by Izzy Ezagui
By the time I manage to stretch and drag on my boots, the line to the bathroom loops around the corner. Some recruits are paired up two and three per urinal. That's when I discover the term “crossing swords.” In front of the sinks is a tangle of flying elbows, razors, and toothbrushes.
Only half of us reach the courtyard with enough time to start forming up. One overeager recruit counts down the remaining seconds. “Disappointing,” comes the soft voice.
I don't dare lift my head to see who's spoken.
“What. A. Terrible. Disappointment.”
Here we go, I think. This commander is straight out of Central Casting, and he's about to rip off our heads and piss down our necks. But the harangue never comes. “Four minutes. Out of uniform, back in formation.” The order arrives without emotion. “Tzeh” (Go).
Pandemonium erupts in direct opposition to the commander's unaffected delivery. We charge into the barracks all flailing and stepping on top of each other. Rifle-strapped commanders line the perimeter in evenly spaced intervals, each in the black beret I recognize as the signature of the armored division. So our new superiors are tank commanders. “Two minutes,” the man in charge says impassively. “Move.”
I catch a glimpse of the guy while my limbs are all twisted in my half-on uniform—a redhead sporting Oakleys and a trimmed ginger beard. Hold on—is the commander actually wearing Reeboks?
Sergeant Sneakers keeps up at this drill for the better part of the morning, and, after a decent buffet-style lunch, he splits us up into our assigned squads for the following three weeks.
David, Simon, and I are all from Florida. Noam, our fourth American, grew up in Los Angeles. Stav and Alex make up the Russian contingent. Snape is our South African; Ori, our Aussie, and there are two Frenchies who shield themselves from the rest of the UN with cigarette smoke.
“Thirty seconds. Form two straight lines in the courtyard. Tzeh.” It's the same low voice that woke us all up. Now I'm marching at a fast clip behind the owner of that voice. He's short, not very muscular, and the stems of his glasses are poking out from behind his ears. He has the closest thing to a bowl cut one could get without breaking any hair-length regulations. We're being led by a total nerd.
“Form a chet,” he orders, once we reach a clearing splotched with weeds. We shift into the IDF's most commonly used formation—a square missing one of its walls. Commander Bowl-Cut takes up a position facing us from the open side. He shifts his M16 so that it rests against his waist. It forms a kind of barrier between us and him. “I am Commander Natan. For the next three weeks you are under my charge.” That voice: As quiet as Sergeant Sneakers. But is that kindness underneath? “I'm going to do whatever it takes to ready you recruits for basic training alongside the Israelis. You, in turn, will do whatever it takes to succeed.”
The rest of his speech is probably poetic and soulfully uplifting despite its atonality, but I can't understand much—should have paid a little more attention in Hebrew class. Yet his demeanor somehow comforts me. Whereas Sergeant Sneakers sounds aloof, this guy sounds like he could be your older brother encouraging you—albeit without much emotion.
Nothing about the next two weeks is comforting or encouraging. Every day, we sprint from one side of base to the other, double-time. Then we stand at attention for twenty minutes under a punishing sun, all gasping for oxygen. Then push-ups. More push-ups. If your palms are not indented with impressions of the asphalt, you're not doing enough push-ups. But Bowl-Cut's worst form of torture—one that, soon after our tenure, will be banned by most units in the IDF—is the universally reviled “second position.” Sort of like a frozen push-up. As in, the “up” part of the push-up. And hold for…well, let's see how long you can hold. Ass level with back. One minute is brutal. At two, your whole body's bawling for relief. Three's sadistic. Most recruits don't make it past two.
If I ever become a commander, I'll never do this to my men.
So I have revised my initial “nerd” diagnosis of Bowl-Cut. He's a ninja disguised as a pencil pusher. Always on an evenly detached keel. Yet his words—those I can understand—are always motivational. It's obvious he aims to cut off our clumsy edges, to sharpen us like the points of a spear. Once, I catch him smiling at our formation. He's always there for us, until the day he isn't.
One night, a week before the end of Camp Michve, some commander with a minor speech impediment wakes us up in the middle of the night to form up on the parade grounds. Seems a terrorist attack has unfolded at a yeshiva in Jerusalem. Eight young boys are slain, and eleven injured. Only a specific breed of Russian recruit remains unmoved by this devastating news. This is why we're here, after all. To prevent this kind of thing from happening. To defend the innocent. After the announcement, those Russians rotate on the pull-up bars with cigarettes dangling from their lips. The rest of us are broken. I can't help thinking that Commander Bowl-Cut would know exactly what to say, how to comfort us during the lowest point of our neophyte service. Where are you, sir?
The next day, a full day since Lieutenant Lisp has for some reason replaced Commander Bowl-Cut, we're all sitting on our bunks.
David walks over to Simon's bunk and holds up the morning paper. “What am I looking at, bro?”
“Here,” Simon points. “Who does that remind you of?”
I roll off my cot and join them. Simon's pointing at a collage of images on the front page—headshots of the boys murdered the previous day. Names and ages are printed beneath each photo. One of them is a fifteen-year-old kid with geeky glasses and a bowl cut. I see the surname Natan. Our commander lost his baby brother yesterday. There's nothing I want more right now than to comfort him, to tell him how sorry I am. But I fear I won't see him again. And I won't, for nearly four long years.
ELBOW GREASE
March 2010. It's impossible to get across how strongly these Givati officers and soldiers want their one-armed comrade to succeed. By day three, my roommates are insisting we all climb rope together before each meal to get me up to speed. There's a set of three practice ropes set up right in front of the mess hall so that the commanders have the option of abusing their recruits before grub. So the three of us climb—they both put a hand behind their back for unity, which is the kind of thing that could make a one-armed soldier want to weep. By the third day, we get so into this workout that, by the time we finish and look around, we see lines of recruits and commanders just staring at us with mouths open, wondering what the hell is going on. I find this attention embarrassing. But you can bet a bunch of awe-struck, green recruits eyeing you is an excellent motivator.
How does a one-armed guy climb rope? Most soldiers assume you have to rely entirely on upper-body strength for rope climbing, but with Ofir's help, and all the practice with the deadly Stooges, I discover that's not true. The arms are only placeholders. You have to let the legs do all the heavy lifting. The legs and core.
In about two weeks, I've gained the strength and technique I need to beat the rope. It isn't pretty, but it gets the job done.
OUT ON A LIMB
March 2008. In the middle of my three-week pre-basic training, I get the first opportunity to try out for a special unit. It's all I've been able to think about since deciding to join up, all Jonny, my Canadian friend and fellow volunteer, ever hears from me over the phone. They haven't assigned us our battalions yet, but I know exactly where I'm going to wind up. I'm gunning for Tzanhanim—the paratroopers. I will wear the red beret. If I had a tail, I'd be wagging it right now.
I know this base, Bakum, because I've been here before. All new recruits get processed through the IDF Induction Center at Bakum. No challenge there. But this time will be an actual test.
Step one: Medical clearance. Shouldn't have any problems there. The line is long. One in five of these applicants won't make it. At my turn, the medic shoves a digital thermometer into my ear canal before I can even say howdy. I smile wide and thank all deities for not having to answer questions. Can't have a paratrooper confusi
ng “jump” with “hump.” I hear a beep inside my skull, and the young soldier scribbles something on my form before waiving me through to see the doctor.
It's a little, shabby room with a card table and two metal chairs. The doctor's scrawny and so fantastically bald I can see the reflection of my dog tags glinting off his forehead. “Shalom, sir.” Dr. Dome motions me to sit. I sit. I smile so wide it hurts. Can't help it. I'm gonna be leaping out of C-130s, helicopters, and who knows what fancy, secret, high-tech planes. All the units are named after snakes. Will I wind up a cobra? A viper? A flying serpent?
Dr. Dome looks down at the form. He frowns, furrows his brows. “You won't be participating in today's Gibush.” He stamps my sheet and hands it back to me. Calls, “Next.”
Another recruit walks in, but I don't budge.
“I'm sorry. What? No tryouts?”
“Your temperature is a point above the maximum allowance. You can't participate in today's test.”
“But…what does that mean?”
“It means, Recruit, that you need to vacate my office. You cannot, and will not, test today in the Gibush.” Another one with the emotions of an automaton.
I'm absolutely about to vomit. I stand up on shaky legs. I shove past the next applicant and make a break for the door. Gotta drink. One degree? Come on, I can nudge that down with just a wee bit of water. Right? So I snag a canteen from a nearby pile and fill it so it makes a convex surface over the brim. Then guzzle.
Now back to the medic, my stomach sloshing. Only a few stragglers left. I wave my sheet in front of his face. “I can only test an applicant once.”
“Yeah. I know, I get that. I know there's rules. Of course you have to obey—look, please.” I communicate all of this in a mishmash of Hebrew, English, Yiddish, and interpretive dance. “You need to help me. This is my dream. This is why I came here from America. You know this is the only possible day I'll ever have to test.”
“All right. Keep your pants on.” He casts a few sidelong glances and sticks the device back in my ear. I shut my eyes. I pray a little. “And…” He pauses to scratch a new set of numbers onto the form, “You're good to go. Just see the doctor and you're golden, San Francisco.”
“Miami.”
Back into the doctor's hovel. My head held high, a new skip to my step. I've beaten the system. Maybe I can be an anaconda. Do they have an anaconda unit? “You again.”
“Yep.”
“I mean why you again?”
“Look.” I hand over my form. “Look.”
“Clever,” he says, handing the paper back. “But regulation allows for temperature assessment only once every two days.”
“What does that mean?”
“Do you have special needs, Recruit? It's simple. Have two days passed since you last sat in that chair?” He pauses for effect. “Exactly. Next.”
Another enlistee walks into the room, but—déjà vu—I don't move.
“Recruit, please don't make me call the MPs. It's going to screw up the whole day.”
“Sir, please. Just hear me out. Just for a second.”
The kid behind me shuffles his paper and his boots.
“I come from—I came all the way—just to be a paratrooper. That's it, sir. My entire dream. I beg you, please don't crush my hopes.”
Surely the middle-aged doctor is tired of petty bureaucracy, pushing papers. Surely he understands the glory, the patriotic—
His chair screeches as he gets up, leans forward, motions me closer with a finger. “If you're not out of this office in the next five seconds, you're heading to the brig. So…?”
Somehow I muster the Mole's death stare, turn on my heels, and head out of Dr. Dome—no, Dr. Doom's—office.
All is lost.
No one wants to see a grown man, in uniform, no less, blithering on the sidewalk, but I can't stop the tears.
I failed. I haven't even begun, and I've already failed.
A SHOT IN THE ARM
Shoogy spends our first day on the range this April 2010 making me do Pazastz'tot, transitioning directly into having me load the rifle. It isn't working. The bullets won't catch properly in the chamber. Meanwhile, I'm pulverizing my only remaining ally—my right arm. After the second day of such abuse, I wake up and my remaining limb is swollen, stiff. I'm forced to wear a sling for a few days. It's nearly impossible to wipe my ass. The base doctor orders Shoogy to ease up on me. She doesn't. I don't want her to. So it's just her and me alone on the range, killing ourselves for my cause. Nothing around us for miles. It's a weird kind of heaven. Infected by Phantom, of course, who's lording over us both like the Mad King, with a brand new throne of human sinew and bone.
Day after day we drill, the three of us. Shoogy never lets up. So I never give up. If at any point she said, “Listen, Izzy. Give yourself a break. You're disabled. You're good enough, all things considered,” I'd lose respect for her—and myself.
She gives me a practice test after a week.
Click, click, click—I'm pulling the trigger, if only to vent my frustration.
“Work already, damn it!” I yell at the Israeli-designed weapon in my grasp. The Tavor jams every time I load a bullet into the chamber, because I still can't hold the gun steady with one damn arm. What remains of my left bicep hangs limply from my shoulder, my sixteen-month-old battle buddy.
I've hunkered down in the shooting range every day for a week trying to prove my worth as a combat soldier. But now that idea's sloshing around my mouth like expired milk.
You do know, Izzy, that if you don't come up with a solution to this rifle jam soon, brass are going to strangle your aspirations to keep wearing that uniform. They'll bury your attempts at combat status farther below ground than our rotting left arm.
Instead of lingering on this painful truth, I kneel—lowering my knee until it grinds against the cement slab of the firing line. My troublesome weapon rests atop my flattened right thigh, barrel facing three human-shaped targets, fifty meters away.
I'm not giving up, I inform the three wise men and my gun. “Eventually you'll fire, and you'll fire straight.”
Spent 5.56mm cartridges left behind by previous marksmen litter the range. They glint in the sun and force me to squint. These shells taunt me. They mock my inability to add to their golden ranks, the way any worthy soldier could.
Pain jags through my phantom arm when fingers that no longer exist try to cross for good luck. Old habits die hard, and this one keeps coming back to haunt me like a ghost.
I've learned to compartmentalize the pain, to drown out the Phantom—most of the time. So I focus on cocking the rifle. I slide the bolt backward in the smoothest possible motion I can muster. When I glance down, I see failure glaring back at me through a thin slit by the bolt. That means the bullet didn't catch in the chamber. Yet another ballistic miscarriage. I cautiously find my feet and brush the dirt from my fatigues.
Izzy. Seriously. How on Earth are you ever gonna hold that thing in place? What were you thinking? A one-armed sharpshooter? Really?
This isn't the way it was five weeks into basic training when we started rifle drills. Back then, after six days of intense shooting practice and firefight scenarios, the range instructors awarded just two exemplary soldiers with a gift. I was one of those guys. Another recruit and I were allowed to shoot five bullets at a can of Loof (a wet canned meat product commonly called “Kosher Spam,” second only to Hezbollah fighters in terms of enemies of the state). I hit it all five times, all dead center. At one hundred fifty meters. “Looks like we know who we're sending to sniper school.” I probably would have become a sniper, had we not been called so soon to recoup Rosner's body. Operation Cast Lead cast a pall over all kinds of plans.
Now I see that Phantom's right. Until I figure out how to load without jerking the weapon, it simply won't fire. He whines a long while, and to appease him, I rub what's left of my left arm.
How far am I willing to go? How much pain is this really worth? The solution co
mes as I knead above where my elbow used to bend, and when it does, I know it's official. I've gone insane.
But I need to try. I must. I've got to use the pain, make Phantom my bitch.
Back to a crouch. Rifle resting atop my straightened thigh. This time, I stare out past the three cardboard cutouts, past the sandy ranges, and into the mountains that jut out behind them. I let my vision blur.
The answers aren't out there, Izzy.
No. You're the answer. I slide a magazine into the Tavor's loading port. My gaze remains unfocused. I distance myself from the agony I'm about to inflict.
If you do this, I'll scream. I swear to God, I'll scream.
I lower my left shoulder to steady the rifle. I let the warmth of my amputation collide with the cool plastic of the weapon. Then the remainder of my arm compresses against it. Phantom's squealing. The ensuing pressure crushes my entire being like a grape under a gorilla's foot.
But I'm committed now. I press deeper into the gun—harder—and my vision darkens. My sight starts to tunnel through the anguish. The force is unbearable, but I reach forward before I faint. And, with my right hand, pull the loader back as roughly as possible while fully supporting the weapon.
My left shoulder springs upward as soon as it's done. The pain lingers, but the darkness that smothered me retreats for the time being. I lift the Tavor to the rivet between my right pectoral and shoulder, and aim at the closest of the paper terrorists.
Sweet, sweet music soothes my eardrums: a drumbeat of discharging rounds. A symphony of lead tearing through the air. I continue firing until the clip is empty of all twenty-nine bullets. And not until the explosions die down and the report follows do I realize that I'm roaring loud enough to lose my voice and probably leave me rasping for days. How do you out-ghost your Phantom? You can't. But if he screams, you can scream back, louder, right in his face, and drown him out. You have to use whatever you've got. If what you've got is pain, then bring on the pain.
I catch my breath and load a fresh magazine. I put pain to shame. Maybe I'll eat a bullet later, but for now I've got to bite it. I again press roughly with my tortured limb. Again my vision darkens. Again I ignore that suffocating pressure that constricts my chest. Forcing myself to hold on, I push and I push. Through the nothingness I flail until something catches on the other side.