Victory Point - Ed Darack [54]
In the weeks between their arrival at Blessing and that of the battalion’s main element in June, Kinser and Bartels would fall into their respective, synergistic roles, having learned within a few days of working with each other what Rob Scott already knew—that the two standout lieutenants each brought unique capabilities to this vital and challenging crevice of the war, capabilities that would engender a whirlwind of effort by the Marines under their commands, aiding the fight in ways that few could have predicted. The duo realized that they’d feed off each other during their first patrol together, just a few days after Matt’s arrival at the firebase. Bound for the home of a former high-ranking mujahideen commander, Haji Arref, they headed up the Waigal Valley, a sinewy corridor that connects the Kunar with Nuristan. As Kinser remained stone-faced, Bartels drew a wide grin upon reaching their destination—and their Marines stared bug-eyed at the sight before them: a massive, ornate private compound deep in the recesses of the Kunar. Haji Arref invited the patrol inside his walled complex, complete with a mosque and living quarters for his personal bodyguards, then ordered one of his goats slaughtered for a feast. Through an interpreter, the jovial Bartels began discussing the Soviet war with Arref as Kinser chuckled to himself at the sight of a dummy bomb leaning up against a wall in the former commander’s rear courtyard, wondering how he’d gotten his hands on Soviet practice munitions. The lieutenant tapped his knuckles on the skin of the ten-foot-long decoy, but didn’t hear the hollow bong he’d expected. “Kinser!” Matt blared, laughing his ass off. “That’s a thousand-pound bomb the Soviets dropped on his compound here in the eighties—that never exploded!” Kinser laughed, then took a step back. “He kept it as a war memento, it’s one of his prized possessions. His kids played hide-and-seek behind it growing up!”
“That’s fucking hilarious,” Kinser barked. “Shit, what a great story. Guess he’s pretty confident in the shoddy quality control of Soviet bomb fuses.”
After the dinner—of local bread, okra, rice, and what Kinser decided was undercooked goat—Arref brought out two olive-drab belts. “From da killed Russians!” the lieutenants’ interpreter, Rafi, chortled. “Ha ha ha!” Arref lifted up his shirt to reveal he was wearing his so that its buckle, a Russian star, was turned upside down, pointing to the ground. “Commander Arref says to wear this star Russian reversed, you’ll make many friends here.” Bartels threaded it on—star pointed down—and pledged to his host that he’d never be without it for the remainder of ⅔’s deployment, just one of many gestures the gregarious and charming midwesterner would make to connect the locals with the Marines. Those connections would grow so strong that some villagers literally cried at the end of the Blessing Marines’ stint in Nangalam.
Kinser was right. The goat meat was undercooked, but he didn’t let the resulting dysentery slow him down. In the weeks before ⅔’s main element arrived, the lieutenant ventured throughout the Korangal, the Matin, and the Pech. He learned names and faces, hammered down basic language skills, immersed himself in culture and tradition, and got to know