by Barry Sadler
Neither man mentioned that they were drinking Harry Russell on his way. As good a wake as Harry might have wished for. But Moynihan did find some news, and it jolted both men erect in their chairs.
"... at 3:20 Greenwich Mean Time a United Nations cease fire went into effect in the Middle East war between Israel and the Arab nations of the United Arab Republic, Jordan, Lebanon, and Iran."
The radio report was punctuated by a number of explosions from the Syrian guns.
"Some cease fire," Moynihan scoffed. "Say, they didn't mention Syria, did they?"
Casca was on his feet. "No, they didn't, and I think that fire is increasing. Let's see what's happening."
They were just entering the HQ tent as a runner emerged on his way to rouse Casca. The whole of the Red general's force had been put under the command of Brigadier General Elazar to attack the gun positions on the Syrian border heights.
General Elazar's detailed battle maps showed an elaborate system of fortifications. Israeli intelligence information revealed that these fortified positions had been substantially hardened with reinforced concrete through the advice and assistance of Soviet experts. The strengthening was such that they could withstand direct hits from either artillery or aerial bombardment. The steep approaches were heavily mined and saturated with antitank obstacles.
General Elazar pointed out the strategic features of the situation. The Israel Syria border ran roughly north from the Sea of Galilee, along the same line as the Jordan River ran to the south of the sea. Only a frontal attack was therefore possible. An attempt at encirclement of the thirty mile front would require two fighting detours, each of more than a hundred miles through Jordan to the south and through Lebanon to the north. Neither was practicable, and, in any event, that option had been eliminated by the cease fire with those nations.
"I asked for your force, General Weintraub," said Elazar, "because I have been mightily impressed with the night actions that you have already carried out. But, on further consideration and discussion with General Dayan, we have decided that such difficult ground can only be tackled by daylight.
"We will have no element of surprise on our side, so let's forget about that. Instead we're going to concentrate all our efforts on total preparedness. Nobody is to move at all until everybody is ready to move and then we'll all go together.
"We're up against the eighth, eleventh, and nineteenth brigades along the border, two more brigades around El Quneitra, and another two armored brigades, plus two mechanized brigades. I hardly need tell you that if all of these manage to spill down from the heights and into Israel, we stand to lose everything we have gained on all the other fronts.
"Syria is a formidable enemy for Israel. The Syrians have forgotten nothing the British taught them, and they have since learned a lot from the Russians. If we should lose here, we could lose all Israel."
The Red general was allocated the toughest nut of the whole thirty mile Syrian front, the fortress of Tel Faq'r. Tommy Moynihan dubbed it: "Tell 'em get lost."
All morning Israeli troops were moving into position along the whole of the thirty miles. By eleven o'clock, Casca's regiment was as ready as it could ever be, and the order came to attack at 1130 hours.
Weintraub elected to lead the armored attack while Casca led the infantry. At 1129 the two shook hands in front of their assembled troops.
Casca's grip tightened on his general's hand as he recognized in his eyes the look he had seen so often before. Weintraub knew he was not coming back from this one alive. His lightly armored Bren gun carrier charged away to lead the armor at an oblique angle up the steep escarpment.
Casca waved an arm and started straight up the steep slope of the cliff face into the mouths of the Syrian guns as Israeli artillery opened fire on the defenders ensconced in their concrete fastness and in buried tanks.
The Syrians were having a field day. All around Casca men were falling, mainly officers who, like himself, were out in front of their troops.
He saw Weintraub reach the end of his southern traverse of the slope and turn to lead the armor back to the north. The tanks would cross the face of the slope in front of Casca and his men, but he found scant comfort in this. The slight protection afforded by the armor would be more than offset by the extra fire they would attract.
And so it proved. As the tanks crossed the path of the climbing infantry they came under the fire of the guns that were tracking the armor combined with the already devastating fire that was being poured onto the foot soldiers.
Directly ahead of Casca a Sherman had a track blown off, and the stationary tank was then hit by several high explosive and armor piercing rounds. As he climbed Casca watched the steel coffin brew up.
Long tongues of flame darted from the gun ports and observation slits. Inside, Casca knew, any crew that were alive would be trying desperately to open the hatch, which had been jammed shut by the force of the explosions.
He heard the muffled crackle of the first few machinegun bullets exploding on their storage racks inside the tank. Then the louder bursts as the fire reached the cannon ammunition. There was a mighty, deafening blast as all the rest of the ammunition exploded, blowing the turret hatch high into the air, and with it the charred corpses of the two crewmen who had died struggling with it, their blackened arms, legs, trunks, and heads all flying in different directions. The engine melted in a trickle of aluminum tears that congealed into glistening puddles on the sand. A thick pall of stinking black smoke poured out as the machine died in a final retch of burning oil and rubber.
The following tanks maneuvered around the wreck and moved on to the north. Casca hurried forward, waving his men to follow, hoping to be ahead of the tanks when their zigzag path up the steep cliff slope brought them back again.
The blistering noon sun baked the infantrymen as they toiled up the slope. Casca pushed himself to move faster and faster, struggling to get ahead of the tanks. His breath came in short gasps. God, how he would love to just lie down and rest.
To his left a young lieutenant colonel did just that as the first burst of machine gun fire from the Syrian positions tore through his chest. Casca glanced to his right in time to see a major go the same way. In each case a captain raced forward to take over the lead position.
Casca gritted his teeth and forced his protesting legs to maintain their pace.
More and more men were falling all around him. The Syrians now had their range, and on the steep stone slope they could not run fast enough to confuse the gunners.
While Casca's body charged on, his mind surveyed the whole scene and considered the alternatives.
To left and right as far as he could see the escarpment was a mass of swarming troops, and with every yard they advanced more and more men fell. To move to either side would be pointless. The steepest part of the slope was now behind them. To stop would be absurd. To turn and retreat would provide the gunners above with the inviting targets of their slow moving backs as they ran down the steep slope. And to continue the advance was suicidal. He felt himself tiring, his pace slowing. Panting like a dog, he ran on up the slope as Weintraub's HGC passed behind him, followed by his tanks.
If the armor drew away some action he didn't notice it. The hellfire that they were running into was intense beyond calculation. He was near to despair as he saw Weintraub turn again to lead the armor once more across the slope, this time to pass ahead of the struggling foot soldiers. Weintraub's car crossed only a few yards higher up the slope, and as he passed the Red general stood erect, his red helmet in his hand. He waved it like a flag, urging Casca's men on up the cliff.
A burst of machine gun fire scythed through his crew and he crumpled beside his dying driver.
From somewhere Casca's trembling legs found the extra strength to rush the few paces forward. As the driver died the BGC slowed and Casca managed to scramble aboard.
A single glance told him that nobody in this car had any further interest in this war.
He jerk
ed the driver's body from behind the wheel, throwing him to the ground. The engine coughed, and he tramped his foot on the accelerator just in time to prevent a stall. But the unsteered car was now heading down the slope toward the advancing infantry who were rushing to get out of the way.
As they moved aside Casca gunned the motor and continued on down the slope. He snatched Weintraub's red battle helmet from the seat and circled it above his head, signaling the tanks to follow him.
He raced slantwise down the slope, the line of armor following, the Israeli infantry frantically scattering out of the way.
Once behind the advancing lines of foot soldiers, Casca turned and raced back across the slope behind the line. Glancing up the slope he could see that now most of the Syrian artillery fire was being wasted, pounding the empty area of the slope where the tanks would have been had they continued on their path. The now dispersed infantry were also taking much less punishment.
A terrible clanking tumult from behind alerted him that the tanks were not as readily maneuverable as his car. A Centurion had rolled ever and was tumbling sideways down the cliff, crushing dozens of climbing Israelis as it rolled. Casca gritted his teeth as he visualized the five men being tumbled about inside the steel shell. He modified his course and headed once more up the slope, coming around in a large circle that would bring him up behind the infantry. He chuckled in grim satisfaction as he saw shellbursts exploding uselessly all over the slope as the Syrian gunners sought to locate their enemy again.
By the time Casca's car had completed its pass across the slope behind his advancing infantry, the Syrian guns were reaching for him, and getting closer with every shot.
Instead of turning back across the slope to pass in front of the foot soldiers, Casca drove almost directly up the cliff, his maneuver aided by the now lessening degree of slope.
Once more the Syrian gunners wasted time and firepower pounding empty ground, and then had to search again for the Israeli armor.
The gunners directly above were the first to get close, but, as soon as they did so, Casca changed course again, this time charging directly across the slope just in front of the infantry.
Now the close packed armor shielded the foot soldiers from some of the machine gun fire, and the confused artillery were still trying to realign their guns to follow the tanks, which were now moving fast as they were no longer trying to climb.
This time when he turned Casca resumed the oblique path up the slope, again confusing the Syrians, and now moving very fast as the slope flattened out toward the top of the escarpment.
From the bottom of the cliff the Israeli artillery stopped firing for fear of hitting their own tanks.
Now the tanks opened fire, and at almost point blank range some of their shells took effect on the massive fortifications.
Casca turned to drive directly at the enemy fort, halting his car right at the outermost concrete wall.
He clapped Weintraub's helmet on his head and leaped from the car, working the action of his Galil as he moved.
Alongside him the first of the Israeli sappers were already placing explosive charges against the walls while others were cutting their way through the great sausages of barbed wire that protected the gaps in the concrete emplacements. In a few more moments there were holes being blasted through the concrete.
Waves of screaming infantrymen surged forward, suddenly recharged with fierce energy as they found themselves on flat terrain after the grinding climb and within reach of the enemy who had been plastering them with murderous fire.
Several of the Syrian positions were quickly overrun. The designers of the gun emplacements had not allowed for such a suicidal infantry attack, and now the highly skilled Arab artillerymen found themselves locked in hand to hand combat for which they were neither trained nor equipped.
They were, however, good soldiers, disciplined and well led. Every Israeli who made it into the bunkers had to kill several Syrians to get there, and huge numbers of the attackers died in the attempt.
But no Israeli soldier wanted to even think of a retreat down the cliff they had just climbed, and they pushed forward relentlessly. The Syrians fought desperately for every inch they yielded, but inch by inch and yard by yard they were forced to retreat.
Casca caught sight of Atef Lufti, wielding his clumsy shotel to murderous effect in the narrow confines of the bunkers. The close combat continued throughout the afternoon, and by sunset there were two Israeli bridgeheads on the Syrian heights.
As darkness fell Casca issued orders to regroup and hold position overnight, bringing all the armor in through the breaches opened in the fortifications.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Medics had taken the Red general's body from his BGC, and Casca took his red helmet to the burial detail camped just outside the fortress walls. On his way he noticed Atef's silver scabbard gleaming in the moonlight and picked it up for him, wondering that Atef had not already found it. He handed the red helmet to the duty corporal and was turning to leave when the corporal spoke.
"I think we've got the weapon that fits that scabbard."
He led Casca to where Atef Lufti's body lay, the great curved scimitar on his chest.
Casca took up the shotel and homed it in its sheath, then stuck it through Lufti's belt and folded his hands over the hilt.
A thought struck him. "What's the casualty count?" he asked.
The corporal shook his head. "Don't know how many dead, but you and an Irish sergeant are the only two of our men who made it through the wall unwounded."
The Syrian defenders had withdrawn, making no attempt to counterattack, and an uneasy quiet settled over Tel Faq'r.
Before first light Casca woke shivering in the desert cold beside Weintraub's Bren gun carrier. Billy Glennon, nursing a bayoneted shoulder, appeared to ask if he needed a driver.
"What about your arm?"
"Oh, I'll hold the wheel in me teeth," Glennon answered. A large Mercedes Benz limousine appeared and General Elazar got out of the rear seat, Weintraub's red battle helmet in his hand.
"Wein was one of my very best friends," he said. "I know he would prefer that his helmet go back into battle. It looked good on you yesterday. I'd like you to keep it."
He tapped the crossed swords on the helmet. "I talked with Moshe Dayan by telephone this morning. These swords are yours too. He wants you to lead the attack on El Quneitra, while I hold this position. We expect a counterattack at dawn."
He handed over the helmet, acknowledged Casca's salute, and got back into his car.
Casca stared a long moment at the helmet. "I've never been a general before," he muttered.
"Not surprising, General." Billy Glennon chuckled. "It doesn't usually happen more than once in a lifetime."
Casca smiled, but grimly. "No, I guess not." He slowly put on the helmet.
Moynihan, as usual, had already done half a day's' work. He had checked with the burial detail on every man that he had lost; visited every one of his wounded in the field hospital; checked that the numerous walking wounded were, In fact, fit enough to fight again; disguising his concern as always with brutal jokes, scowls, snarls, and even abuse. Now he had inspected his replacement personnel and was checking that every weapon was in order, that every man had all the ammunition he might possibly need and as much water as he could carry.
They moved out before dawn and were on the outskirts of El Quneitra when the sun came up.
More Israeli units had now been diverted to this front, and while Casca led Weintraub's force in a dawn assault on El Quneitra, there were simultaneous attacks from the north near the Lebanon border, and from south of the Sea of Galilee.
The rising sun threw the Syrian defenses into sharp relief, silhouetting the enormous bulk of the concrete fortifications, the huge guns casting long shadows across the edge of the escarpment.
Most of the gun emplacements and all of the buried tanks were pointed at the Israeli kibbutzim below the cliff. Only a handful of fixed
guns faced south toward Casca's troops as they moved into position.
Epstein, quite recovered from his shock, urged that all of his big guns concentrate on the southern flank of the fortress while the tanks and self-propelled artillery circle east to attack the fortress in the rear.
Casca readily agreed and left the major in command of that sector while he led the armor and most of the infantry to the principal attack.
Over the past few days large numbers of heavy guns had been moved into the Israeli border villages and these opened fire at the same moment that Epstein commenced his barrage.
There was little prospect that either effort could substantially damage the hardened emplacements, but their bombardment kept the Syrian gunners busy in reply, and distracted them from the threat of Casca's force that was moving toward them from out of the Syrian desert.
Casca's tanks found only a very few guns set to fire in their direction as the possibility of an attack from out of Syria had been discounted by Syria's strategists, and by their Soviet advisers. The conservative Soviets had, however, insisted on a high level of hardening of the fortifications, so that most of the shells of the three Israeli bombardments bounced harmlessly off the thick concrete.
Casca stood beside his car watching the battle through binoculars. It was not at all to his liking. The Syrians were outgunned on two of their three exposed flanks, but although Casca was trading more shells, theirs were having more effect. Casualties on both sides were very low, but the edge was in Syria's favor.
Casca racked his brains and searched his enormous experience for some tactic that might break the stalemate. He repeatedly rejected the only solution that occurred to him a direct assault on the rear of the fortress by his infantry, relying on the sappers to open breaches in the walls, which could then be further hammered by his tanks, and finally penetrated by foot soldiers.
Every one of his men who had fought his way into the trenches of Tel Faq'r had a wound of some sort, and he was extremely reluctant to ask his troops to suffer through another suicidal effort.