by Judy Nunn
Stan went on ahead as Tom escorted her through the dark, the others following, to the prefabricated hut.
‘So where you from, love? Gay Paree?’ Tom said it as a joke for the benefit of the men, but she nodded.
‘Oui. I am from Paris.’
‘Oh, really!’ He cast a none too subtle look at his mate Bill. You know what they say about women from Paris. ‘Gay Paree, the city of love, I’m told.’ Tom considered himself a bit of a wag.
They’d reached the guard hut, which was suddenly illuminated, Stan having lit the kerosene lamp inside. He stepped out into the compound and held the door open for her, but she seemed reluctant to enter.
Tom, presuming she was nervous, gave her arm a comforting pat, trying not to stroke the bare skin as he would have liked to have done.
‘Don’t you worry, love,’ he said heartily, to put her at her ease. ‘We’ll plead your case with the Captain when he gets back, he listens to us, he does.’ As if the Captain ever listened to a word they said! The Captain was a pig. ‘He’s a good man, isn’t that right, Bill?’
‘My oath he is.’ Bill was a Yorkshireman. ‘Captain’ll see you right, don’t you fret about that.’
‘Oh I would be so very grateful.’ She looked around at the men, careful to engage the eyes of each one. ‘I will do anything to get home,’ she said. Then she aimed the promise directly at Tom: ‘Anything at all.’
Blimey, if that wasn’t an offer, Tom thought, then he didn’t know what was. She wasn’t bloody nervous at all, her look was as bold as brass, and his cock was already rising to the occasion.
‘I’m due for me break about now,’ he said. ‘Come on in and I’ll get you that cuppa.’
She stepped into the hut and he followed her, with a wink to the boys.
As the sergeant closed the door behind him, Ruth quickly undid the buttons of her blouse, giving the men who were watching through the window a show of their own as they waited their turn.
‘Jesus!’ Tom exclaimed. He’d been about to make the pretence of lighting the primus stove, but when he’d turned from the door, there she was, blatantly bare-breasted. Her blouse was open, she wasn’t wearing a brassiere, and Tom thought that, in the whole of his life, he’d never seen such a great set of tits. He fell upon them, convinced that all his Christmases had come at once.
‘Oh Jesus …’ His hands were all over the place, he was fumbling with his trousers and trying to grope her breasts at the same time.
Then, suddenly, she was taking over for him. She had his trousers undone, she had his cock in her hand and she was wriggling her skirt right up to her waist.
Oh, Jesus Christ, he thought, she wasn’t wearing any panties. He was going to come any moment, and he wasn’t even inside her. He thrust himself furiously between her thighs, feeling her mound and pubic hair. ‘Oh God,’ he muttered, ‘God, God, God.’
Leaning back against the wall of the hut, Ruth hooked a leg around the man’s buttocks, and, fingers encircling his clumsily frantic penis, she guided it to its target. But her peripheral vision was trained on the window, and the four men watching, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Suddenly, there was movement behind them and the brief sounds of a scuffle.
‘Oui, oui,’ she whispered passionately in his ear to muffle the noise, clutching at him as he finally entered her. But Tom hadn’t heard a thing, he was on the verge of explosion, and when she glanced back at the window, the men had disappeared. Ruth found it comical – one moment they’d been there, the next they’d dropped out of sight.
The man was nearing his climax, and she moaned, feigning excitement, while, over his heaving shoulders, she watched the door of the hut quietly open.
Head thrown back, mouth gasping, Tom gave a series of guttural groans. He was mid-ejaculation and still thrusting, when he felt the barrel of a pistol rammed deep into his mouth, the muzzle jamming hard against the back of his throat. He gagged. Horror-struck, his eyes sprang open. Ruth had the insane desire to laugh.
Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, the barrel of the pistol was withdrawn and the butt of the Luger struck the side of Tom’s head. He slithered down her body to the floor, and a man in Arab dress stood there in his stead. It was Eli Mankowski.
Their eyes met for a brief second. Eli gave one sharp nod of approval, gestured at the kerosene lamp, then wordlessly dragged Tom outside.
Ruth adjusted her clothing, extinguished the lamp and followed him.
In the compound, the four guards lay unconscious, already bound and gagged, and robed figures were crouching, waiting.
Shlomo Rubens bound and gagged the sergeant, and Ruth, upon Eli’s silent instruction, stepped briefly into the light by the gate. It was the prearranged signal to the lookout whose binoculars were trained on the compound. He in turn would signal the waiting Irgun boat.
The guards were dragged out of sight behind the crates and the fighters set about carting supplies to the edge of the wharf for loading. It was Ruth’s duty to watch for the warning signal from the lookout, should the captain be observed returning.
The team worked in silence, selecting the supplies which Eli indicated in the dim shielded glow of his torch. The larger crates were ignored. Much as they would have welcomed the heavy weaponry, they didn’t have the time to load it. It was the boxes of ammunition, plastic explosives and British hand grenades they were after.
Five minutes later, when the fishing boat pulled into the wharf, the six Irgun fighters aboard helped with the carting and loading and, within thirty minutes, they were clear of the docks and on their way to the fishermen’s wharf a mile down the coast where the Jimmy would be waiting. The only member of the team remaining at the docks was the lookout.
Satisfied that the captain was nowhere in sight, the lookout set off on foot to join the others, where, by the time he got there, they would have finished unloading the supplies into the truck.
It was shortly after midnight when Captain James Portman wandered down the wharf towards the compound. He’d had several nips of arak with his friends at the cafe which stayed open until all hours to accommodate the soldiers from the nearby barracks, and he was feeling quite mellow. The interminable night yawned before him, but he’d have a bit of a snooze in the guard hut, he thought, then in the morning they’d be off. He couldn’t wait to get out of this abominable place.
Odd, he thought. No sentry. Were all five of the bastards asleep?
He pushed the gate open. Silence, eerie, not a soul.
‘Sergeant?’ he snapped. But there was no response.
He drew out his Webley & Scott revolver as he crossed to the hut. The door was ajar; he kicked it open, weapon at the ready. No-one there. He walked around the perimeters of the compound. The place was deserted. Where the hell were his blasted men? Then he saw them – bound and gagged, all but one wide-eyed and struggling with their bonds. Good God, James thought, what had happened?
He released his sergeant, then stood back while Tom Baker released the next man.
‘What the hell happened?’ he asked.
‘We were ambushed, sir,’ Tom said as he frantically untied Bill. Shit, what the hell had happened? he wondered. One minute he’d been up the French woman, then there’d been a gun in his mouth and he couldn’t remember anything more.
‘That’s quite apparent,’ his commanding officer remarked caustically. ‘But by whom?’
Tom was at a loss for words. Fortunately Bill, freed of his gag, broke in.
‘Arabs, sir. More than a dozen of them, I’d say.’ Bill had caught a brief glimpse of Arab garb before he’d been silenced. ‘They jumped us from behind – must have climbed up the side of the wharf.’ He busied himself releasing the next man, Godfrey, who was still unconscious.
Bloody Arabs, James thought. ‘Inspect the shipment, see what’s missing,’ he ordered his sergeant.
‘Sir, I think Godfrey’s dead,’ Bill said.
All eyes turned to Godfrey.
Oh God no, James prayed. Now there’d b
e an investigation, he wouldn’t get away in the morning, he’d be stranded in this godforsaken hole.
‘Get a light, man, get a light,’ he ordered, and his sergeant ran to the hut for a torch.
Five minutes later, when Godfrey regained consciousness with a groan, James felt immense relief.
‘Check the shipment,’ he ordered his men, while he tended to Godfrey’s head wound.
The men eagerly jumped to their captain’s command, thankful to escape further questioning for the moment. While they checked the crates, they agreed that there would be no mention of the French woman.
As he inspected the first aid kit, James cursed the fact that the report of the theft in the morning would delay their departure. But at least it wouldn’t take long, and then they’d be out. He couldn’t have cared if the Arabs had taken the whole damn shipment. Let the Arabs and Jews wipe each other off the face of the earth, he thought, just get me out of this hellhole.
It was only when the Jimmy was well clear of Haifa that silence was no longer mandatory. Arab dress discarded, the truckload of young people could well have been any group of kibbutz workers returning from a night in town.
The young fighters, seated with Shlomo and the supplies in the back of the Jimmy, talked excitedly about the events of the night. The mission had gone according to plan and they were proud of themselves.
They had every right to be, Shlomo thought, they’d exercised discretion, just as they’d been ordered; no hot-headed youngster had killed indiscriminately. But he knew they’d wanted to. And they’d want to even more next time around. They’d been blooded – well and truly.
As they talked among themselves, Shlomo noted that they avoided any mention of what they’d seen, albeit briefly, through the hut window. There were a few meaningful glances but, out of deference to Ruth, seated with Eli and David in the front cabin which was open to the rear of the canvas-topped truck, no reference was made to the seduction of the sergeant. It was as it should be, Shlomo thought. Like them, Ruth was a fighter and she’d been doing her duty as one of the team. Any lewd reference would have been out of place. But these were young men with healthy libidos, no doubt frustrated by their current vow of celibacy, and Shlomo had no doubt there would be quite a deal of lascivious chat among them when they were on their own.
The three in the front cabin said nothing. When the ban of silence had been lifted and the others had started talking, David, driving, had plied Eli with questions. He’d wanted a blow-by-blow account of the mission, but Eli’s responses had not been encouraging. He had answered gruffly and monosyllabically and then stared out of the side window, and they’d quickly lapsed into silence. Eli was such a moody bastard, David thought, sulking.
Ruth was grateful for the silence. Seated between the two men, aware of the nearness of Eli Mankowski, and trying to avoid any physical contact, she felt charged with an extraordinary energy. The danger was past, but adrenalin still pumped through her, and with it the strangest of urges. She desperately wanted sex. Beneath the short skirt, her nakedness responded to the truck’s motion, and she longed to be penetrated, to rut like an animal. Her wanton seduction of the sergeant had in no way aroused her – she’d been focussed upon her purpose and the sexual act had been meaningless. But now, as the truck bounced over the rough desert road, her whole body was pulsing, and the unavoidable contact her thigh occasionally made with Eli’s made her more aroused. She hoped he couldn’t sense it.
Eli could. Her excitement was palpable, and it was having a profound effect upon him. Heightened sexual awareness was not uncommon after a mission – he experienced it at times himself – but it was always controllable. At least it had been in the past. Now, as he stared out the window, the image of her exposed, her skirt around her waist, consumed him. In the brief second when the sergeant had slumped to the floor and Eli had seen Ruth in her nakedness, the sight had meant nothing to him. He’d admired her commitment. Her orders as decoy had not specified fornication, and the lack of underwear was proof that she’d been prepared to go as far as necessary to distract the guards. She’d obviously put on a show for the watching soldiers as well, and he respected her for it. Now, feeling her beside him like a bitch on heat, he couldn’t get the image out of his mind.
They drove directly to the training camp where they unloaded the ammunition and explosives by torchlight, and Eli ordered Ruth to stand watch in the cave which served as a lookout over the approach to the valley.
A wise and tactful decision, Shlomo decided as he watched her set off up the narrow track, the boots she’d exchanged for her high-heeled shoes incongruous with the short skirt and revealing blouse. The lookout cave was well out of earshot and it would give the men an opportunity to speak openly; they needed to let off steam.
Several minutes later, Eli himself wandered off into the night, and Shlomo thought nothing of it. Eli Mankowski never shared his men’s enthusiasm after a mission, invariably choosing to be on his own.
Eli took her where she stood, against the wall of the cave, just the way he knew she wanted to be taken. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her boots pressed into his buttocks, the rocks digging into her back. When it was over, he left without saying a word.
As he circled behind the cave and approached the camp from a different direction, Eli refused to acknowledge any sense of guilt. He had broken one of his own cardinal rules: no sexual fraternisation among the unit. Any two of his fighters found guilty of the same action would have been instantly dismissed. But Eli had always placed himself above the others, and he told himself that one momentary lapse meant nothing.
But the following night, gathered about the finjun, Ruth’s sexuality once again beckoned, and the knowledge that he could have her whenever he wanted was irresistible. He walked off to the distant grove of olives, knowing that, given time, she would join him.
No-one commented upon his departure. They knew the commander often preferred to be alone, particularly before and after a mission, and rumours that something big was in the planning abounded, since the commander and his lieutenant had left in the jeep that morning and had not returned until the evening meal.
Shlomo Rubens found Eli’s distraction eminently understandable. The two of them had spent most of the day in meetings with Irgun and Lehi leaders at the secret joint headquarters recently set up in Jerusalem. The raid was only three days away, and the next day they would brief the unit. Eli had a lot to think about.
Eli’s mind was far from the impending raid, however, when Ruth joined him in the olive grove an hour later. Again, they coupled like beasts, feeding off each other’s lust. And again, when it was over and she’d left him, he refused to acknowledge any abuse of his leadership, but prided himself instead. Ruth Stein’s uncharacteristic behaviour was proof of the power he had over her mind and her body, he told himself – it was a measure of her dedication to both him and the cause.
It didn’t occur to Eli to question the power Ruth Stein may have had over him. Eli was not only a fanatic and a megalomaniac, but a master of self-delusion.
Ruth, too, didn’t question her actions. The drive in her was compulsive. She was obsessed with Eli and everything he represented. So long as he wanted her, and in whatever capacity that might be, she was his.
‘Our orders are to liquidate the enemy,’ Eli announced. ‘No prisoners will be taken. All men will be destroyed, as will any other force that opposes us.’
The briefing was held at the training camp – as specific missions were never discussed in the chadar ochel – the fighters squatting in the dust before their commander and his officers.
The strategy of aggression, Eli told them, was in direct retaliation to the Arabs’ take-no-prisoners policy and the mutilation of Jewish fighters. The goal in capturing the village was also to improve Jewish morale and obtain supplies for Irgun and Lehi bases. But, knowing that his young fighters were eager to do battle, Eli had decided to place his main emphasis upon revenge.
‘The raid will symb
olise a new era,’ he declared forcefully. ‘It will be a warning to our enemies and a sign of liberation to our people. No longer do we rise only in defence. The joint forces of Irgun and Lehi will, from this moment on, attack all those who pose a threat to our homeland. Arabs will pay with their lives for the Jewish blood they have spilt!’ He raised his fist and each of his fighters did the same as they joined in the chant.
‘Obliterate – until destruction. We are the future!’
The target of the joint attack was the village of Deir Yassin, an Arab Muslim stonecutter community of approximately seven hundred and fifty inhabitants. Situated on a rocky hillside west of Jerusalem and a mile or so south of the Tel Aviv highway, the village lay inside the United Nations’ proposed Jerusalem international zone, its terraced stone houses descending to a corridor of flat land which led to Jewish Jerusalem’s western suburb of Givat Shaul.
The village’s strategic position made it the perfect subject for attack but, during the briefing, there was a great deal Eli did not impart to his fighters.
Deir Yassin had come under much discussion between Irgun and Lehi forces and the Haganah, Israel’s military organisation. Upon being approached by the two guerrilla groups with a view to a coordinated attack upon the village, Haganah leaders had rejected the idea. They’d agreed that the capture and subsequent takeover of Deir Yassin would suit their plan to convert the pathway from Givat Shaul into an airstrip – but a truce existed, they said, which prevented an assault upon the village. Deir Yassin had been steadfast in honouring a Haganah-sponsored agreement to refrain from hostilities with neighbouring Jewish areas in exchange for protection from Jewish attack. The village was docile, the guerrillas were informed.
Irgun and Lehi refused to budge, insisting they would take Deir Yassin with or without military support, and, finally, Haganah Jerusalem Commander, David Shaltiel, washed his hands of the matter.