they were definitely turning up the volume. I had been shot at before, enough to tell by the sound when the rounds were getting close. I crouched near a wall while I talked with Captain Steele to get a better fix on where to go.

The problem was this: as Eversmann’s men had fast-roped down from their Black Hawk helicopter to secure the northwest corner of the perimeter, a young Ranger named Todd Blackburn had missed the rope as he jumped out. Either that, or he took a bullet into his bulletproof vest, which didn’t penetrate but successfully stunned him right at the point of grabbing the rope. To make matters worse, the Black Hawk was higher than normal from the ground, due to some power lines on that corner (not that Mogadishu’s electricity supply was even functioning anymore). Todd Blackburn had plunged some seventy feet and hit the street headfirst with a sickening thud.

I ran back to the convoy, grabbed a stretcher off the back of the cargo vehicle, and hollered for Moynihan to follow me. When we got to Eversmann’s corner, I saw a medic working furiously on the guy in the street, trying to get his airway open. I moved to catch a glimpse of Blackburn’s face, and it was not a pretty sight. Blood was coming from his nose, his mouth, and one of his ears. His eyes were rolled back into his head.

He still had his helmet on; nobody wanted to remove it for fear of jarring him. He’s hurt his back, I thought. We’re going to have to be really careful moving him.

We gingerly lifted Blackburn onto the stretcher, then hoisted it up and started back down the street. As we ran the enemy fire grew worse, to the point that we had to take shelter for a moment. Man, these guys are coming from about every window and rooftop, aren’t they? I thought. I had hoped we could get this job done without rousing the whole militia.

In spite of the hammering, we fought our way back to the vehicles, where we loaded Blackburn on the back of the cargo Humvee. A medic quickly went to work on him, totally exposed to the incoming fire. A special operator jumped aboard to fire back and try to protect the medic and Todd.

After a quick consultation with Lieutenant Colonel McKnight to tell him I was leaving now with three vehicles, and to advise him on how the rest could find their way home without my map, we moved out. Turning right at the first corner, we headed for the next street