Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  Tamara pulled Carmel into her bosom as if she would be safe there, and glared at Rachel, who had begun to sob. “Calm down,” Moshe said. “Everyone calm down,” he said again. “What else would the Arabs say? I don’t believe a word of it. Let’s wait and see, there is a long way to go.”

  But it wasn’t long. Within an hour the BBC had changed its tune. It was the other way around. The Israelis were smashing the Egyptian forces, destroying their air force on the ground. No official word from Israel, but the BBC reported that in the first hour Israel had destroyed the Egyptian air force and had won complete control of the skies. The announcers struggled to believe it: almost before it started the Jews had all but won the war.

  But on the ground, there was still a long way to go. Arie’s platoon fell in with the mad dash south, led by General Israel Tal’s northern armored brigade. Over rough tracks that linked villages, through crushed vegetable patches, past terrified donkeys and cattle. Arie’s four M-50 Shermans made quick progress in the wake of the havoc wreaked by Tal’s tanks. His machine gunner fired blindly into copses and thickets, a cloud of dust announced their progress from afar. A tank shell obliterated a barricade of bricks and wood that had blocked the road, but still no sign of the enemy.

  Only in the fields approaching Khan Younis to the west did they catch up with the war. They saw men running through destroyed houses, followed immediately by the pings of bullets bouncing off their armor. They rode on, speed of the essence, along tracks cleared of land mines. His brigade was to rendezvous in El Arish, thirty miles south, then swing east with General Tal’s Steel Division to link up with General Ariel Sharon and destroy the Egyptians at Abu Ageila. This would open the gateway to the Suez Canal, and certain defeat for Egypt. If it worked.

  Around a bend the road narrowed between clusters of houses on either side. Perfect ambush spot. Arie’s stomach clenched. This isn’t right. Was he on the wrong road? He glanced down at his map, but it was too late for that. His company had fanned out, three tanks were right behind him. Nothing left but to barrel through. Swinging the machine gun, he laid down protective fire at the right side and then the left. They were abreast of the houses now, his body braced for the shock of a shell, but they were through; he felt his bowels tighten. They passed burning wrecks, Arab prisoners, an old man pulling a reluctant donkey by a rope. Medics worked on wounded Israeli soldiers lying in rows by the track, while behind them, pillars of smoke rose over the dunes. Arie slowed, knowing battle was close, his skin crawling with tension. He was almost relieved when the order came: “Advance southeast, enemy at six hundred meters, engage and destroy.”

  “Follow me, boys,” Arie called on his radio, and Levi the driver sped forward. The hull of a Soviet T-34 appeared backward from behind a dune, reversing from some threat, only to position itself right in Arie’s line of fire, an opening gift from the God of war. “Straight ahead gunner!” Arie shouted. The cannon roared and the Egyptian tank shook in a ball of flame and black smoke. Soldiers leapt out, one on fire. Levi edged past, and within a minute the Sherman was looming over a trench with dozens of Egyptian soldiers. With his cannon pointing straight at them, they threw down their weapons and fled for their lives.

  Israeli and Egyptian tanks clashed in a ferocious battle over two square miles. The Israelis pressed forward, machine-gunning soldiers in ditches, crushing barbed wire a dozen meters thick, outgunning the Egyptian tanks with speed and accuracy. They were vastly outnumbered by the Egyptian brigade but with Israeli fighter planes swooping through the uncontested skies, strafing and bombing, the Egyptian force was obliterated.

  There was a ten-minute respite in their seats for Arie’s men, surrounded by burning tanks and wounded or abandoned Egyptian soldiers wandering the desert. Arie was soaked in sweat; he gulped water from his flask. Then his orders were changed. Instead of continuing south to the rendezvous at El Arish, his platoon was ordered west into Rafah, a crowded, sprawling town at the southern end of the Gaza Strip. Something’s changed, Arie thought, high command told us we’d keep out of Gaza. We’re doing too well, it must have gone to their heads.

  Out of the desert it looked like a different planet. They passed lush vegetable fields, stands of trees, fences of twigs and branches with sand on one side and dark earth on the other. Didn’t I pass here in ’56, Arie wondered. Are we fighting for the same land? I almost died then, and now I’ll be lucky to get through this again. He thought of his son and daughter, safe with Tamara. In three years they’d be in the army. Would Daniel be in a tank in the same shit desert? No way, the boy would be a cook, he’d make sure of that. Carmel will be in intelligence, safe in army HQ in Tel Aviv. This is madness.

  The radio crackled with shouting and explosions from the field and panicked appeals for help, answered by the calm, stern voice of the colonel. Paratroopers were in trouble in Rafah, they needed support. Arie’s tanks were ordered to avoid the refugee camps, stay on the main road, evade the enemy, head due west, and find the trapped soldiers around the blue mosque on the crossroads of the main Gaza north-south road. Quick.

  Arie guided his force of four tanks from high inside the command cupola, forcing his way deeper into the packed Arab town. Progress was too slow. Between the low houses he saw an Israeli armored personnel carrier racing the same way, but he couldn’t get his tank onto the fast road. The roads he was on narrowed and curved, crossed each other and went off at tangents, they were entering a warren, due west toward the sea was what looked like a school, a clinic, crowded homes. Arie tried to go around, he swung to the left but was blocked by a row of buildings.

  Now there was the staccato of shooting, paint chips flew from his tank, bullets pinged off the armor, and then: and then a red flash from ahead and the tank behind him rocked on its tracks, a direct hit from a missile. To escape the line of sight, Arie roared up an alley, crushing homes of wood and tin. Each time they swung the cannon’s barrel it knocked the corner of a building. There were more Egyptians ahead. “Shoot!” Arie shouted, and the cannon fired a shell blindly, to clear the way. “Left!” Arie yelled, swinging the machine gun at the rooftops from where Arab fighters were pouring fire into his tank. He was alone, separated from his column, he was sweating, his heart pounding, struggling not to panic. “Back up,” he shouted to the driver, and then repeated it, quieter, trying to project calm. The tank stopped with a jolt and went into fast reverse, tracks digging into the dirt. “Hula 1,” he said into the radio, identifying himself. “We’re trapped, separated, trying to find the main road.”

  The radio responded, “Hula 1, your position?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” he shouted, regretting it immediately. “I don’t know,” he tried again as calmly as he could. He flew to the side, banging his shoulder as the driver tried to make a sharp turn. He saw an Arab rush from the side and throw a hand grenade, and ducked. The grenade bounced off the turret. More Arabs appeared between shacks with guns, there was a flash and a boom as another grenade exploded by the cupola, muted by his headphones, on the roofs he saw a dozen men firing at him. Levi couldn’t make the turn, but down an alley he saw open land. He made a dash for it, engine roaring. The tank hit rubble and veered on one track like a sailboat racing into the wind, finding purchase on piles of concrete and bricks.

  And then, Arie’s heart all but stopped. An Egyptian T-54 blocked the alley, its turret swung round, its barrel found them from fifty yards. “Fire,” Arie yelled, “now!” His gunner had seen the target and swung the turret but the barrel smashed into a wall. The driver reversed to free the cannon, just as the Egyptian fired. Not again, Arie’s brain screamed. There was a blinding flash of light inside the hull, the tank rocked on its axle, a direct hit, Arie’s head smashed into the metal cupola base, he smelled the stink of burning oil. “Out boys, out!” Arie yelled, jerking the cupola open. He leapt to the ground, rolled away and jammed against the wall of a house. Chaim the gunner joined him; they fired their Uzis from their hips as they ran.

  Behind them
the explosion shot a blast of heat and smoke up the alley, shrapnel hit Chaim in the head and back and Arie, who had just turned to see who else made it, was hit in the shoulder and face. Bullets whizzed by, ricocheted off the walls, dug into the earth at their feet. Wiping blood from their faces they ran low and fast, but to where? The alley was narrow and straight, Arabs at both ends and on the roofs.

  TAMARA

  HERZLIYA, ISRAEL

  June 7, 1967

  At the words “The news from Kol Israel,” Tamara and Rachel ran to the radio in the living room, where Peter’s children Noah and Ezra were already gathered. On the hour every hour Israel came to a standstill for the latest from the fronts. From fear they had moved to joy as every bulletin brought news of another advance. Noah sat, head down, crayon poised over the map he had drawn of Israel, on which he colored every bit of newly conquered territory with the blue and white of Israel.

  Jerusalem was theirs after two thousand years; the West Bank was falling, Ramallah, Nablus, Hebron, town after town; Jordan was begging for a cease-fire.

  Sinai was occupied, Israel’s army stood on the Suez Canal; Egypt’s air force was destroyed, its army demolished; with no military to defend Cairo, Nasser too called for a cease-fire.

  Moshe phoned from the newspaper—Syria is next. Noah whooped: “The Golan Heights. Damascus. I may as well color it in now.”

  “Shush,” Rachel reprimanded him. “The Adelsons.”

  That same morning they had heard the cry of anguish from their neighbor Ida Adelson when she answered the knock on her door. Her husband Yossi had fallen in the battle for Bir Gafkafa. All across Israel hundreds of families were broken by similar news; hospitals were overflowing with the wounded.

  “We should hear from Arie soon,” Tamara said, gripping her mother’s hand. “If the fighting in Sinai is over and we’re sitting on the canal, he’ll call. If anyone can find a phone, it’s Arie.”

  In the evening Alice telephoned from Rambam Hospital in Haifa. “I heard from Ido,” she said. “A friend of his came to the hospital to visit someone and brought a note. He said he’s having a quiet war, they’re still waiting for orders.”

  “Thank God,” Tamara said. “God willing they’ll never come. How are you? Your parents called twice, I told them not to worry, you are safe and well.”

  “Safe but not so well. I can’t believe how naïve I was.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Whatever I can. Writing letters for the poor boys, cleaning them everywhere, holding their hands. Helping families who visit. It’s horrible, so much crying. There’s no room, they’re lying in the corridors, the doctors and nurses never sleep, there is so much to do, so many to help. I hope Ido never gets any orders to go anywhere.”

  “You sound very tired,” Tamara said, “can you get any rest?”

  “I go to bed, but I can’t sleep. Tamara, there’s so many of them, they’re all so young. Everywhere it smells of blood. Some of them, all you can see are their eyes, they’re burned all over. When I met Ido he seemed so strong, a god, now I realize … it’s awful, I never imagined … I love him, I hope…” She began to weep, and the line went dead.

  Tamara told Rachel, whose eyes filled. Please God, they prayed, bring Arie and Ido home safely. No more war.

  PETER

  TEL AVIV

  June 8, 1967

  Peter stared out of the open window, sucking in air, with each breath feeling a part of his self ebb away: Arie, my brother, the last of our tribe. How could he tell his children?

  Behind him Gingie stood, head bowed, holding the report. She placed it gently on his desk. “There’s still hope,” she said.

  Peter sat back at his desk, turned the folder over in his hand. Mossad was responsible for intelligence activity outside Israel, and Gaza was still outside Israel. It was a military matter but Mossad was kept informed; a formality. Gingie had spotted the name in a Gaza situation report.

  He would have to tell Tamara. He felt his heart with his hand, he was palpitating. Reading his thoughts, Gingie said, “Don’t tell Tamara. Not yet. There’s nothing to say, wait till you have something concrete.”

  Concrete. What a hard word.

  “What else do we know?” Peter said, almost in a whisper.

  “MIA. Missing in Action. Only what’s in the report, and what I got out of his commander, who doesn’t know much yet.” Gingie kept it formal, it would be easier that way, for both of them. Her heart went out to her old friend. “They found the tank, it was still smoking. The crew got caught in a narrow alley and couldn’t fight their way out. There were dozens of Arabs at either end. We found two bodies inside the tank, burned but they’ve been identified by their ID tags. The names of the two missing crewmen are Chaim Peled and Arie Nesher. There was blood twenty yards from the tank in the alley, two separate tracks so they were both wounded. There were Uzi shell casings along the alley for another thirty yards and then no more, so they got that far. But where the shell casings ended, there was no significant extra blood, so they didn’t die there. It seems they were wounded. The shell count looks as if they didn’t have any spare magazines and quickly ran out of ammunition. Our troops have flooded the area, a day went by before they began looking.” She added softly, “If he’s captured, they’ll find him.”

  “One thing about Arie, he’s a fighter and a survivor.”

  “That’s two things.”

  “Two things, then.” Peter put his head on the desk, his hands in his pocket, as if folding into himself. After a moment he looked up at Gingie. “How long to Rafah? Three hours? But who knows, it could be a whole day getting past the convoys.”

  “Oh no, you’re not going. What good would it do? You’d get in the way.”

  “I could get a plane. The war’s over down there, we’re just mopping up. The brass will be going down, I can hitch a ride. Gingie, arrange it.”

  “No, Peter, no, the army and Shin Bet are all over it, what good would it do for you to go? We need you here.”

  Peter bit his lip. Arie Nesher, MIA. Better than KIA, killed in action. His foulest imagination had conceived of such a thing, he cursed himself for ever allowing such evil to pollute his mind. Mama, Pappi, Renata, and Ruth, all gone, and now Arie. Maybe Arie. He sat up, steeling himself.

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, stood, walked to the window, his lips tight. “Give me the report again.”

  Gingie handed it to him. “What are you thinking? You were drumming your fingers. And I know that look.”

  “I’m thinking,” he said slowly, drawing out the words, “that this is a job for me. For us. Bear with me, I think I have something. Listen. If he was dead we’d have found his body by now. If he’s alive, he’s been captured. The Egyptians wouldn’t take him, they’re running for their lives, he’s wounded and would slow them down. So somebody else must have him. Who? I’ll tell you who. Fatah in Rafah. The Palestinians were building a strong cell there, we have most of their names, they would have been fighting our troops too. I think—there’s a strong chance anyway—that Fatah captured him. And the other guy, Peled. My money is on Fatah holding them as hostages. He’s being held in a house somewhere. Down a well, who knows. Now that we’ve occupied Rafah and Gaza the Fatah men want to get out. Two Israeli hostages are their ticket to anywhere.”

  “If they wanted to get out they could just put down their guns and run, like everyone else.”

  “Maybe. Maybe they want to be heroes, make a name for themselves. Or maybe they’re in trouble with the Egyptians too. Maybe they can’t leave their families.”

  “Whatever, what can you do about it? If that’s all true, we wait until Fatah gets in touch.”

  “And what happens to Arie in the meantime? And Peled? Torture? Or they die of their wounds? Or Fatah decide to kill them anyway? And if the army does find them, they’re not very subtle. They’ll go in guns blazing and kill everyone, including my brother. No. I think I could help. I know some of the Fatah names. And addresses.
Gingie, get me on a chopper. Now.”

  He fingered his silver watch, rubbed the leather strap. Don’t worry, Pappi, I’ll find him. If he’s alive.

  IDO

  GOLAN HEIGHTS, SYRIA

  June 9, 1967

  Above the rocky plain and fertile slopes, the snowcapped summit of Mount Hermon loomed over the plateau, a battleground for thousands of years. Below the plains stretched the Sea of Galilee and Israel’s Hula valley, for years sitting ducks for Syrian guns.

  Ido slumped against the bullet-pocked wall of a bunker, panting, his mouth hung open. Each breath brought the smell of blood, gunpowder, burning fuel, and sweat. He licked his parched lips, his fingers fumbled at his belt to unclasp the water bottle. A medic did it for him and dribbled water into his mouth. “Slowly,” he said, pulling open Ido’s shirt. “Where are you hit?”

  “I’m not. I just can’t move. I’m dead on my feet.”

  “So rest.” The medic moved to David next to him. “Leave me,” the soldier said, “there’s much more badly wounded.”

  “Where are you hit,” the medic said.

  “It’s nothing, just a little blood.”

  “But where?”

  The soldier pointed to his stomach. “Here, a bullet. Go to Yehuda, he’s more urgent.” He nodded toward the next soldier in the row, whose head was covered in blood.