Shadow Soldier: A Military Thriller

by Roni Eliav

  I went to get ammo. The unit’s kennel had no dogs in it, but it had ammo – lots and lots of ammo. I took five crates of bullets and grabbed a couple of stray ammunition belts. It took me three rounds to carry all that to my room. Infantry units have a position called “MAG 2”, an assistant gunner who is effectively the gunner’s porter. But our unit is tight and compact, we had no room for assistants, so we just carried whatever we could ourselves. I initially stored the ammunition belts in drum magazines, which allow you to store rounds in a spiral around the center of the magazine – a nifty way to keep your ammo close to the gun. The problem is if the magazine jams. The only way to clear the jam is to tear the belt, but then all the other rounds in the drum become useless. So, on second thought, I left only one drum magazine, scattered the rest of the belts in the pockets of my combat vest, and shoved the rest into my backpack.

  Finally, Nachum returned. We loaded the truck and were off to Lebanon, stopping for falafel in Afula along the way. The next morning, after a very short night’s sleep at the border, we reached the town of Arnoun, overlooking Marjaayoun. We linked up with the Golani and Paratroopers Brigades’ reconnaissance companies. They had already conquered al-Khiam and the entire Marjaayoun range. The bastards left nothing for us.

  I went to look for Yoav, a childhood friend who served in the Golani reconnaissance company. I found him asleep, safe and snug in a one-piece snowsuit. He was happy to see me, and told me all about the battle they’d participated in the day before.

  Finally, Nachum came back with an assignment, and the feeling of humiliation at once turned to eager anticipation. We were certain elite soldiers like us would be given the assignment to end all assignments, something to end this whole operation in one fell swoop. We would take enemy headquarters, destroy the very seat of evil. But instead, it turned out we were being sent to destroy a mortar position that was bugging the troops… Well, better than nothing, I guess. We were supposed to sneak up to the position at night, destroy it and the surrounding forces, and return to bask in our glory.

  We gathered the night equipment. I managed to cram 650 rounds into my combat vest and drum magazine in different ways. My overall weight was heavy, but I believed I’d manage. I stuffed whatever was left into my backpack and looked for someone with room on their backs to carry it. There was no such person. Everyone had geared up from head to toe. It was our first time going out on operational duty, and no one wanted to be caught ill-prepared: mortar shells, rocket launchers, grenade launchers, RPGs… We were armed to the teeth, ready to stop a whole armored convoy if necessary—but no one had room on their backs.

  We held roll call and Nachum examined us one by one.

  “What about the pack?” he asked me.

  “I’ll carry it. I’m gonna empty all the ammo at the destination, anyway.”

  Nachum lifted the backpack, hardly looking up at me. “Are you sure?” he asked. “You’re walking lead tonight.”

  I gulped, and replied that I was sure. At night, the commander leads the team, walking the most direct path to the target. Whoever leads to his right or left maintains his line at a fixed distance, no matter the terrain, no matter what obstacles are in the way. The gunner usually doesn’t lead, but in cases where direct enemy fire is anticipated, it’s best to have your superior firepower leading the line.

  I loaded the heavy pack on my back. I was carrying 1,100 MAG rounds, a combat vest and gear, water canteens, grenades, a combat knife, and other miscellaneous combat gear. All in all, over 155 pounds. The first steps were nearly impossible. Once again, I felt like I was being driven into the ground with each step. When we fell into formation and I knelt by a thorn-bush on the side of the path, I could barely get myself back up to my feet.

  When we departed, just walking was nothing short of a nightmare. I awkwardly plowed my way through the vegetation like a tank, occasionally having to run forward to catch up with Nachum. Running with all that weight on my back required the coordination of every single muscle in my body.

  I huffed and puffed like a dying engine. That bulky machine gun slung over my neck nearly toppled me over with every step I took. My back muscles screamed, my leg muscles became stiff and swollen. I kept moving and running to keep up. One thought played in my head obsessively: As soon as we make contact with the enemy, I’m blasting every single goddamned round I’m carrying. When we stopped, I didn’t kneel out of fear I wouldn’t be able to stand back up. In the meantime, every stone along the way posed an impenetrable barrier, any incline was like climbing the Everest.

  After about three hours, when I was certain I had absolutely walked my last step and was about to collapse in exhaustion, Nachum stopped and whispered the magic words: “Staging position.” I thought this moment would never come. Nachum signaled me to scale a nearby mound. I took off my pack, positioned the MAG and spread some ammunition belts. Three of us were left behind to provide cover fire, while Nachum and the rest of the team set off to outflank the mortar position. Once I received the signal, I would fire the longest burst any gunner ever fired. Then I intended to move the barrel and just pound away, shooting at anyone and anything that tried to flee the scene.

  I dripped sweat all over the MAG, constantly having to wipe my sweaty palms. Time went on, but no signal came. Another fifteen minutes passed, nada. Finally, I stopped sweating, but now I was getting cold. After another fifteen minutes or so, Nachum and the team emerged from the darkness and signaled us to fall in. There had been no mortar, nor was there an enemy… The place turned out to have been deserted.

  I packed everything up and we started heading back. Words cannot describe the agony of the way back: I was beyond pain and despair. I cursed the terrorists who refused to stay in one place, I cursed Nachum who first suggested I would regret how heavy my pack was, I cursed the guy who left the team and bequeathed me this accursed machine gun, and I cursed the fact I couldn’t just ditch the ammo and be done with it… In short, I cursed everyone and everything. A growl of fury and indignation was building in my chest the whole way back, threatening to make its way up my throat and burst out. It was this pent-up rage that drove me forward on that long, arduous walk back.

  When we finally reached the starting point, I threw off my pack and took off my combat vest. I was soaking wet, as if I had just stepped out of the pool. I steadied the MAG on its bipod, and went to look for a cigarette.

  Chapter 7

  THE OUTSIDER: OFFICER TRAINING

  At the end of the 18-month Qualification Course, the unit selects those who will become future squad commanders. It is a consequential decision for both parties, with significant ramifications to the lives of future cadets and their commanding officers.

  I sat in the office of Tamir, the unit commander, alongside my squad commander Nachum, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. An officer? Me? A squad commander? I can’t say it came as a total shock, but still, I was surprised and honored. Tamir had taken his position as unit commander only a few weeks before, so I hardly knew him. He asked with a certain degree of apprehension if I wanted to be a squad commander, and I—excited as I was— completely neglected to play my role in this charade and immediately said yes. I was supposed to say no, insist that I just wanted to be a soldier in a team, and to let them convince me. That was how this was usually done, and that was what the two candidates in Tamir’s office before me had said. But I, the city-slicker, the outsider, said yes right away. I didn’t just agree, I was positively glowing. Tamir realized the guy sitting in front of him didn’t quite fit into the usual mold here, just like him. He sighed with relief and struck up a casual conversation. Truth is, I was so excited that I didn’t follow a word he was saying. Come to think of it now, I realize that out of the three people who participated in that conversation, I’m the only one still alive. Both of them died in the 90’s. Tamir died in a helicopter accident trying to land in foggy weather; and Nachum was also involved in a helicopter
accident which he actually survived, only to later be killed in a motorcycle accident.

  The conversation was odd. Tamir was the kind of person who seemed out of place no matter where he was. He had come into the role following a legendary and admired predecessor. He had also committed an irredeemable sin: he was a paratrooper. Not that being a paratrooper was bad in itself, but this unit markedly preferred its own to outsiders. He was in good company, though; both Nachum and I were different from the other soldiers in the unit. Nachum was as talented as any other officer in the unit, but while most officers were kibbutzniks, raised in collective, secular communities, he was the son of a renowned religious scholar— although Nachum himself had left the faith and become secular. I myself was the only soldier in my squad to come from an urban background, the rest were also kibbutzniks; I was an aggressive guy among a group of level-headed lads; I was the only one in my squad who smoked, but I was in tremendous physical shape—a fact that drove the others mad; I was reading science fiction, they were reading belles-lettres or adventure novels; I had siblings and parents, they had the collective children’s house; I didn’t know any of the unit’s alumni, they knew several from their kibbutzim; I didn’t know any of the songs they sang around the campfire; they knew how to light a fire, navigate, walk in the dark, and get along in a group, while I had to learn all that from scratch. So how was it that while they were outside training, I was the one sitting in the unit commander’s office?

  I had always been the odd man out. I’d been an Ashkenazi boy in an almost entirely Mizrahi class. Even worse: I’d been a pretty boy with bright blue eyes. I’d had to fight for my spot. Of course, when I moved to the predominantly Ashkenazi elitist high school, I was considered “the kid from the slums.” Even in my own house I was different, a lazy student sandwiched between a highly-accomplished older sister and a gifted younger brother. I studied only when I absolutely had to. Learning disabilities were unheard of back then, so they just said I was bright but recalcitrant. All my friends were non-Ashkenazis, and I preferred dark-skinned girls. Over time, I grew quite fond of the outsider’s role, and honed my character to perfection. I wasn’t afraid to be different, and made no great effort to fit in. I learned that one can be different and still fit in. I was part a group of friends, but at the same time I was always a maverick: I believed in friendship, but even more, I believed in being true to yourself.

  In the army, the cultural differences between myself and the kibbutzniks were staggering. I tried to understand what they were about; I even went over to their kibbutzim on several weekends. But I didn’t relate to what I saw, and even though I made an effort to understand them, I never wanted to be like them. And because I never tried to fit into their mold, I became an alternative type of leader in the unit. Some of them even came over to my “camp,” so to speak; but at the end of the day, none of those friendships lasted to the present.

  Being nominated for officer training fit my own perception of myself, but I was surprised to discover how hard it actually proved to be. In the unit, we were trained in every aspect of commando warfare: land navigation, night raids, camouflage, single or small-group combat, etc. But I didn’t know the first thing about infantry warfare, and when we had our first infantry exercise— to take an enemy-held fortification— I was like a fish out of water. Things went from bad to worse as the battlefield maneuvers grew in scale and became increasingly complex. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of two opposing forces duking it out face-to-face in an open battlefield. Such a scenario requires a holistic perception of the battlefield as a whole and exact coordination and division of targets and objectives, requiring a level of cooperation to which I—a commando brought up in inherently small, tight-knit teams—found it hard to acclimatize. However, when it came to individual soldiery, I stood out: after several navigation exercises which I finished hours ahead of anyone else— one time even reaching the end point before the truck that was supposed to mark it— I was excused from navigation training. I stood out physically, although there were some individuals who were faster than me, and one or two who were as strong as I was. But when it came to the “Natural Disaster” exercise, in which we had to run over sand dunes, run in the sea, climb up a cliff, pass an obstacle course, and then shoot at targets— I received the highest score of anyone in the course.

  Yet I took to heart the gulf in knowledge between myself and others regarding broader frameworks of warfare. Try as I might, I couldn’t make up the ground, and gradually slumped into a let’s get this over with mood. I made friends there whom I held in high esteem, especially those who excelled in places where I struggled. And eventually it was over. My squad, who just so happened to be doing a navigation exercise nearby, were able to attend the graduation ceremony. Seeing their delightfully uncouth support in the stands went a long way to brightening my mood as I stomped around the parade ground.

  When we got back to the unit, I once again found myself neither here nor there. I had agreed in advance to extend my service by three additional years, and thus I was earmarked to lead the next squad available. Until then, I had several months as a free agent in the unit. I went on every operation, honed every skill I desired, but I felt unsatisfied—I wanted my own squad already.

  Finally, conditions were such that I was able to get a team of newly-arrived cadets. I jumped at the chance. The make-up of this squad was completely different than all other squads: it had a city majority, and only a tiny minority of kibbutzniks and the odd cadet from an agricultural settlement. That suited me very well— fewer smartasses, more practicality. Plus their group consciousness wasn’t as developed, meaning they would be easier to shape in my image.

  I adopted a primus inter pares approach as a commander, opting for sociability over distance. Whatever they did, I did too. I was better than them at most things, but as some of them grew to outperform me in certain aspects, I embraced it. Not that I ever stopped competing with them, but I could accept losing a 5-mile race, for example.

  True to the belief that there’s a wild, killer side in all of us that needs to be unearthed, I kept poking and prodding to awaken the beast in them. I wholeheartedly believed that in order to be a commando, you needed to be able to call on the killer in you at will. Living in a society regulated by social norms, we are forced to bury that side of us deep beneath the surface; you cannot be a normal, functional member of society if you don’t learn to tame the ruthless impulses inside you. But when you push yourself close to the edge, you increase your chances of stirring the slumbering beast inside: when you fight in hand-to-hand combat, there will come a moment where if you are still restrained— you will lose. When you are out alone on assignment in the middle of the night in unfamiliar territory, all the cool thinking, skills, or knowledge you possess are worthless—if your killer instincts are not awake, you will be mired in fear and trepidation.

  So I deployed the entire scope of training available to me in the unit, and devised a couple of exercises of my own. Two to three fitness sessions a day; monstrous ruck marches, some exceeding 30 miles in a single night; extensive hand-to-hand combat training, and no-holds-barred fights. I demanded aggression. I took them out drinking, because drinking helps remove inhibitions. I got them involved in street brawls. I demanded they perform even in the face of extreme deprivation.

  In most cases, it worked. I discovered different people had different wild sides to them, and that some people had developed elaborate mechanisms to keep that wildness at bay. I also discovered that some were incapable of reining in that wildness once it was unleashed. So I trained them in that as well. This confrontational style had a price: most of them were injured at some point. Some recuperated and returned stronger, but some had to quit. This method also ran the risk that naturally-imbalanced people could get completely derailed and become sociopaths or criminals. So at the same time, I emphasized and promoted integrity, self-respect, respect for your peers, and— most importantly—loy
alty. In my squad, Zionism was a framework through which to channel and focus violence and aggression.

  At the end of the day, I got the squad I wanted: a team of warriors who could absolutely rip the enemy to shreds. A squad that could unleash unparalleled savagery, allowing them to do what others simply couldn’t; at the same time, they could sit together moments later, console each other, and feel empathy and compassion. That team proved itself on many occasions. We had our failures, sure, but not once did they result from a lack of ability.

  Chapter 8

  INDEPENDENCE DAY 1980: RECKLESS ABANDON

  Defying conventions. A clash of two worlds.

  As Independence Day approached, we finished roll call and prepared for a dull, routine stay at the base over the holiday. We were the on-call anti-terror team on the base. So we readied our gear and prepared to loaf around meaninglessly.

  To my surprise, I was summoned to the unit commander’s office. I was instructed to tell my team to put on their formal uniforms and head over to secure the official state ceremony at Army Headquarters in Tel-Aviv. It was a far cry from what we were used to doing, but an order is an order. Plus there would probably be some good food there.

  I inspected my soldiers thoroughly before our departure. I sent them to fix whatever needed fixing and borrow whatever they were missing in order to have their formal attire comply with regulations. Some, who hadn’t yet shaken off the stench of a week out in the field, I even sent to shower. Finally, we were ready. We had several different weapons, each serving a different purpose, but each of us had a favorite weapon we preferred to carry in formal settings. Mine, unlike the rest of the team’s, was a shorter and lighter refitted M16 assault rifle, an Israeli renovation which was relatively new at the time. We were given four new and shiny jeeps, so we could make a fitting entrance.