by Roni Eliav
We ran, we crawled, we heaved and we hauled, we carried each other over our shoulders, and we ran some more. We field-stripped and reassembled our “best friend” – our rifle. We cleaned it religiously, greasing it at night only to degrease it in the morning. We barely got any sleep. We were made to scrub and clean every inch of space around us – except of course for our own bodies. We weren’t allowed to walk, we had to run everywhere, even to the latrines. To get food, we had to climb up a 20-foot rope first. We were allowed seven minutes to eat, two minutes to shit, 15 minutes to clean our rifle. And throughout the whole time, we were dealt heavy-handed, cruel, unjust punishments.
I was placed with the historic “Shaked” unit, who weren’t part of the Paratroopers Brigade themselves but, like us, had basic training there. Our drill sergeants firmly believed that being cruel and abusive was the only way to “break the boys” and build soldiers in their stead. They might have been right, but it was hell nonetheless. The previous year, a soldier had committed suicide in the bunker next to our barracks. Every night, we had to run over to that spot “one-on-one” – meaning that each pair of runners would alternate carrying each other over their shoulders. When you’re on top, your chest and diaphragm get beaten to a pulp; when you’re on the bottom, it’s all you can do not to buckle under the weight. So every night we’d be ordered to run over and shout “good night” to the ghost of the bastard who had taken his own life in that spot. We had to stay there until the drill sergeant confirmed he’d heard us.
We learned to shoot our personal weapons; we pointlessly carried weighted stretches on our shoulders. We guarded the base at night. “The area is hostile,” they told us. Every day felt like an eternity. We refused to break, because whoever did would be the subject of utter, merciless humiliation. There was one guy who broke, and henceforth was called “the ghost.” He was housed in the bunker where that soldier had killed himself the previous year. From then on, instead of wishing the dead soldier good night every night, we’d run over to the bunker and shout “good night, ghost!” Another guy lay weeping for hours on the muddy parade ground; every time he stopped crying, we were ordered to dump a bucket of water over him.
Every night, we’d go on runs that would quickly turn into hellish, sweaty cauldrons of shouting and pushing. As time went on, we accumulated fatigue, knocks, niggles, and injuries; we carried the stragglers on our backs. These runs became a desperate fight for survival: anger, animosity and hatred brewed between us and the drill sergeants, between us and the stragglers, the stragglers and the pushers, and so on. Every time we couldn’t keep up the pace, we had to start over.
The drill sergeant was God: judge, jury, and executioner. We didn’t dare express our hatred of him, even in private. We were too scared; we just wanted to make it out of there in one piece. We knew this nightmare had an expiration date to it, but time seemed to simply grind to a halt. And then, just as we naïvely thought we were getting the hang on it – we went out into the field.
We walked in the rain for what seemed like an eternity. Our feet filled with fresh blisters, and we were soaked to the bone. When we stood still, we shivered from the cold; when we walked, we shivered from exhaustion. We marched on and on to the monotonous sound of boots stomping the dirt, and eventually we started falling asleep as we walked. Whenever someone started veering off, we grabbed him and pulled him back in line; sometimes they’d stir awake, sometimes they’d sleepwalk right through the whole thing. When we did eventually stop, it was literally the middle of nowhere. We pitched our tents in the pouring rain and the blistering cold, punch-drunk from exhaustion. The drill sergeants lit up a couple of tires in the center of the camp to make some heat; the stench of burning rubber was overwhelming. The place looked like a surreal inferno. They finally sent us to sleep, and we crashed in our tents – only to be woken up again two hours later.
In the field, there was no one to curb the drill sergeants, and they let their sadistic imaginations run loose. We were tumbled down mountainsides in barrels. We built a huge clock out of heavy stones on the side of a mountain, and every hour at night we had to adjust the clock’s “hands.” One time during an exercise, I accidently crossed another soldier’s line of fire. The drill sergeant deemed that worthy of a death sentence. I spent the entire afternoon digging a grave for myself; later, a group of fellow recruits were instructed to load their rifles with blanks and form a shooting line to “execute” me. I was ordered to fall into the grave I had dug and lay there waiting until the resurrectionist arrived – a recruit sanctioned by “the devil himself” (that being, appropriately, the drill sergeant).
The skin on our hands cracked from the mud, rain, and cold. One time, before going home on leave for the weekend, I was told to do pushups and ordered not to wash my hands. By the time I got home, it felt like my hands were paralyzed. I stood motionless at the entrance to my parents’ house, the sweet aromas of a home-cooked meal filling the air. I wondered if I still belonged there: I was reeking, filthy, covered in mud, and unable to move my fingers. My mother took me inside and cleaned me up. She soaked my fingers in warm water and soap, dressed up my wounds, and tucked me into bed with fresh linen. Only then, alone in a dark room, did I allow myself to break. I bitterly wept into my pillow. Later, I walked to the dinner table like a cripple. That night, my girlfriend complained that I was scraping her skin. The weekend flew by, and soon enough I prepared to go back to that hellhole. I put my clean and fresh-pressed uniform on, and grabbed my spick-and-span rifle (my father had spent the whole of Saturday morning cleaning it for me). My hands still hurt, but the pain was tolerable. The wounds had begun to scab. Suddenly I felt that it actually wasn’t so bad. I would face my tormentors again, but I no longer feared them. I felt that whatever happened, they couldn’t break me.
Everything was harder that week, but for me it felt easier. I found myself right in the thick of the chaos: one night, as I was getting ready for the precious few hours of sleep we were allowed, I heard a racket outside. My tent-mate came crawling inside and told me that the guys were going to get revenge on a recruit who’d gotten us all collectively punished that day. I then did something that in my own mind would define me for years to come. I got out of my tent and stormed into the commotion, placing myself between the recruit and the angry mob. “Go back to your tents,” I said sternly, and they did. I walked the shaken recruit back to his tent. The next day the drill sergeants, having heard about the night before, tagged the recruit to me – that is, they ordered me to carry him on my back. “From now on, he’s your shadow,” they said. “As long as there’s sunlight or lighting on – he’s on your back.” And so it was. I couldn’t stand the guy, he was weak and whiny. But I wasn’t mad at him. To be honest, I was actually quite proud of the punishment. I carried him around everywhere. He would apologize, and I would laugh.
Finally, we went back to Sanur. This time around, everything was different. Those two weeks in the field had changed us thoroughly, and the transformation was complete: we were now soldiers. By no means good soldiers yet, but soldiers nonetheless. We were better at keeping time, we had learned how to divide tasks between us efficiently, how to follow through when needed, and how to cut corners when possible. We had kits prepared in advance for roll call, night sessions, and morning sessions. We had each other’s backs.
“The ghost” was back in the bunker. While we were out in the field, he had stayed in the supply tent. He always looked sated and toasty-warm. One time, the sergeants took us over to see him and made us declare we were jealous of him. And we were indeed jealous of him, especially when we were soaked, freezing, exhausted, and exasperated from the constant abuse. But one time our eyes met, and I could see misery, frustration, humiliation, and envy in his eyes. He was envious of us! From that moment on, I no longer envied him, I felt sorry for him. “The ghost” became a living monument to what we could become.
One evening, we were informed that morning roll call would be held on Mount
Kabir the following morning. Mount Kabir towered above Camp Sanur, a steep two-hour ascent – three, with a cot on your back. But since it took two of us just to carry one cot, we spent six long, grueling hours to get all the beds up there. An iron army cot with all our equipment on it weighed about 220 pounds; each pair of us awkwardly gripped, carried, pulled and pushed our cots up a near-vertical slope of a mountain with no paths, wading through slippery mud as the wind whipped around and the rain pounded down. Once we reached the peak – exhausted, soaked, sweaty, and shivering – we had to go back down to get the second bed and start all over again. At 7 AM, 30 beds were neatly lined at the top of Mount Kabir, complemented by the sorry sight of 30 ragged, muddy, sweat-drenched recruits. We were thoroughly worn out, but the thought of our sergeant having to make the steep hour-and-a-half climb up the mountain brought a smile to our faces. Morning roll call on a foggy mountainside was a surreal sight that day, to be sure. But we did it… It was stupid and pointless, but we were equal to the challenge. Our sergeant walked up to us with his sleeves rolled up. It was near freezing out, with specks of ice shimmering on the tall grass. “You cold?” he asked me. “Not at all, sir,” I lied. He kept me out there standing in attention for an additional two hours, waiting for me to admit I was lying. I refused, and eventually he broke first. Later, my buddy and I laughed all the way back to camp with our beds on our backs.
By the time boot camp drew to a close, the year had passed. But we were so absorbed in our daily schedules, we didn’t even notice. It was another uncharacteristically sunny winter’s day. We were entrusted to go out on assignment to patrol the outer perimeter of the base. We were unfledged, as green as they come. We walked briskly, commanded by a fitness instructor who was also a combatant. It felt good to be performing operational duties. After scouring the surrounding mountains all afternoon, we sat down for a rest. Our spirits were high. The commander informed us that someone had broken into the ammunition bunker last night, and that we were on the lookout for suspects. We were cracking jokes and fooling around when suddenly Udi told us to be quiet. We sat there for a while straining our ears. All of a sudden, someone yelled: “Runner!” Somebody was bolting it in the valley below us. “I got him,” Shachar said and got into shooting position – but something about the runner’s movement seemed familiar to me. “No, don’t shoot!” I yelled and leaped forward, crossing his line of fire. I won’t have to dig my own grave this time, I thought to myself as I darted after the runner. Udi ran straight across one mountainside and Yuval across the other. The runner was below us in the valley, but it was easier to dash in a straight line than downhill.
My breath was getting shorter, but I was fit and kept accelerating. Just before we reached the valley, the runner turned sharply when he noticed Udi and Yuval were about to cut him off. I saw my opportunity, hastened my steps and leaped forward, crashing into him and sending him tumbling to the ground. I got up and pinned him to the ground with my legs, looked down, and froze in my tracks: it was “the ghost,” dressed in civilian clothes, a look of absolute madness in his eyes. I looked at him, and once again did not envy him.
Eventually, boot camp to an end, and we each dispersed back to our own units. The training we would later undergo included unbelievable physical and mental challenges – but nothing would ever compare to those excruciating and traumatic three months in which we metamorphosed from children to beasts.
A couple of years later, I came across my drill sergeant, the one I’d promised myself to beat the shit out of if I ever saw him again. I had gained 50 pounds of muscle since boot camp, and was a formidable sight – an “alpha wolf.” He looked at me and I looked at him; he seemed small and unintimidating. We hugged like old friends. Years later still, I found out that my boot camp company commander was among those killed in the Tyre Disaster in Lebanon in 1982.
In the mid-1990s, already a major in the reserves, I was sitting in the command post of the West Bank settlement of Yitzhar, coordinating assignments for my soldiers. My signaler came in and said the regiment commander wanted to see me. “I’ll get back to him when I’m done,” I brushed him off. The message was repeated twice more, and twice more I ignored it. Finally, someone came in and said the regiment commander was here. I realized I had no other choice, and went out to meet him. As I stepped out of the tent, I saw a short but impressive man, exuding self-confidence and authority, surrounded by staff soldiers who clearly admired him. I looked at him and he looked at me; we immediately recognized each other. It was my “shadow.” An awkward silence was broken by a mutual pat on the shoulder. Later, we sat down to have some coffee and a cigarette, surrounded by other officers. He told them he spent most of his boot camp couched on my shoulders. That was only half of the story, of course, but I kept that to myself. That man earned his respect in the hardest way possible, starting from rock bottom and climbing his way to the top of the ladder. He was the embodiment of the expression against all odds.
As for “the ghost,” I never saw him again. He disappeared, like an extra in a movie. I can’t even recall his name… Sometimes I think he never had one. He was simply the ghost.
Chapter 5
AT THE END OF YOUR ROPE: ADVANCED TRAINING
The unit’s advanced training program consisted of cycles in which cadets learned a new skill, drilled it repeatedly, and were then examined over it. The examinations were tough, and we had to reach beyond our limits to make it through. The weather often played a decisive role.
The winter of ‘78 was a wet one. It wasn’t just rain, but torrential downpours that even the most senior members of the unit couldn’t recall seeing before. We were Qualification Course cadets – no longer fledgling recruits, but still far from accomplished combatants. We had quite a bit of warfare, navigation, and fitness training under our belts. We were disciplined soldiers with a lot to prove; we felt every step we took was a test. We didn’t dare say so aloud, but inside, each of knew that if we’d made it this far, we stood a decent chance of making it all the way.
Squad assignments are “rolling” exercises – meaning that once an exercise starts, there are no breaks until its conclusion. We spent several days studying axes of advance for a four-day exercise and prepped our gear. Whatever time we had left was spent exchanging rumors and theories about what we were about to encounter in the exercise. We spent all of Saturday sleeping, resting up to preserve our energy. That evening we held roll call to inspect and weigh our equipment. My gear weighed a hefty 145 pounds. My own body weight was 190 pounds at the time, so my squad commander had no qualms about authorizing me to carry such a load. That Sunday afternoon, following the usual grueling fitness training session, we hopped on a truck and were on our way.
I sat all the way in the back and just chain-smoked the whole ride through, like I always did before anything important. It was a relaxed, joking atmosphere at first, but eventually everyone receded into themselves in preparation. Some napped, others read, while others still stared blankly ahead.
We started off with a land navigation exercise. We had studied a 12.5 by 12.5-mile sector, and were now dropped off at a random point somewhere in that sector without a map. From there, we had to first orient ourselves, then move forward. It goes without saying, of course, that all this was done in the pitch dark of night. We were supposed to be dropped off in helicopters, but we had to change to trucks because of the weather. We sat at the back behind a closed tarp cover, trying to guess where they were taking us.
We were dropped off on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, somewhere south of the Palestinian city of Hebron. We were three soldiers, each carrying 70% of our body weight on our backs. It was a cloudy, dark night. After a short while, it started drizzling. In that moment, at the very start, you feel tense and alert, excitement building up in your chest; you feel alone and cold, but you know that soon enough, once you get into it, you’ll feel nothing at all.
The trick about land navigation is memorizing the di
agonals: paths, roads, streams, power lines, mounds, and channels. We studied and measured them. We expected the dirt path to follow the northwestern azimuth, between 330° to 350° on the compass.1 But instead, it followed azimuth 250°. We carried on, hoping the difference was only a bend in the road, but the path refused to conform to our expectations. About a mile later, we had to admit that it wasn’t the path we thought it was. After talking it over, we decided to head north off the path.
The rain grew stronger. We got out our rain-ponchos. A poncho is a great thing: it’s sealed and helps trap your body warmth. The problem is that you sweat profusely in it, so you get wet anyway; it also traps your body odor, so after a while the stench becomes substantial.
After a couple of miles we ran into a ravine which went in the direction we thought it should, so we followed it. Shortly afterwards, the channel split as we anticipated, so we were certain we were on the right path. Now that we were oriented, we picked up the pace. We had to reach the rendezvous point by 2 AM. Gilad and I walked fast, but the third member of our squad started lagging behind. Every time a gap opened up between us, Gilad and I stopped to let him catch up.
The path became increasingly muddy and difficult, and we started feeling the weight on our backs. We each carried our platoon-level weapons: I carried a 50-inch long MAG machine gun, 22 pounds of cast iron. But what really weighed me down was its heavy metal ammunition belts. We were sweating like hogs; the wind and rain beat down on us relentlessly, we could hardly see a thing.
We reached the rendezvous point soaked and sweaty. We were among the first ones there, so we had to wait in the pouring rain for the other guys to arrive. Our assignment was to take over a fortified position. We were well drilled, so the exercise went over smoothly, except for one hiccup: as we retreated in a line formation, Yoram suddenly disappeared into the earth. There was a well there, and the poor guy simply fell in. Luckily enough, he came out bruised but without any broken bones. He sat out the rest of the exercise, and we split back into squads.