Refiner's Fire (66 page)

Occasionally Marshall would remember where he was and what he was doing, and his eyes would cloud in absolute panic. In these moments his heart beat fast and then he would cool in his own sweat. His job was to get as close to as many tanks as he could, and check for night-vision equipment.

Knowing that the main counter to a mass wave of Syrian armor was the Air Force, Arieh Ben Barak guessed that the Syrians (aware themselves that Israeli planes were crippled at night) would break precedent and tradition to start their
jihad
in darkness. He wanted intelligence on the percentage of their tanks with infrared and starlight scopes. Men were sent out at various places along the line.

Marshall passed quite a few tank parks, keeping a running tally as best he could. “Two out of six, three out of seven ... twenty out of thirty-one...” All the T-62S were fitted with scopes. Many of the T-54S had them as well. Within half an hour he started to make his way back along a different route, which led to a steep defile down which he wanted to escape.

A few hundred yards from the point where he planned to vanish down the precipice he passed a campfire around which a platoon sat picking its teeth. They had run out of conversation and were staring awkwardly into the fire, dealing with their decayed mouths. As Marshall passed, every tortured and suspicious eye was upon him. He heard a voice call out in Arabic, asking him where he was going. He responded in Arabic with a heavy Russian accent. (He and Lydia both had a knack for speaking other languages in various foreign dialects.) He said that he was Russian and spoke little Arabic, and that they should mind their own business.

To his disgust, a man jumped up and ran toward him yelling something in Russian, of which Marshall understood not a single word. He continued, but the man reached him just as the two of them passed completely beyond sight of those at the campfire. He ran up to Marshall chattering away happily, glad to have found a companion. Marshall smiled at him and tossed his plate of stew onto the road, revealing in the low moonlight his Webly and Scott pistol, angular and nasty, pointing at the Russian's heart.

“I hope you understand English,” said Marshall. The Russian looked at him in panic. “Move!” He understood no English and balked at descending the cliffs, explaining in his own language that he could not do it. He was little and stocky and had two chisel-like buck teeth and reddish hair of which not too much was left on his shiny head. He seemed so human. He
was
so human. His knees were knocking. Marshall motioned for him to turn around.

He was a captain, and he began to cry. Marshall looked at the precipice. A Syrian patrol car was slowly winding its way along the road, playing an arc light in a side-to-side sweep. The captain started to lose control, and so did Marshall. He was tight inside. His eyes had never been opened so wide. He didn't want to kill the man who stood crying in front of him. The armored car got closer. Marshall was about to burst, when he took the pistol and hit the captain on the back of his neck, collapsing him onto the stones.

Marshall went down the cliff as if he were skiing—creating rock slides, falling terrified in darkness only to be arrested suddenly on a slim ledge over a sheer drop, speaking to himself in a slow encouraging voice. He reached the base of the cliff, and heard the Russian screaming and rocks falling into the wadi near him. “The little son of a bitch,” said Marshall. “He's throwing rocks at me, the creep.” As he ran he saw the lights of the armored car sweeping the tels. They would never see him. A volley of heavy machine gun fire signaled the end of their effort, and their light went off. Just after he raced across a flat half-mile in the U.N. Zone, a Syrian flare burst as white as phosphorus, casting stronger than moonlike shadows, like fireworks over a lake in a summer resort.

He screamed his coming to the Israeli lines, but no one was there. He ran along the fence until he reached a mine gap, climbed the wire, and threw himself down on the Army road—where he sat soaking wet, his heart pounding, his face flushed with heat.

The information he reported was received with close attention and he was commended. He got to bed by ten o'clock, and his sleep would have been peaceful had he not had one dream after another in which he was running a foot race. He was proud that he could run swiftly even in darkness. Before morning broke, the last chamber of the dream had him in China resting on a grassy river bank, while, on the water, junks and sampans moved quietly and in mystery, and above, a thousand star-shells burst over the night, flickering, falling, and darkening finally in the velvet stream.

O
N THE
sixth of October, Marshall was awakened just before dawn. Fully alert, they had prepared everything and were waiting for the onslaught, even though Jerusalem thought differently and the world knew nothing of it at all. When the light snapped on above his head he shielded his eyes and felt for his boots, assuming that the Syrians had begun to move. An agitated sergeant leaned over him, shaking as he spoke. “Definitive information,” he said, “the attack will occur tomorrow, this afternoon that is, at four.”

“Bar-Shalom.”

“Yes?”

“Why did you have to wake me up to tell me that. Now I'll never get to sleep and I'll be too tired to fight.”

“I was told to tell everyone,” said Bar-Shalom, in exit.

Marshall did not even try to sleep. Instead, he took a long shower, put on a clean uniform, and shaved close. Because it was Yom Kippur, no one was supposed to eat, but everyone did. A lot of meat was served up, and even the orthodox were coaxed to partake of lunch. “God has sent the Syrian Army so that you can eat today,” they were told. They ate nervously.

Enough ammunition had been stockpiled to last for days. The vehicles were tanked up, turned over, and assembled by order of sortie, with the Centurions first and the APC's following. There was nothing more to do, so the soldiers played basketball. At first, they tried to keep score, but they were too agitated to remember the numbers. Right after lunch a lookout screamed from the tower. “They come! They come! They come now!”

All the men rushed in a massed wave to the ramparts. They stood with weapons in hand and mouths open. Some whimpered and were told to shut up. A wind from the plain upwelled against the palisades, bringing with it the low unearthly sound of thousands of moving tanks and armored vehicles. It was a moment in which all time could anchor. The Syrian Army covered the world; the plains had arisen; dust filled the air; a deluge of columns approached.

The Israeli soldiers were frozen with wonder and fear. Frederick had come with his staff onto the rampart; he did not make an inspirational speech, though there were dozens within him. Few have ever seen such a sight. It was as if the ground were moving to swallow them up. The orthodox chanted in rapid discord, facing Jerusalem and running through the body of prayer. In the sound of their ancient words, the other soldiers despaired. They knew that only two armored brigades were in position, that full mobilization would take at least another day. They saw their own deaths.

Captain Palmer came walking across the courtyard. He was the only one who had remained in the dining room to finish dessert. They turned from one of the greatest sights in history, the noise of which was like a thousand muted thunderstorms, and looked at Palmer as he proceeded across the equipment-packed courtyard—his measured pace echoing off the walls—as if he were expected to check the distance and verify what they saw or tell them that it was a dream.

He climbed the long concrete stairs. His expression was a cross between a frown and a smile. Arriving even with the line of men, he squinted into the air and observed the unified mass of the entire Syrian Army. Then he turned to those who stood awaiting his verdict, and, speaking in English, he said, “Arabs?”

“Yes, sir,” answered an Ethiopian tank driver.

“I didn't know there were so many.”

“There are very many, sir, very many.”

“Look, they're all worked up. Now, I suppose, we shall have to kill them.”

Only Marshall had understood all his words, but the others had fathomed his tone, and, with a great cheer, they turned from the walls and rushed for their vehicles. Knowing that force ratios were ten to one against them, they realized that targets would abound on the fixed pre-ranged killing grounds for which they headed.

Three platoons of tanks and secondary armor rumbled through the iron doorway into the wide-open air. It had been practiced a hundred times. Marshall loaded Baruch's halftrack with five infantry soldiers carrying anti-tank rockets. With this tank-hunting halftrack he planned to match up against T-54S and T-62S despite their rapid fire, heavy armor, and gyroscopic and laser sights. Many halftracks were fitted out more or less the same way to help offset the dearth of tanks. On the .50-caliber machine gun, Wilson would try to handle opposing infantry and keep the tank commanders inside, hatches down. Baruch was the driver. The five ATR's would be used either in ambush outside the halftrack, or from inside, rocket tubes leveled over the armor plate to give a naval-style broadside. Prithvi and Chobandresh would use the mortar to limit the enemy's area of action, to break up concentrations of vehicles, drive them into the open, and put them out of commission.

Because Russian tank guns could not point very far downward, Marshall sought a depression in the road. If he could hold a ridge with his anti-tank rockets, the halftrack could sit in the hollow and supply a mortar barrage. A beautiful dip in the topography gave them just what they wanted, and needed—for several miles away a column of Syrian tanks moved toward them. Steeply banked, the road went downhill and was slightly curved. Thus the tanks could come at them only one or two at a time. They set up with supreme speed while the halftrack idled in the hollow. Baruch and Chobandresh manned the mortar, Chobandresh being gunner and Baruch shell-handier. Wilson stood at the machine gun, ready to cut down flanking infantry. Prithvi lay just atop the ridge, spotting for the mortar. The five rocket men were hidden—two, two, and one—in a position of enfilading crossfire. Marshall had a high point from which to command, and was ready with his submachine gun to fire at infantry. They waited until the Syrians came into sight, and the battle was enjoined.

When he could see the tank commanders stiffly upright in their turrets, Marshall turned to Prithvi. Prithvi's black hair was shining. He was small and intent. He said to Marshall, “I am not afraid.”

“Very well,” Marshall answered. “Begin.” Prithvi signaled Chobandresh, and a mortar round soared over the ridge and landed fifty yards in front of the tanks. They stopped. The commanders went under. Prithvi turned to Chobandresh and said, “A minnows head.” Profoundly shocked, Marshall realized that because they did not know mathematics, they could not call out artillerymens degrees. “Plus a minnow's eye,” said Prithvi. Chobandresh adjusted the mortar and fired off a shot. It struck the lead tank on a corner and blew apart the tread. By this time the tanks were firing at the ridge, but they had no targets. “Chobandresh, a thick hair to that way,” said Prithvi, pointing left. The tank blew up in flames.

The two Bengalis destroyed three tanks and forced the others into temporary retreat. Marshall was overwhelmed by the means with which they aimed the mortar. The phrases were extraordinary—“a grain of rice to that way; a finger to this way; a dogs bark; my sister's gold bracelet forward.”

The sky was filled with planes, with the white trails of surface-to-air missiles, with the noise of shells. Marshall heard the familiar sound of Israeli tank guns, and the familiar crack of Syrian artillery. It seemed insane for a halftrack and some infantry to hold the road against a column of two dozen or more enemy tanks—but they were doing it.

Two Syrian tanks ripped around the corner and began to charge the ridge at full speed. The mortar was useless, and Marshall ordered the five rocket men out of the rocks. They aimed for a long moment and fired. Almost slowly, the rockets converged on the lead tank and blew it to pieces with a sound that echoed in the lungs of the Israelis. As the other tank pressed forward, Marshall shouted for them to reload. They didn't have time, and the tank got to the beginning of the slope. But there it had to stop short because Baruch had put three mines on the road. The tank commander's choice was to back off a little and machine-gun the mines, or try to fire on the halftrack. He chose the latter and, as expected, his gun would not lower enough. Only then did he back off, while his machine gunner sprayed the halftrack, in which Baruch and Chobandresh were crouched low. The machine gunner blew up the mines. Just as the tank started forward to confront the halftrack they hit it broadside with four rockets and it exploded in a muffled roar. The turret was knocked ajar.

They had destroyed five tanks, the last of which blocked the road. However, Marshall was apprehensive of the tank columns infantry, who he knew would next be sent to attack his men—who were not armed, positioned, or numerous enough to resist even a platoon of good foot soldiers. And if it were not infantry, it would be an air strike, against which they would have no chance whatsoever. They scrambled for the halftrack and drove east toward the U.N. Zone.

“Why here?” asked Baruch as he guided them down a wadi road.

“No mines. We can come around on the Syrian flank.”

Chobandresh began to giggle and continued until he was wild with laughter. The others soon joined in. “What's funny, Chobandresh?” Marshall asked. Chobandresh tried to answer but was overtaken by a fit of giggles. Their encounter with the Syrians had been tense, fast, and lucky.

“I tink it is funny,” he said, and then slapped his knee in the beginning of another fit, “...funny tat in tis little ring ... oh ... oh!” Whatever it was, he certainly thought that it was funny.

They burst through dust and small stones. The motors roared. The Bengalis had turned out to be excellent, excellent soldiers. They had wonderful courage, and, once over the giggling fit, they looked ahead calmly and unflinchingly.