Herman Wouk - The Glory

by The Glory(Lit)

  "Cancelled, sir?"

  "Cancelled. Call the cooks. Kitchens will be activated at once, full breakfasts prepared for the whole base. All gates of the base to be closed. Returning personnel may be admitted. Nobody leaves Tel Nof."

  "Yes, sir." The duty officer cannot resist. "Is it war, General?"

  Luria ignores the query. "All sections go to Aleph Alert. Meeting of squadron leaders and deputies in fifteen minutes."

  He returns to his quarters, where Irit meets him with a cup of steaming coffee. In the kitchen Dov is having coffee and cake, also in his G suit. Galia in Irit's red bathrobe sits blink-

  ing and yawning. "I'm still fasting," she says. "I'm not air force personnel."

  "It's foolish," says Irit. "Have coffee. Who knows what the day will bring?"

  "Suit yourself, Galia," says Luria.

  "Benny, is it the Six-Day War again?" Irit wants to know. "We're attacking?"

  "Can't discuss it. I have to talk to those poor Hassidim. I've housed them near the kitchen. They'll go crazy when they pick up cooking smells."

  In the Prime Minister's office, as Barak listens in silence to the sobered talk about what steps to take next, Yom Kippur does not have to be cancelled, it does not exist. Pastry, tea, coffee, cigarette smoking, business as usual; same room, same faces, same calm tones, with this difference, that catastrophe now appears to be thundering down on Israel. Zeira and Dayan are maintaining, though a shade forlornly, that it may still be a false alarm. After all, Zeira's ultrasecret special source has only raised the probability overnight from "very low" to "eighty percent sure." And what about the guaranteed seventy-two-hour warning? No explanation, and Dado and Golda are now assuming the worst, war at sundown. Her words are coming back to Barak: "Do those great warriors need an old lady to nursemaid and second-guess them?" The appalling answer seems to be yes.

  For Dayan and Dado are at loggerheads. The Ramatkhal wants immediate drastic moves to head off the surprise. The Defense Minister urges prudence, with minimum hue and cry. A strange debate this, between the rugged handsome Elazar in field uniform, his square face wrinkling in worry under his thick curly hair, and the world-famed balding general with the eye patch, dressed like a civilian but bearing himself like a composed super-Chief of Staff. How many reserves to mobilize? That is the question, and to cut the argument short, Golda decides: less than Dado wants, more than Dayan thinks necessary. And what about the air force, the great winner of the Six-Day War? Dado is for a preemptive strike against Syria, but Dayan opposes it. After much talk she goes with Dayan.

  The hurried meeting at last ends. When Barak is left alone with her, she turns to him a face of white stone, deeply scored with tragic lines. "Nu, Mr. Alarmist? Go ahead, say, 'I told you so.' "

  "But I didn't this time, Madame Prime Minister. And it's not war yet." She dismisses this with a hand-wave, as though brushing away a fly. He adds, "The American ambassador is waiting in the next room."

  "I know that. So, Zev? What do I say to him? Do I tell him" - she falls into Talmudic singsong - "to tell Nixon to tell the Russians to tell the Arabs that we won't shoot first? Will that stop them? Or will it only encourage them?"

  "For the Americans it'll establish your bona fides."

  "Bona fides, shmona fides! They've sent me messages all week while the Arabs were massing, 'Don't preempt. Don't preempt.' Like De Gaulle before the Six-Day War, 'Nefaites pas la guerre!' " As she chain-lights a cigarette the stone face melts into the concerned countenance of a grandmother. "Your children, where are they?"

  "The girls are too young to serve. My son Noah commands a Saar boat."

  "Ah, the navy." She nods. "Well, it's a nice navy, but what can the navy accomplish? Now it's all up to the boys at the Canal and on the Golan. They'll have to hold and fight while we mobilize." She rests her head in her hand. "Seventy-two hours. We were promised seventy-two hours."

  Zev Barak has a strong urge to plead for immediate total mobilization. It might still give the country some precious hours to gear up for war. Dado as army chief could demand it. Dayan as Defense Minister could recommend it. Why has the idea already been discussed and dismissed? Various reasons. Panicking the country on this holiest of days might prove needless, after all; a warlike move might trigger a still-doubtful Arab attack; and again, always, always, how will the Americans react? From the CIA as yet, there has been no warning at all. So who is Zev Barak to raise his squeaky voice? And what is wisdom now, with all Israel observing the Day of Atonement, and tank forces as numerous as Hitler's at his peak, poised north and south to close on the oblivious little Jewish State like the jaws of a nutcracker?

  Golda lifts her head and stares at him, her eyes reddened.

  "Yesterday, the minute I heard about the Soviet diplomats, I knew. I thought the great generals must know better. Maybe they did. Maybe they still do. Maybe it's not going to happen. But if it does, I'll be beating my breast till I die because I didn't act yesterday, and go to full mobilization." She bitterly smiles. "Some Yom Kippur, ha, Zev? I see you're still fasting, you've put nothing in your mouth. Eat something. Drink something. You'll need your strength."

  Barak pours himself a glass of water and drinks it.

  "That's the way." She looks down at her gray dress and straightens the skirt. "Call in the American ambassador."

  In Haifa's main synagogue, Professor Berkowitz as a trustee rates a seat by the chief rabbi near the Holy Ark, but Shayna prefers the overflow Yom Kippur service in the downstairs social hall, so that is where they are this morning. The rabbi's son, an old beau of hers, officiates here and gives no sermon, in itself an attraction; and through gaps in the cheesecloth partition she can peek at her menfolk, Michael and Reuven, with Noah Barak, Don Kishote, and Aryeh, who all ate the last meal before the fast at her flat.

  Kishote has come to Haifa after conferring with Arik Sharon at their division headquarters about the latest air photographs and intelligence maps of Egyptian dispositions. "It's war, all right," Sharon said. "But Gorodish has three hundred tanks in Sinai. That's enough to hold them while we mobilize, once we get the warning. I'll try to spend Yom Kippur at my farm.... Haifa? Why not? Go ahead. Have a light fast." With his deceptively gentle grin, Sharon then added, "Wear a uniform and boots. Just in case." So Kishote has come here with Aryeh, who is still desolate because his Gadna youth group was ordered off the Golan Heights, where they were visiting the outposts.

  What an awesome view from Mount Hermon, Aryeh enthused to his father as they were driving to Haifa; Syrian tanks, howitzers, APCs, thousands of war machines stretching far, far out of sight, beyond the antitank ditch on the plain below. At the outpost, a narrow crowded hole in the ground, everything was thrilling: the telescopes, the guns, the military talk, the patches of snow, the army food, the crude bunks like shelves, everything! But all leaves were abruptly cancelled,

  and the Gadna youths sent home. No reason given. By chance he had encountered Amos Pasternak at a crossroads, directing groups of clattering tanks here and there. Amos gave him a hasty hug, but no information. "No, no war, Aryeh. Not that I know about. We're just here to discourage them from trying anything." Aryeh yearns for that smelly dugout on the Her-mon, and the terrific view of the Syrians. However, spending Yom Kippur with his father and Aunt Shayna is nice, too.

  Next to Shayna sits Hedva, a deeply pious friend who snagged the rabbi's son when Shayna broke up with him. Hedva now has three children and a barrel figure. Whenever Shayna peeks at the men Hedva frowns, but so what? Looking at Kishote and Aryeh does her heart good. Shayna does not envy Hedva Poupko the bewhiskered Chaim and her kids. Everyone's life is different. She has Michael and Reuven, and in a bizarre way she has Yossi and Aryeh, too. Cooking for them all before Kol Nidrei, especially for the Nitzans senior and junior, filled her with a unique precious emotion, an obscure deep joy tinged with pain, such as her friend Hedva would never know.

  But odd things are going on beyond the cheesecloth. A paratrooper in uniform is making h
is way through the rows of chairs and taps the shoulder of a bearded youngster, who gets up and goes out, folding his prayer shawl. Moving here and there, the soldier hands worshippers slips of paper, and one by one they leave. Kishote and Noah too drop shawls on their chairs and depart. Shayna hurries to intercept them in the lobby.

  "Yossi, what is it?"

  "Reserve call-up. It may not mean much. Still, I'd better get back to headquarters. Keep Aryeh with you for the holidays, will you? I'll telephone tonight if I can."

  Behind the offhand manner Shayna can discern an abstracted brain turning over contingencies, options, plans. "Come on, Yossi."

  He smiles, life flows into his face, and the eyes twinkle behind the glasses. "Wonderful last meal, Shayna. Being with you is heaven for Aryeh. I don't mind it, either. Is the fast bothering you?"

  "Kishote, is it war?"

  "Not right now. If it comes, we'll win. Shayna, I love you.

  Get back behind the curtain, and" - he lapses into Yiddish- "davan gut [pray well]!"

  On the chance that some plane, military or civilian, will be flying south, Noah Barak drives him to the airport. Moving automobiles all have their headlights on, signalling respect for the national fast day while driving on official duty. Reservists are hurrying this way and that in the streets in holiday clothes, some still wearing prayer shawls. At the airfield planes are being dragged by tractors from hangars. "Well, good luck in Sinai, General. An attack on Yom Kippur!" says Noah. "Makes sense from their viewpoint, I guess, the bastards."

  "Easy, Noah. So far this is a limited mobilization. Yom Kippur's not such a bad day for us to go to war, anyway. Empty roads, and I know where most of my reserves are, they're either at home or in synagogue.... Hold on, that looks like my ride." He jumps from the car and trots after a tall striding figure in slacks and a sweater. "General, are you going south?"

  The former air chief, Ezer Weizman, turns. "Don Kishote! Come along.'How's Yael?"

  "She's in Los Angeles."

  "Ha! At the moment, a pretty good place to be."

  Climbing into the Piper Cub, Yossi waves at Noah, who speeds off.

  1 he navy base,, when Noah gets there, is busier than he has ever seen it: fuel and ammunition trucks rumbling about, working parties loading every vessel in sight, boat engines snarling and coughing as they warm up. He parks the car with the headlights ablaze, then remembers and goes back to snap them off. With that he snaps off all awareness of Yom Kippur.

  The flotilla commander, a small dark man named Barkai, with a tough face and a disposition to match, is leaning over a chart on the desk in his map-lined office, under a majestic picture of Golda Meir. "Ah, you're here, Barak. Good. So much for army intelligence, hah? You sail in the second group. The word is, the Arabs will launch all-out war at six tonight. By then we'll be off Cyprus with five boats, out of Syrian radar range. We'll penetrate Latakia harbor after dark

  and sink the Syrian fleet. Surprise the surprisers. Any questions? My staff and I will ride in your boat."

  Noah's heart thumps. He does indeed have questions, for the Syrian fleet is armed with the Styx missiles which sank the Eilat. The Cherbourg boats, and the new boats constructed in Haifa, have the Gabriel missile, but its range is less than half that of the Styx: twelve miles, against twenty-eight miles. The Syrians can stand off and fire Styxes with impunity, unless the Israelis can somehow close the range and survive to fight. What about the newest countermeasures from Rafael, the armament authority, he asks, is there still time to install them?

  "No, no. Look, we're already loaded up with countermeasures. If one won't work maybe another will. Anyway, we've drilled and drilled at missile-evading maneuvers, and to Aza-zel with the Styxes. We're going after the Syrian navy."

  General Luria has to brief a crowd of nonplussed Phantom pilots, all suited up and ready to go, on a last-minute change of targets. If war actually breaks out now, he explains, the reserves will need two or three days to mobilize. Meantime the small regular forces will have to hold off the Arabs north and south. The Egyptians are two hundred miles from Israel, whereas Syrian tanks are just a fifteen-minute run from some Jewish settlements on the Golan. Egypt remains the chief target, and the air force will certainly smash that missile screen along the Canal, which by doctrine has been first priority for any outbreak of war; but now, with the short warning time, crushing the Syrians' offensive capability becomes more urgent. New target for the first strike, therefore: the Soviet missile batteries covering the Golan front.

  Eagerly the pilots man their planes. Dov Luria runs through the checklist strapped to his knee, jet engines roaring all around him, his nerves taut. Like his father he is at last being locked into the cockpit by his ground crew to take off for a preemptive strike! He has been drilling for this since getting his wings, and he is hot to take off. But it turns out that the strike will hit Syria, not Egypt, and for that there have been no drills, unfortunately, and the intelligence map is sketchy, the weather report vague. He is exchanging final instructions with his radar man when- "Attention! All aircraft! Atten-

  tion!" The controller's voice in his earphones, agitated and urgent. "Abort, I say again, abort. Operation cancelled. Acknowledge and return for further briefing.''

  What a rotten letdown!

  Back in the briefing room his squadron leader explains that reports of bad weather over the Golan have caused the abort. While new intelligence maps and an op plan are improvised, the fliers wait a whole hour; then they return to their planes, digesting the information thrust at them, and much less eager. Change of target yet again; instead of the missile batteries, some airfields deep inside Syria, where skies are clearer. Trundling his huge howling machine out to the runway in a lineup of Phantoms and Skyhawks, Dov is rattled by these sudden alterations in long-laid, well-rehearsed plans. Once more ready to take off, he hears a sudden sharp call from the controller "Abort, abort! Return to hangars!"

  WHAT TO ALL THE DEVILS IS GOING ON?

  Not only Dov is thinking this. So is his father, shouting at a hapless army telephone girl to connect him to General Peled, the new air force chief. Luria knows that Peled will level with him, if only he can get through! This on-and-off pushing around of nervy fighter pilots is horrible, and surely not Peled's idea. At this rate the air force will start the war, if one is about to break out, not with another glorious mokade, but a bloody fashla.

  "You're through, sir!" exclaims the girl.

  "Luria?" Peled comes on with a note of gruff affection.

  "Sir, I called off the preemptive strike on the airfields, but barely, let me tell you. They were warming engines on the runway."

  "And you're not happy."

  "Not dancing with joy."

  "Luria, Dado ordered the scrub at the last second, and he didn't dance with joy, either. Golda and Dayan made a political decision not to strike the first blow."

  "But why? Why?"

  "You know why - 'What would the Americans think?' "

  "So what's the mission, if it's war?"

  "The mission? We absorb the first blow, to satisfy Mr. Nixon and Mr. Kissinger. What we do next depends on how the attack unfolds."

  "Maybe it's not war, sir."

  "Well, we'll know by six tonight."

  They know earlier, because the sirens sound all over Tel Nof shortly after two. Within minutes the first wave of Phantoms and Skyhawks is in the air heading southwest: back to the original plan! Five successive strikes, north to south, to destroy Egypt's missile batteries at the Canal. Dov Luria, in the second wave, rolls his Phantom out to the runway, heart beating fast and mouth dry, ready to take off against the flying telephone poles, about which he has heard a bit too much.

  From Weizman's Piper Cub thrumming south above the seacoast at five thousand feet, Kishote can see Yom Kippur dissolving all over the sunlit Jewish State. When they took off, the roads outside Haifa were almost empty, but more and more vehicles keep streaming into sight, and by the time the gray spiky blotch of Tel Aviv lo
oms ahead, the thoroughfares are becoming clogged. "Look, I'll fly you down to your division," Weizman says.

  "You don't have to do that, sir. Plenty of cars heading south now."

  "Well, I will. I shouldn't be in the air anyway, I might as well be useful." The plane banks steeply, bumping in air currents. "You have to fight. I'm out to grass. All I'll do is kibitz in the Pit."

  "It's not war yet, sir."

  The ex-air force chief, his hatchet features half-hidden by helmet and headphones, makes a face. "This is it, Yossi."

  When Kishote arrives at the frantic division HQ, the duty officer tells him that General Sharon has checked in, looked around, and then driven off to Gorodish's command HQ in Beersheba. Arik and Gorodish! thinks Kishote. A small war starting before the big one.

  Though General Sharon has charged off into Israeli politics like a rhinoceros, he has never lost touch with the troops. A month ago he ordered an exercise in countering a surprise attack, and Kishote staged two days of drills, complete with a mock battle and live fire. Today he finds the headquarters staff repeating these drills in high spirits. He makes a jeep tour of the sprawling camp. Order is emerging from chaos in