Barracuda 945 am-6
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Steadily they elbowed their way toward the center of town, where there were increasingly shuttered stores, and the troops did not hesitate to smash their way inside. There was no question of looting, just searching, and the Israelis maintained the iron discipline, upon which the SAS Major, Ray Kerman, had insisted in their training.
Behind them everything was quiet, since no Arab, terrorist, craftsman, or goatherd wanted to follow in the wake of the legendary tough Israeli Paratroopers. But up front, by half past nine, unrest was beginning to develop. Mobs of Arab youths were gathering east of the Jerusalem Road, between the wide commercial street and the dividing line between the zones of H-l and H-2.
They were starting to position themselves upstream of the search parties in the Haarat Al-Sheik area, right on the edge of the Old City. They were yelling and taunting the armed troops, and at 9:40, the first stones were thrown, initially just a few stray missiles. But by ten the stones were streaming through the air in a lethal hail of resentment. As the minutes wore on, the stones were growing larger, fist-sized rocks, mingled with slabs of concrete picked up from the ruins of buildings.
The gangs of youths were now combining into a full-scale mob, bent on humiliating the Israeli troops. They had of course no conception of the strength and depth of the IDF troops, and they ran forward hurling rocks and screaming abuse.
The Paratroopers immediately raced forward and began firing rubber bullets into the crowd, which had now swung right to face the oncoming Israeli battalion. The Paratroopers instantly raised the stakes, hurling a volley of CS gas grenades, which reduced the front line of the rock throwers to a retreating, eye-streaming confusion. But it increased the tension, as others ran forward to replace their comrades.
Again and again, the Paratroopers fired rubber bullets into the crowd. And now there were adults joining the youths, the entire scenario becoming more frenzied and vociferous by the minute. Then, suddenly, the rocks were accompanied by Molotov cocktails, which landed right at the feet of the Israelis, and blasted fire, straight at them. But through it all, the search teams kept going, beating down doors, demanding access, ransacking small businesses.
They were covered by the fire and fearsome reputation of their Paratroopers, but the conflict was now beginning to look serious. At 10:15 the troops fired three more volleys of rubber bullets, and several Arab youths, hurling rocks in the middle of the melee, hit the ground. Their colleagues, not knowing whether they were dead or just stunned, thronged forward to pick them up. The Paratroopers instantly unleashed CS gas grenades straight into the middle of the Arab rescue parties.
There was a brief pause, but in that time, the Israel searchers started to swarm through an old workshop in a notorious area just to the north of the crossroads at Bab Al-Zawiye. Moments went by, while the Palestinian mob was in temporary disarray, and then the Israelis came bursting out of the workshop calling up transport to confiscate one of the biggest caches of weapons and bomb-making materials they had ever seen, all hidden in the workshop and in a neighboring shed.
As a dozen Arabs trudged out with their hands high, folded across their heads, a group of Israeli Paratroopers rushed forward to carry out the arrests and to remove the bomb makers to military custody. So far, even under heavy attack, the IDF personnel had exercised rigid discipline.
But even as the first Arab prisoners were loaded onto trucks, the first real-live bullets were being fired. Not by the Israelis, but by Palestinian snipers, now ensconced on wasteland on the Haarat Al-Sheik. They were firing from various vantage points, on the edge of Haarat Al-Sheik, east of the crossroads with the sun behind them.
The Israeli Paratroopers, now crouching and running forward, hurled gas grenades into the wasteland and opened up a fusillade of covering fire while the searching troops raced for the safety of the only open building — the workshop where the arms and bomb-making materials were stored.
The Paratroopers, having temporarily silenced the snipers, headed for the same cover, and quite suddenly the building was full of Israeli troops, all massing in the stairwell, attempting to reach firing positions on the top two floors of the four-story building.
Immediately the air was filled with machine-gun fire, then the blast of real hand grenades as more Israeli paratroopers came up to clear the wasteland positions.
No one saw the Hamas terrorist leader, the one who had been trying to coordinate resistance to the methodical Israeli sweep through these most sensitive desert streets. Dressed in denim jeans and jacket, with the black-and-white-checked headdress of his nation slung over his shoulders, the young warrior, no more than twenty-five years old, wielded a handheld antitank rocket launcher. He fired one round, at one hundred yards' close range, straight through a downstairs window of the workshop.
The rocket exploded with a mind-blowing roar in the confined space, instantly blasting through the ceiling, and the one above it, before bringing down the entire building in a choking fireball of dust, sand, and rubble.
Fourteen Israelis were killed, seventeen injured. Only twelve of them managed to climb out of the wreckage, all with their eardrums shattered by the blast, their clothing in shreds, blood everywhere, faces blackened. Some of them were appallingly disfigured, hardly able to walk, four of them had lost arms or legs.
Within seconds the atrocity was reported to the Paratroops Company Headquarters, and reinforcements were immediately on their way into the Haarat Al-Sheik area; the Israelis were hell-bent on seeking out the perpetrators. They were desperate for revenge, never mind the rule book. Never mind Major Kerman's advice.
Israeli drivers gunned six ambulances crammed with nurses and medics down Route 35 right in the rear of the convoy of seething Paratroopers. Sirens screamed as they raced along Al-Qarantina Street, and within ten minutes of the blast the Israelis were leaping from the trucks, stunned at the sight that greeted them. Surrounded by the terribly wounded and dying men, their colleagues were helpless, and the snipers were beginning to open fire from the wasteland again, straight at the ground immediately in front of the devastated workshop where the grisly scenario was taking place.
Rarely had an Israeli brigade reacted with such speed and ferocity. The younger paratroopers formed up and stormed the wasteland from both flanks, hurling in grenades, firing from the hip. The Palestinians turned to run but were cut down in their tracks, women and children in the side streets were caught in the cross fire.
Hamas leaders were blasting away from behind low walls with three machine guns, but they were silenced by the grenades of the Israeli storm troopers. This had developed into a truly major confrontation, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The Israeli troops had decided to wipe out the Palestinian fighters, and they were well on the way to doing it, driving dozens of Arab freedom fighters back across the Jerusalem Road, many of them wounded.
By now Ray Kerman, in company with Sergeant O'Hara and Sergeant Morgan, was on his way into the city in an Israeli armored car, speeding along Al-Qarantina Street toward the carnage at Haarat Al-Sheik. Out to the left they could hear the battle raging fiercely on the western side of the Jerusalem Road.
The Major knew there was nothing he could do at the scene of the catastrophe, but there must be something he could achieve at the scene of the fighting. When finally he swung into the fray, he was appalled by what he saw: a highly disciplined Army almost completely out of control; soldiers going berserk, charging forward in blind fury, killing anything or anyone that moved.
"Jesus Christ!" said Major Kerman, realizing immediately the Israeli troops had unwittingly been drawn into a Hamas stronghold, which the Palestinians would try to defend to the last. On the radio he already heard the Golani Commanders summoning more ambulances. God alone knew the state of the Arab fighters.
Right out in front of him he watched the battle, the Israeli troops moving into the Palestinian streets, still hurling grenades, still enraged by the massacre in the workshop, their machine guns raking buildings to the west of the Jerusalem Road.
For the first time in his life, Ray Kerman was close to a feeling of shock. This had to be stopped. It was already out of hand, but it could still get a whole lot worse. And there was always the danger of another Arab nation joining the Palestinians, who would undoubtedly claim the Israeli Army had swooped on them in the small hours of an innocent Friday morning, and attacked innocent, law-abiding Arab citizens.
Ray could see the Paratroopers' forward Commander tucked into a doorway beyond the wasteland. Twenty feet away there were two of his men ripping out pins and flinging the hand grenades into the Arab street beyond the wall. No one was doing anything to stop this battle, and Ray assessed two glaring problems:
1. This was not winnable. Nothing good could come out of it for either side, only world headlines, more blood, sorrow, and tears.
2. The Israeli troops were now too widely scattered, and too full of fury to give up their hot pursuit of the Arabs who had blasted their colleagues to pieces.
As for the narrow street beyond the wall, it would be filled with women and children, all of whom were going to die if this firefight could not be halted. Major Kerman knew he stood an excellent chance of getting the blame for this personally. After all, a principal part of his job was to prevent this kind of thing. Any damned fool could cause chaos. The SAS were in the Negev, by invitation of the Government, to bring an element of clinical efficiency to the IDF.
This was a nightmare, and Ray seized his MP5 machine gun and helmet, and belted across the wasteland, to see the Paratroopers' Forward Commander. Already he could hear the rumble of Israeli tanks moving up to the front line of this sudden, unexpected conflict.
The IDF officer shrugged, and told the Major he could do nothing. "Well, we could start off by withdrawing the rocket launchers and the grenades," said Ray. "That way we can begin to withdraw east to the dividing line. It's not as if we'll be pursued. It's up to us to stop this. No one is going to thank us for continuing. The Knesset will be furious."
"Too late," said the Commander. "I'm not going over the wall — just leave it to the guys."
"Then I'll go," said the Major. "Gunfire's one thing, blowing up Arab civilians in their homes is another."
Ray made his way to the end of the wall and rounded it, crossed the street, and gained the cover of the houses on the right-hand side of the street. Crouching, he made his way forward to the gap in the row where two buildings had been blown sky-high. The next house was perfect. The top floor was gone, but there was cover on the street floor and he would be in yelling distance of the Paratroopers with the grenades and rockets.
He made the entrance, crashing through the door, and splintering the lock. Inside was rubble and the body of a man half hanging through the ceiling, plainly dead. Outside, the battle had, if anything, intensified, and the smell of cordite permeated everything. The gunfire was unceasing, and periodic explosions shook the entire street.
Ray exercised the SAS man's natural caution, kicking open a door to another empty but more or less intact room. There was only one more door, and Ray booted that open, and found himself standing at the top of a flight of stone stairs.
Just then a tremendous crash shook the remains of the building, showering plaster from the ceiling. The noise died away, and once more there was just the rattle of the gunfire, and the eerie crackling of burning, very close. In a split second Ray guessed the Palestinians had got a hold of some grenades of their own.
But then, he heard another noise, coming from deep in the cellar, somewhere near the bottom of the stone stairs. He fired a short volley into the gap, and roared a command in Arabic, "COME OUT RIGHT NOW, HANDS HIGH… OR I'LL BLOW YOU TO HELL."
Nothing. Every battle instinct Ray had told him this was trouble. For all he knew there were a half dozen fully armed Arabs down there, and there was no way he was going to test the theory.
Again he yelled for the surrender of all cellar dwellers. Again there was nothing. Another diabolical explosion, not thirty yards away, once more shook the building to its sandy foundations. But then, as the rumble died away, there was a lull in the gunfire, and Ray could hear distinctly the sound of sobbing, female sobbing.
"Jesus," he muttered. "I'm not ready for this." But he began to walk down the stairs, pressed against the left-hand wall. When he reached the bottom, the sobbing was louder, as if a child was also crying.
Ray groped for a light switch, and to his amazement found one, and switched on a bare bulb on the low ceiling. He was still not in the room, and he inched forward, the machine gun held in front of him, ready to spit instant death at any foe.
But there was no foe. Just three terrified figures covered in dust, huddled in a corner, two of them children, neither of them more than six or seven years old. Their mother was dressed in a black chador, but the hood was pushed back. She was bareheaded, and her face was tearstained, and she was trembling helplessly, trying to hold her two children close to her.
The older, a little boy, had blood on his face from a cut deep in his hairline. The mother, a very beautiful Palestinian woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, stared at Ray through wide-set brown eyes, saying over and over, "Please don't kill us… Please don't kill us… "
Ray had no intention of killing anyone, unless his life was threatened. He spoke in Arabic: "I am a British officer, here to advise the military… You have no need to be afraid — at least not of me. You may stand up and we'll see about getting you out of here, somewhere safe."
Ray Kerman had a better chance of stopping the battle than the young mother's tears. She sobbed uncontrollably, still clinging to the children. "But the Israelis will kill us… My husband is dead… We have nowhere to go… "
"The first place we must go is out of this cellar," he said, "before the whole place caves in… Come on… up these stairs… "
They were all too frightened to move, and another thunderous explosion, outside in the street, again shook the house.
The mother tried to regain control, but she was shaking with fear, and she spoke again with difficulty, in Arabic: "Please, please they will kill us if we go outside… We want to stay here… "
"What's your name?" asked Ray Kerman.
"Shakira."
"Listen, Shakira. If we hang around down here, we just might get buried alive."
"Well, we may not have long to live, before we go I must pray with my children… It's almost midday… We must pray for my husband… " And then she stared at him, observing his dark eyes and complexion, and she asked, "Are you a Muslim?"
"Not really," he replied. Then he blurted out, "But my parents both were." It was a phrase he had never uttered to anyone, but he was desperate to gain her trust. They had to get out of that cellar.
"Then you should pray with us, sir. Allah is great."
Ray stared back at Shakira. He could see she was slim and even more beautiful now she was standing. She had long dark hair, and an almost-perfect oval face, with the full lips of so many Arab women. Her little boy was holding a toy spaceship and clung to her hand, the daughter, around age five, clutched a teddy bear and was trying to wrap herself in her mother's robe.
Ray smiled. "What are their names?"
"This is Irena. My son is Ravi."
Ray's heart missed about three beats. He was grateful for the noise of the battle, because it gave him time to gather his thoughts.
"You stay here for a few moments and pray with the children. I'll go up and find a way to get us all out of here."
With that, Major Kerman evacuated the cellar and bolted back up the stairs. Through the open door to the street, he could see running figures, Israeli troops heading back toward the wasteland. Then there was another mighty explosion, maybe forty or fifty yards away, deeper into Palestinian territory.
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br /> Christ, he thought, these crazy bastards will knock down the whole city.
He headed back to the cellar door and yelled, "Shakira! Get up here! You have to get out. This place could get hit again, any moment."
They climbed the stairs, both children crying, Shakira trying hopelessly to comfort them. The body of their father, still holding a submachine gun, hung grotesquely from the ceiling, headfirst, the unseeing eyes gazing upward. Ray shepherded them into a corner, from where they would not see the corpse.
He knew the Israelis were now systematically clearing the buildings, throwing grenades before entering.
"Is there a rear entrance?" he asked Shakira.
"Yes, there is a small yard, then an alley that leads into another street. There's a way out into the city from there, and it will be quieter. There's no way from that street to the waste ground."
Ray nodded. "Where will you go?"
"I don't know. My parents are both in Saudi Arabia, but Mohammed's parents are in Bethlehem. We might be able to get there. Our car is parked out in the alley."
"That sounds good… But I want you to hide for the rest of the day, away from the fighting. There's an army cordon around Hebron and Bethlehem."
Before she could reply, there was a tremendous flurry of gunfire outside, two men screamed, and then the massive figure of Sergeant Fred O'Hara came barreling through the open door, followed by Sergeant Charlie Morgan.
Both SAS men looked up in astonishment at Ray.
"Christ, sir," said Fred. "We've been looking all over for you. I was beginning to think some fucking towelhead had shot you."
"Not me, Fred," said Ray. "I'm supposed to be in charge."
"You're telling me, sir. Things have been getting right out of hand. These bastards want to kill each other. I've never seen anything like it. Officers, men, maniacs. They're all at it. Fucking guns, bombs, grenades, and Christ knows what. If we don't get the hell outta here, they'll be wheeling up heavy artillery. This is no place for us, sir. We have to get the fuck out. There's no rhyme or reason in this place."