Day of War

by Cliff Graham

  He darted straight ahead, across the short gap between the two armies, and past and through the surprised ranks of Philistines, until he was directly behind their first line. It was so bold a move that the Israelite soldiers believed him slain and began to wail, until at last he emerged between the helmets of their enemies, alone and moving fast.

  The enemy soldiers still faced toward the Israelites, unaware of the break in their ranks. Jonathan was free to dart behind them, severing tendons that crippled their legs forever. He moved so swiftly that none of the Philistines even noticed him, and many fell, clutching their useless legs. He ran hard, ignoring the sweat in his eyes, and swept his blade again and again.

  As he ran, on his left up the slope was the first rank of Philistines he was attacking, and on his right down the slope was the second wave making its way up the mountain. Philistines in the second wave pointed at him and shouted, but he ignored them, yelling and cutting. An arrow flew past his head and buried itself in the back of the Philistine soldier next to him, then another arrow did the same. The archers were firing at him foolishly as he ran among their own men.

  Jonathan’s heart was pounding blood through his veins so hard that he thought it would erupt from his chest. He sliced, bringing down many men without them even being aware of him. A sound penetrated his concentration: the Israelites cheering him. He looked back. The entire left flank of the Philistine assault had been beaten back. Keep moving, don’t stop, need to move, he ordered himself.

  The next wave of assault came, but he was still behind the first rank of Philistines, and the commanders of the Philistine archer regiment had ceased their men from firing. Holding his bloody sword over his head and waving his shield, muscles burning, Jonathan bellowed a war cry to his men, who returned it. They fought harder.

  He turned slightly to the right, down the hill, and before the startled Philistines could react, he burst through the second wave of them, another one-man attack right into the mouth of the monster, calling aloud, calling for the covering, shouting and swinging his sword at any exposed flesh that came in front of him.

  He reached the last of the second wave and shoved through it, feeling a sudden burn as a blade cut across his side. It wasn’t deep, so he ignored it and turned back uphill, toward the forest, and staying behind the second rank of men, starting to run and cut once more. Men fell screaming, and he screamed also.

  His blade moved and flashed. Philistines dropped. Their archers, waiting for their chance, were nevertheless held back by their officers, probably because they saw how thin the ranks of the Israelites were — too thin for archers to be effective.

  Jonathan ran, swung his sword, and stumbled over rocks. His arm ached, but he willed it up again. The fire was coming. He felt it increasing and burning and raging into his body.

  The archers began firing arrows at him again, and he held up his shield, hearing the clanking and pounding against it from the iron tips, and feeling the sweat blur his vision. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

  He drove his sword into the neck of a terrified archer and felt the wash of blood as it sprayed him. It felt warm and good, as it had in the old days. He laughed deliriously. Before he realized it, he had reached the flank of the Philistine line.

  One last man, another archer, stood at the end of the line. Jonathan feinted as the Philistine stabbed wildly with the staff of his bow. Then the Philistine turned and tried to flee, but Jonathan ran up behind him, thrust his sword through the man’s back, and forced it upward. The tip exited the man’s throat. The Philistine seized violently, shaking and coughing blood.

  Jonathan let the man slide off his blade and drop. Battle rage had taken over. He charged up and over rocks to his men, who faced him, shouting.

  The Philistines had ceased their assault for the moment, regrouping after the surprise attack from the rear. Commanders, afraid to lose even more troops to the Hebrew demon warrior, pulled their ranks back and reformed skirmish lines. There was shouting, but for now it was calm on this side of the field.

  He threw the sword to the ground and fell forward, collapsing onto his shield, too tired to look up, letting his face fall into the dirt. Around him were the cheers and shouts and the war cry of his regiment — his men, the regiment he had trained and led and fought with, called out to him. But he lay still, listening to his breath, letting himself heal.

  Gareb had seen Jonathan rush out of the forest, press through the line, and crash directly through the ranks of the Philistines. It was an attack worthy of a madman, and now he shouted alongside the other men in jubilation. There was a man, he thought, and he charged forward. There would be no one left among them at the end of this day to write the song about it, and none of their own people would remember, but it did not matter.

  It would be remembered by the Philistines.

  Eliam struggled to pick up the water again, unable to believe that he could make another trip back up the mountain. Blisters and raw skin covered his hands, and his toes were bloody from striking against rocks. He had no idea how long it had been since the battle started, but he was surprised to see the sun a good distance lower in the sky. It was confusing—how could it have gotten so much lower?

  He cursed the pain in his foot from the arrow that had struck him during his last climb up the mountain for water. He’d managed to break off the shaft, but the head was still buried deep between the bones of his foot.

  And then he was angry—angry that the stupid arrow had managed to fly perfectly toward his foot. It could not have been aimed at his foot, only fired randomly through the air by some lazy Philistine archer, and it had been a perfect shot. Of all the ways to be wounded, he thought, furiously biting down on the broken shaft he had put between his teeth to control the pain.

  He stumbled and fell, dropping the water skin, then watched in horror as the precious liquid disappeared into the sand. He cursed and beat the ground with his fists, then bit down harder on the wooden shaft. He reached down in another effort to loosen the buried arrowhead, but if anything he only pushed it further in. The point had exited through the bottom of his foot, and he could feel it stuck into the sole of his sandal. There was screaming and shouting all around him. He was closer to the lines than he’d thought.

  Eliam rolled over in the sand and let the sweat drip off the bridge of his nose. He hated the screaming of dying men. His foot burned terribly. Men scuffled and fought very close to him. Smoke? Was something burning? He was afraid to look up, but finally did. He saw no fire. But something is burning because I can smell it.

  Suddenly he wanted to run, straight away from this mountainside. He wanted to disappear into the forest and never feel another arrowhead sink into his foot again.

  He sat up. There was the forest, nearby. All he had to do was run. He could reach the spring, he could—

  There were louder shouts. He turned to the right and saw the Israelite line, blurry in the dust, pushing the Philistines back down the slope with the force of higher ground. Eliam coughed and blinked. The Israelites were pushing them back? They were advancing! Not possible.

  The Philistines were pulling back to regroup, and the Israelite troops yelled and thumped their shields with their weapons. For the first time in many days, they sounded … exhilarated. He could sense it in their faces and in their cries. He searched the field desperately to see what was causing it.

  It was Jonathan, staggering back up the hill from behind the Philistine lines, dozens of enemy dead behind him.

  NINETEEN

  David’s troops saw smoke on the horizon when they were still half a day away.

  Some claimed it was a fire in the grasslands, started by herdsmen trying to clear bad ground or a carelessly tended campfire. But Benaiah knew exactly what it was, and through a fog of descending darkness in his mind he sprinted ahead.

  This was just how he had come upon it before. He had approached from the Way of the Sea, weary but eager to see his neglected children and wife, and the smoke had appea
red, and he had run, found the people crying, screaming, fires burning, and smoke filling doorways. He had burst through his door, and there in the corner was Sherizah, shaking, blood on the stones of his entry-way, no daughters.

  And now Benaiah found himself staggering through the burned and broken gates of another city, and he found himself again shouting for Sherizah, calling for her as he stumbled down the alleys and corridors that led to his home. Every building had been burned. There were no people anywhere, all were gone except for the corpses of a few Philistine men, older ones who’d been allowed to stay behind. The flames had died, but smoke poured from every opening and smoldering ash heap.

  The door of Benaiah’s burned but still-standing home stood open as he ran up. He looked for the blood on the stones and realized that he had vomited all over his tunic. He threw aside his weapons, screamed for her, picking his way through his home, kicking away charred logs. Sherizah was not there.

  He fell back through the doorway and lay in the dirt and ash of the street, gasping for breath. Around him, sounding muffled, were the sounds of the army searching the destroyed city of Ziklag for their loved ones. He heard no happy reunions, no shouts of joy. Only the hollow yells of men in despair.

  Benaiah shouted to Yahweh then. He screamed curses and blasphemy and every angry thing he could think of. Twice this had come. Twice Yahweh had abandoned them.

  He let his head roll, weak, feeling the wounds from the lion’s claws inflame with new agony, as if his body had been waiting for his worst moment to remind him he had been cut to pieces.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his sword glint. He stood up and snatched it. He walked to the doorway, propped the hilt of the sword between the entry stones, and prepared to fall on the tip.

  He felt the sword tip prick his chest as he leaned against it. His weight was not yet on it. Just a little harder, just a little further, and it would end. He would descend into Sheol with the others he had slain, the others who had been slain, to where his wife and children were. And even if it was nothing but darkness, at least he would have them to hold, and promise never to leave them again.

  Benaiah leaned against the sword. Sweat fell from his brow and splashed on the blade.

  It was as if something was holding him back.

  He threw himself harder against the blade. The tip pierced his flesh, but not more than a fingerbreadth.

  Something was holding him back. A hand. Benaiah looked behind him.

  It was Keth.

  “Do not do that yet, my friend. Come with me.”

  TWENTY

  Jonathan’s ears rang. He didn’t have the strength even to lift his face from the dirt at first, but as the ringing he heard resolved into laughter and shouting, he willed himself out of the haze and lifted his head up.

  There were his men, all of them, formed into rows across the mountainside, looking away from where he lay near the edge of the forest. A man was clapping his back, and he looked up. Gareb.

  His old armor bearer said, “That was foolish! The most foolish thing I have ever seen, sir. Look at the mess you got us into. The Philistines are reforming their ranks, making them stronger, and they’re going to come with more precision this time.”

  Jonathan looked down the hill and saw that Gareb’s words were true. Leaders of companies and squads were replenishing their ranks with fresh reinforcements and new weapons. What Jonathan had done was indeed foolish beyond compare, for the leader of an army. The commander is never supposed to leave the place where he can best control his troops. Flying through the enemy lines like a hero only caused massed confusion. They would pay for his stupidity and probably lose the flank.

  He sat up and began to tighten his leather. He needed to reassume control and enforce order. There would be no fresh reinforcements to fill their own lines.

  Gareb, still watching him, said in a lower voice so that no one else would hear him, “It was foolish, sir. Violated every law of command and training—and it was exactly what we needed.”

  Jonathan looked up at his friend and saw him smiling. The shouts of the men all around him kept repeating the regimental war cry: “Perhaps Yahweh will be with us! Perhaps Yahweh will be with us!”

  Perhaps Yahweh would be with them. As long as we are with Yahweh.

  He looked at his men. They were warriors. They were here, sticks and all. They had not deserted. And he would not desert them.

  He got to his feet and raised his sword, and the cries grew even louder. There was fire there now. He had lit it. They may not win the day, but at least there was fire.

  Perhaps Yahweh will be with us.

  Jonathan, arms still raised, pushed once more through the ranks of Israelites and began to walk the length of the front. He was exposing himself to archery fire, but he did not care. The Philistines had pulled back everywhere, reforming all of their ranks, not only the ones decimated by his charge, so the entire line of Israel’s army was free of battle for the moment.

  The men shouted, affirming him, and he began to run down the ranks, slapping their faces and pounding them on their chests. The war cry never let up, and while the Philistines reformed their ranks, Jonathan reached the end of his line and shouted to the men under his brother Abinadab’s command. Abinadab and his soldiers waved and cheered him on as well, so he kept running, harder, shouting until he was nearly hoarse. The men returned his shouts, and the sound was more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined. In the midst of blood and death, he saw beauty in their ugly faces.

  He leaped over fallen warriors and slipped on bloody rocks, but he kept running because they loved it. He laughed and ran until he reached the ranks of his brother Malchi-shua, who also rallied his men to shouting.

  Then Jonathan turned and moved back to the center of the mountainside at the front of the entire Israelite army and turned toward the Philistines, holding out his spear. He knew there were good fighters down the slope, but not like his own. He loved these men and felt the burning of tears in his eyes.

  The Philistines raised their own weapons and yelled, waiting like leashed animals to be released by their commanding officers. Jonathan spat toward them in hot anger. He turned and looked back over his army.

  And then he saw his father.

  The tall form of Saul was brooding on a rock far behind the lines. He was alone, watching his army. As the men shouted and gave their regimental war cries and pleaded for another chance to fight, Jonathan watched his father.

  The twisting in his gut returned, and he looked away, trying all over again to forget the desert.

  The men were rallying, and Eliam dared to hope that they might make it out of this after all.

  He trudged back up the mountain toward the water tent. The arrow in his foot seared him with every step, but he kept moving. If those men could rally, so could he. But he was very tired, and the foot hurt terribly, and after a few steps, he had to kneel.

  The sun was now approaching the edge of the Gilboa range behind them; it would soon go down. The sky was becoming more amber as the day wore on. Eliam watched it, listening as the void behind him filled with men’s screams.

  His head felt light. The wound in his foot bit at him fiercely. He realized that blood loss was finally taking its toll. His foot didn’t look as if it was bleeding excessively, but looking back along the path he’d just followed, he saw a steady red drip within each footprint. It was an hour or so since he’d been wounded. Plenty of time to lose enough blood to pass out.

  After what felt like an entire generation had passed, he reached the water tent and called out, but no one was there. Up the hill, far away, a boy was running. Coward, Eliam thought. He dipped the skin into the water and began the return toward the lines, hands stinging and raw.

  The battle was beginning again. The Philistine ranks were now moving in a blunt formation. Eliam crawled up on the rock he had climbed earlier to get a better view.

  The enemy soldiers now moved in many columns, one after the other, advancin
g toward the center of the Israelite lines. Heavy infantry with pikes and shields led the way, followed by lighter infantrymen with smaller swords, followed at last by the archers. There were no chariots or cavalrymen to be seen.

  The formation continued to grow in mass until it was beyond counting, and the left and right flanks of the Philistine army seemed to disappear in the failing light. Behind the massed assault, shaped like an enormous spearhead, the thousands of reserve troops were forming another sweeping line. He couldn’t understand what they were doing, but knew that the Israelites’ situation had become more urgent. Israel’s officers began sending messengers and aides to different portions of the lines.

  He saw Jonathan dart back through the Israelite lines, shouting orders. The men at the far ends of the Israelite ranks didn’t immediately react to the new Philistine movements. Word took awhile to reach the flank ends, especially when no one was watching the signal garments or listening to the ram’s horn call. It was only when the first of the Philistines reached the front ranks of Israel that the men on the sides moved into position. The Israelite commanders maintained a line of soldiers on the left and the right, but they hurried their secondary ranks toward the center of the line, behind the point targeted by the Philistine blunt strike.

  Eliam tried to gather it in, but so many things were happening at once that he was unable to comprehend any of it. Then the dust and screaming rose in clouds once more. The attack had begun again. He could see nothing more.

  With his head swimming from blood loss, he half fell off the rock and made his way back to the battle.

  The battle had started to shift in intensity after Jonathan’s surprise attack. Gareb watched their men surging forward into the Philistine ranks, darting effectively behind the small boulders and ditches on the hillside, a type of fighting they were accustomed to and good at. The lowland-dwelling Philistines, on the other hand, were unable to gain solid footing on the steep mountainside.