by Barry Sadler
And there was Hyman Hagkel, an Orthodox Jew from London. Hagkel had a full beard, long hair with earlocks, and wore a skullcap. He sat by himself in his corner of the hut, wrapped in a fringed prayer shawl, chanting incantations until the sun went down. Then he burned a braided valedictory candle, lit a Turkish cigarette, and bowed to the others in the hut.
"Please excuse me parading my religion in your living space. A good week to you."
"A good week to you, and a good year." David Levy waved a casual hand. "Your prayers may be naive, but they are not offensive." He swung his feet to the floor to look inquiringly at the cockney. "But tell me, what is a pious Jew doing in a war?"
"David fought," Hyman answered defensively.
"David sinned." The New Yorker laughed. "But what's your excuse?"
Hagkel lifted his skullcap and ran his fingers through his hair. "I thought about it a great deal. I was in Korea years ago, but that was before I embraced Orthodoxy. Now it is different. As a pious Jew, I should not even come to Palestine until the Messiah comes to lead us here. And certainly I should not fight."
He combed his long beard with his fingers, then shrugged. "It comes down to vanity. If the Arabs crush Israel, it will be God's judgment on the blasphemy of Zionism. But also, I will be shamed. If the Jews win, I will be proud."
"The Book of Revelations," said Billy Glennon, quoting:. "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the preacher."
Hyman nodded his head soberly. "Revelations is not reading for a Jew, but the lesson is well said."
Another bunk was occupied by Atef Lufti. Lufti was black and about six and a half feet tall. Thrust through his belt was a silver embossed leather scabbard with a silver handle set with coral. The curve of the saber was so tight that the silver knob on the end of the sheath almost pointed back toward the hilt. Casca was intrigued to see a weapon he had never encountered before. Lufti understood Hebrew, but spoke it in a unique fashion. He spoke no English; nor French, German, or Yiddish; nor any other language that Casca could think to try him in. Casca pointed to the scabbard, indicating that he would like to see the blade. The black man pulled it from his belt with his left hand, negligently dropping the beautiful sheath to the floor as he drew the scimitar with his right hand. The blade was double edged, about three feet long, and curved almost in a half circle, like a large sickle. An extremely awkward looking weapon, Casca thought as he accepted it from Lufti.
In his hand it felt even clumsier than it appeared and fell awkwardly out of balance no matter in what fencing movement he tried to wield it.
Atef Lufti shook his head and took it from him. He retreated a number of steps and then executed a number of wide, flat swipes accompanied by some very balletic footwork. In his hands the oddly shaped saber looked graceful and effective.
"Shotel," he said as he picked up the scabbard and sheathed it. He pointed one long thumb to his chest and said the single word: "Falasha."
There was something familiar about the word, but nobody was sure what it might mean. Casca had an idea it meant stranger in some Nubian dialect, but didn't volunteer the information. There could be no benefit for anybody in his revealing anything that might lead to an unraveling of the threads of his past.
From his diary David Levy produced a small map of the world, and the black man pointed to the northeast corner of Africa: Ethiopia.
"Sephardic!" the New Yorker exclaimed in wonder. "A real Jew! I've never met one before in my life."
"And what do you think my race might be then?" the outraged Hyman Hagkel shouted. "Friggin' Arab?"
"No," Levy replied placidly, "Lufti is more Arab than you could ever be. I'd guess your people were Russians."
"Well," Hagkel said uncomfortably, "I will admit that several generations before they arrived in England my people did come from Russia and Poland, but before that they must have come from here."
"Oh sure," Levy laughed "we all share that delusion. That's why we're here."
"Speak for yourself," said Harry Russell. "Like Case, I'm here for pay."
"And so are lots more of us," Moynihan added.
"You might say it's the pay," the New Yorker said with a chuckle, "but I well recall a claim that the lost tribes of Israel wound up in Ireland."
"Yeah, I've heard the legend," Billy Glennon said, "but if it's true, they didn't wind up in County Down where my people come from."
"Nor Mayo," said Russell.
"Not Tipperary neither," said Moynihan. "But I guess we're here to do the job anyway."
The Orthodox Londoner grinned and spread his hands wide. "Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it."
His eyes had the gleam of a fanatic as he looked over the men in the hut and turned to where his valedictory candle still burned.
"We will express the might."
CHAPTER FOUR
The Sunday morning dawn parade was a peremptory affair, just sufficient to form the thousands of men up in some sort of order.
Moynihan stared around at the motley mob. "Here's a parade to give a British RSM a heart attack," he said laughing.
"Yeah," said Russell, "as undisciplined looking a bunch as you might hope to find."
No two uniforms were the same. Men wore, it seemed, any sort of headdress that suited them. There were lots of military caps, but many were not Israeli issue and seemed to have been souvenired from other armies that the soldiers had served in. A number of them, such as Atef Lufti, wore Arab style burnouses. And, like Lufti, many of the troops carried their own sword, scimitars, daggers and knives. And carried them in an individual assortment of ways, stuck in belts, hanging from harnesses, behind their backs, in elaborate scabbards, or none at all. Nowhere could Moynihan see a decently polished pair of boots.
Their young colonel was a Sabra; one of the new blond, blue eyed race that had evolved in these deserts from the Russian and Slavic stock of the early Zionist settlers who had arrived in Palestine around the turn of the century, their religious convictions forbidding Jews to fight and forcing them to flee compulsory military service in the czar's army. Successive waves of immigrants had been forced to flee Europe to escape czarist pogroms, then Nazi persecution. Yet most of these young, blond Sabra officers might well have passed for Hitler's armies.
The grapevine had reliably informed them that the colonel was Yosef Weintraub, and that they were one of three brigades under Brigadier General Israel Tal.
Weintraub wore a bright red battle helmet. He had been a Communist in his youth and was still considered a Red by his army colleagues, who called him the Red colonel. The painted helmet was part joke, partly a defiant statement of his politics.
In this parade there didn't seem to be many Jews of any sort in the ranks, and none of them Israelis, but Casca thought that all the NCOs looked like European or American Jews. There was not one unnecessary order or movement to the parade, and they were dismissed for breakfast.
"Efficient bunch of bastards, I'm thinkin'," was Moynihan's judgment, and the rest agreed.
Hymie looked up from his second plateful of gefilte fish. "I don't know if these guys know what they're doing or not. This food is damned unmilitary."
"Yeah," said Glennon, scoffing his second helping of knockwurst and sauerkraut. "I always thought there was some sort of military regulation that the food had to be as near uneatable as possible – at least in any service the British has anything to do with."
"Maybe the French is in charge of the catering," Moynihan mumbled through a mouthful. "They're supplying enough of the arms."
"D'ye think the Brits and the Frogs will be in it this time, like in 'fifty six?" a voice posed the question.
"De Gaulle has declared that France is neutral," Moynihan said. "LBJ has pledged America's neutrality too, but the Brits haven't said either way. Maybe they're keeping their options open."
"No way," another man answered. "If they'd had the sense to stay out of it in 'fifty six, they'd still have the canal today. Just arms and money this
time, I reckon."
After breakfast there was another parade with the men formed up in small squads of about thirty. The Brooklyn sergeant looked his squad over briefly and singled out a few of them, whom he tried in unarmed combat.
Casca was pleased to see that he was trying out the same men that he was curious about.
He ordered Hymie to attack him with his knife. By the time the succession of lunges and blocks and feints and turns ended in a neat trip, he was satisfied that the ex-paratrooper had not forgotten anything he had learned in Korea. And the squad was impressed with their sergeant as he helped Hymie back to his feet.
"He's had some good martial training anyway," Glennon commented.
"The streets of Brooklyn," David Levy chuckled.
In his turn the fat New Yorker surprised everybody with his speed and agility, and in a second had the tough young sergeant on the ground, his foot on his neck.
“I guess you will do” Brooklyn nodded in his laconic fashion as he got to his feet.
Elsewhere other sergeants were going through the same process, sorting out has beens and never weres, and here and there across the parade ground an occasional man was dismissed from a squad to be paid off on the spot.
In a short while they were back in the hut.
"Well," said Hymie, "this part is like any other army anyway. You fight for free. What you get paid for is the waiting."
"And at five hundred U.S. greenbacks a month." Moynihan looked up from cleaning his immaculate rifle. "I'm ready to wait forever."
But the Israelis had a surprise for them. Shortly after lunch there was another parade. This time with full gear and with the mercenary squads integrated with the regular army and conscripts.
Tommy Moynihan muttered as he stowed his little radio in his pack, "I guess we're moving out. Well, I suppose Sunday is as good a day as any to start a war."
They piled into camouflaged trucks with all their gear and were soon speeding away from the camp, heading due south.
"Bound ' for Egypt, me boyohs," Moynihan chortled. "I've been waiting all me life to see the pyramids."
The long convoy of British Leyland trucks raced along the blacktop at about sixty miles an hour. British built helicopters flew alongside as an escort and French Mystere fighter planes circled above them. When the paved road came to an end, they charged on into the desert at almost the same speed.
"Do you tink it's started then?" a Dutch voice came from the front of the truck.
"Nay," Moynihan answered, "I heard BBC radio this morning. Diplomatic negotiations are still proceeding."
"Den what the hell for the hurry?" came a Scandanavian voice as the truck hit a bump and sent several men sprawling.
"Ach," a German accent replied, "always these Jews iss in der hurry."
Soon the men were being thrown about all the time as the level desert gave way to the granite wilderness of the Negev where the trucks had to repeatedly swerve around great boulders or skirt steep ravines. But the convoy scarcely slowed.
After three hours they stopped and the men gratefully left the trucks. There were several large, marquee type tents already set up and inside were benches and tables. Cheerful young women in fatigues and side arms offered them a choice of sauerbraten and dumplings or roast kid and potatoes.
Harry Russell turned to Moynihan as a pretty girl filled his plate. "Ye don't suppose we're already dead and in that great barracks in the sky, do ye? And we've somehow forgotten about the dyin' bit?"
"The Jews is new to the war business, that's all." Moynihan laughed. "They haven't had enough generations to breed the special stock that army cooks come from."
Hymie was studying his tiny map. "Where the hell are we anyway?"
Wardi Nathan pointed to a spot where the territory of Israel thins to a narrow neck between Jordan and Egypt's Sinai Peninsula. "About here, I reckon. Looks like the attack will be in the south, same as in 'fifty six."
"Yeah, dawn tomorrow, I guess," said Harry Russell.
"There's a huge Egyptian fortress just across the border," Moynihan said. "Al Kuntilah. The BBC says the Arabs have the whole sixth division there."
There were more large tents waiting for them to sleep in, and Brooklyn advised them to turn in early as they would be moving out well before dawn.
Casca and Moynihan walked out into the desert toward where they could see armored personnel carriers, tanks, and artillery and transport vehicles on the skyline. In the far distance they saw a lone jet patrolling the Egyptian border.
"Well," Moynihan said, "I guess the Gyppos know we've arrived."
An Israeli regular hailed them casually as the approached.
"Looks like whole armored division," Casca said.
"Yeah, that's what it looks like." The Israeli grinned. "But if you look close enough you'll see that only one brigade is what you might really call armor." He laughed aloud. "The rest is more in the way of sticks and cardboard."
Casca squinted into the sinking sun. "They sure look real enough to me."
"Yeah, and they look real enough to the Egyptians at Al Kuntilah too."
Walking back to the tents, Moynihan and, Casca were rather less than enthusiastic about the ruse. Moynihan summed it up: "There's a brigade of us, and, if we're lucky, a brigade of regulars against the whole bloody Arab Sixth Division. They're entrenched behind some of the most complex fortifications in the world, and we've got paper tanks."
They said nothing to the others and turned in. The last thing Casca heard before he slept was the English language service of Cairo Radio, "The Voice of the Arabs," with the translation of a speech by United Arab Republic President, General Gamel Abdel Nasser.
Nasser said that Egypt was ready for battle and would welcome a war with Israel.
CHAPTER FIVE
Casca checked his watch as they climbed into the trucks: 0300 hours. Billy Glennon belched contentedly and spoke in wondering tones as he fondled his rifle. "I've sure headed for a few fronts worse prepared than this."
"Most of 'em," Casca agreed, his mind skimming over some of the campaigns he had suffered through. This was the best organized army of the hundreds he had served in. They could even teach the Romans a few things.
But he decided to postpone any real judgment until he had seen how they shaped up at the front when the heavy shit started coming down. The cardboard tanks worried him. He was cheered to find that in the back of the truck was a five gallon drum of hot, sweet coffee and another of tea. There was also fruit juice, and a lot of water.
Wardi Nathan repeatedly studied the sky, the stars brilliant through the cold, dry desert air. "We're heading back north," he said wonderingly, "dead away from Al Kuntilah."
A glance at the sky assured Casca he was right.
At 0430 they stopped for breakfast, and as the false dawn began to light the sky the trucks rolled again.
Nobody spoke. Every ear was straining for the sound of gunfire.
Dawn came at 0549 and still no sound. Now they were heading to the west of north, toward the Gaza Strip, the long finger of Egyptian territory that separated southern Israel from the Mediterranean Sea. Planes could be heard in the far distance, but none came within sight of the speeding trucks. They saw only an occasional helicopter, and today there were no fighter plans with them.
The men sat silent, willing themselves to relax. But every man's mind was churning with unanswerable questions. Had a planned dawn attack been called off? Had the whole war been called off? Then why were they following this course? And why the breakneck speed?
Moynihan nudged Casca. "D'ye think our ride to Al Kuntilah was a feint?"
"Maybe. I don't understand any of this."
0600 hours and still no sound of action. From up ahead came the high pitched whine of jet engines, and occasionally they saw fighter planes circling, Egyptian MiGs patrolling around Gaza, alert against a dawn attack.
0700, and the trucks were still speeding, now headed due west. The terrain had changed from rocks a
nd stones to long, rolling sand dunes. Now they could see the patrolling MiGs in the near distance, but the planes didn't venture toward Israel, although there seemed to be no Israeli planes in the sky.
0740. Airplane engines, lots of them, from out of the west. Casca scanned the sky to the north above Gaza, but the patrolling MiGs had all landed. They had been on the wing since before dawn and were probably refueling while their pilots had a coffee break.
0741. Now another sound as higher powered jet engines came roaring from behind the first wave of planes. A massive air armada was heading out of Egypt and straight toward the convoy.
0742. Helicopters appeared everywhere around them. From the east, the direction of the capital, Tel Aviv, another truck convoy could be seen approaching at high speed. At least a brigade, Casca reckoned, was joining them.
0743. The trucks rolled to a halt and the men were leaping onto the desert. Hundreds of trucks arrived, and flatbed wagons lowered their ramps to trundle armor and artillery to the desert floor.
0744. Now the first planes could be clearly seen flying very low in the western Egyptian sky. Maybe thirty miles away, Casca thought as he caught Moynihan's dismayed eye. Two brigades of Israeli infantry and armor were waiting exposed in the direct path of the oncoming planes. And not so much as a tree or a fold in the ground to hide in. Brooklyn was stretching, flailing his arms about and kicking his legs to rid them of the kinks from the long ride. Then he unconcernedly opened his fly to piss on the sand.
0745. All hell broke loose. From the west came brilliant flashes of light, followed by the roar of explosions. The explosions grew and multiplied. The Egyptian Sinai was being bombed by planes sweeping in from the Mediterranean.
"They must be coming from British carriers," Glennon murmured.
At the same instant the Israeli artillery opened up, but their fire was directed dead ahead, into the Gaza Strip. The armor moved forward, and the infantry scrambled onto the moving trucks to advance with them. A wave of planes came roaring out of Egypt.
"We're sitting ducks," Moynihan cursed as he looked up at the planes, bombs and rockets gleaming dully on their underside.