by Barry Sadler
Screw you, Casca thought, momentarily contemplating that he might demonstrate for this jerk just how far he was from being an invalid. A short reach with his left arm would do it, finger and thumb closing on either side of the Adam's apple as he shifted the about to die body across the floor and rammed the head back against the brick wall. In his mind's eye he saw with satisfaction the doctor's startled eyes popping as he heard his skull crack against the bricks. But, for sure, neither the Uzi toting Israelis nor the Kiwi police would appreciate that he was only demonstrating his state of health and martial capacity, and, almost reluctantly, he abandoned the idea. Instead he explained, "I lost control of my motorcycle and had a rough meeting with a bulldozer," Casca lied. "Looks worse than it, was. Everything on the inside is original issue."
"And I suppose your face went through your windshield?"
"No." Casca luxuriated in telling almost the whole truth. "I short-changed a whore and she took to me with a knife." He didn't mention that the hooker's knife had marked him roughly two thousand years earlier.
The doctor almost sneered. "And what about this scar that runs right around your wrist? Looks like a full hand transplant."
"We both know that's not possible," Casca said evenly, flexing his powerful fingers and thinking afresh of a telling demonstration. "This hand works better than any surgeon could pray to fix it."
"I can see that," the doctor snapped, so uncomfortably it almost seemed he had caught Casca's thought.
"Cambodian torture," Casca lied some more. "You ever seen a glove made of human skin? Fortunately my buddies arrived before they got that far."
The doctor produced a stethoscope, not bothering to disguise his disbelief. But his eyes widened as he listened to the steady lub-dub, lub-dub of the heart that had been thumping away in Casca's chest since about the year A.D. one. The doctor's puzzled young eyes searched into Casca's calm gray ones, but then looked away uncomfortably.
"How old are you anyway?" he snapped.
For an answer Casca pointed one blunt finger at the form lying on the desk. The doctor glanced down, looked up again, his eyes flickering over the network of healed surgical scars, sword cuts, bullet holes, bites, scratches, and claw marks that crisscrossed Casca's body.
Irritably the doctor flicked through the papers on his desk. X-ray reports; stool, urine, and blood samples; eyesight and hearing tests. They all tallied with what Casca said, but none of it jelled with the battered hide or the eyes that seemed older than sin.
He pressed a button of his intercom console and spoke in Hebrew. "I've got a guy here, some sort of freak. Looks young enough, but I'm sure he's way past age limit. But it doesn't show up on any of the tests. What do you want me to do with him? He sure looks like he can fight. "
Casca couldn't hear the reply, but a few minutes later he was in the office of the embassy's public information officer.
She sat behind a severely businesslike chrome and glass desk. A low table held some promotional magazines and brochures produced by the Israel Institute of Engineering, Israel Air Industries, and other Israel enterprises. On the walls were posters promoting Israel's manufactured products. And, within easy reach, an Uzi. She motioned Casca to a chair.
"Dr. Nir says you're older than you claim to be." She stared hard into Casca's eyes, seeking to detect the lie.
Casca calmly returned her gaze. A faint smile flickered into his eyes. "I'm old enough."
"You're an experienced soldier?"
Casca couldn't tell if she had played with the word experienced or perhaps it was just her accent. He took in the wide, intelligent eyes, the firmly muscled shoulders, small breasts. He tried to restrain the smile he felt spreading on his face.
As if reading the lewd thoughts that were tumbling through his mind, she added: "Combat experienced?"
Damn, he still couldn't tell if she was playing. "Uh. Oh, yeah."
"You've held some rank?"
No, she wasn't playing. Rank? Damn all these questions. What to answer? Legionnaire, centurion, count, baron, king, god? Aloud he said: "I've never made general yet."
She smiled. A good-humored grin. "Our army prides itself that it promotes early and often, and entirely on merit. We don't award medals you know."
"No, I didn't know, but it suits me fine. I'd rather have a raise in pay than a bit of tin on a rag any day." He thought of something he could say in safety. "I made sergeant in Vietnam for a while."
"Well, that's the sort of experience we need." She smiled again. "You could wind up an officer. But there's one disadvantage our officers lead all attacks."
"The system I grew up with." He shrugged.
"In the U.S. Army?"
"In my bunch," Casca answered, but his mind had been in another time when the first man on the beach, as the Romans stormed ashore in Britannia, had been Julius, first and greatest of the Caesars.
"Suppose you tell me why you want to fight for Israel?"
Casca smiled. Ah, the luxury of being able to tell the simple truth. Devout Jews believed that before the End of Days their Messiah would come and lead them back into their promised land of milk and honey. The Zionists believed that they could hurry God along by getting there early under their own steam and by building a Jewish sovereign state that they could have all ready and waiting to welcome the Messiah when, at last, he arrived. And Christians believed there would be a second coming of the failed guru he had speared to death on Golgotha. Somewhere in all the prophecies there might be some spark of the truth.
The Jew on the cross had said to him: "Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain until we meet again."
Well he was weary of waiting. Often he felt the crush of the endless years, craved the easy peace of his long denied death. If only he could close his weary eyes and allow the countless years to take their toll, or if he could fall in battle and not survive to die again. Well, maybe it could happen in Palestine, where it started. Like the Zionists, he was prepared to try to hurry the process, although he wouldn't mind too much a few nights of waiting with this woman for company.
"Armageddon," he said into the lovely wide eyes. "I'm a professional warrior. If this is it, I'd sure hate to miss it."
"Such superstitious nonsense and you seem an intelligent man. We modern Israelis are not interested in any fantasies such as Armageddon, Promised Lands, or mythical Messiahs. Israel is our homeland and we intend to hold on to it. It's the only one we have. That's what this war is about." She stood up and held out her hand. "Welcome to the Israeli Army, ex Sergeant Lonnergan. We'll start you as a private. Maybe this time you'll make it to general if your superstitions don't get in your way."
Outside her office Casca wanted to kick himself. Dammit, the bitch dismissed me. Just when I thought I might have been getting to her. Damn.
The cultural liaison officer issued the new recruits chits against their first month's pay so that they could clear their bills before they left the country.
In exchange they handed over their passports. Normal practice. Mercenaries are always in debt when they join up. Under any other circumstances recruitment could be a real problem.
Moynihan's bar tab astounded the Israeli. He could scarcely believe. a man could drink so much. He was even more astonished when he inquired about Tommy's other debts.
"What else would I owe money for?" Tommy asked in genuine puzzlement. "Girls don't give credit."
They had to report back by six P.M. to the safe house, an old, private guesthouse in the hills on the edge of the city.
Monynihan had no business to attend to other than his bar tab, and spent the whole afternoon at the House of Glee. He was raucously drunk when he made it to the safe house and became much more raucous when the woman guard frisked him and impounded his bottle of whiskey. He was not at all mollified by her assurances that it would be waiting for him when he returned from the war.
The half heard trill of a whistle penetrated Casca's dream of beautiful wide eyes. "Well, I've
had worse awakenings," he mumbled to Harry Russell in the next bunk. "Or am I still dreaming?"
Harry followed his gaze to the doorway, where a uniformed figure stood dimly lit by the almost risen sun. "No," he said, "I think this corporal is real."
The corporal left them in no further doubt as she blew a second blast on her whistle. "On your feet fellows," her cheerful voice filled the hut. "This is the Israeli Army. We start the day with P.T., then ablutions, then breakfast. Parade in ten. Roll out." She was gone. The whistle shrilled in another doorway.
"I knew it would come to this," Moynihan groaned as his feet hit the floor. "My ole mither always told me never to take money from strangers. P.T. she says, and not so much as a noggin of brandy to get the heart started."
The P.T. parade wasn't all that bad. Five push ups, five deep squats, five sit ups, five chin ups, a hundred steps running on the spot, five lifts on the parallel bars, five backbends, five touch toes. It went on and on. None of it too tough or too difficult, but all of it just a little more demanding than anyone had expected to encounter before they were even in uniform.
Only Harry Russell enjoyed it. "Just about what I needed," he panted when the interminable series came to an end. I've been considering getting around to a bit of exercise for a while now."
"So have I," grunted Moynihan from where he lay exhausted on the grass. "And with any luck, I'll get a bit more time to think on it."
"Don't count on it," the cheerful corporal interrupted his lament. "After breakfast we double the dose. This afternoon we treble it. Tomorrow–"
"Don't tell me," Moynihan groaned, "I'd like to enjoy the suspense."
"And what's the idea of women PTIs anyway?" Moynihan demanded as she walked away.
"I think it's quite an improvement," Harry Russell said, admiring the corporal's trim, athletic figure as her shapely butt wiggled away from them.
"Yeah," agreed Billy Glennon, "and, after all, about half of the Israeli Army is women anyway."
"Wha-a-at?" shouted Moynihan. "Nobody told me that." "What difference does it make?" Russell asked.
"A bloody big difference. That's all it would have taken for me to join the Arabs."
"Since when are you a woman hater?"
"I don't hate 'em, I love 'em. But how the hell can I make a pass at a corporal? She outranks me."
"Make sergeant," Russell laughed.
CHAPTER THREE
The aging Lockheed Electra put them down at Israel's Lod Airport where they were met by blue and white Renault buses with blacked out windows. Dawn was just breaking, and through the darkened windows Casca could barely make out the glint of sunlight on some parked military planes, a lot of planes. He could not see their shapes, but the bus was moving pretty fast, and the reflections danced outside the windows for several minutes. Quite a few planes. Good. He sat back and relaxed. Plenty of air cover. Very comforting.
Tommy Moynihan had a small radio pressed to his ear around the clock and knew every published detail of the situation. "The United Arab Republic", he informed Casca, "has at least five hundred combat aircraft, mainly Russian built MiG 21's and Tupolev 16's, the biggest bombers in the world."
"Oh great," Billy Glennon groaned.
"Can they fly them, do you know?" Casca asked.
"Yeah, it seems they can," Tommy answered. "No combat experience, but really intensive training by crack Russian pilots, both in Russia and here."
"And what have we got?" Wardi Nathan asked.
"A lot less, and a lot smaller. A couple hundred French built Mystere fighters, some French Vautour bombers, and some assorted old British and American planes less than four hundred all told."
"Five to four against," muttered Glennon. "Well, I've backed a few horses that've won at those odds."
"What about the Israeli pilots?" Casca asked.
"No combat experience, and no special training," Tommy answered.
"Mmm. Well, I guess we'll know soon enough. Is it right about Moshe Dayan?"
"Yeah," Tommy answered, "the BBC confirmed it last night. The Israeli government swallowed its pride and appointed him Minister of Defense, even though he's still the main opposition leader in the Knesset, their parliament."
"Well, he sure did a good job in 'fifty six," said Harry Russell. "He was a commander in the field, wasn't he?"
"Commander in Chief," somebody said.
"That where he lost his eye?" another voice asked.
"No, that happened when he was a terrorist working for the British," came an answer from further down the bus. "Stern Gang, was he?"
"No, Plugo Machaz – Striking Companies in English," said Harry Russell. "The Brits formed them to operate behind Rommel's lines. They recruited them from the Haganah, an old Jewish terrorist group from the twenties that specialized in raiding Arab villages. The Brits let a lot of IRA boyohs out of Dartmoor to train them." He chuckled. "But the Paddys taught 'em a few tricks the Brits hadn't counted on, and after the Germans left, Dayan concentrated on killing British policemen and detonating bombs in the bazaars of Jerusalem. They made the Stern Gang look like Boy Scouts."
"True," said somebody else, "but by the time Dayan lost his eye, the Haganah had become this army we're in now. During the War of Independence in 'forty eight a mortar burst knocked his eye out with his own binoculars while he was watching a distant battle."
"Something I've always wanted to do," Moynihan mused.
"What? Get an eye knocked out?"
"No, stupid. Watch a battle from a distance."
The bus took them to a camp guarded by the most ragtag military any of them had ever seen. No two uniforms were anything alike. Soldiers seemed to wear whatever they liked, especially in headgear, which ranged from military caps and steel helmets to turbans and straw hats. Nowhere did they see a pair of polished boots.
A few hours later they had been fed, outfitted, armed, and relaxing on comfortable bunks in a Quonset hut, listening to Israeli pop music on Moynihan's little radio. The huge Billy Glennon was mightily pleased with his uniform, and showed it off to his comrades, modeling it like a mannequin.
"First bloody army I've been in where a uniform went anywhere near fitting me."
"Me too," agreed the diminutive Moynihan. "My father always told me if I ever could afford it to go to a Jewish tailor. I'm about half a tailor meself, I've taken up so many pairs of army pants."
Harry Russell was delighted with the food. "They might call it goulash," he said happily, "but in my book it's damn good Irish stew with some peppers in it."
They were all impressed with their arms and equipment. They were all brand new, plentiful, and the best of their kind. Casca had just dismantled his Kalashnikov rifle for an unnecessary but ritual cleaning when the door opened and a dark, hawk nosed, Arabic looking man entered the hut. The five were on their feet in an instant. They didn't need to think about it or rationalize it. The three horizontal white stripes on his upper sleeve said that he was a samal, a sergeant, and that was enough. They had all been sergeants at some time, and expected to be so again, maybe in this army. If this guy should turn out to be an asshole and try to make his rank work just for himself, well there were ways to handle that. For now he had their respect.
"Are any of you men Jewish?" he asked in Hebrew.
The others looked confused, but Casca had learned this language when it had been the common tongue of the people of the Roman territory called Judea, and he had been serving under the Procurator Pontius Pilate. He answered for the group: "All of us."
"Cut the crap," the sergeant snapped in Brooklyn accented English, "and stand at ease. I ain't the United Nations I'm your sergeant, and I want to know the truth. So far I ain't got a single kike in my outfit."
"Ye've got three Micks, a sort of a Dago with a Mick name, and a Maori," Moynihan told him.
"And what the hell is a Maori?" the sergeant asked, looking at Wardi.
"I'm a Maori," Wardi said. "We come from some islands in the South Pacific that you cal
l New Zealand. My mother's ancestors sailed there from Raratonga and ate up the local population, the Morioris. My last name is Nathan, so maybe you can guess where my grandfather's ancestors came from."
"Well, you might be just what this army needs. But I don't know if Arabs are good to eat. Nathan eh? Well, I guess that means I've got one half kike now."
"And what might ye be yourself?" Harry Russell asked quietly.
"I'm a Yid. But I'm as much a stranger here as any of you."
"What's the word?" Casca asked him.
"We could be in action today," was the laconic reply. "Tomorrow for sure." He turned on his heel and left the hut.
"A mine of bleedin' information, ain't he?" Moynihan hissed after him.
"He must be joking about today," Russell mused. "The Jews surely wouldn't start a war on their Sabbath, would they?"
Billy Glennon shrugged. "Could be a smart move."
"Nah, they'd never do it," said Moynihan. "It'd sure be smart, but it'd be sacrilegious, and no Jew would do that."
"Where d'ye think the sarge did his soldiering?" Billy Glennon wondered.
"The 'Nam, I reckon," Harry answered, "but he's damned young. Must have been wounded out pretty bad or he'd still be there."
"He's got both his arms and legs and all his eyes and ears," came from Moynihan. "I hope he's got his balls."
"Maybe he's new to the game," said Glennon. "A different twist that'd be rookie sergeants and veteran privates."
"If that's the case, I'm off to join the Arabs," Nathan declared, and everybody laughed.
By nightfall they were none the wiser, but the hut had filled up.
David Levy, a fat Zionist from New York, had been in Vietnam. He threw his kit on his bunk and looked around in disgust. "Only a year ago I swore I would never set foot in a military camp again in my life, and already my politics have got me into another war." He turned to Casca. "What brings you into it?"
"Money." Casca laughed. "Makes more sense than politics."