Victory Point - Ed Darack [82]
Bartels stared with incredulity at his new friend—as Eggers pegged his M40’s scope on the driver’s head and the SAW and 240 gunners kept their weapons’ iron sights trained on the Corolla’s tires. As cold, heavy drops of rain thumped against the car’s thin exterior, Sultan told Matt of his childhood aspiration of gazing at New York City with his own eyes, to trace Manhattan’s brilliant night skyline from the shores of the Hudson River, a view he’d seen reproduced in a magazine he found in a refugee camp. The Afghan stowaway saved enough money from his factory job to buy an old Honda Accord, then made the long trip to New York to find a job in the shadow of the skyline of his childhood dreams. The resourceful Sultan quickly landed work as a night-shift worker at a fast-food chicken outlet. Deep into the night, he served up greasy deep-fried thighs, legs, wings, and breasts from behind thick bulletproof glass—but always with an ebullient smile—and quickly rose in the company’s ranks to become a regional manager, overseeing a total of eleven restaurants in Brooklyn and Queens, as well as adjacent spots such as Elizabeth, New Jersey. But Afghanistan’s ruggedly beautiful Kunar never left his mind. Inspired and invigorated by America’s 2001 liberation of Afghanistan from the Taliban—who not only oppressed the people of his birthplace, but aligned themselves with those responsible for the permanent gash in the skyline he’d journeyed so far to experience—and with a healthy chunk of savings, he returned to Asadabad, began construction of a home, and repatriated his family. “I never want to leave now. I see the hope of the fight against the Taliban and al-Qaeda fuckers. I’m never leaving my home again. I kill them all myself—maybe with a little help from you Marines . . .” Sultan folded his arms and struck a confident grin, lifting his thick, dark eyebrows.
“Whatever they’re paying you as an interpreter, I’ll triple it right now. You’ve got two days to get back to Asadabad to let your family know that you’ll be working in Nangalam, then get your ass back here to be my personal terp.”
“Right, sir. I can stay right now. I’ll let my family know with a phone call. Fuck this shit I’m doin’ now for this guy.” Sultan motioned with his head toward the sweaty, overweight “source” sitting next to Bartels in the Corolla’s backseat. “I’m with you now, my man!”
Word of the Marines’ magnanimity quickly spread throughout the valleys surrounding Nangalam, including the Shuryek. During a patrol in late June, while assessing the need for a MEDCAP in the village of Matin, a quiet, slightly built man approached Bartels, extending his hand in a show of friendship as he drew a confident grin. Matt shook the villager’s hand, then began to introduce himself, but the local cut him off. “Commander Matt!” the villager blared, nodding excitedly. “Commander Matt!” Through Sultan, the lieutenant learned the villager’s name: Gulab; Mohammad Gulab Khan, of the village of Salar Ban.
“He says he’s scared to talk to the Americans. He hasn’t had good experiences with them from Asadabad, but he knows of what you have done with the Nangalam Girls’ School, and he and the other villagers of Salar Ban want to know you,” Sultan translated.
“Tell him that he’s welcome anytime. He is our friend now. Come to Camp Blessing. Our home is his home.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes!” Gulab exclaimed after Sultan translated Matt’s words. “My friend! My friend! My friend!” As the convoy roared back to Blessing, Matt felt a deep sense of gratitude for the unexpected