Herman Wouk - The Glory

by The Glory(Lit)

  "Major Robinson, welcome to Israel. I'm sure you're tired and I won't keep you long." Her amplified voice reverberates over the field. "I said to my daughter yesterday, 'I could kiss the pilots of these planes,' and she said, 'Well, then do it.' That's why we're having this little ceremony." Rising on

  tiptoe, she kisses the pilot on the cheek. From the crowd, laughter and cheers. Flashbulbs pop, and portable TV cameras move in.

  The pilot steps up to the microphone. "Ah, uh, Madame Prime Minister, this is mah first flight here," he says, his voice booming from the loudspeakers, the southern accent plainly coming through. "The fellers who've already done it told me they were greeted bah beautiful women with flowers and kisses. Mah question is, where are yo' flowers?"

  The crowd applauds. Golda laughs to the ambassador, "Nu? Did I say he'd handle it?" Walking off the field, she touches Nakhama's arm. "Will you have lunch with me, my dear, or are you busy?"

  Nakhama happily gasps acceptance, and Golda draws Barak aside. "Now listen, Mr. Alarmist," she grates, her genial manner vanishing, "order a helicopter at once, go down south, and for God's sake find out what's really happening in that crossing. Don't come back without facts. Getting information out of the military, and I include Dado and Dayan, is hopeless. In all my life I've never been more uncertain and on edge."

  "Madame Prime Minister, when an attack is just starting it's hard-"

  She rides over him. "I tell you, Zev, I'm starting to feel the way I did the day before Yom Kippur. In the dark, sick at heart, frustrated. How are the troops and tanks getting across? Are they still crossing? What's happening to that bridge of Tallik's? Is fighting going on, and if so, where, and how serious? Is this airlift all for nothing? Suppose a cease-fire proposal comes in today? I must know!

  "But even the commanders on the spot won't know all, Madame Prime Minister. Reports come in slowly and-"

  "They know something. I know nothing. Nobody wants to say anything to me, because I might hold them to account for it. Zev, my nose tells me there's trouble. Get down there."

  Gorodish's advance headquarters at Umm Hashiba remind Barak of the Pit on Yom Kippur; anxious officers and secretaries rushing around, clamor of loudspeakers, clatter of teleprinters, a general air of discombobulation. In the war room the huge floor-to-ceiling maps show an alarming picture. The

  supply corridor to Deversoir is a hairline of blue through the two thick red enemy lodgments in Sinai, and across the Canal Danny Matt's bridgehead makes a tiny blue wart on the vast red expanse of Egypt. That is exactly how things stand, Bar-Lev and Gorodish angrily tell him. Sharon has plunged masses of troops into futile all-night butchery at the Chinese Farm. The losses in men and machines have been frightful, yet none of his promises have been fulfilled. The roads are still virtually impassable, and there are no bridges. What is worse, he is still sending forces across in rubber dinghies and a few old crocodiles, and proposes to go right on with this foolhardy ferrying of his own and Adan's division this morning.

  "Can anything be more irresponsible?" cries Gorodish. "Lodging two divisions in enemy territory, their backs to a water obstacle, with no secure supply line, and not one bridge in place? Is he insane? They can run out of fuel and ammunition in a few hours of combat! Then what?"

  "He has no sense of military realities." Bar-Lev speaks like a judge passing sentence. "His supposed brilliance is adventurousness. He takes rash plunges that others have to make good, to save the soldiers' lives he gambles with."

  "En brera, the responsibility is ours," says Gorodish, "and I'm about to order a halt, Zev. I'll instruct Sharon, straight out, No more forces crossing the Canal until a bridge is in place. And if in thirty-six hours we have no bridge, I'm bringing back Danny Matt's brigade, by God, while I still can."

  "Where exactly is the roller bridge, Gorodish? What shape is it in? Golda keeps asking about that bridge."

  "It broke down yesterday. Sharon claims it's repaired and on the move west of Yukon. But who knows? Between Tal-lik's meshugas and Sharon's meshugas, God help the Jewish State."

  "With your permission I'll go and see for myself."

  "By all means," says Gorodish.

  Bar-Lev dourly nods.

  28

  Sharon Halted

  Viewed from the air, the blocked roads in Sinai appall Barak. Most war games involving Egypt have ended in a Canal crossing, but no "worst scenario" has ever contemplated such stupendous traffic jams. A paralyzing sight, those serpentine miles and miles of unmoving war machines, supply lorries, ambulances, and miscellaneous vehicles; lucky it is that Golda has not made this foray herself. What targets for strafing! With a little courage the Egyptian air force could create ghastly ruin here. Reenforcements and supplies for the crossing are piling up, backing up, choking the accesses because they have nowhere to go. If Tallik's Israel Prize could only get to the Canal and provide a broad stable sluice the traffic would start to flow, and the crossing might have a chance. Otherwise, the pessimism at Southern Command makes frightening sense.

  "Could that be it, sir?" Speaking in the headphones over the helicopter noise, the pilot points to a dark line ahead on the sands.

  "Probably. It's got AA escort, remember."

  "No problem." The helicopter tilts in a slow wide curve. Harsh coded AA challenge in the headset. Pilot's calm coded reply.

  "Okay. Good morning, helicopter," says the challenging voice. "Welcome to the bridge."

  "By my life, sir," says the pilot, looking through his side window, "I thought you were joking. That bridge does crawl."

  "Well, tanks are towing it."

  "I realize that, sir. Even so." As they descend, the bridge is traversing a gully, and the head is climbing up one side while the tail is still going down the other. "I'll be seeing that thing in my dreams, sir," says the pilot. "It's a horror, sir."

  On the ground Lauterman, Yehiel, and Kishote are riding in a half-track ahead of the bridge. "Who can that be?" says Kishote, squinting up at the helicopter. "Nobody from Southern Command, surely. To them this bridge is a big creeping leprosy."

  "Then they should all be ashamed," says Lauterman. "The bridge is an engineering marvel, like the Eiffel Tower. It'll become a legend."

  "Legend, ha," says Yehiel. "Let's just get this verkakteh [shitty] monstrosity to the Canal."

  The helicopter settles down in a boil of flying sand and Barak jumps out, happy to see the bridge so smoothly on the move.

  Kishote hails him from the half-track. "Welcome, Zev, hop in."

  "Thanks, I hear you've been having problems."

  "All solved. See that big dune ahead? Just wait."

  "How far are we from the crossing area here, Yossi?"

  "Nine miles, maybe less."

  "Then the bridge should be across the Canal by midday, no?"

  "It should. The real question is the Tirtur Road, you know, as it goes past the Chinese Farm," says Kishote. "It's not altogether secure, but - well, we'll talk about that. Now just watch. You're about to witness something impressive."

  As the half-track jolts up the dune, Lauterman explains the towing team's braking technique to Barak. He has to raise his voice because the tanks are making their usual climbing tumult, and the bridge is clanking, squealing, and groaning in its unique Frankenstein voice. The brilliance of the design, he

  says, is that a single tank in the rear can brake the whole six-hundred-ton structure. Everything depends on coordinating the signals among the towing tanks; a simple question of balancing the nudging of the tanks and the power of gravity, to ease the bridge over the top. With practice, this company of tanks is getting very good at it.

  "There it goes," says Lauterman, as the lead tanks top the crest and head down, followed by the first rollers. "Now watch! It's a tug-of-war, you see, the nine towing tanks versus the braking tank. That's where the coordination comes in."

  "To all the devils," says Barak, "that braking cable is going to part. It has to."

  The thick cable looks in fact
as rigid as a telephone pole under the strain, as the braking tank resists the pull from above.

  "Not a chance," says Lauterman. "That cable can tow an aircraft carrier."

  Slowly the tug-of-war begins to favor the towing side, as more of the bridge passes over the crest. The braking tank, dug in like a mule on the up-slope, barely moves. It seems utterly incredible to Barak that the cable does not snap, but in fact it does not. What happens instead is that the bridge, with a sudden startling scream and clang of shearing steel, breaks apart. One half rolls down behind the towing tanks, while the other half sits where it is, draped over the top of the dune, with the cable to the braking tank gone slack. Colonel Yehiel explodes in a stream of very filthy Arabic curses, all directed at General Tal, the bridge, and the art of ceramics, as near as Barak can make out.

  "You're quite right to be annoyed, Yehiel," says Lauterman, shaking his head sadly. "Now why the devil did Shimon Shimon do that?"

  "Shimon Shimon?" exclaims Barak. "The artist? What's he got to do with it?"

  "He's in the braking tank," says Kishote.

  "Shimon is?"

  "Yes, and what could you expect?" rages Yehiel. "Didn't I say we should put in an ordnance officer, not a verkakteh menorah maker?"

  Barak asks, "How long a delay does this mean?"

  Yehiel looks at the Jeptha man, who says, "Not long, sir. I worked on the design of those links. They're made for quick replacement. Three hours, maximum."

  "I'm riding in that braking tank," says Colonel Yehiel, "from here to the Canal."

  "You're upset, Yehiel," says Lauterman. "I don't blame you. Well, back to work." He walks toward the broken bridge, spinning his yo-yo. Repair personnel are already trudging up the dune, as the tank crews climb out of the turrets to see what is going on.

  Staring after Lauterman and the jumping yo-yo, Barak says to Kishote, "Sanity has no place in this project, has it?"

  "Well, I'll tell you, General Barak," Yehiel puts in, calming down, "that yo-yo guy does know what he's doing. We'll be moving again by midday."

  "Just an eccentricity," adds Kishote. "Engineers tend to be odd. Say, there's that young relative of yours, Zev." He calls to a figure running by, all sand and grease from head to foot. "Dzecki, come over here. Yehiel, let's have a look at that break."

  Dzecki trots up to Barak and salutes. "Hi, Uncle Zev. What a surprise. Sorry you have to see such a balagan."

  "Well, it was spectacular."

  "Look, sir, please report to the Prime Minister that this bridge is working. Because it really is." At Barak's ironic glance toward the wreck, Dzecki bristles. "Okay, what about the space program back in the States? One fashla after another, no? But they got to the moon, didn't they? And this bridge will get to the Canal."

  "It had better."

  "I get so sick and tired," exclaims Dzecki, "of all the jokes about the bridge. The Egyptians put seven Soviet bridges across the Canal, latest equipment. No country would sell us anything but old junk like crocodiles and pontoon cubes. We had to invent something."

  Barak smiles and clasps his shoulder. "You're quite right, and I admire you. Get back to your job."

  "Yes, sir. Please phone my folks, tell them I'm okay." Dzecki runs off.

  "A mess, but it'll be all right," says Kishote, returning.

  "Want to come to the Yard at Deversoir with me? That's where the crossing is happening."

  "Good enough."

  The half-track goes bumping down the dune. "Well, Zev, what do you think of the great roller bridge?"

  "That bridge is Zionism," Barak says.

  Kishote looks blankly at him, then a rueful smile wrinkles his broad mouth. "Just so, and it's going to work. The waters won't part, but we'll pass over them."

  "Halevai."

  The helicopter pilot stands by his machine, watching open-mouthed the tanks struggling with the broken bridge, and soldiers climbing all over the two pieces. Kishote asks him, "What are your orders?"

  "To take General Barak wherever he says, sir, except into combat areas."

  "Very well," says Kishote. "Let's go."

  "Sir, I circled for an hour with General Adan yesterday, waiting for air force permission to land at Point Kishuf. I never got it."

  "Right. I understand. Yallah."

  "B'seder, sir." As they lift off Kishote radios for a jeep to meet them at Deversoir, outside the direct fire zone. "Deversoir? I have to report this flight, sir," says the pilot in the headphones. "Shall I say General Nitzan is ordering me to do it?"

  "No, no. I'm threatening you, scaring you, and ordering you not to report it. My responsibility. I'll tell your superiors that. We'll sort it all out after the war."

  "That's fine," says the pilot dubiously. "Thank you, sir."

  Through Kishote's binoculars Barak gets a horrifying, gut-churning view of the Chinese Farm battlefield. "Something of a problem"! In this gruesome aftermath of the night battle, smashed and burned-out tanks and APCs dot the rough terrain as far as he can see, some still smoldering. There must be hundreds of destroyed machines; he cannot identify them from this height, but a large number must be Israeli. A lot of Jewish boys, too, must be lying killed among all those pitiful tiny sprawled bodies, though most probably have been removed with the wounded in the darkness.

  "The Valley of Death," he says to Kishote.

  Kishote nods, his face empty of its usual humor, a sad unshaven mask. As the helicopter comes down Barak can see two-way ferry traffic crossing the Canal, and the paratroopers and tanks busily moving here and there on the other side. A jeep speeds them to the Yard, where Arik Sharon stands bareheaded, waiting. "Well, Zev Barak!" He looks terribly haggard, but his hearty handshake and tough grin are undaunted. "By my life, you're a welcome sight. Imagine, we're winning a great battle, and you're the first general who's showed up to see what's actually going on."

  In Barak's opinion there are only two ways with Ariel Sharon, you are for him or against him. They are almost of an age. Early on Barak saw himself in a race with Sharon and others for army advancement, but Arik has long since charged ahead into his controversial star role, by many distrusted, by some adulated. Without rancor or envy Zev Barak is on the whole against him, for his cruel Bonapartist streak. Israel is too small for a Napoleon, and too Jewish. He can't help acknowledging Sharon's ruthless resolve and military know-how, and this crossing so far has mainly been his doing, but that Chinese Farm shambles! Also his doing...

  "I hope we're winning, Arik."

  "Well, maybe I should have said that we were winning." The magnetic mien flashes into rage. "I've just received the most incredible, inept, destructive, defeatist order of my career from Gorodish. 'Halt all crossing activity'] Zev, look here."

  Spreading a map on the jeep hood, Sharon argues fiercely for continuing the attack. Surprise is a great but fleeting advantage. His deceptive stroke, a frontal attack on the Second Army, worked out well, convincing the enemy that the Chinese Farm fight was only a diversion, whereas it was the main thrust. Those valorous boys shielded the way of the paratroopers and their boats to the crossing. "Zev, seizing the moment is all of generalship, you know that, and there's no generalship at Southern Command. Now is the time to throw our strength across the Canal. Not thirty-six hours from now. Now. Today! We can ferry a tank across in seven minutes, and we have four ferries going. Bren Adan and I can be across with two divisions before the Egyptians know what's happening and-"

  "Arik, you'll need fuel, ammunition-"

  "We can ferry those too until a bridge is up. The momentum, the momentum is everything. We've got it now. Gorodish is squandering it, throwing it away, throwing away the campaign and the war."

  "But lacking even one bridge-"

  "Zev, I swear to you the Egyptian front will collapse, if we cross in strength today and start to cut them off from behind. They'll be pulling back their armor in panic, and, Zev, once they start retreating across the Canal they're finished. They've been coasting on their amazing success of the f
irst two days. If only-"

  "Arik, can I get over to Africa?"

  Sharon brightens. "You want to do that? Kol ha'kavod! But if anything should happen to you -"

  "Golda ordered me to see what's going on."

  "Yossi, get him a helmet and take him over."

  Led by Kishote through racketing tanks, APCs, and halftracks, Barak jumps after him onto a pontoon raft, where a Centurion is rolling aboard with a deafening clank of iron on iron. The propelling unit snorts, the raft moves off over still water, and Zev Barak's blood stirs. Seventeen years since his last combat, the march on Sharm el Sheikh in the Suez War... The Chinese Farm carnage is hideous, but what alternative is there to fighting, as long as the Arabs keep trying "the military option"?