The Glory (61 page)

“Six of them, and more on the way. That Colonel Yehiel is a man of valor. So, what did you see over there? Is Danny Matt being
too optimistic? Are we in extremis?”

“By no means. We walked the whole perimeter. There’s just no sign of the enemy, sir. Total surprise so far, in fact Danny’s
begging for tanks, he says with tanks he can roll to Cairo.”

“Then it’s
working
. Thank God. That’s what matters.” Sharon grasps his arm, and his voice falls. “It’s been a terrible, terrible night at the
Chinese Farm, Yossi. They’re still taking out the dead and wounded. Hundreds of casualties, whole companies of tanks destroyed.
Terrible. Fearful.” He stares at his deputy, hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. “A horrible price, but it’s
working
. Now we ferry the tanks over until the bridge comes. Once it’s in place Bren Adan and I can pile all our power across, and
panic the enemy into collapse. We can still win this war
today
, Yossi. I’m going to call Southern Command. Come with me, and stand by to report on what you saw over there. Bar-Lev is waiting.”

Outside the Yard the crocodiles, ungainly wheeled boats with puffed-up floats along their hulls, are lined up in column. Kishote
strides to Yehiel, all covered with dust, and embraces him. “Yehiel, by your life, Sharon calls you a man of valor.”

Hoarsely Yehiel replies, “Let him tell that to the promotion board. Maybe they’ll listen to Arik Sharon.”

I
n Jerusalem Zev Barak is putting on a dress uniform as he listens to the 6
A.M
. news. Top story Syrian front, next item American airlift; about the Canal crossing not a word. Good, security is holding.
He is bleary from sitting up with Golda most of the night, until Dado’s report that the beachhead has been taken, the paratroopers
are digging in; and by Sharon’s account, while there has been something of a problem in keeping the roads clear past the Chinese
Farm, the situation is well under control.

Nakhama is at a mirror in the foyer, clad in a suit she bought in Washington and seldom wears. Fussing with her hair, she
says, “You’re
sure
now, Zevvy? Why do I belong at a ceremony honoring the airlift?”

“Golda asked me to bring you, motek. All right?”

As they drive to Lod airport, Nakhama chatters in rare good spirits. Noah’s sudden engagement to the French girl has cheered
her. They hardly know Julie, but Nakhama has come to dislike Daphna Luria, of elite family but a maddening fickle girl. Also,
in the few days since his return from Washington she has been warmer to him, he is not sure why, and as for trying to figure
her out, he has given that up long ago.

Parking at the terminal, they can see out on the sunny tarmac a double line of troops drawn up, an honor guard with four large
flapping flags: the Stars and Stripes, the Star of David, and the banners of both air forces. In the office of the airport
director, Golda is drinking tea as she smokes. “Hello, my dear,” she says to Nakhama. “So glad you could come. This is your
husband’s doing, he performed marvels in Washington.”

“I did nothing, Nakhama,” says Barak, “but this is the last time I’ll deny it.”

“How are your girls, dear, and your navy captain? How proud you must be of him!”

An aide looks in. “Madame Prime Minister, the tower reports the C-5A will be landing in two minutes.”

Brushing ashes from her skirt, Golda Meir walks out with Barak, Nakhama, and her small entourage to the microphones on the
tarmac, where the American ambassador and his military aide already stand. Shouts arise from spectators lining the fences
and terminal roof.
“There it comes!”
The dot in the hazy morning sky over the Mediterranean is swelling into a giant aircraft. “Look at that, will you?” Nakhama
cries. “A flying Empire State Building.” Golda smiles indulgently at her. As the Galaxy touches down and taxis to the terminal,
and the army band strikes up “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the Prime Minister draws herself up stiffly. “Thank God, thank God
we did not launch a preemptive strike,” she says to Barak when the music ends, loud enough for the American ambassador to
hear. “If we had done it, this would not be happening. We would be friendless in the world. We have kept the faith, and so
has the American President.”

The ambassador edges toward her. “Madame Prime Minister, I should tell you that through some slipup the pilot has not been
notified that there’s a ceremony scheduled. I’m sorry.”

“So what? Don’t worry, he’ll handle it.”

The Galaxy stops, the nose and tail ramps open out, the spectators cheer. Flatbed trucks roll up the ramps followed by swarming
cargo handlers, and the pilot, a gangling blond young man in blue coveralls, emerges from the plane. The ambassador goes to
meet him, and escorts him to Golda Meir. “Madame Prime Minister, allow me to present Major Tom Robinson, United States Air
Force.”

“Major Robinson, welcome to Israel. I’m sure you’re tired and I won’t keep you long.” Her amplified voice reverberates over
the field. “I said to my daughter yesterday, ‘I could kiss the pilots of these planes,’ and she said, ‘Well, then do it.’
That’s why we’re having this little ceremony.” Rising on tiptoe, she kisses the pilot on the cheek. From the crowd, laughter
and cheers. Flashbulbs pop, and portable TV cameras move in.

The pilot steps up to the microphone. “Ah, uh, Madame Prime Minister, this is mah first flight here,” he says, his voice booming
from the loudspeakers, the southern accent plainly coming through. “The fellers who’ve already done it told me they were greeted
bah beautiful women with flowers and kisses. Mah question is, where are yo’ flowers?”

The crowd applauds. Golda laughs to the ambassador, “Nu? Did I say he’d handle it?” Walking off the field, she touches Nakhama’s
arm. “Will you have lunch with me, my dear, or are you busy?”

Nakhama happily gasps acceptance, and Golda draws Barak aside. “Now listen, Mr. Alarmist,” she grates, her genial manner vanishing,
“order a helicopter at once, go down south, and for God’s sake find out what’s really happening in that crossing. Don’t come
back without
facts
. Getting information out of the military, and I include Dado and Dayan, is hopeless. In all my life I’ve never been more
uncertain and on edge.”

“Madame Prime Minister, when an attack is just starting it’s hard —”

She rides over him. “I tell you, Zev, I’m starting to feel the way I did the day before Yom Kippur. In the dark, sick at heart,
frustrated. How are the troops and tanks getting across?
Are
they still crossing? What’s happening to that bridge of Tallik’s? Is fighting going on, and if so, where, and how serious?
Is this airlift all for nothing? Suppose a cease-fire proposal comes in today? I must
know
!”

“But even the commanders on the spot won’t know all, Madame Prime Minister. Reports come in slowly and —”

“They know something. I know
nothing
. Nobody wants to say anything to me, because I might hold them to account for it. Zev, my nose tells me there’s trouble.
Get down there.”

G
orodish’s advance headquarters at Umm Hashiba remind Barak of the Pit on Yom Kippur; anxious officers and secretaries rushing
around, clamor of loudspeakers, clatter of teleprinters, a general air of discombobulation. In the war room the huge floor-to-ceiling
maps show an alarming picture. The supply corridor to Deversoir is a hairline of blue through the two thick red enemy lodgments
in Sinai, and across the Canal Danny Matt’s bridgehead makes a tiny blue wart on the vast red expanse of Egypt. That is exactly
how things stand, Bar-Lev and Gorodish angrily tell him. Sharon has plunged masses of troops into futile all-night butchery
at the Chinese Farm. The losses in men and machines have been frightful, yet none of his promises have been fulfilled. The
roads are still virtually impassable, and there are no bridges. What is worse, he is still sending forces across in rubber
dinghies and a few old crocodiles, and proposes to go right on with this foolhardy ferrying of his own and Adan’s division
this morning.

“Can anything be more irresponsible?” cries Gorodish. “Lodging two divisions in enemy territory, their backs to a water obstacle,
with no secure supply line, and not one bridge in place? Is he insane? They can run out of fuel and ammunition in a few hours
of combat! Then what?”

“He has no sense of military realities.” Bar-Lev speaks like a judge passing sentence. “His supposed brilliance is adventurousness.
He takes rash plunges that others have to make good, to save the soldiers’ lives he gambles with.”

“En brera, the responsibility is ours,” says Gorodish, “and I’m about to order a halt, Zev. I’ll instruct Sharon, straight
out,
No more forces crossing the Canal until a bridge is in place
. And if in thirty-six hours we have no bridge, I’m bringing back Danny Matt’s brigade, by God, while I still can.”

“Where exactly is the roller bridge, Gorodish? What shape is it in? Golda keeps asking about that bridge.”

“It broke down yesterday. Sharon claims it’s repaired and on the move west of Yukon. But who knows? Between Tallik’s
meshugas
and Sharon’s
meshugas
, God help the Jewish State.”

“With your permission I’ll go and see for myself.”

“By all means,” says Gorodish.

Bar-Lev dourly nods.

Viewed from the air, the blocked roads in Sinai appall Barak. Most war games involving Egypt have ended in a Canal crossing,
but no “worst scenario” has ever contemplated such stupendous traffic jams. A paralyzing sight, those serpentine miles and
miles of unmoving war machines, supply lorries, ambulances, and miscellaneous vehicles; lucky it is that Golda has not made
this foray herself. What targets for strafing! With a little courage the Egyptian air force could create ghastly ruin here.
Reenforcements and supplies for the crossing are piling up, backing up, choking the accesses because they have nowhere to
go. If Tallik’s Israel Prize could only get to the Canal and provide a broad stable sluice the traffic would start to flow,
and the crossing might have a chance. Otherwise, the pessimism at Southern Command makes frightening sense.

“Could that be it, sir?” Speaking in the headphones over the helicopter noise, the pilot points to a dark line ahead on the
sands.

“Probably. It’s got AA escort, remember.”

“No problem.” The helicopter tilts in a slow wide curve. Harsh coded AA challenge in the headset. Pilot’s calm coded reply.

“Okay. Good morning, helicopter,”
says the challenging voice.
“Welcome to the bridge.”

“By my life, sir,” says the pilot, looking through his side window, “I thought you were joking. That bridge does crawl.”

“Well, tanks are towing it.”

“I realize that, sir. Even so.” As they descend, the bridge is traversing a gully, and the head is climbing up one side while
the tail is still going down the other. “I’ll be seeing that thing in my dreams, sir,” says the pilot. “It’s a horror, sir.”

On the ground Lauterman, Yehiel, and Kishote are riding in a half-track ahead of the bridge. “Who can that be?” says Kishote,
squinting up at the helicopter. “Nobody from Southern Command, surely. To them this bridge is a big creeping leprosy.”

“Then they should all be ashamed,” says Lauterman. “The bridge is an engineering marvel, like the Eiffel Tower. It’ll become
a legend.”

“Legend, ha,” says Yehiel. “Let’s just get this
verkakteh
[shitty] monstrosity to the Canal.”

The helicopter settles down in a boil of flying sand and Barak jumps out, happy to see the bridge so smoothly on the move.

Kishote hails him from the half-track. “Welcome, Zev, hop in.”

“Thanks, I hear you’ve been having problems.”

“All solved. See that big dune ahead? Just wait.”

“How far are we from the crossing area here, Yossi?”

“Nine miles, maybe less.”

“Then the bridge should be across the Canal by midday, no?”

“It should. The real question is the Tirtur Road, you know, as it goes past the Chinese Farm,” says Kishote. “It’s not altogether
secure, but — well, we’ll talk about that. Now just watch. You’re about to witness something impressive.”

As the half-track jolts up the dune, Lauterman explains the towing team’s braking technique to Barak. He has to raise his
voice because the tanks are making their usual climbing tumult, and the bridge is clanking, squealing, and groaning in its
unique Frankenstein voice. The brilliance of the design, he says, is that a single tank in the rear can brake the whole six-hundred-ton
structure. Everything depends on coordinating the signals among the towing tanks; a simple question of balancing the nudging
of the tanks and the power of gravity, to ease the bridge over the top. With practice, this company of tanks is getting very
good at it.

“There it goes,” says Lauterman, as the lead tanks top the crest and head down, followed by the first rollers. “Now watch!
It’s a tug-of-war, you see, the nine towing tanks versus the braking tank. That’s where the coordination comes in.”

“To all the devils,” says Barak, “that braking cable is going to part. It has to.”

The thick cable looks in fact as rigid as a telephone pole under the strain, as the braking tank resists the pull from above.

“Not a chance,” says Lauterman. “That cable can tow an aircraft carrier.”

Slowly the tug-of-war begins to favor the towing side, as more of the bridge passes over the crest. The braking tank, dug
in like a mule on the up-slope, barely moves. It seems utterly incredible to Barak that the cable does not snap, but in fact
it does not. What happens instead is that the bridge, with a sudden startling scream and clang of shearing steel, breaks apart.
One half rolls down behind the towing tanks, while the other half sits where it is, draped over the top of the dune, with
the cable to the braking tank gone slack. Colonel Yehiel explodes in a stream of very filthy Arabic curses, all directed at
General Tal, the bridge, and the art of ceramics, as near as Barak can make out.