Three Weeks in October

by Yaël Dayan

  CHAPTER

  12

  Very seldom in life had I had to make a major decision in a matter of seconds. My mission was over. Phoenix was not there, alive or dead, and I had to return north. I could turn right and arrive at Faid airport in an hour. Fly to Tel-Aviv, report and be at home for dinner with Amalia and the children. There was a cease-fire and the war was over and my little contribution was over, too. We could see the main street now. In its midst two of our tanks were on fire and other vehicles were looking for shelter. Men from troop carriers were running toward the alleys, shooting and being shot at. Other vehicles were driving in the opposite direction stopping to load the wounded. The doctor exclaimed, “Good God, no!” And as we reached the main street I instinctively pushed the driver’s hand to the left, to the center of town where all hell seemed to break loose.

  There was little time to assess the situation. The column was under intense fire from all directions, R.P.G.’s were fired from the alleys, bazookas were active on the rooftops and windows and whoever was exposed, as most of the commanders were, were hit. The fire was direct, combined with efficient hand grenade hits and for a second it seemed like a hopeless trap from which no man was to emerge alive. In ten minutes most of the vehicles were hit, and the voices on the radio were hysterical. I could hear crews reporting the deaths of their tank commanders, and for a few seconds no orders were given, just casualty reports. The city, which had seemed empty and defeated when we drove in parade-style, turned into an inferno.

  The jeep was useless. I told the men to jump off and we crawled into a half-track which had been hit but was still operational. On its floor wounded soldiers moaned, and I helped the doctor transfer them to the jeep. Our driver was going to evacuate them using the route we came in on, which seemed safe enough.

  The driver of the half-track was in shock but unhurt, and I told him to get moving. There was enough ammunition in the vehicle, three men who were not hurt and the three of us, including the doctor.

  The tank behind us was hit and caught fire and its crew signaled us to stop. We managed to collect them and start moving just as the tank exploded. The doctor was busy now, and I had to decide on a course of action. There was the danger of a hand grenade hitting us directly. We had no top-cover and I warned the men to look out for grenades. Our own fire was efficient now. The men shot at definite targets. Men in windows, in alleys, on the roofs. As long as we were in motion we could almost control our path. The men resumed a righting mechanism drilled into them for years. They switched back from the apathy that followed the surprise into the aggression of self-defense, and though we didn’t know each other’s names, within a few minutes we worked as a trained homogeneous unit. My own feelings alternated momentarily. There was something absurd in the situation, and I felt like an idiot and a hero according to the progress we made.

  The boulevard was two miles long. On both sides now were five-story buildings, and the general idea was to reach the large square at its end where we could meet the rest of the force. Each vehicle had a “private battle,” each unit using its common sense and judgment on how to advance and avoid being surrounded. There were tens of Egyptians in each of the cross-alleys, so the only chance was to stick to the main street. Men whose vehicles were hit ran for shelter into buildings and behind fences. It was difficult to read the battle as a whole. More and more I realized we were not attacking a city, but trying to save our own skins. My main concern was not to be cut off from whatever was left of the slowly-moving column.

  The hysteria on the wireless calmed now, and clearer orders were given—avoid alleys, raise flags when evacuation of casualties was essential. Toward noon we received some air support. Tank commanders were nominated to replace the dead, and sergeants and corporals took over from majors and captains. The intensity of the battle did not let up, and there was no time to think.

  From where I sat I looked at my men. The doctor had bandaged his own shoulder, one man was dead and clumsily covered on the floor, and one of the adopted tank-crew fighters suffered from severe burns. We were out of water, and I ordered the men to be careful with ammunition as we had run out of hand grenades.

  We weren’t getting anywhere. It was impossible to keep up with the tanks, and the infantry on half-tracks dispersed or barely moved. We had firepower but no mobility, and whoever came to a complete stop was soon surrounded by Egyptian soldiers and had to fight a face-to-face battle.

  I had to replace the driver whose hand was hit and bleeding. He crawled back to the doctor who was running out of bandages, and the tank driver took his seat. Two minutes later the front part of the half-track was hit by a grenade, the engine stopped, and I ordered the men to jump out and run into a house on the street corner which seemed unoccupied. I covered their retreat. Dr. Oren supported the badly burnt case, and together with the driver we joined them, carrying the corpse covered with a blanket. When we reached the entrance hall we heard our vehicle explode, and I sent two of the men to explore the building. Short bursts of machine-gun fire indicated resistance, but my men shouted that the second floor was clear now and we could join them. We pulled the wounded to one of the rooms and the men who were unhurt protected the front and top of the building. Our entrance there must have been ignored, for no fire was directed at us and we could get organized. The account I gave myself of our position was not very pleasant. We had no communication set and no water. Oren was short on everything and ran out of antibiotics. We all had machine guns but very little ammunition, and though the Egyptians didn’t know we were there, neither did our own forces. There were still three hours of daylight and there was no way of moving before dark. Water and morphine were top priority, and realizing the risk, I sent two men through the back entrance to try and acquire them. Any of our deserted vehicles might have a supply, and they might be able to contact another trapped unit with a radio set. It was a hot day and the smoke and fire increased the thirst. The men came back with a gerry-can of water and some bandages. Two houses away there were some paratroopers and they expected us to join them with nightfall. Together we should be able to get out of here during the night.

  Stench hung in the air of the room where the wounded were. I forced myself to stay for a while.

  On the back of the map I jotted down their names and addresses. Only one of them was a reservist, the others were youngsters, though veterans of many battles during the last three weeks. The burnt man was attached to an infusion bag and bandages covered his face and both hands. I thought of Amalia, very briefly, as if a slide of her in a white apron was projected too quickly on the dirty wall, two-dimensional. Two of the men were hurt in the legs and couldn’t walk, one suffered from a severe loss of blood and was in terrible pain. The last dose of morphine was administered to him. A young blond boy was scratched superficially, but he was in a state of shock and Oren motioned to me to leave him alone. I talked to them briefly. This was no place for long lectures or banalities. We were all tired and only honesty was acceptable. I explained to them where we were and how we were planning to get out of there, “So rest and pray and be patient.”

  We moved the corpse to another empty room, and I added his name and identity number to my list.

  His name was Arik. Only then I remembered Phoenix’s original name, which oddly had escaped me all along. His name in the file was Eric Berkov. I remember saying to him once, “When you live in Israel, when the job is done, they’ll probably call you Arik.”

  I walked up to the top floor. The two men I sent there had orders not to shoot unless we were spotted. They were crouching behind the parapet where I joined them.

  “Where is your battalion?” the redhead asked me.

  “I have no battalion.”

  “So what are you doing here? Looking for someone?”

  “Precisely. Only I didn’t find him.”

  “Your son or something?”

  “No. A man who worked with me. A foreigner.”

  “He was smarter than us.”

>   I was grateful they didn’t pursue the matter. Phoenix was irrelevant now. I brought them some crackers and jam and we shared a cigarette. There were two corpses in the corner of the roof—the enemy they had surprised when they climbed up and shot from the back.

  “How are the wounded doing?” asked the redhead.

  “Alive. We are fortunate to have a doctor with us. With nightfall we’ll join the paratroopers in the next alley and try and clear the hell out of here.”

  “That’s another two hours. We could use some sleep.”

  “You can sleep in turns.”

  The second soldier was a Yemenite, dark-skinned and sad-eyed. He looked very young, younger than the others. He was silent all along and suddenly asked me, “Are you married?”

  “Yes. Two young sons. Why?”

  “I am getting married next week. If we get out of here.”

  “Of course we’ll get out of here. Where do you live?”

  “In Rehovot, but we are going to get a farm when I am out of the army. I studied in an agriculture school.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen, and don’t tell me, what’s the hurry … look at us here, with perhaps five minutes, or one hour to live. So, I am in a hurry.”

  A head appeared in the roof entrance signaling me to come down.

  “I’ll be back when it’s time to move. Take care and lie low.” There was something comforting in these two. Not overconfident, just wanting to survive and remaining cool and composed about it. With only so few years of life behind them it seemed remarkable. The redhead smiled and winked and lit his last cigarette.

  On the ground floor the morale was improved. The men ate and drank and adjusted to their new predicament. Rescue was feasible, and the despair of the trapped with which they were infected at first seemed to have disappeared. Soldiers who had been thrown together by accident began to feel the intimacy of shared fate, which produced confidence and broke their solitude.

  Three of the soldiers were talking in whispers in a corner. They smiled at me and I smiled back. They were children. What did they think of me? Did I inspire them with confidence? Did they think I was an inexperienced office-colonel? I didn’t really know them. They belonged to another generation, they used a different jargon. Did they care about the same things we did?

  I sat next to them, though I wanted to be alone.

  “Won’t be long now,” I said with confidence. “You’ll help with the wounded, we have to improvise a couple of stretchers from the doors and blankets here.”

  “Don’t worry,” one said. “We’ll all get out of here.”

  They offered me half a bar of chocolate. This reminded me of a supply I had in my bag. I took out a flask of whiskey and some sweets intended for Phoenix. He didn’t drink, but I thought it might please him in these weird circumstances.

  They looked at each other. Whiskey was a luxury and I had to explain myself.

  “I was sent here to look for a friend. An Englishman. I brought him this but he wasn’t there so we might as well enjoy it.”

  We had a drink. None of us seemed to like the taste but believed it would do us good.

  “A cocktail party,” one said. “Only the ladies are missing.”

  “The ladies are waiting at home.”

  None were married. I found myself talking about Amalia and my boys.

  “You really met in the Six Day War? This time there were no girls in the front line.”

  They talked about the wounded in the other room. They considered themselves lucky.

  “Burns are the worst. Face, hands, the parts that are exposed.”

  “Would you rather lose a leg or a hand?” one asked.

  A macabre conversation followed. Is blindness better than the loss of legs, is there a wound that is worse than death?

  “Cheerful, aren’t you,” I muttered.

  “Don’t take us seriously. We’ve been through all this before. It just makes time pass and then we are grateful for staying alive and in one piece.”

  “Try to get some sleep. In an hour we’ll start preparing for departure.”

  I crawled to the front door. I was lying on my belly trying to get a look at the street. Two of my soldiers were behind the fence. They couldn’t see me, but they seemed relaxed and comfortable. The remains of two vehicles were still burning in the middle of the street, but the buildings across looked deserted. From the distance there were sounds of sporadic fire and occasional artillery. There was no imminent danger to my small group, but there was no way of telling what hid behind the next corner.

  I was tired. I felt I could lie there, legs stretched and hand resting on the machine gun, for many hours.

  On the roof, in front, inside, were men who accidentally became my responsibility. I felt out of place but not unfit to cope. I missed my own unit and friends. The jokes we shared, the nicknames, the security we gave each other. In 1956 I lay like this for twenty-four hours. Next to Beni. We didn’t talk much, never discussed possible wounds or death, but I was sure he would never leave me behind. Our hearts beat in the same rhythm and we shared convictions, loves and resentments. I didn’t think we were better fighters or driven by nobler causes, but the familiarity I was used to was missing. I moved carefully inside. The sun was setting, and I went to see the doctor.

  “We’ll need two stretchers. The rest can walk with help.”

  “I hope the paratroopers in the next building can give us a hand in evacuating. Unless they have casualties of their own.”

  “We’ll also need a stretcher for the dead man.”

  The soldier with the chest wound was trying to tell me something. I bent down and put my ear next to his mouth.

  “Someone will have to account for all this.”

  “Account for what?”

  “For this bloody battle. Two of my pals were killed, and so was my commander who was the nicest guy in the army.”

  “So this is war.”

  “And the war was over, and we had enough of it and when I recover I will want to know that this battle was essential, that it made one bit of difference.”

  Oren told him he shouldn’t be talking.

  “There will be enough time for that, when we are out and well. Don’t strain yourself now.”

  The man shut his eyes but his lips continued moving.

  “I wish I had the medications I need.”

  “We have an hour to go. Do you feel the way he does?”

  “Who can tell? Perhaps every other battle is superfluous. We can never find out in advance how the whole thing would end without it, how each battle affects the future borders and the political setup. They are young and have had more than a fair share of fighting. They carry with them sights of best friends killed and the fear of their own death or disability. Too many commanders were killed. They were trained to follow excellent leadership.”

  “The same in other wars.”

  “Didn’t you ever doubt the absolute necessity of a battle, or the validity of an order?” Oren asked me.

  “Not really. It never lasted that long though and I was always surrounded by men who had experience and deep integrity. I’ll take care of the stretchers, and send a scout to the next house in twenty minutes or so.”

  Did I have that flawless conviction I wanted to take for granted in others? We didn’t want automatic obedience. We encouraged initiative and imagination, but could we afford the doubts? Did we spread the shoulders wide enough for the burden?

  The burden of memory. Somehow I expected every youth to charge with the support of Moses and Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. I expected them to be inspired by King David’s courage and King Solomon’s wisdom, and to be motivated by years of Diaspora persecution. On these dirty Suez house walls I wanted them to read the warnings. Warnings in blood and smoke and blue and white. The pogroms in the Ukraine which sent my great-grandparents, theirs, too, perhaps, with bundles in deep snow on roads from nowhere to another nowhere. I could see the boats, not seaworthy, flu
ng by waves making their way to Palestine, decks crowded with praying immigrants, and they were stubborn and noble and miserable. On the floor reflected in broken glass I could see the footsteps of Jews lined up to the gas chambers and slaughterhouses, and every barbed wire I cut or crawled under in past battles was a reminder of ghettos and concentration camps. The load of memory had a sound to it, of prayers and songs, soft weeping of orphans and crude laughter of anti-Semites, songs I cherished as a teen-ager around a bonfire composed during the War of Independence, songs we sang in the Sinai in the other wars—conceited and victorious. The echoes of Kaddish said by sons over fathers’ graves, by fathers at sons’ funerals. Songs of sorrow, of hope, songs of promise and dreams.

  The burden of memory that pushes the tank chains and adds fuel and speed to the flight of the fastest jets, the sights and sound and smells of thousands of years which somehow were with me in every fight, skirmish or battle. Did they all feel it? Did the redhead think or know of the ghetto in Warsaw? Did the Yemenite carry traces of anti-Semitism in San’a? Did it matter? What if I had only a picture of Amalia, Rani and Ofer? What if I thought only of my Tel-Aviv neighborhood and the white table in the kitchen set with a bowl of spring flowers or summer fruit? Would I have run away then, or been less motivated? Out of nowhere, from the corner, as if he were reading the doubting look in my eyes as I measured him, one of the boys said, “I was thinking of Anne Frank. How they were stuck in an attic for weeks, with the Nazis outside. That really took courage.”

  I climbed the stairs to the roof. The Yemenite greeted me with the widest of smiles. The redhead looked at his watch. “Time to go? I kind of like it here. Most rest I’ve gotten in a month.”

  “You’ll stay until we are ready and packed. When we leave the building you cover the street for five minutes and follow immediately. We’ll wait for you with the paratroopers. In the room below we’ll lay the corpse of your dead friend on a stretcher and tie it up. You’ll take it. If you are under fire, leave it and seek cover, and that’s an order. We can get it later.”