The Glory (58 page)

“Enlist? Nonsense, Aryeh, wait for the next war, don’t worry, it’ll come along.”

“Imma, you didn’t hear the BBC.” He seizes the bag from Shayna. “Kol Yisroel is hiding the truth. We’re under attack by nearly
two thousand tanks! At least I can go and fight.”

“The BBC! Ha! Let go! Let go, I say.” She pries the bag from his hands. “You’re getting more and more like your crazy father.
Don’t go imitating him. There’s only one Don Kishote, and he’s more than enough.” She turns to Shayna. “What’s the matter
with your husband? Why the wheelchair?”

“He’s had a stroke. It’s the war, I’m sure, the war! Worrying him sick —”

“Then Shayna, he’s going to get better. Right now we’re winning the biggest battle of the war, or we’ve already won it.”

Astounded exclamations from Shayna and Dzecki’s mother. Aryeh takes her by the shoulders. “By your life, Imma, are you serious?”

“Is that something to joke about? I tell you, Zahal has been smashing a huge Egyptian tank attack all morning, and throwing
back the Syrians, too. It’s the turnaround at last. This morning I called General Pasternak at the Defense Ministry and he
told me all about it. In the Sinai alone —”

“Shayna, you’d better come.” Dzecki’s father is in the doorway. He says no more, but the look on his face makes her dash out.
“You too, Aryeh. She’ll need your help.”

Yael follows them and sees the wheelchair overturned, Professor Berkowitz on the floor, Shayna kneeling beside him, clutching
his hand and frantically calling his name. The little boy Reuven is crying as Mrs. Barkowe hugs him close. Leon Barkowe says
shakily to Yael, “I don’t know, he just tried to get out of the wheelchair, babbling something, and he keeled over before
I could do anything.”

Yael cannot help the way her mind works, and two thoughts flash through it: that Shayna may well be free one of these days,
and that her dark beauty has persisted through all her misfortunes.

R
eturning to Tasa in the light of a full moon, Kishote finds the staff officers passing around a whiskey bottle to toast the
“greatest tank victory since Kursk.” It is a mood he does not entirely share, though the victory is now a fact. Arik is in
his caravan, they tell him, working on his plan for the crossing attack.

Sharon welcomes him with the joviality of a winner, which fades as Kishote makes his report: roller bridge stalled, the other
equipment scattered and moving sluggishly all over the desert; dinghies held up here, crocodiles immobilized there, some pontoon
rafts untraceable. Traffic jams in the rear area block and disperse the stuff, slackness and unconcern prevail, and there
is little genuine belief that Zahal is actually going to cross the Canal.

His aspect altering to dangerous pugnacity, Sharon growls, “To all the devils, those crocodiles at least can move on their
own power. Until Tallik’s monster arrives they can be linked up as a temporary bridge. Where exactly are they?”

“Sir, I’ve located every one, but they’re huge and they’re mostly stuck at one bottleneck or another —”

“Well, and those British pontoon cubes? We have mountains of them, they can be assembled into rafts, even bridges —”

“I found them all still stacked in warehouses at Baluza and Refidim, sir. I ordered them loaded on trailer trucks and I stayed
and saw the job started myself —”

“No belief that we’ll cross, eh? Wrong, Kishote, wrong. Southern Command doesn’t
want
to cross. They want no part of it or of me. That attitude’s seeped all down the line.
‘Arik … wishes … to … hang … himself … so … let … him … go … ahead.’
” He is crudely caricaturing Bar-Lev’s drawl. “But I’ll blast Bar-Lev and Gorodish about traffic control and I’ll get the
jam-ups moving, believe me. Now then, have a look at my crossing plan.” He beckons him to the map on his desk. “You weren’t
with me at Abu Agheila in ’67, but —”

“Sir, I know the Abu Agheila battle by heart.”

Sharon gives him a brief gratified grin. “B’seder. Same principle. Surprise night attack on a major hardened defense position
from three directions. Look here …”

D
zecki Barkowe’s anxious mother would not recognize her boy under the layers of sandy grime and the sprouting blond whiskers.
The gargantuan steel structure on which he is perched stretches away from him on the open desert for some six hundred feet,
with engineers banging at it all along its complicated length. Beyond the far end Lieutenant Colonel Lauterman, the Jeptha
^*
officer who has just arrived, is supervising frantic activity around some disconnected rollers. Daphna’s letter, written
on the back of a creased beer-stained cardboard menu, is not easy to read.

Dear Jackie:

Here I am in the Jericho Café, of all places! After eight straight days and nights in Fighter Control at Ramat David, my CO
finally took pity on me and gave me a 12-hour
after
. So I headed for the Jericho and who is here but Lieutenant Colonel Lauterman, playing his clarinet. He’s great pals with
Yoram Sarak and Shimon Shimon, so I know him pretty well. When he mentioned where he was going, I begged him to bring you
a word from me. That’s how come I’m writing on this menu, and I’m sure you won’t mind my “stationery.” Hah!

Now about this lieutenant colonel, he’s a strange guy, and whatever you do, don’t refer to him as Yo-yo Lauterman! Behind
his back people do, and it annoys him. He’s a mad genius like many of those Jeptha fellows. He’s also a big peacenik. He’s
been for giving back all the territories right along. My father might kill me, but I’m beginning to agree with him. Anyhow,
he doesn’t pull rank, and he was nice about bringing you this scrawl.

I hope you’re all right! I’m fine, only
dead
tired. The air force has been having a very tough war, I guess you know that. Thank God my father and Dov are still okay.
Dov’s bound to get a commendation, the things he’s been doing.

Now guess what? Noah Barak has got himself engaged! There’s this girl he met in Cherbourg when they liberated the boats, she’s
made aliya and she works in the French Embassy. I guess she pursued him here. I’ve heard she isn’t very pretty, sort of pudgy,
but she has something, so bye-bye Noah! The truth is Noah and I never really were compatible. It was one of those things,
we fought all the time, and I finally had to tell him off. I hope he’ll be happy, and I mean that.

Incidentally, my Rolex makes eyes bulge out here at the Jericho, and at the air base even more. When people get nosy I say
casually, “Oh, it’s from an American admirer.” That explains it, since all Americans are millionaires. It keeps marvellous
time. Sometimes the Fighter Director even checks with
me
. Noah gave me the devil for accepting it, but I’m glad I did. You were terribly sweet, and I was deeply touched. I don’t
have to tell you how much I admire you. Fellows like Noah and my brothers are born into this everlasting mess and have to
do their part, but you came here and made it your fight as a Jew. I love you for it, and I hope you return safe to your worried
parents. And to me.

Yours,

Daph.

I love you! Return to me!
New words from Daphna Luria, after keeping him at arm’s length for years, with an occasional goodnight kiss or a very rare
laughing fumble in the dark. Poor Dzecki is dazed and exalted as he reads the blurry words over and over.

“Dzecki!” Unmistakable command timbre of Brigadier General Nitzan, at the wheel of a jeep below. Dzecki leaps to his feet
and salutes. Kishote calls, “Has the Jeptha officer showed up yet?”

“Sir, he’s down at the other end,” Dzecki gestures, folding the menu into his coveralls.

“Come down.” Dzecki obeys. “What’s the problem with those scattered rollers back there? Did the bridge break?”

“Oh, no, sir, the bridge is fine. Those are spares. There’s no crane to handle them, and no big trucks to take them to the
Canal, but we need them for emergencies, so it’s a real problem.”

“Get in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kishote’s jeep speeds over the sand to the back end of the bridge, where tanks and a bulldozer are hauling the loose rollers
about in a great racket. A red-bearded officer in fresh coveralls salutes him awkwardly. “General Nitzan? Haim Lauterman,
sir. I believe, sir, you ran the bridge demonstration for the Prime Minister.”

“Right. What’s going on here? Can’t you go to the Canal without the spares?”

“Inadvisable, sir, so I’ve ordered them linked up, sort of like a short roller bridge, and one bulldozer can just tow them
along.”

“It’s a great solution,” an ordnance major says, “and we all feel like idiots not to have thought of it ourselves.”

“Otherwise, is the bridge ready to go?” Kishote asks Lauterman, whose sharp blue eyes twinkle through very thick glasses,
as though he is having fun or is otherwise amused.

“Well, General, I just got here, you know. Suppose we talk about it in my tent?”

“Fine.”

Lauterman says, “Dzecki, find a cook to make some sandwiches.”

“Yes, sir.” Dzecki jumps from the jeep and trots off.

“I recommend that American,” says Kishote, “if you need an aide.”

“Yes, his girlfriend told me he’s b’seder.”

In the hot sagging tent, the colonel has hung up over the plank table a mechanical drawing of the rig; the gigantic bridge
blue, the tiny tanks red. Kishote glances at it, nods, and unfolds a map to show Lauterman the route to the crossing point.
“Bridge in the water by tomorrow morning,” he says. Lauterman blinks and whistles.

“You have a problem with that?” inquires Kishote.

“As I say, I just got here, General.”

“Lauterman, the bridge can move at five or six miles an hour, right?”

“We’ve often done that in test drills, yes, sir.”

“All right. Today you move it five miles or so southwest to the Tirtur Road. From there it’s some ten miles west to the Canal
via that road. Starting at dusk, moving at night, you’ve got twelve hours to go ten miles.”

“Then we should make it, if all goes well.”

“Bear in mind that you’ll be seen by air recon, and helicopter commandos may land to try to stop you. What do you do?”

“Sir, no problem. The tanks can shed the towing cables in seconds by blowing pyrotechnical links. Ten tanks can operate fast
to destroy any commando unit that lands.” A shy grin. “Fact is, for designing those links I received a commendation.”

“Then what’s your hesitation about tomorrow?”

Lauterman gestures at the bridge diagram. “Sir, I’m sure you know the tactical concept of this design.” He plunges a hand
into his windbreaker, pulls out a green yo-yo, and begins spinning it up and down.

Kishote tries to ignore the toy, no doubt a nervous tic of some kind. “Certainly, to put across a preconstructed heavy bridge,
without exposing sappers and engineers to enemy fire.”

“Not one bridge, sir.
Five
bridges. Positioned all along the Artillery Road. And at the seventy-two-hour warning — before a shot’s ever fired in the
war — all five are supposed to advance to the waterline. That was the plan.”

“Yes, well, the seventy-two-hour warning we never got, of course, and there’s just this one bridge available. So?”

“Sir, is Zahal going to cross into Egypt on this one bridge?”

“Of course not. To start with we’ll also use pontoon structures and rafts. Maybe we can capture some Egyptian bridges. Once
the bridgehead’s secure we’ll lay down a solid earth bridge. But for the first few days, we must have this bridge, to move
the really heavy stuff across at the required volume and speed.”

Lauterman stares at the map, and returns the yo-yo to his pocket. “Now just suppose, sir, this bridge gets bombed out en route?”

“The marksmanship of Egyptian pilots isn’t that good. Also, you’ll have AA protection.”

“And if the bridge breaks down?”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“Just so. I understood my mission was mechanical troubleshooting. Now you say it’s up to me to get the bridge to the Canal
by tomorrow morning, with winning or losing the war maybe hanging in the balance. Is that about right?”

“The idea bothers you?”

“General, I’m a design engineer. That’s more responsibility than I’m used to.”

“Shall we ask Jeptha for a replacement?”

“Well, no, but one thing you must do.”

“Which is?”

“Sir, I gather you made Shimon Shimon coordinator of the towing tanks.”

“I did.”

“Well, Shimon tells me that no sooner does a tank company get used to doing this job than it gets pulled away to fight. Then
another unit comes that knows nothing about it. This tank company I’ve got now
must
stay with the bridge or we’ll never get there.”

Nodding, Kishote says, “Good point. I’ll designate a senior officer to come and help you keep moving, and make sure you hang
on to your tanks.”

Dzecki appears with a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a long black leather case. “Here’s your gear, Colonel, from the helicopter.”

“Put the stuff down anywhere. That’s my clarinet,” Lauterman says to Kishote. “Maybe I’m a damn fool to have brought it.”

“If you have time to play it, Lauterman, that will be a good sign.” The two officers salute, and Kishote leaves.

“Dzecki, I need an aide,” says Lauterman. “You’re it.”

“Honored, sir.”

“Pass the word, towing drill at 1100, and we move out at noon.”

“Yes, sir. Cook bringing sandwiches, sir.”

Left alone, Lauterman absently takes out the yo-yo and spins it up and down, contemplating the map, tracing with a finger
the course of the bridge from Point Yukon and along the Tirtur Road to the crossing point north of the Great Bitter Lake.

W
hen Yossi returns Sharon is addressing his senior officers outside the Tasa command bunker, at a giant operational map garish
with colored arrows, circles, boxes, and unit emblems. Pointer in hand, his hair stirring in the wind, Sharon radiates zest
for imminent action. Kishote can see in these old reserve soldiers — old in battle, though probably none is over forty — a
reflection of Arik’s glow. Since Yom Kippur they have been eating the ash of defeat. Yesterday they tasted the success of
former wars, and now Arik is telling them that the time has come to win this war, and the way to do it. Weary and saddened
as they were by the first bloody shocking week, they look ready to try.