As dusk set in, Aideed was not yet in full control of the airport, and rogue gunmen with rifles and RPG launchers were taking up hiding places behind abandoned container boxes and other piled material scattered around, then popping up to take potshots at us. Though we called out warnings with loudspeakers, and close-aimed shots from our snipers were driving them back, my Marine commander, Colonel John Garrett, reminded me that we couldn’t let them stay nearby into the night; it would be very tough to track them then.

He was right, and I had to order the snipers to take them all out. They did. Later, when the press got wind of the story, they wanted to know how many were killed. My response got a lot of coverage. “I don’t count bodies,” I told them. “This isn’t Vietnam.”

Meanwhile, the Marine units holding the last exit beach to our south reported increasingly heavy fire from the militia there. Though helo gunships helped cover the beach area, the militia fighters were well hidden. Because it was growing ever more clear that the last troops off that beach would have a hell of a time, I decided that I would have to leave that night with them.

During the move down to the beach, we put obstacles prepared by the engineers in place behind us. They had also created huge sand dunes that covered our large air-cushioned vehicles rapidly moving our forces and equipment out. At the beach, we evacuated all but the last two companies; these would pull out by amphibious tractor.

Around midnight, I joined Lieutenant Colonel Phil Tracey, the battalion commander of these troops and an old friend. The intensity of the firefight was picking up. The militia was now sending squad-sized units at our lines, but the Marines were instantly cutting them down. I listened on the company tactical nets as young lieutenants and captains directed their troops in the fight—taking me back to Vietnam. One of these voices on the radio net sounded familiar, and Phil confirmed that it was the son of a close friend, a fellow Marine general. Another generation had come to take our place and go through our passage to manhood.

The plan for the final pullout called for the troops on signal to rapidly board the tractors, our AC-130 and helo gunships would keep up their covering fire, and the armored amphibians would make a quick rush for the water before the bad guys could react. Though we had rehearsed this maneuver many times, I worried that a lucky RPG shot could hit a tractor racing for the water. The close quarters fight that followed could be messy.