Shadow Soldier: A Military Thriller

by Roni Eliav

  At dawn we found a thick shrubbery and concealed ourselves in it for cover. We fell asleep, exhausted. The rain kept pouring down all the way through to midday, when we woke up. We sat there wet and miserable, gnawing on beef jerky, discussing the coming night’s assignment.

  When night descended, we packed up our backpacks – substantially heavier after soaking up rain for hours on end – and started walking. The first few steps were a nightmare of aching bones and muscles. Our bodies squeaked and squealed, and it felt like we couldn’t take another step. But slowly our muscles warmed up, and we picked up a satisfactory pace.

  The previous night’s problem repeated itself. Gilad and I walked at the same pace, and the other guy couldn’t keep up. After a frustrating couple of hours walking, the third guy sprained his ankle. We pounced on the opportunity: we radioed in that we were leaving him behind and that the command post should come pick him up. It was different back then, a time when you could leave a debilitated soldier alone in the field, a stone’s throw away from a Palestinian city. Unburdened by him, we were able to walk at a much faster pace. The rain wasn’t nearly as bad that night, but it was bitterly cold so we hardly stopped walking.

  We completed that night’s assignment without a hitch and moved on, eventually reaching the scheduled rendezvous point. To our surprise, our squad commander brought with him the other guy’s backpack, and demanded that Gilad and I split his gear among ourselves.

  The extra weight made a difficult situation seem almost impossible. I felt my body driven into the ground with each step I took, as if someone had turned gravity up a notch. The strain on my back and knees was unbearable. When we started ascending a slope, my thigh muscles felt like they were about to burst. That night we walked from the Hebron Mountains to Tel Lachish –about 25 miles away.

  When morning came, we found cover and dropped like stones. We were panting heavily, as if we’d just finished running a marathon. It took our bodies a while to ease down after the strenuous effort we’d put them through, so we couldn’t sleep. When we finally did, the rain resumed with even greater vigor. We cursed under our breaths and tried to wrap ourselves up in our ponchos, but the water easily found its way in and we got soaked to the bone. We couldn’t get our body temperature up, and spent the day shivering. Nothing eats away at your energy reserves quite like shivering for hours on end.

  When it was dark again and time to move on, we felt absolutely drained. We managed to somehow muster up enough energy to get up, pack up our gear in silence, load up and go on our way. We needed to get to Beit Jamal in the vicinity of Beit Shemesh, about a 13-mile walk. The rain was relentless, and the weight on our backs was overbearing. We tried walking as fast as we could, seldom stopping to drink. During water breaks, we didn’t dare take off our gear for genuine fear that we wouldn’t be able to get it back on afterwards. When we sat down, we couldn’t get up. After every break, one of us had to roll over on his stomach like a giant turtle and push himself up with great effort, and then pull the other up. We were suffering, but still managed to laugh at the absurdity of our situation.

  Around Beit Jamal, we started towards the Beit Shemesh engine factory. Even though it was only a couple of miles away, by the time we got there we were drained of our last drop of energy. We found a shrubbery overlooking the factory and once again simply crashed. Our moods picked up during the day. Just one more infiltration exercise and then it would be just a couple of miles to the final rendezvous point. That’s not too bad, we thought. We can take it.

  It was nighttime. The rain picked up and a strong, cold wind was blowing. On the one hand, conditions were miserable, but on the other hand it made our assignment easier. No guard in his right mind would patrol the perimeter in this weather. I went to deactivate the electric fence, but my fingers were so numb from the cold that I accidently short-circuited the fence. We quickly retreated and took up a hidden position to see if someone would come out and inspect it, but no one did. We assumed they were either put off by the rain, or maybe the rain caused the fence to short-circuit often anyway. We didn’t really care. We hurried up, made our way in, planted dummy-explosives, and got out of there.

  We loaded our gear and started on the last stretch of this horrendous exercise. I fantasized about the cigarette I’d light as soon as I dropped this gear off my back. A cigarette, and a steaming hot cup of coffee. Heaven on earth. Meanwhile, the rain was coming down so thick we couldn’t see an inch ahead of us. We were soaked to our very core, but had a spring in our steps: this would all be over soon. We could see the truck’s headlights in the distance, and picked up the pace.

  Just as we were about to reach the truck, our squad commander intercepted us. Without any introductions or explanations, he said: “You have another assignment. Head straight to Tel-Nof, where you’ll be watching the airstrip. Tomorrow you infiltrate the base, place explosives on the airplanes, and then make your way to Hulda. You have half an hour to learn your assignment, fill up some water, and prepare the dummy-explosives.”

  We stared at him dumbfounded. Can’t he see the condition we’re in? Doesn’t he understand we are running on empty? Does he not see the weather? Panic slowly gave way to anger. When we finally realized he was serious, we were filled with the deepest, most vile hatred towards him. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break, I thought to myself. We went over to the truck, studied our axis of advance, prepped our gear, and were out of there in 20 minutes. The others took their time, but we were purposeful and incisive.

  We started walking while the rain came down in buckets. We couldn’t see a damned thing. We went along the train tracks like blind beggars, tripping over every rock and mound. We fell, and we got up, moving forward on nothing but sheer willpower. The wind was blowing straight in our face and we had to push hard just to keep moving forward. And then hail started falling. We were under attack by a relentless barrage of golf ball-sized hail, battering our faces and pounding our heads. We kept inching our way forward. We could barely breathe, it was raining so hard it felt like we were being waterboarded. Our feet, hands, and faces became completely numb. Hell was taking form and hitting us with everything it had.

  We were supposed to follow the train tracks for seven miles, but didn’t have the slightest idea how far we’d gotten. When it felt things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the rain picked up to such a degree that we were literally knocked off our feet. We struggled to get up, and were battered right back down. We grabbed each other like two ants struggling to lift a veritable mountain of equipment.

  Suddenly we spotted a small tin shack. We bumbled over to it, threw the door open, and rushed inside. We dropped to the ground panting like dogs, trying desperately to catch our breaths. After a couple of minutes, our eyes adjusted to the darkness, and we spotted two other people in the shack lying in bunk beds, too scared to move a muscle.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Workers…” they said with a heavy Arab accent.

  We all sat there in a nervous silence for a few moments, until one of them cautiously asked: “A-are you military? Soldiers?”

  “Shut up! Don’t ask any questions,” I barked.

  Silence fell again.

  “D’you have a cigarette?” I half-asked, half-ordered. One of them handed me a cigarette and lit a match for me. The water droplets falling from my hair soaked the cigarette, but I took in the moist smoke with sheer delight. I hadn’t smoked in four days. We sat there for ten more minutes in silence, feeling dozy in the cover and warmth of the shack. Finally, we shook ourselves off, grudgingly rose to our feet, and stepped back out into the storm, leaving the two stunned workers to ask themselves what the hell had just happened. Stopping for cover in the shack was against the rules, but we were way beyond the rules by that point.

  We kept walking for I don’t know how long, until we came across a road. We walked by the side of the road; we could just as easily have wal
ked on the road itself, no one would spot us in that weather, but old habits die hard. We were supposed to stop at dawn, but we didn’t. We carried on in a stupor of exhaustion. Our rain-soaked gear weighed well over 220 pounds, it felt like my machine gun was going to rip my neck off, and my feet were an utter mess of mud, blood, and rainwater.

  At 6 AM we passed by the main bus station at Tel-Nof Base. Two soldiers were standing there waiting with umbrellas and raincoats on. They looked at us, appalled, two miserable-looking, ragged, mud-covered saps with gigantic backpacks dripping murky, brownish water.

  “My mother was right,” one said to the other, “she warned me not to volunteer.”

  We had a slight chuckle at his shrewd observation. We carried on in slightly better spirits, although that could also have been down to the fact the rain had died down a bit. We climbed up the hill overlooking the military airstrip. It was a great lookout point, full of shrubberies and precipitous cliffs – any soldier’s dream. We knew we weren’t allowed to go into caves because of the risk of catching cave-fever, but we found a shallow cave and convinced ourselves it was just a negative incline.2 The afternoon was relatively dry, so I took the opportunity to take off my shoes and see what was going on in there. My feet were in horrible condition, covered in bloody blisters, the skin completely wrinkled from the constant moisture. I popped the blisters and drained them. I had a spare pair of socks, but they’d gotten wet along with everything else in my backpack. I put them on anyway. I laced up my shoes as tight as I could. They were seriously worn out, and I prayed they’d last just one more night. They would not.

  When night fell, we descended the hill and snuck up to the airstrip. We stashed our backpacks, skillfully disabled the electronic fence, passed by the guard dogs and crept towards the underground hangar. We pulled out small communications devices. Gilad kept watch while I snuck up to the planes. I placed the dummy-explosives in the first couple of planes, and looked beyond them. There was a lit room in the back, with the distinctive aroma of grilled-cheese sandwiches emanating from it. I could picture the toaster crisping the bread inside… I drew closer and closer, when all of a sudden the guard came out of the room. I could have just hidden in the shadows, but for some reason I became filled with a violent rage. I emerged from the shadows and stood right in his face. I looked him in the eyes and said quietly: “Go back inside, or I’ll fucking kill you.” He took one glance at me and bolted as fast as he could, slamming the door shut behind him.

  We got out of there, found our gear, loaded it on our backs, crossed the road, and walked away as fast as our bodies could carry us. The rain picked up, pounding down as ruthlessly as it had the night before. We wallowed in the mud, hardly making any progress at all. We had to pass Soreq Stream, but it overflowed and flooded the fields around it. We lost our path. We went in a general direction, and it was all we could do not to fall into the raging waters. We were about 100 feet away from the train tracks. We could just about make out the embankment the track led to. Gilad was walking to my right, probably over whatever paved road was still left there. Suddenly I felt I was sinking.

  I took one step and my leg sank knee-deep; I took another step, and my other leg sank down to the hip. I tried moving forward and quickly sank down to my waist. I pushed my torso down so that the weight on my back wouldn’t drive me like a stake into the ground. It helped a bit, but then I started sinking forward. I knew that if I sank down to my chest, I’d be done for. I fought the mud, trying to swim across it like water. I shouted to Gilad at the top of my lungs, but he couldn’t hear me over the deafening storm. I fought like a trapped animal to keep myself afloat. One minute I’d gain a few inches, the next I’d sink right back down.

  Gilad had made it to the embankment. He turned around to look for me, but couldn’t see me. I yelled out to him again, but he couldn’t hear me. I kept struggling… I started swallowing mud. I tried turning to my side, but my backpack pulled me down like an anchor. In the course of my frantic struggle, I realized I had to spread out and make as large a surface as I could. I tried taking off my backpack, but sudden movements made me sink deeper. Gilad slumped to the ground to wait for me. I screamed with everything I had left in me – he turned around, but didn’t see me.

  I kept moving constantly, intuiting that if I stopped, I’d sink like a stone. I kept yelling, but to no avail. Just then, a fierce lightning bolt tore the sky apart; during that brief moment of light, Gilad spotted me. He threw his backpack aside and rushed over. I screamed for him to keep back. “What should I do?” he screamed back. “Rope! Throw me a rope!” I yelled. Gilad took out the rope from his vest while I struggled to unload my backpack. I kept wiggling constantly, to keep from sinking further. He tossed the rope, but it fell short. He pulled it back to try again. Meanwhile, I’d managed to get out of my backpack and hurl it forward with everything I had. The damned thing floated; must have had enough air trapped inside it. I took off my machine gun and tossed it over as well. I furiously tried to swim through the mud towards my gear, exerting every tiny bit of energy left in my body – but hardly made any progress. I desperately fought on, progressing inch by inch. The rain was incessant; strangely enough, I felt it actually helped by diluting the mud. After what seemed like forever, I made it to my backpack.

  Gilad carefully approached from the other side. He tossed his rope again, but again fell short. I had to repeat the stunt with my pack and weapon, but this time I knew what I was doing. I relaxed for a second, immediately realizing that was a mistake as I sank deeper. I worked up a frenzy again, drawing energy from god-knows-where.

  He tossed the rope for a third time, and this time it reached me. I latched the spring-hook at its end to my backpack, and Gilad dragged it out of the mud. We then repeated the drill with my machine gun. All the while, I kept stirring and shifting to keep from sinking further. As I slowly progressed, I felt the lace of my left shoe snap. I tried my best to salvage it, but quickly realized it was either me or the shoe. I gave up the shoe. Shortly after, I managed to make it to somewhat-solid ground and crawled on all fours, forcefully extracting my hands and legs from the mud with each step. Finally, I was able to make it to my feet. My heart was racing. My entire body was violently quaking from the exertion. Gilad later told me that I was screaming like an animal the whole time, occasionally laughing like a madman. I don’t remember any of that.

  Gilad dragged my gear up the embankment and I crawled on all fours. We sat there, huffing and panting. The rain was as relentless as ever. I started having massive cramps in every part of my body: my legs, my arms, my hips, my back… I wiggled around trying to ease the pain, feeling my muscles were going to tear off the bone. In a maddened burst of rage, I suddenly leaped to my feet and shook all my limbs.

  “You can walk?” Gilad asked, stunned.

  “Let’s go! Now!” I screamed at him.

  He helped me load my gear and we resumed following the tracks towards the road. I only had one shoe on, but couldn’t feel my foot anyway. I started feeling lightheaded and cheerful. It was as if my head was filling up with oxygen and just casually floating, slowly drifting away from my body. We made it to the road. I felt the ground slipping from under my feet, and then everything went dark.

  The next thing I felt was a tongue on my forehead… I was inside two sleeping bags stuffed with heat packs inside the lit truck. My squad commander was checking my temperature with his tongue.

  Later, Gilad told me what happened – that he saw me drop like a sack in middle of the road and rushed over to me, checking to see that I still had a pulse. He tried to flag down a car to stop for us. The first one drove right by. When the second one approached, Gilad stood right in its path and pointed his rifle straight towards the driver. Gilad and the driver loaded me and my gear up to the car and drove to Hulda.

  I woke up again on the bumpy road up to the unit. To my surprise, I was able to get out of the sleeping bags and stand up. The squad commande
r asked me how I was feeling, and I replied that I was fine. From there, I went straight for a long, steaming hot shower and a cigarette in bed. Tomorrow’s a new day, I thought to myself, but how am I gonna explain to the quartermaster that I need a new shoe…

  On Sunday, we headed out for a week-long series of land navigation.

  * * *

  1The compass divides the 360° of the horizon into four quadrants: 0° directs north, 90° directs east, 180° directs south, and 270° directs west.

  2A negative incline is a cliff that creates natural cover, as the top of the cliff protrudes outward and over its base. It’s a soldier’s gag: “I didn’t go into a cave, I found a negative incline.” More often than not, it’s a cave.

  Chapter 6

  1,100 MAG ROUNDS: OPERATIONAL DUTY

  Even before officially completing their training, combatants are desperate to join the fight. Operational duty is the culmination of everything you’ve studied and trained for, it is the ultimate test.

  In March 1978, the invasion of South Lebanon – named “Operation Litany” – had begun, and no one took us into consideration. We were in the Negev Desert doing a navigation exercise, and the operation simply started without us. My commander, Nachum Lev, then still a young squad commander, was absolutely livid. We quickly hopped onto the D500 truck, and he ordered the driver to floor it back to the unit. When we got there, Nachum went to find himself a signaler, and we started prepping our equipment and gear.

  A few months earlier, I’d inherited the MAG machine gun after my predecessor was discharged. The FN MAG is a large and heavy Belgian-made general-purpose machine gun, shooting 7.62mm rounds from heavy metal ammunition belts that are difficult to handle. But this doesn’t even begin to describe the myth that surrounds this weapon. In every infantry unit, the MAG is a status symbol, a certificate of honor for its bearer. The machine gunner, or gunner in short, walks around with an aura of being the best and strongest among the soldiers in his company.