Authors: Richard Herman
Matt shook his head, climbed into the back and closed the rear doors. Well, he thought, this is one way to see what’s happening up front.
“We’re getting close,” Shoshana said. “I’m not going to wake Hanni yet. She drove most of the last run.” Her partner had crawled into the back of the ambulance when Matt took over the driving and had fallen into an instant sleep. Shoshana, much more familiar with the road, was navigating. The first light of dawn was etching the eastern sky, punctuated by momentary flares of artillery. The dull
whumps
of the big guns would follow seconds later.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Matt said. “Why were all those kids still in Ofra? They should have been evacuated out like the ones I saw in your apartment.”
Shoshana stared into the night. “The government tried. But the settlers at Ofra are hard-liners and wouldn’t go. They’re afraid if they leave, the government won’t defend their homes and will pull back to a better defensive position. By not evacuating, they force the government to defend their homes.”
“That’s dumb,” Matt said.
“Not to the settlers.” She looked at him. “You don’t understand, do you?” He shook his head. “The settlers moved in after we occupied the West Bank during the 1967 war. Every one of those settlements is illegal.”
“So why’s that illegal?”
“We signed the Geneva Convention on Occupied Territories, which prohibits settlement.”
Matt was astounded. “But it’s been going on for twenty-five years.”
“The government encouraged it.”
“That’s dumb” was all Matt could think of to say.
“Not to many Israelis. They believe that all of Palestine belongs to them.”
“How do you feel about it?” he asked.
Shoshana stared into the night, too tired to discuss it further. “I just want the fighting to stop.”
A large shadow loomed up in front of them and Matt slammed his foot onto the brake pedal, skidding the ambulance to a halt. The hulk of a burned-out Merkava tank was blocking the road. “Christ,” Matt mumbled. “I almost ran into it.” He jammed the gearshift into reverse and backed up to maneuver around the tank. As he eased off the road to the right and rounded the tank, he stopped again. “There’s someone next to the tank,” he said. “We better check on him.” He threw the door open and hopped out.
“Don’t!” Shoshana shouted, jumping out after him. She knew what he would find and followed him. Matt was bent over the body of the Israeli tanker, not touching it. The scorched-black corpse was on its back, arms bent at the elbow, reaching up.
“My God,” Matt whispered.
She reached down and checked the identity tags of the corpse. “A colonel.” Then she looked inside the crew compartment at the rear of the tank. “Probably a brigade commander caught moving his command post.”
“What in the hell happened?”
“I don’t know,” she answered and pulled him back to the ambulance. “We’ve got to go. Our job is with the living.”
Three kilometers down the road, they found five ambulances stopped in front of a low building. They pulled into line and Hanni got out and went inside. She was back within minutes. “We’re at the aid station,” she said, “but there’s no one to transport. They’re waiting for the medics to bring more in.”
”Why don’t you use helicopters for air evac?” Matt asked.
“We do when we can,” Shoshana answered. “But we don’t have enough helicopters to go around, so we still use a lot of ambulances.”
Matt walked inside the temporary aid station and was surprised to see many wounded men, some lying on the floor, others sitting and resting against the wall. Anger flared when he realized they could be transporting many of them. He walked into the next room. It was filled with even more seriously wounded. “What the hell?” he growled.
A medic was giving a shot to one of the men and looked up. “Yank?” he asked, recognizing Matt’s fitigues.
“Yeah,” Matt answered. “I just got here with an ambulance. Someone said there’s no one to transport. Why in hell aren’t we moving these guys?”
The medic looked around. “Nothing anyone can do for them.”
Matt’s face turned rock-hard. It was his first experience with triage.
Matt pointed to the first room with the much less seriously wounded. “What about them?”
“They’ll be going back in a few hours.” The medic shrugged.
“Then why in hell can’t we move them now?”
The medic looked at him for a moment before answering. “They’re going back to their units, where they’re needed.”
Matt turned and walked out, determined to do something. Hanni was waiting for him. “You’ve got to go back. Shoshana found a stalled A PC, one of your M One-thirteens that we use for an ambulance up front. She’s got it started and we’re going forward.”
“Why doesn’t she tell me to leave?”
Hanni shook her head. “She couldn’t do that. Matt, you’re tearing her apart. She wants to be with you but—”
“Come on, I’m going with you.”
He and Hanni sat in the back of the M113 while Shoshana drove, working her way across a battlefield. Loud clangs echoed through the small compartment, deafening them when bullets ricocheted off the outer hull. “I thought vehicles with a red cross were protected under the Geneva Convention,” he yelled at the woman, glad that he was wearing a flak jacket and a helmet.
“You think that makes a difference to the Syrians?”
The APC jerked to a halt. “Get out!” Shoshana yelled. “Syrian tanks!” Matt followed Hanni out, relieved to get out of the metal box and see what was going on around them. Shoshana had hidden them in a wadi, a dry streambed that had down-cut eight feet into the terrain. Matt could hear the distinctive clank of a tank coming from over the edge. It sounded like it was fifty meters away.
Ahead of them, a squad of Israelis had dismounted from their M113 and were also hunkered down in the wadi. One of them held a Dragon antitank missile. The squad leader motioned for them to deep down as the clanking grew louder. Then the squad leader pointed at his eyes with forked fingers, then to Matt, then back down the wadi. Matt understood immediately what he wanted and ran back down the dry streambed until he was well clear of the clanking sounds. He poked his head over the edge of the wadi. Much to his surprise, he saw only one tank moving toward them and it was at least five hundred meters away. He looked for supporting troops and counted nine on the other side of the tank, moving along in its shadow.
Since he didn’t know the hand signals to flash what he had seen, he ran back to tell them. The squad leader nodded and deployed five men to the left and the Dragon team down the wadi to where Matt had been. When they were ready, he raised his fist and pulled it down hard. The men on the far left popped up and sent a rain of fire into the soldiers beside the tank. Matt stuck his head over the edge and saw the turret traverse toward the five men. A hand grabbed the back of his flak jacket and pulled him back down. “Keep down,” the squad leader baiked. At the same time, the Dragon team on the right swung the missile over the edge and fired. The boom of the missile hitting the tank washed over them. “That was our last one,” the sergeant told him. “We’ll be lucky to get him.”
Matt fell down to the bottom of the arroyo and held on to his helmet as the tank continued to fire. Then a hand grabbed his flak jacket and jerked him to his feet. The squad leader pushed him in the direction of the Dragon team. Matt tired to find Shoshana but had lost both her and Hanni. Another soldier kept pushing him along until they were past the Dragon team and well away from the APCs. “Knocked off a track, but the bastard’s still firing,” the sergeant said.
Then Matt saw Shoshana and Hanni carrying a wounded man into their APC. “They had better get away from there,” a voice said, “until we know who else is out there.” The sharp realization hit Matt that it took a special type of situational awareness to survive ground combat and that he didn’t have a clue.
“Your APCs got a gun mounted on top,” Matt said. “Why don’t you use it?”
“APCs don’t engage tanks,” the sergeant barked. Matt thought about that for a moment and then decided to look again. He could see that the Dragon antitank missile had blown off the tank’s left track, but other than that, the tank was undamaged. The turret was swinging back and forth and the PKT machine gun mounted above the main gun was raking the ground in front of the wadi. They were trapped.
The tank crew was still buttoned up inside and Matt couldn’t see any supporting infantry. Then he noticed the top of the turret; something didn’t look right. He pointed it out to a corporal beside him who looked and only shook his head. “That’s the hatch. It’s got a dent in it.”
Now the American was beginning to get a clue. Maybe the hatch could be pried open like a tin can and a grenade dropped inside. He ran back to the APC and grabbed a breaking bar he had seen inside. He ignored Shoshana and Hanni who were working on the injured man, trying to stop his bleeding. He ran back to the corporal. “Give me a grenade,” he said. Again, he popped his head up, took a quick look and dropped back down. The tank was concentrating its fire in the direction of the APCs in the wadi, apparently aware of their position. Now he understood why the squad leader had moved away. APCs didn’t engage tanks but tanks engaged APCs. He looked again, screwing up his courage. He was going after the tank.
With a shove, Matt pushed himself over the edge of the wadi. But the corporal reached up and jerked him back. He lot his balance and collapsed in a heap in the bottom of the wadi. “Why were you going to do that?” the corporal asked.
“Because APCs don’t take on tanks,” Matt shot back. It was the best one-liner he had ever thought of.
“That was stupid,” the corporal said, shaking his head. He pulled Matt to his feet and pointed behind him. Matt could see a Hummer with a TOW mounted on top coming toward them. “We had called for help.”
There’s many kinds of situational awareness, Matt decided.
“I swear I’ll never even think of playing Rambo again,” Matt said, trying to keep their spirits up with a little humor. The three of them were sitting beside the ambulance at the hospital in Haifa, eating after returning from their sixth run to the aid station to the north. Matt found it hard to believe he could be so tired and still keep moving. Shoshana only looked at him. “You know … attempt to do a John Wayne number on a tank.” In quieter moments, he knew it had been rash to the point of stupidity. But he was also dealing with strong protective feelings that were wrapped around Shoshana.
“You would’ve been killed,” Shoshana said, a concerned look on her face.
“Tamir!” Matt recognized the woman dispatcher’s voice immediately. The young woman was standing there, slightly weaving, on the edge of a physical collapse. “There’s a lull in the fighting,” she said. “Only a few more to bring in-for now.” While Shoshana and Hanni climbed into the ambulance, he asked the woman to call the American embassy and tell them where he was.
“How much longer can you two go on?” Matt asked, sliding into the driver’s seat. He had been going for over thirty-six hours and knew they had been on duty much longer. Hanni was already dozing.
“As long as we have to,” Shoshana said. “Let’s go.”
Matt joined the stream of traffic moving north. The road had been cleared and they moved along at a steady forty kilometers per hour, sandwiched between a supply truck and a freshly repaired M60A3 tank. He noticed that the tank commander standing in the hatch was a woman and realized how desperate the Israelis were if they were manning tanks with women. He mentioned it to Shoshana but she was also asleep. Occasionally, he would see a returning ambulance or a truck transporting wounded men with filthy bandages and still carrying their weapons. Those men were wounded, he thought, returned to combat and wounded again.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself. Through the fog of his fatigue, he realized he had accomplished exactly what Gold had sent him north to do and he had to report it. He passed the spot where the destroyed Merkava tank had blocked the road. The tank had been pushed to one side and a team of mechanics were working on it. He counted six body bags piled off to one side. My God, he thought, they’re retrieving tanks before taking care of their dead.
Overhead, two Israeli F-4 Phantoms crossed the road. He watched them weave back and forth. Flying a CAP over the road, he decided. He listened for artillery. Nothing. The fighting may have stopped for now, he calculated, but they were far from being secure and the Israelis were obviously rushing reinforcements and supplies forward. He looked at his watch—3:40 p.m. Probably another attack tonight, he decided. Which side will be on the offensive?
A soldier wearing the distinctive red brassard of the military police on her left arm waved them past the aid station and they continued north. He nudged Shoshana. “Wake up. Change in plans.” She lifted her head, momentarily confused. Another military policewoman directed them to turn off the road toward a barbed-wire compound.
“POWs,” Shoshana said as they came to a halt.
A lone MP was standing by a single stretcher, waiting for them. Shoshana and Hanni jumped out and loaded the stretcher. The MP climbed into the back and they closed the doors. Worry was written across Shoshana’s face when they climbed back into the cab. “Don’t like hauling wounded POWs?” Matt ventured.
“We’ve done it before,” she said. He could hear the concern in her voice.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“This one is wearing an Iraqi uniform.”
Johar Adwan slipped quietly into the back of the squadron’s ready room and found a seat in the back, next to a wall. Johar Adwan looked around, relieved to see only other pilots like himself—the nobodies. Every Iraqi air base like Johar’s at Mosul had its fair share of nobodies—the little men, the pilots without family or connections.
The twenty-nine-year-old Iraqi pilot outwardly accepted his position at the bottom of the squadron’s pecking order, trying to be content as a lieutenant, knowing that he would never be promoted beyond captain and that others, much less qualified than he, would rise far above him in the chain of command. But that was life in Iraq’s air force. There were compensations. Johar Adwan flew Iraq’s most modern fighter, the Soviet-built Sukhoi, the Su-27, that NATO called the Flanker. Johar preferred the other name the pilots had given the big jet fighter—Pugachev’s Cobra—after Viktor Pugachev, one of its designers and chief test pilot.
Another pilot, Samir Hamshari, came into the room, saw Johar, and sat down beside him. Like Johar Adwan, Samir Hamshari was also a nobody. Samir glanced at the slightly balding Johar. “No practice today,” he said. Samir was a year younger than Johar and had introduced him to a new form of air-to-air tactics. Most of the squadron tolerated the two lieutenants, amused by the way they pored over “Red Baron” reports and the issues of the
Fighter Weapons Review
magazine Russian agents had stolen from the U.S. Air Force and sent to the Iraqis. Because of their interest in American tactics, the other pilots had mockingly shortened the pilots’ names to Joe and Sam.
What no one knew, and what Johar and Samir’s privileged and powerful superiors would not have tolerated, was that the two pilots practiced the tactics they read about whenever they had a chance. And in order to be unobserved by their own radar controllers, they did it below a thousand feet with their IFFs off.
“General Mana arrived from Baghdad ten minutes ago,” Samir said. Hussan Mana was the commander of the base at Mosul and, according to his press releases, the number one fighter pilot in the Iraqi Air Force.
“I’m impressed,” Johar mumbled. “You don’t think he’s going to fly tomorrow?” The two exchanged knowing glances. The joke around the squadron was that Mana flew once a month whether he needed to or not. “Did you hear the latest rumor?” Johar asked.
“That we’re going to join Syria?”
“Not that one,” Johar replied. “The one about Mana’s younger brother being killed by an Israeli agent. Supposedly, she could stop traffic.”
“A Mana interested in females?” Samir grinned. “I thought all Manas were alike.”
A young and boyish-looking lieutenant colonel came through the door. “The commander will be here shortly,” he announced. “Please take your places.” The pilots shuffled into two lines on each side of the center aisle, making a corridor for the general to walk down. They lined up by rank, the lowest and least important near the door. Johar and Samir were the first in line. When the lieutenant colonel was satisfied that all was proper, he called them to attention. The two lines stood there, waiting for the general.
Five minutes later, General Hussan Mana entered, his immaculately tailored uniform resplendent with braid and medals. As he walked down the line, each pilot would click his heels and give a short bow. Mana didn’t see the lieutenants, ignored the captains and majors, acknowledged the lieutenant colonels with a glance, and actually nodded at the four colonels whose uniforms matched his.
“Do you think they own flight suits?” Samir asked out of the side of his mouth, referring to the colonels and the general.
“It has been rumored,” Johar whispered.
General Mana stared at the assembled pilots, all still standing at attention. “It is my honor,” he began, his voice rigid and formal, “to tell you that we are now engaged in battle with our most hated enemy. Soon we will have the chance to show the world that their air force is nothing but a pitiful collection of half-assed Barbary apes who call themselves pilots.” The general permitted a tight smile to cross his lips.
“Oh, I hope they are,” Samir mumbled under his breath.
“I will lead you into battle,” Mana continued, “and prove that our Sukhois are better than the American F-Fifteens and F-Sixteens that have allowed the enemy to dominate our Syrian allies. We will attack using a ‘bearing of aircraft.’ I will be in the lead and you will follow according to position.”
A bearing of aircraft was a standard Soviet formation, a long line of aircraft that a radar ground controller directed into an engagement. It was a follow-the-leader formation in which each aircraft followed approximately two miles in trail and stacked slightly higher than the one in front of it. The arrangement allowed the radar ground controllers to maintain aircraft separation and tight control. By “position,” Mana meant rank. Johar and Samir would be the last aircraft in the formation.
Now Mana’s face hardened. “Victory is ours.
Itbach al-yahud!”
Kill the Jews! The general stomped out of the room.
On that late afternoon, Iraq had 604 men who could fly high-performance fighter-type aircraft. Two of them were fighter pilots nicknamed Joe and Sam.
The MP guarding the Iraqi POW directed Matt to drive to a headquarters compound near Acre where a doctor and translator were waiting for them. The doctor climbed into the back of the ambulance and examined the Iraqi while the translator relayed the doctor’s questions. “He says his unit is the Hammurabi Division” the translator said. The Israelis exchanged worried glances. The Hammurabi Division was part of Iraq’s Republican Guard.
“He can be interrogated,” the doctor said and climbed out.
Time and the road blended together for Matt as he and the two women shuttled back and forth between the fighting and hospitals in the rear. From the wounded, he heard that the Israelis had mounted a counterattack and then had to fall back to their original positions. Matt was able to learn that fighting was the fiercest on the northern border and hinged on a low ridge that straddled the coastal plain. On one trip back to Haifa, a young wounded tanker described the battle to him. “If they push us off that ridge,” he said, “the road to Haifa will be wide open.”
The action ground to a halt as both sides ran out of tanks, fuel, and ammunition. Then Matt started hearing stories about how a small, ragtag collection of tanks and infantry called Levy Force had fought stubbornly for the ridge and had held on against repeated attacks.
Finally, they were headed for Haifa with their last load of wounded. It was early morning when they reached the hospital and Hanni collapsed from physical exhaustion while they were unloading. Matt carried her to an open place under a tree, amazed at how light and frail the dark-haired woman was under her bulky fatigues. She’s been going on sheer willpower, he thought. He gently laid her down and covered her with a blanket.
When he returned to the ambulance, Colonel Gold, the air attaché, was waiting for him. “I got your message,” he said. Matt sat down, too tired to answer or think. Shoshana appeared with a plastic jug of water and handed it to him. Matt took a long pull at the cool water and felt better. Slowly, he started telling Gold all he had learned and seen. The colonel listened quietly and made extensive notes. When Matt had finished, the colonel asked detailed questions, filling in the blanks.
“Matt, I was ordered to personally find you and get you out of Israel. The Israelis are taking a beating and this is the only place where they’ve stopped the Syrians. The Syrian Third Army has pushed them right to the edge of the Golan Heights and taken Mount Hermon. God, if they kick the Israelis off the Golan … It’s much worse in Jordan and Jerusalem is being shelled.”
“In the Sinai?” Matt asked. “The Egyptians?”
Gold shook his head. “No change. The Israelis still have most of Southern Command in the Sinai covering the Egyptians. If they can free those forces and move them north, the Israelis will have a fighting chance.”
“The Iraqis are in it now and the Egyptians are going to attack,” Matt predicted.
“I know,” Gold said. Matt could hear pain in his voice. “That’s the reason you’ve got to get out of here. Furry says your jet will be fixed and ready to fly tomorrow. Be there and get the hell out of Israel.
“Matt, you gave me the first hard evidence that the Iraqis have come into the war. Look, I haven’t got time to baby-sit you. I have got to get back and try to convince somebody in Washington just how critical things are here.” He looked at the almost comatose young pilot. “You’re in no condition to fly. Get some rest and get to Ramon on your own. If you have trouble, contact me here.” He handed Matt a slip of paper. “I’ve moved to Ben Gurion Airport.” The two men stood and shook hands. Then Gold was gone, running for his car.
Matt found Shoshana asleep in the ambulance and drove her home to her family’s apartment. The woman Matt had talked to earlier answered his knock, took one look at Shoshana, and half carried her, half dragged her to the bathroom. “You,” she said to Matt. “Go in the kitchen and get out of those clothes. Take a sponge bath.”
In the bathroom, she lifted out the two small children who were sleeping in the tub and filled it with hot water. She sat Shoshana on the edge and pulled off her fatigues. As Shoshana slipped into the water, she came half awake. “Aunt Lillian,” she mumbled. “That’s him, Matt.”
“I know, Shoshe, I know.”
Shoshana let the hot water envelop her. “Aunt Lillian”—her voice was dreamlike and she was twelve years old again—“will I ever be pretty like you?”
“You’re beautiful, Shoshe.” She gently bathed her niece.
Lillian closed the bathroom door behind her when she was finished. “You need to soak for a week,” she said to herself. In the kitchen, she found four giggly children standing over the American. He was half-dressed and passed out on the floor. She stripped him down to his shorts and ordered the children to wash him. The children fell over themselves with laughter and went to work while Lillian went to Shoshana’s old bedroom and kicked the children sleeping there out into the hall. Then she went to the bathroom, retrieved Shoshana, and gently placed her in her own bed.
Back in the kitchen, she found the children scrubbing their victim with more enthusiasm than skill. “Now help me get him to bed,” she said to the biggest girl. The two of them carried him to the bedroom and unceremoniously dumped him in bed beside Shoshana. “Not much of a wedding night,” Lillian said to herself and closed the door. She leaned against the wall, closed her eyes and hugged herself, forcing the tears to go away. “I’ll be damned if I’ll call the Ganef.”
The late-afternoon light filled the bedroom with soft warmth. Outside the door, the apartment was quiet. Shoshana lay there, trying to remember what had happened. The last thing she could remember was the warm water of the tub enveloping her. She touched the bare back beside her and felt a sudden warmth wash over her.
“Matt.”
“I’m here.”
“No, don’t kiss me there. No, don’t stop.”
“Make up your mind.”
“Quit laughing.”
“Shoshana, I love you.”
“I know. Oh, that’s good. No, don’t stop. Quit teasing me.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh. Yes. Help me, help me. Oohh, Matt, I do love you.”
The apartment exploded with shouts and laughter when Lillian brought her small charges back. Shoshana and Matt were on the balcony and smiled at each other. “Have you ever thought of having children?” Matt asked.
Shoshana smiled gently at him. About some things, Matt was incredibly naive. “Every woman does.”
“Let’s get married,” he said. “Now.”
She reached out and touched his cheek, wanting to say yes, wanting to run away from the insanity that had engulfed her and all she loved. A basic need deep inside her wanted to hide inside the love he was offering her. But she couldn’t. “Matt, if we could—”
“Good, let’s do it.”
“But it’s not possible in Israel,” she told him. He stared at her, not comprehending. “We don’t have civil marriages. Only a rabbi can marry a Jew here and religious law forbids marrying a Jew and gentile. We’d have to go to another country and there’s no time for that.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do as soon as this war is over. It can’t go on much longer.”
For a few minutes, they said nothing, content to be with each other in the fading twilight. “Matt, you’re going to have to go soon. Nighttime is probably the best time to travel and I’ve got to find Hanni.”
Matt resigned himself to leaving. “I need to use your phone to check in with the air attaché. He probably knows if the roads are open. Who knows, maybe my orders have changed.”
It took Matt over an hour to get through to Gold at Ben Gurion Airport. The colonel sounded relieved when he learned Matt was still in Haifa. “Furry says they’re running into problems and it will be at least another twenty-four hours before the jet’s fixed. I want you to go over to Ramat David Air Base. They’ll be expecting you. Hurry.”
“I’ll be damned.” Matt grinned when he hung up. “I was right. They’re sending me over to Ramat David.” He held her for a moment. “I’ll be back.”
A middle-aged woman was waiting to escort him at the first checkpoint blocking the road to the air base. She climbed into the car and eyed him suspiciously. “You must be someone important,” she grumbled. Ten minutes later, she led him through the concrete warrens of one of Israel’s most closely guarded command posts. “You’re the first foreigner who’s ever been in here,” she told him. “Ben David himself cleared you in.” The tone of her voice told Matt what she thought of that decision. “They want you to observe a strike.” She pushed through a door into a large, dimly lit room.
A strong odor of dried sweat and unwashed bodies assaulted Matt’s nose. A few heads looked up and took the newcomer in, every face tired and haggard. Three banks of consoles formed semicircles around a low stage where one man, the direction officer, sat behind a small console. From his position, he could direct the entire operation. Behind him, a massive Plexiglas sheet formed a wall. A map of Israel was etched into the Plexiglas and plotters worked behind it, posting new information. On a side wall to the left were three large computer-generated displays that had to do with air defense threats and Israeli force status. Large alcoves were set into the other two walls where he could see communications panels and radar screens.