Start-up Nation

by Dan Senor, Saul Singer

  Battlefield Entrepreneurs

  The Israeli tank commander who has fought in one of the Syrian wars is the best engineering executive in the world. The tank commanders are operationally the best, and they are extremely detail oriented. This is based on twenty years of experience—working with them and observing them.

  —ERIC SCHMIDT

  ON OCTOBER 6, 1973, as the entire nation was shut down for the holiest day of the Jewish year, the armies of Egypt and Syria launched the Yom Kippur War with a massive surprise attack. Within hours, Egyptian forces breached Israel’s defensive line along the Suez Canal. Egyptian infantry had already overrun the tank emplacements to which Israeli armored forces were supposed to race in case of attack, and hundreds of enemy tanks were moving forward behind this initial thrust.

  It was just six years after Israel’s greatest military victory, the Six-Day War, an improbable campaign that captured the imagination of the entire world. Just before that war, in 1967, it looked like the nineteen-year-old Jewish state would be crushed by Arab armies poised to invade on every front. Then, in six days of battle, Israel simultaneously defeated the Egyptian, Jordanian, and Syrian forces and expanded its borders by taking the Golan Heights from Syria, the West Bank and East Jerusalem from Jordan, and the Gaza Strip and Sinai Peninsula from Egypt.

  All this gave Israelis a sense of invincibility. Afterward, no one could imagine the Arab states risking another all-out attack. Even in the military, the sense was that if the Arabs dared attack, Israel would vanquish their armies as quickly as it had in 1967.

  So on that October day in 1973, Israel was not prepared for war. The thin string of Israeli forts facing the Egyptians across the Suez Canal was no match for the overwhelming Egyptian invasion. Behind the destroyed front line, three Israeli tank brigades stood between the advancing Egyptian army and the Israeli heartland. Only one was stationed close to the front.

  That brigade, which was supposed to defend a 120-mile front with just fifty-six tanks, was commanded by Colonel Amnon Reshef. As he raced with his men to engage the invading Egyptians, Reshef saw his tanks getting hit one after another. But there were no Egyptian enemy tanks or antitank guns in sight. What sort of device was obliterating his men?

  At first he thought the tanks were being hit by rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs), the classic handheld antitank weapon used by infantry forces. Reshef and his men pulled back a bit, as they had been trained, so as to be out of the short range of the RPGs. But the tanks kept exploding. The Israelis realized they were being hit by something else—something seemingly invisible.

  As the battle raged, a clue emerged. The tank operators who survived a missile hit reported to the others that they’d seen nothing, but those next to them mentioned having seen a red light moving toward the targeted tanks. Wires were found on the ground leading to stricken Israeli tanks. The commanders had discovered Egypt’s secret weapon: the Sagger.

  Designed by Sergei Pavlovich Nepobedimyi, whose last name literally means “undefeatable” in Russian, the Sagger was created in 1960. The new weapon had initially been provided to Warsaw Pact countries, but it was first put to sustained use in combat by the Egyptian and Syrian armies during the Yom Kippur War. The IDF’s account of its own losses on both the southern and northern fronts was 400 tanks destroyed and 600 disabled but returned to battle after repairs. Of the Sinai division’s 290 tanks, 180 were knocked out the first day. The blow to the IDF’s aura of invincibility was substantial. About half of the losses came from RPGs, the other half from the Sagger.

  The Sagger was a wire-guided missile that could be fired by a single soldier lying on the ground. Its range—the distance from which it could hit and destroy a tank—was 3,000 meters (or 1.86 miles), ten times that of an RPG. The Sagger was also far more powerful.1

  Each shooter could work alone and did not even need a bush to hide behind—a shallow depression in the desert sand would do. A shooter had only to fire in the direction of a tank and use a joystick to guide the red light at the back of the missile. So long as the soldier could see the red light, the wire that remained connected to the missile would allow him to guide it accurately and at great distance into the target.2

  Israeli intelligence knew about the Saggers before the war, and had even encountered them in Egyptian cross-border attacks during the War of Attrition, which began just after the 1967 war. But the top brass thought the Saggers were merely another antitank weapon, not qualitatively different from what they had successfully contended with in the 1967 war. Thus, in their view, doctrines to oppose them already existed, and nothing was developed to specifically address the Sagger threat.

  Reshef and his men had to discover for themselves what type of weapon was hitting them and how to cope with it, all in the heat of battle.

  Drawing on the men’s reports, Reshef’s remaining officers realized that the Saggers had some weaknesses: they flew relatively slowly, and they depended on the shooter’s retaining eye contact with the Israeli tank. So the Israelis devised a new doctrine: when any tank saw a red light, all would begin moving randomly while firing in the direction of the unseen shooter.

  The dust kicked up by the moving tanks would obscure the shooter’s line of sight to the missile’s deadly red light, and the return fire might also prevent the shooter from keeping his eye on the light.

  This brand-new doctrine proved successful, and after the war it was eventually adopted by NATO forces. It had not been honed over years of gaming exercises in war colleges or prescribed out of an operations manual; it had been improvised by soldiers at the front.

  As usual in the Israeli military, the tactical innovation came from the bottom up—from individual tank commanders and their officers. It probably never occurred to these soldiers that they should ask their higher-ups to solve the problem, or that they might not have the authority to act on their own. Nor did they see anything strange in their taking responsibility for inventing, adopting, and disseminating new tactics in real time, on the fly.

  Yet what these soldiers were doing was strange. If they had been working in a multinational company or in any number of other armies, they might not have done such things, at least not on their own. As historian Michael Oren, who served in the IDF as a liaison to other militaries, put it, “The Israeli lieutenant probably has greater command decision latitude than his counterpart in any army in the world.”3

  This latitude, evidenced in the corporate culture we examined in the previous chapter, is just as prevalent, if not more so, in the Israeli military. Normally, when one thinks of military culture, one thinks of strict hierarchies, unwavering obedience to superiors, and an acceptance of the fact that each soldier is but a small, uninformed cog in a big wheel. But the IDF doesn’t fit that description. And in Israel pretty much everyone serves in the military, where its culture is worked into Israel’s citizens over a compulsory two- to three-year service.

  The IDF’s downward delegation of responsibility is both by necessity and by design. “All militaries claim to value improvisation: read what the Chinese, French, or British militaries say—they all talk about improvisation. But the words don’t tell you anything,” said Edward Luttwak, a military historian and strategist who wrote The Pentagon and the Art of War and co-wrote The Israeli Army. “You have to look at structure.”4

  To make his point, Luttwak began rattling off the ratios of officers to enlisted personnel in militaries around the world, ending with Israel, whose military pyramid is exceptionally narrow at the top. “The IDF is deliberately understaffed at senior levels. It means that there are fewer senior officers to issue commands,” says Luttwak. “Fewer senior officials means more individual initiative at the lower ranks.”

  Luttwak points out that the Israeli army has very few colonels and an abundance of lieutenants. The ratio of senior officers to combat troops in the U.S. Army is 1 to 5; in the IDF, it’s 1 to 9. The same is true in the Israeli Air Force (IAF), which, though larger than French and British air forces, has few
er senior officers. The IAF is headed by a two-star general, a lower rank than is typical in other Western militaries.

  For the United States, the more top-heavy approach may well be necessary; after all, the U.S. military is much larger, fights its wars as far as eight thousand miles from home, and faces the unique logistical and command challenges of deploying over multiple continents.

  Yet regardless of whether each force is the right size and structure for the tasks it faces, the fact that the IDF is lighter at the top has important consequences. The benefit was illuminated for us by Gilad Farhi, a thirty-year-old major in the IDF. His career path was fairly typical: from a soldier in a commando unit at age eighteen, to commanding an infantry platoon, then a company, he was next appointed a spokesman of the Southern Command. After that he became the deputy commander of Haruv, an infantry battalion. Now he is the commander of an incoming class of one of the IDF’s most recent infantry regiments.

  We met him at a base on a barren edge of the Jordan Valley. As he strode toward us, neither his youth nor his attire (a rumpled standard-issue infantry uniform) would have pegged him as commander of the base. We interviewed him the day before his new class of recruits was to arrive. For the next seven months, Farhi would be in charge of basic training for 650 soldiers, most of them fresh out of high school, plus about 120 officers, squad commanders, sergeants, and administrative staff.5

  “The most interesting people here are the company commanders,” Farhi told us. “They are absolutely amazing people. These are kids—the company commanders are twenty-three. Each of them is in charge of one hundred soldiers and twenty officers and sergeants, three vehicles. Add it up and that means a hundred and twenty rifles, machine guns, bombs, grenades, mines, whatever. Everything. Tremendous responsibility.”

  Company commander is also the lowest rank that must take responsibility for a territory. As Farhi put it, “If a terrorist infiltrates that area, there’s a company commander whose name is on it. Tell me how many twenty-three-year-olds elsewhere in the world live with that kind of pressure.”

  Farhi illustrated a fairly typical challenge facing these twenty-three-year-olds. During an operation in the West Bank city of Nablus, one of Farhi’s companies had an injured soldier trapped in a house held by a terrorist. The company commander had three tools at his disposal: an attack dog, his soldiers, and a bulldozer.

  If he sent the soldiers in, there was a high risk of additional casualties. And if he sent the bulldozer to destroy the house, this would risk harming the injured soldier.

  To further complicate matters, the house shared a wall with a Palestinian school, and children and teachers were still inside. From the roof of the school, journalists were documenting the whole scene. The terrorist, meanwhile, was shooting at both the Israeli forces and the journalists.

  Throughout much of the standoff, the company commander was on his own. Farhi could have tried to take charge from afar, but he knew he had to give his subordinate latitude: “There were an infinite number of dilemmas there for the commander. And there wasn’t a textbook solution.” The soldiers managed to rescue the injured soldier, but the terrorist remained inside. The commander knew that the school staff was afraid to evacuate the school, despite the danger, because they did not want to be branded “collaborators” by the terrorists. And he knew that the journalists would not leave the roof of the school, because they didn’t want to miss breaking news. The commander’s solution: empty the school using smoke grenades.

  Once the students, teachers, and journalists had been safely evacuated, the commander decided it was safe to send in the bulldozer to drive the terrorist out of the adjacent building. Once the bulldozer began biting into the house, the commander unleashed the dog to neutralize the terrorist. But while the bulldozer was knocking down the house, another terrorist the Israelis didn’t know about came out of the school next door. The soldiers outside shot and killed this second terrorist. The entire operation took four hours. “This twenty-three-year-old commander was alone for most of the four hours until I got there,” Farhi told us.

  “After an event like that, the company commander goes back to the base and his soldiers look at him differently,” Farhi continued. “And he himself is different. He is on the line—responsible for the lives of a lot of people: his soldiers, Palestinian schoolchildren, journalists. Look, he didn’t conquer Eastern Europe, but he had to come up with a creative solution to a very complex situation. And he is only twenty-three years old.”

  We then heard from a brigadier general about Yossi Klein, a twenty-year-old helicopter pilot in the 2006 Lebanon war. He was ordered to evacuate a wounded soldier from deep in southern Lebanon. When he piloted his chopper to the battlefield, the wounded soldier lay on a stretcher surrounded by a dense overgrowth of bushes that prevented the helicopter from landing or hovering close enough to the ground to pull the stretcher on board.6

  There were no manuals on how to deal with such a situation, but if there had been, they would not have recommended what Klein did. He used the tail rotor of his helicopter like a flying lawn mower to chop down the foliage. At any point, the rotor could have broken off, sending the helicopter crashing into the ground. But Klein succeeded in trimming the bushes enough so that, by hovering close to the ground, he could pick up the wounded soldier. The soldier was rushed to the hospital in Israel and his life was saved.

  Speaking of the company commanders who served under him, Farhi asked, “How many of their peers in their junior year in colleges have been tested in such a way? . . . How do you train and mature a twenty-year-old to shoulder such responsibility?”

  The degree to which authority devolves to some of the most junior members of the military has at times surprised even Israeli leaders. In 1974, during the first premiership of Yitzhak Rabin, a young female soldier from the IDF’s Unit 8200—the same unit in which the founders of Fraud Sciences later served—was kidnapped by terrorists. Major General Aharon Zeevi-Farkash (known as Farkash), who headed the unit—Israel’s parallel to the U.S. National Security Agency—recalled Rabin’s disbelief: “The kidnapped girl was a sergeant. Rabin asked us to provide him an itemization of what she knew. He was worried about the depth of classified information that could be forced out of her. When he saw the briefing paper, Rabin told us we needed an immediate investigation; it’s impossible that a sergeant would know so many secrets that are critical to Israel’s security. How did this happen?”

  Rabin’s reaction was especially surprising since he had been the IDF chief of staff during Israel’s Six-Day War. Farkash continued the story: “So I told him, ‘Mr. Prime Minister, this individual sergeant is not alone. It was not a mistake. All the soldiers in Unit 8200 must know these things because if we limited such information to officers, we simply would not have enough people to get the work done—we don’t have enough officers.’ And in fact, the system was not changed, because it’s impossible for us, given the manpower constraints, to build a different system.”7

  Farkash, who today runs a company that provides innovative security systems for corporate and residential facilities, quipped that compared to the major powers, Israel is missing four “generals”: “general territory, general manpower, general time, and general budget.” But nothing can be done about the shortage of general manpower, Farkash says. “We cannot allocate as many officers as other countries do, so we have sergeants that are doing the work of lieutenant colonels, really.”

  This scarcity of manpower is also responsible for what is perhaps the IDF’s most unusual characteristic: the role of its reserve forces. Unlike in other countries, reserve forces are the backbone of Israel’s military.

  In most militaries, reserve forces are constructed as appendages to the standing army, which is the nation’s main line of defense. Israel, however, is so small and outnumbered by its adversaries that, as was clear from the beginning, no standing army could be large enough to defend against an all-out assault. Shortly after the War of Independence, Israel’s lead
ers decided on a unique reserves-dominated military structure, whereby reservists would not only man whole units but would be commanded by reserve officers as well. Reserve units of other militaries may or may not be commanded by officers from the standing army, but they are given weeks or even months of refresher training before being sent into battle. “No army had relied for the majority of its troops on men who were sent into combat one or two days after their recall,” says Luttwak.

  No one really knew whether Israel’s unique reserve system would work, because it had never been tried. Even today, Israel is the only army in the world to have such a system. As U.S. military historian Fred Kagan explained, “It’s actually a terrible way to manage an army. But the Israelis are excellent at it because they had no other choice.”8

  Israel’s reserve system is not just an example of the country’s innovation; it is also a catalyst for it. Because hierarchy is naturally diminished when taxi drivers can command millionaires and twenty-three-year-olds can train their uncles, the reserve system helps to reinforce that chaotic, antihierarchical ethos that can be found in every aspect of Israeli society, from war room to classroom to boardroom.

  Nati Ron is a lawyer in his civilian life and a lieutenant colonel who commands an army unit in the reserves. “Rank is almost meaningless in the reserves,” he told us, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “A private will tell a general in an exercise, ‘You are doing this wrong, you should do it this way.’ ”9

  Amos Goren, a venture capital investor with Apax Partners in Tel Aviv, agrees. He served full-time in the Israeli commandos for five years and was in the reserves for the next twenty-five years. “During that entire time, I never saluted anybody, ever. And I wasn’t even an officer. I was just a rank-and-file soldier.”10

  Luttwak says that “in the reserve formations, the atmosphere remains resolutely civilian in the midst of all the trappings of military life.”

  This is not to say that soldiers aren’t expected to obey orders. But, as Goren explained to us, “Israeli soldiers are not defined by rank; they are defined by what they are good at.” Or, as Luttwak said, “Orders are given and obeyed in the spirit of men who have a job to do and mean to do it, but the hierarchy of rank is of small importance, especially since it often cuts across sharp differences in age and social status.”