by Roni Eliav
“I can look…” he replied.
“You’d better find them,” I concluded.
The soldiers came to their first fitness session wearing shorts and running shoes. I could see the apprehension in their eyes— they knew me well, and were afraid with good reason. We did the usual round of running and rope climbing, but then I took them to the 400-meter dash dirt track. There they found car tires with ropes tied to them, the other end waiting to be tied around their waists.
“Five rounds,” I yelled, “and give it everything you’ve got! Two-minute breaks between each round.” The first batch of soldiers tied the ropes to their waists, myself included. The first round was hard— our legs swelled and our backs hurt. Our lungs burned from the effort, and our pulses skyrocketed. I wasn’t sure I could even finish the second round. Half the team vomited in the third round, but got right back to it. The fourth and fifth rounds were out of this world. We were beyond exhaustion in the end. “We add another round every session,” I informed the anguished soldiers.
I took them to the rope yard, where 40-pound weighted vests were waiting for them. We went on a 400-yard run, followed by a 25-foot rope climb using only our hands, then “walking” forward on the parallel bars using our arms. We repeated the routine five times.
“Are we going to do this every day as well?” Adi asked in exasperation.
“Of course,” I answered sternly. “You’ll be beasts by the end of this program.”
“Or cripples…” someone remarked.
“If anyone wants to quit, you’re more than welcome to do so,” I said. No one budged.
We had a surprise waiting for us in the mess hall: a separate table was set up for us, where we were served high-carb meals tailored for us by the unit doctor. The whole unit was watching us. We ate like starved pigs.
The doctor was supposed to come with us on the operation, but he didn’t show up for fitness training on Monday. I went to see him in the infirmary. To my astonishment, I found him with Tal in a position that left little to the imagination. After our initial shock, she scampered away and I told him: “You need to come to practice, or I’m not taking you with me.”
“I’m over 30 years old, my body still hasn’t recovered from yesterday’s practice…” he answered frankly.
“Doctor,” I told him, “I could care less. You either show up, or you’re out. Come down and do what you can,” I demanded.
He did start coming, but inconsistently. We would pay dearly for that, later.
I stopped seeing Tal, not just because of the incident with the doctor, but mainly because I simply didn’t have the time. But since I never said anything to her about it, she interpreted it differently. Either way, I didn’t bother worrying over it.
We would wake up early every day, do a light training session, and get breakfast. Until noon, every soldier on the team was busy with professional training pertaining to the operation. After lunch, we’d have our killer training session. We’d spend the evenings after dinner studying maps of the operation’s terrain.
I was given an office in the building housing the unit’s intelligence department, and was assigned a non-commissioned officer to prepare an intelligence report for me. I sat there for a couple of hours, enjoying having my own office. I carried on with the rest of the preparations from my room in the officers’ quarters—that day was the first and last time I bothered going to that dinky little office.
We practiced on Saturdays as well. I limited tire-pulling practice that day to ten rounds, since we had two walking exercises that week. The first exercise was pretty easy— we walked for 25 miles at a pace of about 5 miles per hour without almost any weight on us, just our combat vests and weapons. We took a drinking break every hour. The soldiers breezed through the exercise. The second exercise was an uphill track. It was significantly harder, and our bodies were still aching from our daily training. Nevertheless, we kept the times we’d designated for ourselves to finish the exercises.
The third week was tough. We went on with the daily fitness regime, and completed two weighted walking exercises across a steep, hilly course. That weekend, the doctor dropped a bombshell on me: two of the soldiers were suffering from hernia fractures and were unable to carry on training, meaning they were ruled out of the operation. This was especially disastrous because one of them was Jacob, my trusted signaler. But the problem was bigger than that: we only had one spare soldier training with us for this exact purpose, to step in for an incapacitated team member.
On my way back, Tal pulled me over to talk.
“Erez, you’re avoiding me,” she protested.
“I’m not, I’m just really busy.”
“Listen, I can explain…” she went on.
“You don’t owe me an explanation. You never promised me anything, nor I you.”
“Still, you’re avoiding me,” she insisted.
“I’ve already told you, I’m busy. You know that.”
“It’s an excuse, Erez.”
“Maybe. But it’s a good one,” I said, and went back to my room.
As I sat there, worrying about the shape of my team, Regev—the soldier with exceptional driving skills— came to see me. He had been removed from my team and assigned to the operational drivers division about a year ago. He came to ask to rejoin the team.
“You haven’t walked for a year,” I replied dismissively, “and besides, you’re already three weeks behind in training.”
“I can handle it,” he decisively asserted.
He was tall and strong, a wild and uncouth boy. He was hard to rein in, but his grit and determination were second to none. Finally, I agreed, and didn’t regret that decision for even a second. When the moment of truth came, he was as fierce as a lion.
In operations such as this, the squad commander is usually assigned an older squad commander as his deputy, to draw on his experience and help make decisions in the field. In our case, that was impossible because no one could walk this operation’s axis without proper preparations first. Eventually, I was assigned a younger deputy. He was also wild— a perfect fit for me and my team.
It was time to prove we were truly up to the task. After two months of rigorous training, our backs no longer hurt. My soldiers and I could now go through twelve rounds of tire-pulls and twelve rounds of weighted runs, and be ready for more. The intelligence department planned a simulation axis of advance for us. I went over it with a stereoscope (a depth-simulating device), a map, and aerial photos. It looked fine.
We assigned positions within the force and planned the distribution of weights. It came out to a substantial 120-130 pounds per soldier. I briefed the team, and we rode out to our departure point. We left the trucks at last light. I conducted one last roll call, and patted each of them on the back. Before heading out, I quietly said: “This is it, my friends, this is what we’ve been training so hard for. If we prove we can do this tonight, we’ll get the green light for an operation we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.”
We started walking quietly under the cover of darkness. We reacted to dangers we encountered in the field: we stopped, froze, and advanced. I issued a command using a designated whistle, pssssst, which sent the artificial tooth I had flying out of my mouth. I hesitated for a second, but quickly realized there was nothing I could do about it. From that moment on, I carried out the operation missing one of my front teeth.
We dashed across the terrain like antelopes. I walked at the front of the force carrying light gear, while the rest of the team lugged the weight behind me in anguished silence. When the terrain was flat, I walked at a fast pace and the soldiers had to run to keep up. At inclines, I walked at a fast, steady pace, and the poor soldiers suffered: when carrying heavy weights uphill, you have to lean forward, otherwise the center of gravity shifts back and you topple over. Leaning forward applies tremendous pressure on the lower back, abdomin
als, and thigh muscles. Add to that dozens of pounds of unevenly distributed weight, and the whole ordeal becomes a veritable nightmare. A couple of minutes are enough to break even a fit and determined individual; we climbed for hours. Every hour, I called a five-minute water break. The soldiers dropped to the ground and wiggled around to reach their canteens, which they gulped down in silent rage. Rage was essential: you couldn’t get through such an experience without channeling anger. They hated me, hated the army, hated the unit— and they carried on walking. At the end of the water break, they couldn’t get up on their own. I pulled the first one up, and he pulled up the rest. Occasionally, someone would trip; he’d be helped up by the nearest soldier, and we’d move on. After an hour, it seemed impossible to carry on; I had to extend the water breaks, because some of them couldn’t get up at all. Five extra minutes later, they were helped up and limped their way onward. Three hours later, we reached a particularly mean incline. I stopped before we started the ascent, which was so steep we had to use all four limbs to climb up. I looked back at the row of human houses trudging along heavily behind me: not a single one of them showed any sign of breaking as they silently awaited my command. I knew we were going to make it.
“Break at the top,” I said quietly, momentarily breaking operational silence. They looked at me, each hating me in their own way. I smiled at them in the darkness, my front tooth missing, and started climbing. They were close on my tail. No one stopped, no one lagged behind. When we reached the top, we rested. I was kind, and gave them a ten-minute break. We practically ran the final couple of miles. We made excellent time and kept to the schedule. At the end of the track the unit commander was waiting for me, along with a few other senior officers. He shook my hand and said: “Well done.” I realized he hadn’t trusted that we would make it, which led me to believe there was something behind his decision to assign this operation to my team. If we failed, he could always dismiss us as a poor team. That made me feel a bit better for having cut the axis a mile short without the knowledge of anyone but the intelligence officer.
It wasn’t our intention to lie. When we finished planning the axis, we realized we were about two miles short of the actual axis of the operation. Seeing how everything was so neatly coordinated, and not wanting to spoil a good plan, we decided that we would just run one mile back at the end of the track. As it turns out, we made it to the end by the skin of our teeth, so we decided to forget about the extra mile. Either way, we proved we were up to the task: we got the green light.
We went back to training.
One day, about halfway through the training period, the unit commander and I drove down to a meeting at Special Operations headquarters. We sat around the table, four lieutenant colonels, a colonel, and me— a first lieutenant. Right before going into the meeting, I noticed a girl, as pretty as an angel, carrying out some menial chores outside the building. I wanted to go out and talk to her. The big brass was hashing it out, but I drifted away at some point. They were comparing options and weighing risks. I was annoyed they were talking over my head, even though it was my operation. Their voices faded into a monotonous drone in my head, and I was caught off-guard when they suddenly asked my opinion on a matter.
“It’s all talk, anyway,” I brazenly said, “at the end of the day, it’s going to be me out there calling the shots as I see fit.”
A stunned silence pervaded the room. I was surprised myself by what I had said, so I got up and left the room. The girl from before wasn’t there any longer. I asked where she had gone, and went looking for her. Half an hour later, the unit commander came to look for me. We drove back to the unit together.
“You’re an idiot,” he said. “I just spent the last hour trying to convince them not to remove you from the operation…”
“Where are they going to find another idiot who can walk that track?” I said boldly.
To his credit, the unit commander was amused by my insolence and burst out laughing, so I laughed as well.
The following week, the doctor summoned me to his office. There was a package of pills on his table.
“Do you know what these are?” he asked.
“Not a clue.”
“These are Benzedrine pills, a powerful stimulant. These’ll give you four hours of energy.”
“And what happens after four hours?” I asked.
“There’s a drop,” he admitted.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” I asked, even though I had a pretty clear idea of where he was going with this.
“We need to try this out on the soldiers, so we can use them if the need arises,” he said.
I didn’t say anything for a couple of moments, so he continued: “You understand this isn’t my idea, right?”
I did. I just didn’t understand why this hadn’t come up before.
“And you know,” he went on, “there’s nothing serious between me and Tal.”
“I don’t care if there is. She’s a free woman, she can do whatever she wants.”
“She asked me to tell you,” the doctor said.
“Good. Mission accomplished, then,” I sarcastically confirmed.
We tried the pills out on the soldiers. It worked like a charm: a powerful energy boost and a feeling of elation. The drop wasn’t so bad either. I earmarked it as an option.
The date of the operation was drawing nearer. We went into battle procedure, meaning from that point on we could be called into action at a moment’s notice. Near the end of the battle procedure period, we assembled for a briefing in the presence of the army’s Chief of Staff. After a couple officers spoke, I took the stage as planned to present a detailed briefing.
The Chief of Staff and I had had an embarrassing encounter a couple of months back. I’d presented the details of an operation in his presence, and every time I made a grammatical error, he jumped in and corrected me. I started double-thinking before speaking, but still repeated some mistakes, and he got angry. I’d finished that presentation weary and humiliated. He made me nervous, but didn’t interrupt this time, even when I kept making mistakes. Near the end of the briefing, he asked me in his typically figurative way: “Say an Arab farmer decides to hump his sheep and spots you, what do you do?”
“I apprehend him and radio in for instructions.”
“There is no radio,” he challenged me.
“Then I kill him and take the body back with me,” I replied.
“And if it’s a woman?”
“I kill her and take the body back,” I said with feigned confidence.
“A kid?” he insisted.
“Same,” I replied.
The Chief of Staff eyeballed me for a minute, and then said: “You’re not a kibbutznik, are you?”
“No,” I said to the sounds of muffled giggles from the crowd. “I’m from Ashkelon.” Muffled giggles erupted into roaring laughter.
The Chief of Staff stressed that we couldn’t kill anyone, and that we had to carry the operation out now because we would be signing a peace treaty with Jordan real soon.
We set a date, and the countdown began. Marathon meetings, packing, unpacking, repacking, last-minute upgrades to equipment, selecting the right pair of uniforms (everyone had their own favorite pair best suited to strenuous exertions), greasing boots—long-since rid of any Israeli identification marks— coffee, and endless packs of cigarettes. One more dry run, and light fitness sessions to keep in shape without overexerting ourselves.
And then the day finally came. We went to the mess hall for lunch, and found our separate table packed with everything you could possibly imagine. The entire unit was looking at us. Everyone knew about the operation, to some extent or other. We felt like gladiators about to enter the ring. The operations officer came to our table and informed us that the Prime Minister had sent a telegram: “Best of luck. We won’t leave you behind.” Someone left a flower on our table,
sparking a slew of speculation as to who it was for. At that moment, we were larger than life, Titans descending from above to grace the earth with their presence.
The gear was loaded up and sent ahead. We gathered by the unit headquarters with nothing but our rifles slung over our shoulders. A Sikorsky helicopter approached the base and landed just outside. We strode over with an air of casual arrogance. We didn’t put on helmets, and the flight mechanic protested; I dismissed him with a flick of my wrist, and he dropped the matter. The helicopter took off. I looked out of the window and saw the unit getting smaller and smaller.
We had another meal at the gathering point, and loaded our gear on our backs. Final roll call. I inspected each soldier individually, to make sure their gear adhered to operational standards. I made eye contact with each and every one. It was clear we were about to give it our all. I lingered for a minute by the doctor. It was obvious to me he wasn’t nearly as prepared as we were, but he was confident.
I lit one last cigarette with my equipment on my back. The sun was setting. We drove off to the departure point, fell into formation, and hurried across the makeshift bridge erected for us by the younger teams. Pats on the backs, a few good lucks muttered under our breath, and we were off.
Right after the bridge, we encountered a thicket. I had spent dozens of hours going over every inch of our axis of advance: I consulted maps and aerial photos, analyzed angles, terrains, and lines of vision. I knew every stone along the axis. But as it turned out, I hadn’t studied the thicket by the Jordan River. 300 yards of a clear trail— sounds simple enough. But there was no trail. I went left, then went right, looking for that damned trail, but it was nowhere to be found. I later found out that we had been dropped off a few dozen yards downstream from where we’d planned to land, because crossing the river was easier at that point. But not knowing that at the time, I did what you’re supposed to do in such a situation— I went back to the last place I’d identified for certain, and looked for marks indicating a road. There were none. The soldiers were growing testy watching at me walking around in circles. Ami, who had replaced Jacob as my signaler, whispered in my ear: “Let’s just cut through the thicket.” His words helped snap me out of the anxiety which had momentarily gripped me. I took a deep breath, and led the force right into the thicket. Three minutes later, we were out. I didn’t have time to wallow in guilt. I looked back, and started walking. Fast.