Victory Point

by Ed Darack

  Grissom, wanting to move as fast as possible toward Objective- 4—the village of Qalaygal near the juncture of the upper Chowkay and Korangal—chose as Fox’s route the relatively navigable valley floor rather than the more “tactical” (more positions behind which to take cover and move covertly) ridges above the Chowkay. Logistically, however, the captain knew that the valley’s steep topography wouldn’t stand as the only factor limiting Fox’s rate of ascent into the Chowkay. In addition to Fox-3, his force consisted of a section of 81 mm mortars (four mortar tubes with three Marines per tube to operate the weapons); Fox Company’s First Platoon was to act as a security element for this vital mortar section, a company of forty-five Afghan National Army soldiers, and to aid in the portaging of gear for the Marines, Afghan soldiers, and interpreters in the absence of helicopters for troop insert and resupply, Fox Company enlisted the aid of thirty-six donkeys. Thirty-six very fickle, very stubborn donkeys. This was the other factor Grissom had to consider.

  Referencing Chizmadia’s report and photographs as he traced his index finger along his map’s densely packed contour lines from the Chowkay’s opening at the Kunar River into the valley’s heights, Grissom reaffirmed a decision he’d made earlier: he would have the 81 mm mortar section, commanded by Lieutenant Ben Middendorf, along with Fox-1, the Afghan soldiers, and the cargo-laden donkeys, move in trace of Fox-3, providing crucial indirect fire coverage with the 81s, if needed—a plan devised in part by Middendorf. Grissom, ever impressed by Konnie and Crisp’s motivational and leadership synergy, would travel with Fox-3, pushing as fast as possible toward their objective, ahead of the more heavily laden Fox-1 and mortar team. Since their route into the Chowkay would take them just outside of the effective range of Doghouse’s 105s at Asadabad (even with RAP rounds), Grissom planned to have Fox-3 stay within the “umbrella” of Middendorf’s 81s once deep into the valley—of course maintaining radio contact with the mortar team at all times. Also traveling with Fox-3, Casmer “Pigeon” Ratkowiak, the onetime battalion air officer, had sought a closer perspective of the fight and attached to Fox for Whalers as a forward air controller. Known by his radio call sign “Venom-11” to pilots working in the area, Pigeon would prove a crucial member of the contingent. With Pigeon—and his ability to guide Army AH-64 Apaches, Air Force A-10 Warthogs, and other available platforms onto any of Shah’s men should they engage the Marines—and Middendorf’s 81mm mortar team, Grissom would essentially be leading a small, ad hoc MAGTF-LIKE element, on foot, into the unknown Chowkay. And with the addition of the forty-five Afghan soldiers, Fox Company was also embarking on a unique counterinsurgency training mission, giving the Afghans a firsthand look into classic U.S. Marine Corps combined arms tactics. Completing the forward component of Fox’s push into the Chowkay, which totaled forty-nine, were two Navy Corpsmen, two combat engineers, two attached scout/snipers, and two interpreters, “Jimmy” and “The Rock”—each armed with AK-47s and brand-new ICOM scanners courtesy of Rob Scott and Cousin-O.

  The night before their departure, on the eleventh, after arriving at Jalalabad Airfield from their forward operating base at Mehtar Lam by convoy, Konnie and Grissom discussed the upcoming op, a Marlboro dangling from the mouth of each during the conversation. “In a way, sir, I want there to be continuous contact with the enemy. That’ll keep all of us on our toes—no one will ever get complacent,” Konnie said. “Them constantly trying to kill us in the end will keep us from getting killed.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, there, Lieutenant,” the stocky captain began with a laugh. “Don’t get me wrong. I see what you mean. Just watch what you wish for.” The two hadn’t spent much time together before that evening’s cigarette break. To that point, Konnie had regarded Grissom primarily as the boss who rode his ass for running the Fox-3 Marines too hard; Grissom saw Konnie not so much as overly enthused or zealous, but just ultradriven, albeit in a very controlled manner, someone who might need to be reined in from time to time.

  In the big picture, Grissom just wanted to ensure that the young lieutenant and the acerbic Crisp operated aggressively, yet in a balanced way, to ensure combat-readiness. He wanted to storm onto Objective-4 as quickly as possible, but knew that he’d be walking a delicate line. “Based on Westerfield’s work—he’s really gotten into the mind of this Shah guy, he knows the rat lines, the hideouts, the tactics, pretty much everything relevant—we know that when Shah sees Marines in the Korangal and Shuryek, and then in the Narang, he’ll head down the Chowkay. And once he sees us, he’ll make a run back into the Korangal. It’s unlikely that he’ll engage us, not when he can hightail it back to more familiar ground in the Korangal,” Grissom explained to Konnie. “I just hope that he doesn’t get a jump on us moving into the Chowkay and escape. That’s why I want to really move—move fast. I’m really gonna tap you and Crisp to keep things together up there.” Grissom again pondered the balance of speed versus efficacy for Fox-3. The heat, even in the middle of the night, would remain in the nineties, the terrain would present backbreaking obstacles, and a host of other variables—⅔’s higher command, supplies, weather, not to mention Shah and his army—would undoubtedly present confounding hurdles as well. The only solution, in the minds of both Grissom and Konnie, was to embrace the struggle ahead, to love the challenge of leadership under adversity. And having familiarized themselves with the land, the conditions, and most importantly, Shah and his army through Westerfield’s briefs and Red Wings’ after-action reports, Grissom and Konnie knew that adversity could reach extreme levels.

  At 7:00 P.M. on the twelfth, as the last of the sun’s glowing orange rays split into the sky above the peaks to the west of Jalalabad and the temperature clung to low triple digits, the Fox Marines gathered for a brief on their upcoming mission. With platoons of Echo and Golf already deeply entrenched in the valleys surrounding Sawtalo Sar, Kelly Grissom disclosed part of the what, but not specifically the where or the how long of the upcoming op. “We’re going to start walking—up. And we’re gonna keep walking—up, and walking, and walking—up, until someone tells us to stop. Don’t ask where we’re walking up to. Don’t ask how long we’ll be walking. We just keep walking.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant.” Crisp turned to Konnie as Grissom wrapped up Whalers’ very general overview. “How come you neva’ give no pep speeches?”

  “Because, Crisp”—the lieutenant turned to the staff sergeant—“speeches are about as cool as a boner in sweatpants.” Crisp erupted into laughter. “You want a pep talk? How ’bout this: don’t puss out.” The two of them geared up for the convoy about to take them up the Kunar Valley to the opening of the Chowkay.

  Fox-3’s Whalers journey began at 10:45 P.M. on the twelfth of August as the convoy of hulking, three-axle 7-Ton troop transports rumbled off the Asadabad-Jalalabad road at the village of Chowkay, on the shores of the Kunar River. “I hear we’re goin’ where Osama bin Laden himself used to run training camps,” Crisp overheard one of the platoon’s grunts remark as they dismounted and prepared to stage for their penetration into the secretive valley. “We’re goin’ after the guys who took down the SEALs.”

  “Osama bin my ass,” the staff sergeant interjected. “You best be preservin’ all yo’ energy for yo’ feet—not fo’ runnin’ yo’ mouth,” Crisp boomed.

  By eleven, Fox Company’s lead element, consisting of Fox-3 and attachments, Grissom, Pigeon, and Jimmy and the Rock, had loaded into a convoy of Whiskey Company’s highback and hardback Humvees at the V-cleft opening of the Chowkay to begin their insertion into the valley. Running blacked out along the narrow roadway notched into the sheer eastern wall of the chasm, the Marines let their eyes adjust to the pallid greenish light shed onto the landscape by the half-moon hanging in the sky above them. Forty-five minutes after Fox-3 pressed through the rocky gates of the Chowkay, Fox-1 and the Afghan National Army contingent arrived at the mouth of the valley and linked up with Middendorf and his Marines of the 81s section. As Fox-1 staged to move into the valley
, Whiskey’s Humvees continued to push Grissom and Fox-3 farther north; as soon as the road narrowed to a point where the vehicles could move no farther, the grunts would jump out and continue on foot. Whalers’ success hinged on Fox-3 penetrating deep into the Chowkay at just the right time, to deny Shah’s force an escape route, necessitating constant movement deep into the heart of the treacherous mountain landscape.

  At 2:00 A.M. on the thirteenth of August, Whiskey’s Humvees reached their limit, ten kilometers into the valley, at the village of Amrey. As the empty convoy headed down the steep terrain toward lower ground, the grunts set about the last of their preparations for the journey ahead, stuffing their packs with enough water and MREs to last a full three days, as well as checking their combat gear, and even basics like toothpaste and shoelaces. Amrey village lies at the convergence of two main arms of the Chowkay, one that strikes to the northwest, and one branch that heads to the northeast. The Fox Marines would move up the northeast valley—the upper Chowkay—along the Amrey Creek bed, toward the base of a mountain named Cheshane Tupay, a 9,528-foot-high peak about eight kilometers southwest of Sawtalo Sar. While their route would traverse roughly six kilometers of horizontal distance, those six kilometers would take the Fox-3 Marines from an elevation of just over 3,000 feet at Amrey, almost a vertical mile higher, to roughly 8,000 feet at the base of Cheshane Tupay, the latitude of Phase Line White, from which the Marines would then re-embark on their journey toward Objective-4—once approved by higher, of course.

  Fox-3 wasted no time hurling their packs onto their shoulders and pushing off on their pump into the upper Chowkay. Their eyes attuned to the muted glow of the half-moon, the Marines dug into their task, moving single file up a narrow trail into the darkness. The pitch-black of the bottom of the steep valley virtually blinded them, while the walls looming above them glowed eerily under the wan light, the rock faces so coarse that even the moon’s muted light cast harsh shadows off bare slabs, boulders, and cobbles. They couldn’t be certain if they walked on the trail itself, or if their route simply meandered near the pathway—and they certainly wouldn’t use lights, of any kind, to help them stay on track. Konnie, traveling with his platoon’s First Squad at the lead end of the movement, at first used a small compass and a GPS unit for guidance, but then resorted to raw tactile navigation, relying on the soles of his boots and the strain in his legs against gravity to “feel” his way into the heights of the Chowkay. As Grissom had said in his talk just a few hours prior, “Just keep walking—up.” Guided by the deep recess of the valley itself, the grunts closed on their destination, by doing just that.

  The glow of dawn’s approach revealed the landscape the Marines had known only as tightly packed contour lines on their maps as some of the steepest, most daunting topography any of them had ever witnessed. Never stopping for more than five minutes at a time, the grunts inhaled their water throughout the grueling nighttime haul, their legs burning under the struggle to inch ever higher over smooth boulders, around narrow ledges, over tree stumps, and sometimes along terraced hillsides. By sunup, just a few hours into the mission, many had killed half their three-day supply. As soon as Crisp’s eyes detected the light of dawn, his skin felt the first inrush of the heat he knew would soon wallop the grunts like a tsunami. By the time the sun rose above Cheshane Tupay to their northeast—a mountain so steep that many of the grunts couldn’t see its summit because their helmets bunched into the tops of their backpacks as they tried to look up—the heat had topped 110 degrees.

  “Fucking donkeys!” Lieutenant Stuart Geise, Fox-1’s commander, blared to one of the lance corporals in his platoon midmorning on the thirteenth from his disembarking point near Amrey, when a call came over the radio from Grissom on the status of their movement.

  “You guys movin’ yet?” Grissom asked, staring at ever-steepening terrain above him.

  “Fuckin’ donkeys!” Geise roared aloud, then jumped on the radio in response to Grissom’s request. “We’re moving, but it’s the damn donkeys.” He paused. “They’re . . . delaying us.” They’re fuckin’ donkeys! he screamed in his head.

  “All right already. You need to push hard, Geise,” Grissom barked, peeved at the delay.

  “Those donkeys, you got ’em loaded up, right? They moving with you guys?”

  “No, sir!” The fuckin’ donkeys are fuckin’ fuckin’ each other, the exasperated lieutenant bellowed in his head, not able to state the case over the radio—then explained it in more sanitized terms.

  “What? Each other?” the bewildered captain asked.

  “Yeah. They’re mounting up on one another. And some committed suicide—they just jumped off the cliffs! It’s a circus. None of us can control these—” Little bastards, he thought. Fuckin’ jumpin’ off cliffs! Loaded with our chow and water. Runnin’ around! “—donkeys!” Geise responded.

  But Ben Middendorf already had the solution; he’d ordered his Marines to unload the supplies off the backs of the donkeys, then divvy up the cargo among the grunts, “spread-loading” the gear. With their four-legged logistical means no longer an option, Ben got on the line with battalion’s assistant logistics officer, Lieutenant Hal Everheart, and let him know that the element would need resupply by CDS drop—and due to the heat, they might start needing those drops soon. “Get all the gear and supplies off the donkeys and spread load everything. Your packs are gonna weigh a ton, but we can’t have you delayed any longer. Just get moving!” Middendorf ordered his Marines.

  “Damn, Lieutenant, the hell with those bad guys, it’s this valley and this heat that’s gonna do us all in,” Crisp said to Konnie during a noon rest outside a tiny village under the looming Cheshane Ghar ridgeline. “Ain’t neva’ been so hot in my life!”

  “It’s just gonna keep getting more fun. I can’t wait for more of it,” Konnie coolly responded. “Just think about all the fun we’ll have once the bad guys start shootin’ at us. It’s all about smokin’ cigarettes and slingin’ guns, Crisp.” The lieutenant feigned a wistful tone as he cracked a grin.

  “Commander Konstant!” Jimmy the translator approached Konnie with a shy local villager in tow. “The man is confused about you and the Marines. He thinks that you may be the Russians.”

  “The Russians?” Konnie responded, taken aback for a moment. Then the lieutenant realized just how deep into the valley that Fox-3 had penetrated, so deep that they’d run into a villager who probably hadn’t seen an outsider since the Soviet occupation, decades earlier. “Jimmy”—Konstant turned toward the villager—“tell him that in fact we are the Russians—and that it is 1987, and we’re about to defeat the Americans in the Cold War.” Jimmy translated as ordered, then the villager stared blankly at Jimmy and Konnie, and after a brief moment of silence, the Marines threw on their packs and continued higher. “Come on, comrades,” Konnie quipped, “onward for Mother Russia.”

  By midafternoon, the grunts had put approximately four kilometers—and thousands of feet of elevation—to their rear. While the high sun drove the air temperature into the 120s at ground level, the men found themselves surrounded not only by walls of shattered rock and house-size boulders, but by lush green; with altitude came dense tracts of ferns and large cedars. As they entered the hottest part of the August day, however, they had to fight not just to keep moving, but to keep from collapsing. Crisp, himself struggling in the dangerously torrid conditions, kept a hawk’s eye on every one of the Marines in the platoon. Drenched in sweat from the inside out, dehydrated, burning with pain where their pack straps dug into their shoulders, their heads throbbing inside the ovenlike Kevlar helmets, their eyes stinging with sweat pouring off their foreheads, they’d reached their limits.

  “Okay, Marines. We’re done,” Konnie proclaimed, himself feeling shredded by the toughest feat of endurance he’d ever undertaken—and fighting not to show it. Just as the Marines had reached what he and Grissom felt to be the outer edge of combat effectiveness, the lieutenant spied a perch on which they could put down�
�at least for a few hours, maybe all night. “We’re staying here until further notice,” he stated. “Here” was a point on a hillside about a half kilometer west of the Amrey Creek bed, a few hundred feet shy of eight thousand feet in elevation. “We just went nearly a mile—” The Fox-3 Marines shot Konnie a look; to them, “nearly a mile” had felt like fifty. “—a mile up. Pretty much five thousand feet vertical in the last eighteen hours. Good job, Marines,” the lieutenant finished in his typical, understated tone.

  The patrol base, exactly two kilometers to the southwest of Cheshane Tupay’s summit, while just shy of Phase Line White, stood in as good a position as the platoon could hope to have, despite being surrounded by high ground from which Shah and his men could attack, Konnie had chosen a location that stood back from the high terrain as much as possible. Additionally, the patrol base lay at the eastern base of a small hill, to which the lieutenant sent the snipers and half of First Squad, to provide overwatch of the encampment and to keep the location secured, and it was an ideal helicopter landing zone, should the grunts need a medevac. Konnie, relying on tried-and-true tactics he learned at the Basic School and at Infantry Officers’ Course, set a perimeter defense around the patrol base, established a casualty collection point behind some large boulders, then set himself at the east end of the camp facing Cheshane Tupay, what he felt to be the most probable location from which Shah would launch an ambush.