A recent
call-up notice from my army unit once again invited me
to join up with brothers - in - arms for exercises somewhere among
the dramatic wadis in the sprawling southern Negev
Desert.
I was
asked to drop everything I was doing at the moment, pick up an oily
rifle and a heavy tan duffle bag, and spend some quality time
practicing for the big one.
After
pulling a one-and-a-half year stint as a Nahal Brigade enlistee,
I've served almost 17 years since then in a reserve artillery
unit.
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BOMBS BURSTING IN AIR:
Bender takes
part in artillery practice in the
Negev
Desert.
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That
seemingly innocuous brown envelope with the triangular blue IDF
stamp that hides, snickering, in the back of the mailbox, awaited
with trepidation - and sometimes relief - by Israeli men.
Trepidation over the mission assignment and leaving hearth and home
behind and, sometimes, relief at having a paid excuse to get away
from the daily grind. One of the unique responsibilities of life in
Israel.
There is
a fierce debate going on in Israel these days over whether officers
and soldiers can decide on their own volition whether or not to
serve in missions over the Green Line in particular, or even carry
out reserve military duties in general.
Meanwhile, some 20,000
reservists have been called up in the last two weeks, placing their
lives on the line in operations throughout the West Bank and Gaza in
Operation "Defensive Shield," with another 10,000 possibly en route
to IDF bases if the conflagration with the Palestinians widens to
neighboring Arab states.
Show-rates among the reservists of 95 percent and up are the
norm.
Additionally, latest
army figures report at least 4,500 volunteer reservists showing up
at units ready to place themselves in harms way. So much for the
pundits who agonize about hordes of self-centered, indulgent
reservists skipping the country instead of
serving.
And while
talking heads on either side of the political divide yammer away on
the television and radio talk show circuit, my unit, with a nearly
full contingent of soldiers, was far out of sight in the wilderness,
deep in the heart of the Negev Desert, practicing for the
worst.
My
mission is to reconnoiter suitable firing positions for the rest of
our battery in this two-week bout of exercises.
Heavy
cloud cover hangs above, threatening rain, as dreary weather
forecasts chortle in my ear. The wet, biting cold whips around me
like a bad mood as I drive on, with nothing to do but hope it eases
up and I get a chance to dry out later. The weather forecast had
called for intermittent rain before we headed out to the field. Lies
and more damned lies. The first few days the skies opened, rain
falling endlessly.
With the
fogged, scratched goggles cutting off my peripheral vision, and the
layers of woolen cap, winter hood, liner, helmet, and finally,
plastic rain hood covering my ears, I can hardly hear the squawking
field radio or see my officer's shouted driving directions and
frantic hand gestures.
My
commanding officer, Lt. Ofir, and I, bounce over dune and dale in
the battered jeep. I jerk the slippery black steering wheel back and
forth over the uneven terrain, looking for blurry, pen-drawn map
coordinates in the real world.
The
tripod-mounted theodolite, maps, tools, and array of hi-tech global
positioning equipment are battened down behind the front seats. I
frequently glance over my shoulder to check that a stray piece of
expensive equipment doesn't fall off the jeep (together with a fine
taken out my measly reserve salary allotment), waving goodbye to us
from the middle of the muddy path.
We pull
up to the coordinates for the first prospective firing location
later in the day. Slowly maneuvering the jeep like beginning
cross-country skiers, we slalom around the site, jabbing numerous
man-high red-and-white-striped poles in the soggy ground to situate
gun positions.
Later,
after Ofir takes painstaking measurements, I pull the poles back out
with one hand, the other on the steering wheel, as I slowly drive
by, sliding them into a black metal sleeve mounted on the
vehicle.
Topographic map in
hand, we consider deploying the guns hard against a nearby hillock,
making sure the ballistic arc will hurl the artillery shell over the
scruffy rise, instead of plowing straight through
it.
Then,
meandering around the hummocks, we consider how to thread the noisy,
lumbering towed weapons off the path, over the rough terrain and
into their assigned spots. The operation is something akin to trying
to coax an aggravated elephant into a tight spot in the supermarket
parking lot -- but, of course the usual Israeli army driver usually
won't follow parking instructions quite as carefully as the
elephant.
During
the day it's not too hard. We somehow manage to carry off the trick
throughout the rainy moonless night as well, waving steadily
weakening flashlights accompanied with hoarse shouts of, "NO! NO,
... don't back up any farther - LEFT, LEFT, ... STOP NOW!" A few
inches further back and the gun would've slipped into a pit,
violently jerking the truck sideways and injuring the troops
aboard.
Guns
finally in place and crews in position and readied, I stand in the
darkness hunched over the theodolite, field telephone jammed between
flak-jacketed shoulder and ear, making final, crucial aiming
adjustments in a three-way conference call with the weapons' crew
and the fire control team hunkered down in the nearby armored
personnel carrier.
I hear
the muffled countdown over the field telephone, echoing a moment
later through the cold, dewy air.
As the
numbers reach zero, everyone within earshot of the gun stops
whatever he's doing, snugs-up his flak jacket, and covers his
ears.
BAM!
Whoosh ...
The shell
is already kilometers away as I feel, more than hear, the expanding
supersonic shock wave travel through my body. A noxious cloud of
smoke - spent gunpowder sulfurously reeking of rotten eggs -
instantly fills the air, field radios springing into life at once as
telemetry readings are reported back on the shell's path. It slammed
down near the practice target, raising a cloud of smoke and lethal
shrapnel in a sudden flash.
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PRAYER TIME: Bender takes
time out
to recite the morning
prayers.
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Ofir and
I are already packed and on the move, often ranging tens of
kilometers ahead of the main force, swooping back just in time to
receive further coordinates from the fire-control
commander.
We pull
up alongside his Armored Personnel Carrier's mud-spattered green
hull, Ofir quickly jumping out of the jeep to receive new
orders.
I unwrap
a candy bar and stretch out across the hood of the jeep for a
well-appreciated respite from the rigors of brawling with the
vehicle across the rough terrain.
Looking
up with binoculars at a big clear patch of moonless sky over God's
own back forty, I am surrounded by the stillness of the desert, the
silence broken only by clicks and gurgles of the slowly cooling
engine-block. I scan an endless sea of stars cascading across the
sky. Delighting in the feeling of being swept out among endless star
fields, silently falling light years down Orion's belt, searching
for Polaris to get my bearings.
In
artillery school we were taught how to navigate by the stars. We'd
use star charts, aerial photo-contour maps, global positioning
equipment, vehicle odometer readings and sometimes instinct and
plain dumb luck, to find our way in the trackless
desert.
Later, we
high-tail it back to the main force, half-airborne as I aim the jeep
over dune and scrub. Looking like wannabes from some World War II
movie scene set in North Africa, bravely chasing down Rommel's
forces. Oh yeah. Sure.
On an
icy, moonless night after the rains have quit, the gunnery crew and
I huddle on fold-down wooden benches along the back of a
transporter, finishing off a bag of sunflower seeds, shells already
carpeting the muddy floor, and drink the first of many cups of
fragrant Turkish coffee. "Benny, tachin od nagla" (prepare
another pot of coffee), someone says. I mentally replay a slew of
similar scenes with the unit over the years.
That
obligatory finjan of coffee. The pungent caffeine jolt that's the
breakfast - and often lunch and dinner - of champions in the Israeli
Defense Forces. For some unfathomable reason it always tastes best
when prepared with the oddly flavored water poured from battered,
black plastic jerry cans strapped to the sides of our
vehicles.
While the
mock battle orders trickle down the hierarchy to the battalion, and
then to individual artillery battery level, we wait for the base's
chow wagon to show up late for what is euphemistically called
dinner. We get around to talking about the U.S., and the inevitable
"Bender, you mean to say you really gave up America for this? Why
the hell are you wasting your time here, anyway?" query. Once
uncertain of the answer, I used to dread the
question.
But,
still crazy after all these years in khaki, now I'm really clueless
- but more experienced, and I just laugh off the
question.
Before we
serve, why we serve
The last few days
before leaving for reserve duty are busy: Helping spouses plan the
coming stint alone; telephone calls to put off meetings and
engagements for work; pulling the dusty military gear down from the
crawlspace; wondering what flashlight - radio doodad to buy this
time; which novel to stash in the big back pocket of the
ammunition-clip webbing.
The last
evening at home. Pre-departure tension as I sit alone in the living
room, an assortment of camping gear and military odds and ends
arrayed on the floor around me; like I'd gone on an L.L. Bean
ordering binge - the "Mideast conflict clearance sale" edition. And
ritually wondering to myself: "Now, why did I agree to do this
again?" And knowing all along I'll probably dump about a third of
the cargo back out later near the foot of the bed by my annoyed and
formerly-sleeping wife, because everything I really wanted to lug
along is just too damn heavy to cram into one
backpack.
And
finally that last night to softly hold each other in the dark before
she is temporarily replaced by a lonely, worn sleeping bag and tools
of war.
What is
this love-hate relationship Israeli men have with reserve duty? Is
it really about the chance to get away from routine and play soldier
for a few weeks on someone else's dime? Or the opportunity for a
grudgingly accepted immigrant to "give back" something to Israel? Or
is it the friendship and camaraderie that develops over the years
with brothers-in-arms in ill-fitting uniforms?
Friendship on
the installment plan
Our unit boasts an
array of hi-tech entrepreneurs, programmers and engineers; taxi and
bus drivers; hotel pastry chefs; furniture designers; shopkeepers;
yeshiva and higher-education teachers and students; doctors and
lawyers; a few guys "currently between positions;" businessmen; the
radically religious and even more radically secular; with political
opinions covering most of the Israeli spectrum. Oh, yeah, and one
editor too.
It always
struck me as a sort of "layaway friendship" - like buddies on the
installment plan. Yearly - sometimes more often - we'd assemble at
the staging base to kibitz; as we dumped out the contents of
dusty tan duffel bags stuffed like sausages with personal military
gear. We try on wrinkled uniforms and webbing while catching up on
old times: Who got married, or divorced; how the new position at
work is coming along; show off latest pictures of the kids, and new
electronic toys and tales from recent trips
overseas.
As the
night wears on, I look at the assembled cast of characters I've
served with over the years, their faces thrown into sharp relief by
the sole bulb hanging like an exposed nerve from the truck's
ribs:
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JAVA JOLT: Yair, busy at
work preparing
coffee for the
group.
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Yair, 46,
lanky and bald, is an Eilat resident. Blessed with a wacky sense of
humor, he's a freelance philosopher, a sometime fisherman, and
always busy preparing a pot of fresh boiled coffee. The sort of guy
found beachside at Eilat resorts proffering you a beer and hand of
gin rummy at a sand-floored bar. Yair is too old for this kind of
nonsense, and often enjoys ticking off the officers. But, offbeat,
bohemian, and well over mandatory enlistment age, he still
volunteers yearly and is a good, though unconventional
soldier.
Boaz
Karchmer, 39, tall with black curly hair, an immigrant from Mexico
City, is coming up on 20 years in Israel. He lives in the upscale
suburban community of Meitar, near Be'ersheba. Boaz has served in
the unit for 12 years since completing a four-month "Shlav Bet"
enlisted stint for older new immigrants. Now married to a native
Israeli and father of three children, he works for Motorola in Arad.
Boaz is the noncom battery commander of a 120mm Howitzer towed
artillery gun.
When I
asked what keeps him in active reserve duty, he said: "I think it's
the minimum I can do for the country that gave me so much. You
cannot really be an Israeli without being here.
"There
are so many people in this country who don't do reserve duty,
religious and secular, young and old."
It would
have been easy for Boaz to finagle a way not to arrive for these
maneuvers.
When I
reply that there are a lot of people who'd argue with that view, he
says, "Someone has to do something to stand up to whatever will
be."
I ask him
if he thinks the conflict with the Palestinians is
worsening.
"Worse?"
he retorts. "I don’t think it can get any worse than it is
now.
"But the
biggest problems are not with the Palestinians, I think the biggest
problems are with the countries around us.
"If the
problems with the Palestinians remain, I think a large war with our
neighbors – that's the problem." I ask if he or his wife ever
consider leaving Israel. "No," he says, shrugging his shoulders with
a wry grin.
Then
there's barrel-chested Benny, who immigrated from Aleppo, Syria,
five years ago. Most of his family emigrated straight to electronics
and discount shops in Brooklyn, New York, while he went south to
Israel. Benny serves as a policeman in Jaffa.
This time
out he brings along the fixings to cook up savory homemade humous
and ful (lima beans) right off the back of the artillery
transporter. He says it's to make up for the army cuisine. The guys
in Benny's crew swear one of his portions was worth at least three
days of official tinned field rations.
A salt of
the earth sort of guy always ready with a big laugh and a slap on
the back, Benny has the kind of farm boy build that allows him to
heft 60-pound artillery shells with two fingers curled through a
small metal carrying ring welded to the end.
I’m glad
he's on our side.
Twenty
nine-year-old Paul, an immigrant from Lima, Peru, has lived in
Israel some five-and-a-half years and is engaged to be married. A
high-tech Tel Aviv entrepreneur, Paul is involved in an Internet
start-up company offering specialty photography for Web
sites.
"I came
to Israel like a lot of folks trying to find a place to live with
Jewish people," he said.
Paul
finds reserve maneuvers, "difficult, but you find friends and it's a
good experience. You learn. You feel that you are a part of this
country."
Reserve
duty "puts you more inside the country," he said. "You feel that you
can defend your nation if a war breaks out." But he said he wasn't
too concerned about the prospect of hostilities for the time
being.
"Is it
difficult to leave your business behind, trekking out to the
desert?" I asked Paul.
"Yeah,
it's very difficult. Sometimes you ask for permission [not to be
called up for reserve duty] that [the senior officers] can - or
cannot- provide. This time they didn't give it, so I
came."
"What
will you take with you back to civilian life?"
"I think
it's an experience ... that reminds me a lot of youth movement
activities back in Peru."
"... But
without having to lift heavy guns in subzero weather and rain," I
finished his sentence. He laughed.
Then
there's Ron, who sort of resembles his actor-producer namesake, Ron
Howard - if Ron Howard was Jewish and sported a scraggly red beard,
that is. Ron came here from America as a child; he's married, and
lives in Yerucham, south of Be'ersheba. He serves as a medic with
the unit. He and I often ran into each other over the years in
uniform, sometimes trading anecdotes and life stories like baseball
cards while the army bused us off to mission
assignments.
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“… As the night wears on, I look at
the assembled cast of characters I've served with over
the years, their faces thrown into sharp relief by the
sole bulb hanging like an exposed nerve from the truck's
ribs ...” |
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So there
we were, Ron and I, the last night out in the field as our
large-scale maneuvers, and perhaps my final bout of mandatory
reserve duty, drew to a close. He, standing and shivering slightly
in the cool dry desert air, and I, bundled in a quilted winter
jumpsuit, sit perched on the driver's seat of the open jeep,
wondering aloud about the mechanics of consciousness, Kaballah, and
Jewish philosophy.
Unlikely
warriors by any other country's standards, talking Torah and
Kaballah into the dusk as the sun set into a hazy, graying
sky.
Field
radios crackle in the background as thundering artillery cannons
occasionally jolt us out of our discussion.
I said at
the beginning that the night prior to the first day is always the
hardest in reserve duty - with the exception, some would argue, of
the final day.
The last
night of maneuvers, after assembling the personnel, equipment and
vehicles, we shuffle into a ragged circle lit by headlights for our
commanding officers' debriefing and parting words. We did good and
shot sharp, they say, overcoming inevitable obstacles and snags in
the battle plan as it was played out in the field.
Exhausted, we return
to various vehicles and prepare to move out, vehicles slowly winding
the way back to the base in a seemingly endless line of headlights
tracking off towards the horizon: Towed artillery guns, APCs,
munitions and logistics trucks, and a gaggle of 4x4
SUVs.
There are
so many Landrovers, Cherokees, Isuzu Troopers, Toyota 4-Runners, and
Chevrolet and Storm battalion-commander pickup trucks cutting in and
around the main force, it looks like a subcontractor's rush-hour
rally, trucks hell-bent and suburb-bound out of Tel Aviv on the
coastal highway. All of them bristling with enough communications
antennae that you could've speared hotdogs on them and watch them
fry from the radiation alone.
Ofir and
I lead the violent parade in a jeep older than sin. Bleary-eyed and
begoggled, I desperately scan the terrain ahead of us, searching for
the dim blue-and-green firefly glow "sticklights" haphazardly
marking the winding trail.
We slowly
snake through the desert in fits and starts, like engines of war all
angling for a shorter lane at the tollbooth to open. The gun
transporters are having a tough time making it up the steep
hillsides. The hardy drivers have no small job in keeping the
unwieldy trucks from settling in the soft sand and mud up to the
axles. We finally make our way back to the base's main gate sometime
after 1:30 a.m., filthy, windblown, and exhausted to the point of,
thankfully, no return.
Several
tables, sagging with hot tea and coffee, cakes, and piles of
sandwiches, await us at our unit's depot. But instead of digging in,
there's an endless checklist of vehicles, weaponry, munitions,
tools, war material, personal webbing, mattress and sleeping bags to
be returned to the various quartermasters' warehouses - all of whom
seem to have just stepped out for a cigarette the moment. I,
dragging much of the preceding equipment, reach the head of the
line.
Somehow
it all gets put away sometime before dawn, and then comes the big
decision: Whether to race to the showers with the rest of the guys,
un-showered for a week, or to get horizontal for a few hours of
shuteye, dirt or no dirt.
Morning comes. Sitting on our bags, we trade telephone
numbers, e-mail addresses and bad jokes. Like a bunch of impatient
schoolboys crowding around the classroom door, waiting the bell to
burst out the door, we wait for the ceremony of the holy "loksh":
The blessed moment when the single, flustered adjutant's office
noncom doles out the flimsy pink carbon-paper pay slip to the
waiting claque of anxious soldiers. Scrawled on it are the total
number of days on duty, allowing employers to reimburse reservists
for time spent in uniform. This anachronism in the hi-tech Israel of
2002 is the only thing standing between us and going
home.
A group of us finally run the gauntlet and, bag and baggage,
trek the quarter-mile to the base parking lot.
Too many grimy backpacks and supermarket shopping bags vie
for space in Ofir's Mitsubishi sedan with five brothers in arms, now
back in civvies.
I wearily fold myself into the back seat and close my eyes
for the long drive home.
