Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon (4 page)

"We will express the might."

The Sunday morning dawn parade was a peremptory affair, just sufficient to form the thousands of men up in some sort of order.

Moynihan stared around at the motley mob. "Here's a parade to give a British RSM a heart attack," he said laughing.

"Yeah," said Russell, "as undisciplined looking a bunch as you might hope to find."

No two uniforms were the same. Men wore, it seemed, any sort of headdress that suited them. There were lots of military caps, but many were not Israeli issue and seemed to have been
souvenired from other armies that the soldiers had served in. A number of them, such as Atef Lufti, wore Arab style burnouses. And, like Lufti, many of the troops carried their own sword, scimitars, daggers and knives. And carried them in an individual assortment of ways, stuck in belts, hanging from harnesses, behind their backs, in elaborate scabbards, or none at all. Nowhere could Moynihan see a decently polished pair of boots.

Their young colonel was a Sabra; one of the new blond, blue eyed race that had evolved in these deserts from the Russian and Slavic stock of the early Zionist settlers who had arrived in Palestine around the turn of the century, their religious convictions forbidding Jews to fight and forcing them to flee compulsory military service in the czar's army. Successive
waves of immigrants had been forced to flee Europe to escape czarist pogroms, then Nazi persecution. Yet most of these young, blond Sabra officers might well have passed for Hitler's armies.

The grapevine had reliably informed them that the colonel was Yosef
Weintraub, and that they were one of three brigades under Brigadier General Israel Tal.

Weintraub
wore a bright red battle helmet. He had been a Communist in his youth and was still considered a Red by his army colleagues, who called him the Red colonel. The painted helmet was part joke, partly a defiant statement of his politics.

In this parade there didn't seem to be many Jews of any sort in the ranks, and none of them Israelis, but Casca thought that all the NCOs looked like European or American Jews. There was not one unnecessary order or movement to the parade, and they were dismissed for breakfast.

"Efficient bunch of bastards, I'm thinkin'," was Moynihan's judgment, and the rest agreed.

Hymie looked up from his second plateful of gefilte fish. "I don't know if these guys know what they're doing or not. This food is damned unmilitary."

"Yeah," said Glennon, scoffing his second helping of knockwurst and sauerkraut. "I always thought there was some sort of military regulation that the food had to be as near uneatable as possible – at least in any service the British has anything to do with."

"Maybe the French is in charge of the catering," Moynihan mumbled through a mouthful. "They're supplying enough of the arms."

"D'ye think the Brits and the Frogs will be in it this time, like in 'fifty six?" a voice posed the question.

"De Gaulle has declared that France is neutral," Moynihan said. "LBJ has pledged America's neutrality too, but the Brits haven't said either way. Maybe they're keeping their options open."

"No way," another man answered. "If they'd had the sense to stay out of it in 'fifty six, they'd still have the canal today. Just arms and money this time, I reckon."

After breakfast there was another parade with the men formed up in small squads of about thirty. The Brooklyn sergeant looked his squad over briefly and singled out a few of them, whom he tried in unarmed combat.

Casca was pleased to see that he was trying out the same men that he was curious about.

He ordered Hymie to attack him with his knife. By the time the succession of lunges and blocks and feints and turns ended in a neat trip, he was satisfied that the ex
-paratrooper had not forgotten anything he had learned in Korea. And the squad was impressed with their sergeant as he helped Hymie back to his feet.

"He's had some good martial training anyway,"
Glennon commented.

"The streets of Brooklyn," David Levy chuckled.

In his turn the fat New Yorker surprised everybody with his speed and agility, and in a second had the tough young sergeant on the ground, his foot on his neck.

“I guess you will do” Brooklyn nodded in his laconic fashion as he got to his feet.

Elsewhere other sergeants were going through the same process, sorting out has beens and never weres, and here and there across the parade ground an occasional man was dismissed from a squad to be paid off on the spot.

In a short while they were back in the hut.

"Well," said Hymie, "this part is like any other army anyway. You fight for free. What you get paid for is the waiting."

"And at five hundred U.S. greenbacks a month."
Moynihan looked up from cleaning his immaculate rifle. "I'm ready to wait forever."

But the Israelis had a surprise for them. Shortly after lunch there was another parade. This time with full gear and with the mercenary squads integrated with the regular army and conscripts.

Tommy Moynihan muttered as he stowed his little radio in his pack, "I guess we're moving out. Well, I suppose Sunday is as good a day as any to start a war."

They piled into camouflaged trucks with all their gear and were soon speeding away from the camp, heading due south.

"Bound ' for Egypt, me boyohs," Moynihan chortled. "I've been waiting all me life to see the pyramids."

The long convoy of British Leyland trucks raced along the blacktop at about sixty miles an hour. British built helicopters flew alongside as an escort and French
Mystere fighter planes circled above them. When the paved road came to an end, they charged on into the desert at almost the same speed.

"Do you
tink it's started then?" a Dutch voice came from the front of the truck.

"Nay," Moynihan answered, "I heard BBC radio this morning. Diplomatic negotiations are still proceeding."

"Den what the hell for the hurry?" came a Scandanavian voice as the truck hit a bump and sent several men sprawling.

"Ach," a German accent replied, "always these Jews
iss in der hurry."

Soon the men were being thrown about all the time as the level desert gave way to the granite wilderness of the Negev where the trucks had to repeatedly swerve around great boulders or skirt steep ravines. But the convoy scarcely slowed.

After three hours they stopped and the men gratefully left the trucks. There were several large, marquee type tents already set up and inside were benches and tables. Cheerful young women in fatigues and side arms offered them a choice of sauerbraten and dumplings or roast kid and potatoes.

Harry Russell turned to Moynihan as a pretty girl filled his plate. "Ye don't suppose we're already dead and in that great barracks in the sky, do ye? And we've somehow forgotten about the
dyin' bit?"

"The Jews is new to the war business, that's all." Moynihan laughed. "They haven't had enough generations to breed the special stock that army cooks come from."

Hymie was studying his tiny map. "Where the hell are we anyway?"

Wardi
Nathan pointed to a spot where the territory of Israel thins to a narrow neck between Jordan and Egypt's Sinai Peninsula. "About here, I reckon. Looks like the attack will be in the south, same as in 'fifty six."

"Yeah, dawn tomorrow, I guess," said Harry Russell.

"There's a huge Egyptian fortress just across the border," Moynihan said. "Al Kuntilah. The BBC says the Arabs have the whole sixth division there."

There were more large tents waiting for them to sleep in, and Brooklyn advised them to turn in early as they would be moving out well before dawn.

Casca and Moynihan walked out into the desert toward where they could see armored personnel carriers, tanks, and artillery and transport vehicles on the skyline. In the far distance they saw a lone jet patrolling the Egyptian border.

"Well," Moynihan said, "I guess the
Gyppos know we've arrived."

An Israeli regular hailed them casually as the approached.

"Looks like whole armored division," Casca said.

"Yeah, that's what it looks like." The Israeli grinned. "But if you look close enough you'll see that only one brigade is what you might really call
armor." He laughed aloud. "The rest is more in the way of sticks and cardboard."

Casca squinted into the sinking sun. "They sure look real enough to me."

"Yeah, and they look real enough to the Egyptians at Al Kuntilah too."

Walking back to the tents, Moynihan and, Casca were rather less than enthusiastic about the ruse. Moynihan summed it up: "There's a brigade of us, and, if we're lucky, a brigade of regulars against the whole bloody Arab Sixth Division. They're entrenched behind some of the most complex fortifications in the world, and we've got paper tanks."

They said nothing to the others and turned in. The last thing Casca heard before he slept was the English language service of Cairo Radio, "The Voice of the Arabs," with the translation of a speech by United Arab Republic President, General Gamel Abdel Nasser.

Nasser said that Egypt was ready for battle and would welcome a war with Israel.

Casca checked his watch as they climbed into the trucks: 0300 hours. Billy
Glennon belched contentedly and spoke in wondering tones as he fondled his rifle. "I've sure headed for a few fronts worse prepared than this."

"Most of '
em," Casca agreed, his mind skimming over some of the campaigns he had suffered through. This was the best organized army of the hundreds he had served in. They could even teach the Romans a few things.

But he decided to postpone any real judgment until he had seen how they shaped up at the front when the heavy shit started coming down. The cardboard tanks worried him. He was cheered to find that in the back of the truck was a five gallon drum of hot, sweet coffee and another of tea. There was also fruit juice, and a lot of water.

Wardi Nathan repeatedly studied the sky, the stars brilliant through the cold, dry desert air. "We're heading back north," he said wonderingly, "dead away from Al Kuntilah."

A glance at the sky assured Casca he was right.

At 0430 they stopped for breakfast, and as the false dawn began to light the sky the trucks rolled again.

Nobody spoke. Every ear was straining for the sound of gunfire.

Dawn came at 0549 and still no sound. Now they were heading to the west of north, toward the Gaza Strip, the long finger of Egyptian territory that separated southern Israel from the Mediterranean Sea. Planes could be heard in the far distance, but none came within sight of the speeding trucks. They saw only an occasional helicopter, and today there were no fighter plans with them.

The men sat silent, willing themselves to relax. But every man's mind was churning with unanswerable questions. Had a planned dawn attack been called off? Had the whole war been ca
lled off? Then why were they following this course? And why the breakneck speed?

Moynihan nudged Casca. "
D'ye think our ride to Al Kuntilah was a feint?"

"Maybe.
I don't understand any of this."

0600 hours and still no sound of action.
From up ahead came the high pitched whine of jet engines, and occasionally they saw fighter planes circling, Egyptian MiGs patrolling around Gaza, alert against a dawn attack.

0700, and the trucks were still speeding, now headed due west. The terrain had changed from rocks and stones to long, rolling sand dunes. Now they could see the patrolling
MiGs in the near distance, but the planes didn't venture toward Israel, although there seemed to be no Israeli planes in the sky.

0740. Airplane engines, lots of them, from out of the west. Casca scanned the sky to the north above Gaza, but the patrolling
MiGs had all landed. They had been on the wing since before dawn and were probably refueling while their pilots had a coffee break.

0741. Now another sound as higher powered jet engines came roaring from behind the first wave of planes. A massive air armada was heading out of Egypt and straight toward the convoy.

0742. Helicopters appeared everywhere around them. From the east, the direction of the capital, Tel Aviv, another truck convoy could be seen approaching at high speed. At least a brigade, Casca reckoned, was joining them.

0743. The trucks rolled to a halt and the men were leaping onto the desert. Hundreds of trucks arrived, and flatbed wagons lowered their ramps to trundle
armor and artillery to the desert floor.

0744. Now the first planes could be clearly seen flying very low in the western Egyptian sky. Maybe thirty miles away, Casca thought as he caught Moynihan's dismayed eye. Two brigades of Israeli infantry and
armor were waiting exposed in the direct path of the oncoming planes. And not so much as a tree or a fold in the ground to hide in. Brooklyn was stretching, flailing his arms about and kicking his legs to rid them of the kinks from the long ride. Then he unconcernedly opened his fly to piss on the sand.

0745. All hell broke loose. From the west came brilliant flashes of light, followed by the roar of explosions. The explosions grew and multiplied. The Egyptian Sinai was being bombed by planes sweeping in from the Mediterranean.

"They must be coming from British carriers," Glennon murmured.

At the same instant the Israeli artillery opened up, but their fire was directed dead ahead, into the Gaza Strip. The
armor moved forward, and the infantry scrambled onto the moving trucks to advance with them. A wave of planes came roaring out of Egypt.

"We're sitting ducks," Moynihan cursed as he looked up at the planes, bombs and rockets gleaming dully on their underside.

Then he roared in delight as he spotted their markings. "They're ours. Holy Star of David, they're Israeli Mysteres. Flying out of Egypt? What the hell is going on?"

After a few minutes the trucks stopped and the men grouped around the
armor. A few hundred yards ahead was a chain wire fence, barbed wire entanglements, antitank obstacles, and, Casca felt certain, mines.

Beyond that a dozen or more tanks were burning, the fires being added to from moment to moment by enormous explosions from within the flames. A relentless artillery barrage was raining into the area. Beyond the fence, men in combat
fatigues were running about in confusion. Fire tenders were uselessly circling the flames. A few Arabs were running toward the undamaged armored vehicles and the empty machine gun emplacements.

A battalion of Israeli sappers were moving toward the fence, exploding mines as they advanced almost unimpeded. There was a tremendous noise as the entire squadron of Israeli aircraft came
roaring back, skimming the desert back into Egypt where they unloaded a second plastering of bombs onto their target.

Glennon
shook his head. "If we're moving up ahead to fight in the Gaza Strip, what the hell are they bombing the Sinai over there for?"

"Maybe they're taking out the Arab airfields first," Casca said.

"Could be," Moynihan said. "There are three big airfields not far inside the Sinai. I wouldn't complain if they'd spare a few bombs for our benefit though."

The Israeli cannon opened up again, blowing great holes in the Egyptian
defenses, blasting the entanglements to bits and spreading panic and death among the confused Arab soldiery beyond the fence.

Casca checked the action of his rifle. A round in the breech, ready to fire, he moved ahead quickly, waiting for a chance to use it. He caught a glimpse of Moynihan's face, alight with anticipation, all doubt and worry gone. They were about to fight. This was something the little Irishman understood completely.

A hundred yards now to the fence, and still they had drawn no fire. Here and there inside the Arab perimeter officers and non-coms were waving their arras and shouting unheard orders to the wildly milling troops.

At the fence they halted while the
armor rolled ahead and flattened it, their machine guns cutting great gaps in the clumps of terrified men between them and the burning tanks. Casca knelt with the others, and at his leisure fired at the few officers who were trying to form some order out of the mess. They went down quickly, and the confusion turned to rout. In a few minutes there were no more targets to fire at. They advanced steadily beside their armor, weapons at the ready, but the frantically fleeing enemy gave them little chance to use them.

Now they could see the blasted hulks of
armored vehicles inside the conflagrations. The Egyptians were among the fires, cowering and turning back toward their attackers each time a new fuel tank or ammo magazine exploded. And each time they turned Israeli machine gun and rifle fire decimated their ranks. Only an occasional man or a small group attempted to shoot back, and these drew so much fire they were almost cut to pieces.

The Israeli infantry and
armor advanced in a long, inexorable line, scarcely able to keep up with the frenziedly fleeing Arabs. They passed the last of the destroyed armor and Casca counted sixteen burning tanks and maybe twenty smaller bonfires, APCs and field guns. On the perimeters of the area he could see other big fires, once fuel tanks. The fortress headquarters was now in front of them. Great chunks of the building disappeared as the cannon concentrated fire on the walls. The observation tower crashed to the ground, its supports blown completely away. There was no sign of any defending troops.

Beyond the building the Egyptian Army was melting into the desert, the frantic soldiers throwing away their rifles in their frenzy to escape the bombardment.

A dozen Egyptian tanks and some armored personnel carriers stood undamaged, abandoned by their crews. The machine gun emplacements by the headquarters had been abandoned, too, without firing a single shot.

The Israeli troops moved on, spreading out to cover the whole of the area until they were approaching the farther fence of the fortress.

Hundreds of screaming Egyptians were trying to scale the wire, clawing at each other, dragging one another down, climbing on each other's shoulders, falling in heaps to the rifle and machine gunfire.

Gradually, without orders, the firing stopped. Casca, like the others, stood still, his smoking rifle in his hands, but not feeling inclined to shoot any more of the solid wall of backs that festooned the fence.

Beyond the wire he could see a few hundred running Arabs who had succeeded in getting over the fence.

Tommy Moynihan cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted after them: "Have a nice swim in the Med for me."

"I don't know about a swim," Billy Glennon said as he gulped the last mouthful from his canteen, "but I sure could use some more water."

As one man they looked around for some. Suddenly their throats were bone
dry, burning with the raging thirst that always follows battle. With great relief they saw their truck approaching and ran toward it, clambering aboard before it stopped and crowding around the drums of water. Other soldiers came running with the same idea.

Casca poured cup after cup of the delicious, refreshing liquid down his throat.

Moynihan licked his lips. "Better than Dublin Guinness," he said grinning. "I think these Israelis have fought in the desert before."

"You can say that again,"
Wardi said. "Look what's coming."

A huge tanker truck was rolling toward them, and they could now see many others making their way through the battle wreckage, stopping here and there to distribute the precious liquid.

Their sergeant approached them.

"Good enough," he muttered from one side of his mouth, about as close as this man was likely to get to praise. "Any of you guys medics? And don't say: All of us. "

"Yeah, I am," Casca said.

"You're short of medics?" Moynihan's voice was incredulous. "We ain't got hardly a scratch."

Brooklyn waved an expressive arm toward the piles of Arab bodies. If there had been any Egyptian medics they were now racing across the desert with the rest of the fleeing army.

"Oh, yeah," Moynihan grunted. "Well, I can carry a stretcher anyways."

The others nodded too, and they moved toward the Israeli ambulances that were now appearing in numbers. Only Atef Lufti shook his head. He had come here to kill Arabs, not nurse them. He turned and strode away.

Casca drew some medic kits and the others grabbed stretchers and cans of water. They moved amongst the burned and mangled corpses, looking for signs of life.

"Never did like this part of it," Moynihan grunted as he lifted what was left of a young boy onto his stretcher. Casca's deft scalpel had trimmed away the useless remnants of an arm and a leg.

Harry Russell straightened his long back from bandaging the stumps and looked around. "Well, I don't see no town,
nor bars, nor women. I guess there's not much else to do."

He bent again to pick up his end of the stretcher.