by Roni Eliav
The exams were over, we had our last hurrah, and one by one my friends went away to the army. Somehow, I found myself volunteering at Mesilot, a kibbutz in the Beit She’an valley, working the fields during the day and partying with my girlfriend and buddies during the night. We were being totally exploited, of course, working for nothing but food and board. But we had a blast, and enjoyed being out of our parent’s houses.
I later travelled to an isolated beach in Nuweiba on the eastern Sinai Peninsula. It was perfect: the clearest blue water you’ll ever see, pristine white sand, one beachfront restaurant, and a bunch of kids camped out in sleeping-bags. I didn’t want to go back. The summer was over and the holiday season came, my girlfriend went back to school and I went back to training. My mother stuffed me with home-cooked food and did everything she could to pamper me, while my dad gave me random pieces of advice. I wanted to enlist already.
I tried to get my driver’s license, but to my amazement I failed my driving test. I tried again, and failed again. I was embarrassed by the third try, but still managed to fail again. I decided I had a problem with machines, and felt pleased with my decision to waive pilot’s training. Then the day finally came. We had our names taken and got on the bus. “You’ll be sorry!” soldiers yelled as the bus drove away. When we reached the base, the driver opened the door and said: “Just think about it as a three-year break. It was six, in my case…”
Chapter 3
GIBUSH: ADVANCED SELECTION
Back then, the selection process was divided into two parts: one examination day prior to enlistment, and advanced selection immediately after. Those deemed good enough made it to the Gibush – the two-week advanced selection process.
We were already soldiers, officially at least. We were signed up, given identification cards, vaccinated, and provided with uniforms, shoes, and a duffle bag to keep our stuff in. We didn’t know anything about anything, and had no idea what to do. In the first 24 hours we spent as soldiers, we raked the lawns, picked up litter, and tightened the ropes of our tents. But mainly we sat around doing nothing. Slowly, we started to get familiar with each other. Some were loud, others were quiet and reserved; some read books, while others made up petty contests to pass the time.
Night began to fall, and still no one told us what to do. So we did nothing. Another day went by without anyone paying attention to us. Late that afternoon, a sergeant walked by and incredulously asked: “You guys are still here?” We replied in the affirmative. He left, and never came back. As time went by, the air got tense. We all realized that all of us were competing against each other for the same few spots in the unit.
In the evening, as we got ready for bed, we were blinded by the headlights of two trucks approaching. Two raggedy-looking soldiers came out and told us to gather our stuff and get on the trucks. One of us asked them if they were sure they had the right group, but they ignored him. We got on the trucks and crammed in tightly. After about an hour’s ride, we were ordered to alight. We were in the middle of nowhere, in a barren valley surrounded by a dense pine tree forest.
They told us to pitch our tents. It was a simple enough task, but the instructors knocked them down every time we finished: they were either not tight enough, not parallel enough, not the right angle, etc. It started raining, and our mood – which was foul already – declined further. After that, we packed knapsacks, unpacked them, and packed them again. We then ran to and fro, packed again, and then unpacked again. Miraculously, without any prior preparation, I got the hang of packing the bags right from the outset. Eventually, they sent us to sleep. Pup tents are not made for large people, certainly not two of them, but we were exhausted and simply crashed asleep.
We were jolted awake at 5:30 AM. They sent us running, and taught us how to stand during morning roll call. After that, we had a meager breakfast of bread and jam. Throughout the day we ran, moved stones from one place to the other, ran again, learned to fall into different formations, and then ran some more. We were assigned personal weapons from the armory, and were quickly instructed how to field-strip, reassemble and clean our rifles. From there, we went to the range. Since I had prepared in advance by training with the Target Shooting team, I was able to produce a tight shot-grouping that prompted the instructor to ask me my name. That evening we went on a ruck march. The rain picked up again. We didn’t know it yet, but it was about to be one of the rainiest seasons in recorded history. Our new shoes were tight and chafed our feet. It was only the second night, but our feet were already covered in blisters.
In the morning, after a solitary few hours of sleep, we woke up only to stand out in the cold for an hour wearing nothing but a thin pair of fatigues. In a friendly tone, the instructors offered anyone wanting to quit to go to the tent and get some hot coffee. Some took him up on the offer, but most of us kept standing in the cold. It started raining, but the instructors didn’t budge. They seemed to love it in the rain. We were shivering cold, but kept on standing.
The instructors were fit, muscular and lean. They wouldn’t let us call them our commanders, because we hadn’t earned the right to have commanders yet. The entire day was spent running, constructing arbitrary formations out of stones and logs, taking them apart, and building them again. At any given moment, we were either running, rolling, heaving, or hauling. There was a small platform next to us with three or four instructors on it, observing us and taking notes.
We were cold, and the food was scant and poor. We had seven minutes to eat. I’m a slow eater, so I hardly managed to get more than a couple of bites each meal. Within two days, our entire company got the runs. We were all constantly running to the latrine at the top of the hill. Every afternoon, a truck was filled with those of us who couldn’t take it any longer and quit, shipped off to be “good soldiers, but somewhere else.”
One time, they took us out on a ruck march and after about three hours we were scattered in the field and told to run back to camp. Some made it by themselves, others needed directions. I was among those who made it, but just barely. My feet were sore and covered with blisters, and both my Achilles tendons were inflamed from running in heavy army boots. Every night, after an hour and a half’s sleep we were shaken awake by screams and shouts ordering us to go out and stand in the cold. We then went back to sleep, and shaken awake again. We didn’t have time to develop a rapport with each other, since we didn’t have a second of off-time to spend together. The kibbutzniks found it easier to stand out, they were used to living in groups; they knew how to blend in when they wanted, and how to make themselves seen. The elite among them were used to being group leaders. Those who came from the agricultural settlements were stronger, and used to strenuous manual labor. The city kids just dropped out. They were wholly unprepared for the pressure and the group dynamics, all but the most stubborn of them. I was one of those few, but I was completely exhausted. My body was done. Every single motion required sheer mental conviction. I was absolutely dying for a rest. Soon I started lagging behind, just barely keeping up with the group – but keeping up nonetheless.
Despair crept in. How long will this go on? How can anyone take this? Maybe I’m just not cut out for this… I looked around and saw other people around me faring better than I was. Much better, in fact, and it was more than a few of them. I started seriously contemplating that maybe I’d be better off serving somewhere else. Maybe I wasn’t good enough to be among the best. Better to be the head of the fox than the tail of the lion, as they say... It was about then that I reached my breaking point. We were instructed to run to an undisclosed point. We ran on a trail up a mountain, and my breath grew shorter and shorter, and the pain in my feet became nearly intolerable – projecting up through my spine to the base of my skull. I slowed down, soldiers overtaking me left and right. I slowed down to a walk, and then stopped completely. I stood there, looking around, realizing that I had maxed out. I couldn’t go on.
At that moment, one of the commande
rs came up behind me, a kibbutznik from the south, tall, lean, and fit. “So, Erez, we’re walking instead of running now?”
I didn’t answer. I had drifted away, totally absorbed in my own world. He put his hand on my back and slightly nudged me forward.
“Come on, you got this. Start running,” he said and ran off, leaving me there on my own.
I planted one leg in front of my, raised the other, and started running. I ran faster and faster, going past the commander and then past the other soldiers. My muscles were screaming, but I blocked everything out. I flew past everyone and was the first to reach the end point. I started doing the drills we were instructed: pushups, sit-ups, short-distance sprints up a steep incline – just like back home. No one could touch me. The commanders who were there were having a good laugh at my expense.
“Erez kicked into turbo-mode!”
“He must be thinking of that chick waiting for him at the end.”
“In Ashkelon you learn to run away fast…”
The commander who gave me the nudge stood there smiling without saying a word. Years later, he would be a soldier in the company I commanded on reserve duty. This one time, we were training in the Golan Heights. Around evening time, I was sitting on the ramp of an APC, smoking a cigarette and watching the soldiers come back from training. He came up to me with two other guys from the company, all of whom were my commanders in the Gibush.
“Tough day, officer?” they joked.
“Do you know that you’re the reason I’m here?” I asked him.
“Really? How so?” he seemed puzzled.
I tried to remind him of that moment, my breaking point. He didn’t remember. He remembered a different moment, one that I’ll recount shortly. Since then, I’m not even sure if he was really there or if I just imagined the whole thing.
The rest of the week was easier, like anything you’d start getting used to. Friday evening came along. Army regulations have it that no activities are held between Friday and Saturday evening – the Jewish sabbath. So we had a decent dinner and then just sat around shooting the breeze, smoking and chatting. As one might expect in such situations, hearsay and rumors took up the bulk of the conversation. One guy heard we were near the end, while another guy heard from a rock-solid source that we had another month to go. The third guy informed us that two weeks from now, paratrooper boot camp would be starting and we’d be part of it, while a fourth guy told us the army was opening an investigation into the abuse of cadets, so they were going to shut down the Gibush… Eventually, we retired and went to sleep.
We woke up to a surprisingly pleasant, sunny day. We set up a makeshift boxing ring, and each squad selected a one contestant to represent it. I happily volunteered. I had done plenty of fighting back home, and even a bit of boxing. I knew I had skills. I later discovered that the kibbutzniks didn’t know the first thing about boxing.
I was fitted with a pair of gloves and headgear, and was promptly shoved into the ring. My first opponent was the standout figure of the Gibush, the leader among the kibbutzniks – strong as an ox, with a jaw like a brick. On the ruck march we’d had on Thursday, he set the pace for the group, with no one overtaking him at any point – not even once. I immediately saw he was completely clueless. His head was slung down, his shoulders were raised too high, and his arms were too low.
It was an utter massacre. I socked him left, right, and center. He couldn’t defend for the life of him. But he was strong and determined, and wasn’t about to give up easily. I was slowly building up a murderous rage, and just went berserk on him, venting all my frustration in a mad blitz. They eventually had to pull me off him.
The others didn’t fare any better, some even refused to enter the ring with me. I was the hero of the day, the undisputed boxing champion of the Gibush. All it won me was endless banter, of course…
The following day my commander, who hadn’t been there the previous day, came up to me and asked where I’d learned to box.
“In the neighborhood, sir,” I replied.
“Are you from Musrara?” he asked.
“No, from Ashkelon.”
“Okay, so don’t beat us up…”
Since then, tales of my boxing skills ballooned beyond proportion. Many months later, when we arrived at the unit, we were given an outlandish and comical reception. I was thrown into a boxing ring, given a pair of gloves, and was told: “Now, beat everyone who gets in the ring, or else you’ll have to face him!”
They pointed towards an utter beast of a man, standing there dark-skinned and shirtless, flashing a set of pearly-white teeth. He was a legend in his own right. But I was young and brash, and instinctively yelled: “Send him in first!”
I would be reminded of that utterance for years and years. That was what my former commander remembered that day in the Golan Heights. It’s worth mentioning that I demolished anyone who set foot in the ring that day. They came in knowing in advance that they would lose. Among them was the same kibbutznik I had knocked out in the Gibush. He later claimed that he’d fared better the second time around, but I’m not sure about that. I pounced on everyone who entered the ring in a fit of fury. I learned to tap into the animal core in me, and become the embodiment of sheer brute force.
A couple of years later, I had a boxing champion serving in the company I commanded. We agreed to spar a few rounds over the weekend, just for sport. When the others woke up around noon on Saturday, he was already in the hospital with a couple of broken ribs. I didn’t know how to take it down a notch: as soon as I entered the ring, I just switched into killer mode, destroying anyone in my path.
The rest of the Gibush was easier for me. I stood out, and was given leadership assignments; I had hit my stride. And then, just like that, the Gibush was over.
It was another one of those rare sunny days. We were lying in the sun while in the main tent the commanders were deciding our futures. I went into my tent to rest, and suddenly felt a sharp sting in my back followed by excruciating pain. I screamed, and everyone rushed over. They caught the scorpion that stung me, and I was immediately sent with an escort to the hospital.
I came into the emergency room reeking after two weeks without a shower, covered in mud, with ragged, torn-up fatigues. The nurses treated me like I was a Holocaust survivor. They laid me down and hooked me up to an IV. I was in such bad shape that they were wholly surprised to learn the reason I was there was in fact because of a scorpion’s sting.
When the IV was finished, a nurse came over to tell me they would admit me and transfer me to another department. I thanked her, and as soon as she left, I got up, put on my shirt, and walked out of the hospital into the car that was waiting for me outside. “Let’s go,” I said to the driver, who didn’t ask any questions. We got back to the makeshift camp in the pine forest, called Kula after an old Arab village that lay in ruins nearby. As soon as I got in, I saw the medic.
“Oh, you’re back? Good. You got in,” he said, and casually walked away.
I was left speechless. I had missed the selection roll call, and went over to join the rest of those who’d made it. There were 36 left from over 200 who had started the Gibush. Out of everyone who’d been with me that first day of examinations, only one was left.
So that was that. But it wasn’t the end, far from it. It was merely the beginning.
Chapter 4
THE SHADOW AND THE GHOST: BOOT CAMP
Every soldier begins their military service with basic training, often called boot camp, in which the objective is to break old habits and instill new ones in their place. The process is especially demanding for infantry soldiers, who undergo physical and mental recalibration, during which they are required to endure arduous physical challenges with little sleep or food. It’s a long and painful procedure, and there’s no easy way through it. We were designated for an elite unit, and were dispersed to undergo basic training among compan
ies of paratroopers at Camp Sanur.
The year 1977 rolled along. We were about to finish boot camp, which had started in November ‘76. We hadn’t even noticed that the year had passed; we were just starting to emerge from that melting pot that turns carefree civilians into hardened wolves, ready to do anything for the pack. We were near Sanur – a picturesque Palestinian village in the heart of the Samaria region. Sanur was also the name of a British and later Jordanian military camp, converted into the basic training base of the IDF’s Paratroopers Brigade. It comprised several long white structures which housed whole companies of recruits, latrines which we meticulously scrubbed every morning, and showers which were used sporadically at best.
Winter was tough that year, and for us recruits it was even tougher. We were cold beyond what any us had imagined possible. The rain pounded down on us, thoroughly soaking our already sweat-doused fatigues; the stench of soaked cotton and body odor was overwhelming. The water droplets running down our bodies then crystalized; it felt like we were going to freeze to death.
We were there because we had volunteered, passed examinations and selections, and were sent to boot camp with the prestigious red-boot paratroopers. We thought we were the crème de la crème, but to our surprise, we were all walked over like doormats. We were good kids, highly motivated and in peak physical form. Among us were kibbutzniks, city kids, kids from agricultural settlements, you name it. We were the pick of the litter, desperate to excel. For those reasons, we couldn’t fathom why the road to excellence had to be paved with such constant, relentless humiliation.