by Barry Sadler
"Damn near two thousand years since a yid last did that," Hymie said.
"D'ye ken what it says?" Moynihan nudged Hymie.
"Let peace reign in Israel," the New Yorker answered.
"Only in Israel?" wondered Moynihan. "Well, at least he hasn't asked that we be put out of business altogether."
"And he's not likely to." Hymie laughed. "We're getting very big in the arms business."
Tommy lifted his head to look around the city square crammed with stretchers carrying Israelis and Jordanians swathed in bloodstained bandages. He looked down at where Harry Russell's long frame overspanned his stretcher.
"I'm starting to think that I could use a change."
"Me too," said Casca. "Next time I go to war I might try a navy."
The whole perimeter of the city was now in Israeli hands, but there were Arab diehards holding out on rooftops, in cellars and basements, in the abundant secret courtyards, and in disused drains.
For Casca, mopping up was the most distasteful phase of an inner city battle. The task was profoundly boring, but infinitely dangerous. Every house, every room, every cupboard had to be searched.
Inevitably one's attention flagged. After looking into a thousand closets, somebody would eventually open one carelessly.
And that would be the one that concealed a die-hard fanatic with a handful of primed grenades.
Or maybe the door would tug on a trip wire that would detonate a cache of explosives that would bring the whole house down.
There were other ugly experiences too. A stirring in a dark corner would be greeted with a quick burst of submachine gun fire and a tiny girl shielding a baby brother in her arms would tumble dying from their hiding place.
Demented elderly people would be found standing in the center of empty rooms from which everybody, including their reason, had fled.
One always stumbled upon wounded who were beyond help, orphaned children, bereaved parents.
Mopping up was an operation that Casca would have loved to delegate to others, but he knew that it was a phase of war where experience counted most and he had the most experience.
Several of the houses had small, shallow holes scratched into the stone by the front door. They had once held a mezuzah, the small case that contained a piece of parchment inscribed with two passages from Deuteronomy.
Casca came upon one of these on the third story of an Arab household. The lower two floors were occupied by a large Arab family. Yet the mezuzah was intact in its small stone cache.
An elderly Arab had followed him up the stairs and he now bowed, introduced himself as Abu Lachim, and handed him a key.
"Booby trap," Casca's mind shouted to him.
He searched the old Arab's eyes. Their flat, brown opaqueness told him nothing. But they were not the eyes of a fanatic.
He motioned to his men to return downstairs. An Israeli sergeant stayed by the head of the staircase.
Gingerly Casca turned the key, then the doorknob, and lastly he booted open the door.
Nothing happened.
Casca waited a moment while his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, then stepped carefully into the dark room. After another moment's pause he crossed to the windows and threw open the shutters.
The light fell on a gold lettered sign written in Hebrew that proclaimed the large room as the Torat Hayim Synagogue. On a gold bookstand the Torah stood open. The prie-dieus and study tables were clean and polished. Around the edges of the huge room were thousands of carefully stacked books. On a large table in the center of the room a number of books were lying open in front of chairs.
Casca saw that these books were all in Hebrew. He turned to the Arab. "A Jewish congregation prays here?"
"Oh no." Abu's wrinkled face broke into a smile. "Nobody except my family has entered this room since the Jews left this area."
"When Jordan occupied the city?"
"Of course. The congregation of this synagogue fled." He gestured at the open books. "As you can see, they left in a hurry."
"So how does it happen that it's all still here, undisturbed?"
Abu looked at him, not quite comprehending the question. "Nobody has come to disturb."
"But it all looks... cared for."
The old Arab shrugged. "My family stacked the books.
We sweep the floor, dust once in a while." He added defensively, "It is a room in our house."
"But it's a Jewish synagogue. You maintain a prayer house of infidels?"
"Why not?" Abu shrugged again. "In this room the Jews prayed to God. There is no God but God."
The Israeli sergeant clapped the old man on the back. "Abu, with your wisdom we could have avoided the whole of this damned war between our people."
"Except for the oil," Casca muttered under his breath.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Weintraub became the Red General, and Casca was promoted again, this time to lieutenant colonel, and given command of a regiment.
With the city of Jerusalem secured, Weintraub's force was divided. Casca's regiment was sent south to attack Bethlehem, while another force moved north on Ramallah, the site of Radio Jordan. A third force moved east to attack Jericho.
Casca's force arrived on the outskirts of Bethlehem in the late afternoon and he lost no time in pressing his attack. Casca led the assault, as all Israeli officers were expected to, in his armored car, Billy Glennon at the wheel, racing for the Jordanian defenses in the first wave of assault vehicles.
They immediately came under heavy fire from the entrenched Arabs, but the defending gunners accomplished little. Casca had left all of his infantry and most of his armor in reserve, feinting with only the lightest and fastest vehicles.
Naturally, the first of the Arab artillery fire fell short, but the pattern of shell bursts moved rapidly closer to the broad, advancing front of Israeli armor.
Then the shells were bursting right in front of them.
"Faster, faster," Casca bellowed, and Glennon changed gears and tramped on the gas pedal for an extra burst of acceleration.
All the other drivers followed suit in Casca's prearranged maneuver, and the Arab gunners suddenly found that their shells were now falling to the rear of the attacking force. At Casca's orders no Israeli guns had yet spoken. Now Epstein fired the cannon that he had been carefully sighting and re-sighting all through the charge.
He scored a direct hit with his third shot, and all along the line other gunners had similar successes. The stationary guns in Casca's reserve had an even greater devastating effect as they had had plenty of time to locate and aim for the Arab guns, all of which had been provoked into revealing themselves.
Now the Jordanians were frantically cranking down the elevation of their guns and the pattern of shell bursts came uncomfortably close.
"Stop!" Casca shouted, and Billy Glennon and then the other drivers stood on their brakes.
In a great, swirling cloud of dust the entire force came to a halt, then turned to race back toward where the reserve force waited.
The confused Arab gunners now had to readjust their aim once more. A few lucky shots scored hits, but most of Casca's vehicles made the turn unscathed, the APCs unloading their cargo of sappers and their equipment before they hurried after the rest of the retiring armor.
Meanwhile Casca's stationary guns were firing at will, scoring direct hit after direct hit on the Arab guns. The rest of Casca's armor and the infantry now rolled forward while his artillery laid down an increasingly accurate barrage on the defenders' guns. Casca's small attack force retired through his own lines to rest and refuel.
Casca joined Major Epstein in directing the artillery and together they watched the effect of their bombardment as it accounted for gun after gun in the defending positions. The sappers had now succeeded in clearing a narrow track through the mines and at their signal some empty APCs raced forward of the main force to gather them up as the first squadron of tanks changed direction for the gap in the minefield.
> From behind the second line of Bethlehem's defenses a squadron of huge Stalin tanks appeared, intent on challenging the Israeli tanks on the open ground beyond the mined area.
The artillery major acted quickly and a number of Casca's guns that had not yet been used opened fire on the tanks. The gunners had fired only a few rounds since the beginning of the battle, just enough to sight in their weapons on the range to the major Arab defense line. Now they needed only a few more rounds to bring their big guns to bear where the tanks were coming from behind the line.
The Stalins and a huge force of infantry were advancing in three lines, obviously moving along a clear track through a minefield. The major marked his military map as he called coordinates to his gunners, concentrating their fire in the vicinity of the lead tanks. He shouted lustily as the first hit was scored and marked the spot as near as he could guess on his map.
From behind the crippled Stalin two other tanks were trying to push it clear. Epstein joyfully hammered a rain of shells onto the three tanks.
But the Arabs succeeded in pushing the crippled tank clear and the column was moving forward again. The Israeli gunners, however, now had the area zeroed in and they unleashed a hail of fire that crippled the entire column. A number of Stalins tried to maneuver out of the line to escape the furious barrage, but only succeeded in running onto their own mines.
Casca raced for his armored car and in another minute was racing for the wrecked tanks, the whole of his light armor squadron tearing along behind him.
From up ahead the Red general's car was also heading for the scene of the carnage. He had with him a number of heavy Centurions, and as the artillery barrage ceased these quickly got into position to push the ruined Stalins aside.
APCs and jeeps were spilling Israeli infantry onto the sand in the now clearly defined mine safe area. They opened up on the dazed Jordanian infantry who, still reeling from the bombardment, could not regroup to answer the fire. They broke and ran, those on the outer edges of the mob being blown skywards in pieces as they set off antipersonnel mines.
Soon there was something like a straight line of fleeing Jordanians running for the protection of their fortress. They jostled each other as they ran, all trying to stay toward the center of the path through the minefield.
Behind them came the armor of Casca and the Red general as well as a number of APCs and Bren gun carriers, their crews pouring lead at the backs of the retreating horde.
Then they were through the Jordanian lines and the Israeli armor was fanning out to either side and wrecking increasing devastation as more and more vehicles and men poured through the breach.
In another hour the battle was over. The Star of David was flying over yet another Arab fortress.
The Israeli high command ordered Casca to secure the city and ensure that it could be held against a Jordanian counterattack.
A quick count revealed that they had captured roughly fifty tanks, dozens of field guns, scores of trucks and jeeps, thousands of gallons of gasoline and diesel fuel, enormous numbers of weapons of every type, and whole storerooms of ammunition.
The city of Bethlehem also had an adequate storage of potable water and plenty of food. Ninety percent of the city's defenses were still intact, and Casca was quickly convinced that he could hold the city against any force that Jordan was likely to send to the attack.
He gave half his troops six hours' leave, and his jeep was amongst the first to leave the barracks. Billy Glennon was at the wheel and Major Epstein and Hymie in the back. Not far behind came another Jeep carrying Moynihan, Wardi Nathan, Atef Lufti, and David Levy.
They stopped at an Arab sidewalk cafe where the owner had just taken down the shutters. He came toward them apprehensively, bowing deeply from a little distance.
"Terrified for his life, but as eager to rob us as ever," sneered Epstein. "Give us some wine, you Arab dog," he shouted, and the Arab scuttled speedily away.
Even the abrupt Moynihan looked askance at the uncalled for rudeness. Casca's eyes met Billy's and they both smiled. Hell, so they hated each other, it was their war.
The tables quickly filled with Israeli officers and men, colonels, sergeants, and privates sitting together easily. It was part of the Israeli Army egalitarian tradition and also grew out of the citizen soldier nature of this army. A sergeant heading for another table slapped Major Epstein on the back as he passed and Epstein playfully stuck out a leg to trip him. A week earlier Epstein had been maintenance manager in a small factory. The sergeant owned the factory.
Moynihan approved of the wine and ordered more. He was not quite as rude as Epstein, but followed to the letter the Israeli Army briefing on how to deal with the defeated enemy. He was arrogant, overbearing, acted as if the restaurateur were determined to rob him, sell him watered or maybe poisoned wine, or stab him in the back if he got half a chance.
The Arab accepted this treatment as the defeated learn to do anywhere, and was grateful that it was not worse. Amongst Arabs the legend from World War II still survived of the Australian Ninth Division who, after a defeat of Rommel, staged such an orgy of rapacious looting that Goebbels dubbed them the Forty Thousand Thieves.
Moynihan and Glennon were not in the mood for drinking. They only drank a couple glasses of wine each. Six hours was nowhere near enough to do the job properly, and they scorned to do a job half-well. In fact, they knew that there was every chance they might be in action again by morning and a battle was no place to take a hangover. And a battle in the desert was no place for a raging thirst.
They left the cafe and wandered the streets on foot in twos and threes. Whores beckoned to them from balconies and windows, and soon Casca and Epstein were walking alone. Epstein's detestation of Arabs prevented him from bedding one. Casca, for his part, wanted one of the dark eyed beauties, but he found himself rejecting each advance. He could not rid himself of the notion that Bethlehem held something for him some key to his fate, some clue to the way he might eventually be freed from the curse of the religious rebel who had been born here to die on Golgotha. Bedding a woman just didn't feel right under the circumstances.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
An Arab poked his head timidly from the doorway of his shuttered shop.
"Honorable masters," he whined, "would you care to honor my store by looking upon some rare and exotic treasures not frequently offered for sale?"
They stopped. A faded sign announced: ABU BEN ASID, ANTIQUARY AND RELIQUARY.
"I'll bet he tries to sell us Moshe Dayan's eye patch," Epstein sneered as they moved toward the doorway.
Casca was less concerned with the merchandise than with the possibility of a trap. The wily old Arab might well consider it a good afternoon's work to dispatch a colonel and a major of the conquerors' army.
Casca unlatched the flap of his pistol holster and waved Epstein back to step warily into the store, his eyes searching for trip wires or other signs of a booby trap.
As if aware of his apprehension, the old Arab threw open the window shutters, flooding the small room with light. Still Casca hesitated, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the light that now illuminated the Arab's treasures.
And what treasures. Casca recognized immediately the Gladius Imperius Iberius, the Roman shortsword, and alongside it a legionnaire's helmet and leather armor. On another wall was arranged the shield and armor of an English Crusader.
Another wall was devoted to relics of the Great War: rifles of Lawrence's Arab Legion, spent artillery shells, the emu plumed slouch hat of an Australian light horseman, the helmet and goggles of a downed German flyer. A sign said that the helmet and goggles had belonged to von Richtofen, the Red Baron, whom Casca had good reason to remember had died over France. The fourth wall was covered with swastika flags, Union Jacks, World War II steel helmets, bayonets, Lee Enfield rifles, some pistons salvaged from the Maybach engine of a Panzer III tank, and a German officer's cap and jacket with the badges of a colonel general. Another sign said that these had been
part of Rommel's uniform.
"Fakes. Fakes. Fakes. Fakes. Fakes," Casca heard Epstein grumbling behind him. "I'll bet you he offers us one of Christ's sandals." The cynical Dutchman laughed mirthlessly.
The old Arab stared in amazement. "You are interested in Christ?"
Epstein winked at Casca. "Yes," he replied archly, "I am a collector of Christian bric-a-brac. What do you have?"
The Arab bowed and waved a hand toward a curtained doorway. "I do not deal in mere bric-a-brac, but please do me the honor of entering this farther room of my humble store." He bowed again.
Epstein was already striding toward the curtain when Casca spoke: "Major, a little more slowly, please. This toothless old Arab may be even better pleased to kill us than to cheat us. We could represent his ticket to Paradise."
Epstein looked with disdain from Casca to the Arab and back again. The corners of his mouth turned down in contempt for the notion that this old man might represent a danger. But even an army as casual as his observed the protocol of rank and he silently accepted the warning from his superior officer. But the corners of his mouth curved farther downward.
Casca bowed to the Arab: "Pray, lead us to your treasures."
The old shopkeeper inclined his head and walked unhesitatingly through the doorway, holding aside the curtain for Casca and Epstein to follow.
He clapped his hands and a young boy appeared. At a gesture from his grandfather the boy opened shutters to light the room.
The Arab gestured gracefully. The whole room was crammed with memorabilia of the time of Christ. Prominently displayed on one wall was the Spear of Longinus. Casca gave it a cursory glance. It was right for the period, but it certainly was not the spear he had carried that day on Calvary.
There were pieces of "The True Cross," thongs from a whip of the time, pieces of cloth from the robe Christ wore at his trial. Casca was amused to see that the whole of a Roman Centurion's uniform had been assembled and was labeled as belonging to the man who had commanded the squad that had crucified Jesus.