The Glory (68 page)

At that moment Saturday the twenty-seventh has already dawned in Cairo and Jerusalem. The sun comes up, baking the besieged,
waterless, and foodless Third Army. In Washington in the dark of night, Kissinger waits. Two hours later Golda cables a reply
which Kissinger himself in exasperation calls a great stall. “
I HAVE NO ILLUSION BUT THAT EVERYTHING WILL BE IMPOSED ON US BY THE TWO BIG POWERS. … JUST TELL US PRECISELY WHAT WE MUST
DO IN ORDER THAT EGYPT MAY ANNOUNCE A VICTORY OF HER AGGRESSION
.” To this masterful vagueness, which the sleepless Kissinger receives in Washington at 2:10
A.M
., he never manages to reply, because within the half-hour
Sadat agrees to open direct talks with Israel
.

Golda takes Dinitz’s call with this news in her small inner office. As the ambassador slowly dictates the Egyptian message
relayed via Kissinger, Zev Barak, listening on an extension line, copies it down. President Sadat proposes a meeting of generals
at Kilometer 101 on the road to Cairo, well inside Zahal-held territory, at three that very afternoon.

When they hang up, Prime Minister and military secretary look at each other for long seconds without words. “Note the time,
Zev,” she says.

“I have, Madame Prime Minister,
ten-sixteen
A.M
., Saturday, October 27, 1973
.”

“And when is that hangman Security Council meeting scheduled to begin?”

“In New York, eight
A.M
. Less than five hours from now.”

“So, it’s been close. Close.” With a deep noisy sigh she leans back in her chair and stretches out thick brown-clad ankles.

“Madame Prime Minister, I didn’t think I’d live to see this day.” Zev Barak is shaken with relief, astonishment, and exaltation.
“The Khartoum pledge is dead. Egypt originated it, and now Egypt has voided it. The Third Army’s situation must be desperate.”

“Well, Sadat’s evidently is.”

“Will he survive this, Madame Prime Minister?”

“Survive?” Her voice takes on a metallic timbre. “Survive? Sadat is the hero of this war. He dared.”

“And you? You’ve beaten Egypt, Syria, Russia, and Henry Kissinger, Madame Prime Minister, and you’ve won the war.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” She wearily wags a reproving finger at him. Then she telephones the Minister of Defense to set up the
meeting of generals in Africa at Kilometer 101. “Moshe Dayan is surprised and impressed,” she says, hanging up. “Now listen,
Zev, Kissinger isn’t an enemy. He has just been doing his job.” With a faint grin she adds, “He did get a bit annoyed with
me. As for winning the war, let’s wait and see if those Egyptian generals show up at Kilometer 101, and if they do, let’s
hear what they have to say.” Lighting a cigarette she inquires, squinting, “So is there any news of Benny Luria’s son?”

“Thank you for asking. Galia tells me a pilot from another flight believes he saw Dov eject as his plane went down. So now
we wait for the prisoner exchange, and she’s feeling more cheerful.”

Grim folds deepen on Golda’s face. “The prisoners. That will be the real test. In Moscow the Russians promised Kissinger swift
return of the prisoners as part of the cease-fire deal. But can they make Sadat deliver?”

T
he wind is the worst. It has sprung up about midnight at Kilometer 101, blowing sand that obscures the stars, whipping and
whining through the open tent, swaying the portable lamps to make leaping shadows, covering the tacked-down maps on the field
tables with fine sand, and chilling to the bone the four sleepy Israeli generals.

“Enough,” says Sam Pasternak to Major General Aharon Yariv, a short sharp-faced former chief of military intelligence. “I’m
putting on my Hermonit, and —”

“Wait!” Yariv covers the mouthpiece of the field telephone. “They’re really coming now, Sam. They’ve been held up at the Kilometer
85 outpost. … Very good,” he says into the telephone, “we’re ready for them, and waiting.”

“What a balagan,” groans a black-bearded paratroop general, who has been asleep with his head on the table. “How late are
they now? Eleven hours?”

“It’s the communications,” says Yariv. “Terrible. The latest thing was, at Kilometer 85 the UN man had to telephone his superior
in New York, about arranging for an Israeli patrol to escort them behind our front lines.”

“Most diplomatic,” says Pasternak, “since it might be indelicate to suggest a white flag.”

“So?” asks the paratrooper. “How long did that have to take?”

“Well, New York had to contact Washington to clear the idea with Cairo. Before calling Cairo, Washington had to speak to Jerusalem.
All this took about an hour and a half. Otherwise, from Kilometer 85 those Egyptians could have driven here in ten minutes.”

“Through Zahal-held territory,” says the bald corpulent armor general, munching on a sandwich. “That UN man was prudent.”

“I’m famished,” says the paratrooper.

“Have some more turkey salami, there’s plenty,” says Yariv.

“To the devil with this wind,” says Pasternak. He pulls a small bottle from a pocket. “Who else will have brandy?”

“Easy,” says Yariv. “You’re representing Israel.”

“I didn’t ask for the great honor.” Pasternak throws coffee dregs out of a paper cup and pours it full.

He was in fact selected somewhat casually. Encountering him outside the Kirya that morning, Yariv said, “Good. You’re coming
with me to Africa.”

“What for?”

“To negotiate with the Egyptians at Kilometer 101.”

“Why me?”

“You’re a major general, and you’re around.”

Pasternak tosses down the brandy and coughs. “Ah. That helps, but I’m still getting into my Hermonit.” He goes out to the
helicopter, leaning against the wind. Throwing the air force jacket inside the aircraft, he takes out and puts on a quilted
jumpsuit, the kind worn on Mount Hermon by snowbound soldiers. When he returns to the tent Yariv and the others are brushing
sand off the maps, to review the disputed cease-fire lines and the proposed route of the UN–Red Cross convoy.

“What do we do when those Egyptians show up?” asks the armor general. “Shake hands? Offer them folding chairs? Do we do the
whole thing standing up? Are we cordial? Do we offer them turkey salami?”

The paratrooper, who is eating several slices of it on bread, begins to gobble. The armor man chimes in. “Look, we’re all
tired,” expostulates Yariv, “and put out by waiting here so long in the wind and the cold. But we’re making history, and let’s
be equal to the occasion.”

The sense of making history does steal over Pasternak when he hears the vehicles approach and stop. The Jewish generals line
themselves up on one side of the table, and in walk four erect unsmiling Egyptians in full faultless uniform with medals;
a decided contrast to the Jews, three of them bareheaded in bulky air force jackets, the plump Pasternak in his jumpsuit and
fur hood.

“Major General Aharon Yariv?” inquires a stiffly straight Egyptian in a deep voice.

“I am Yariv.”

“I am Gamasy, my delegation’s leader.” The Egyptian salutes. This is the Chief of Staff of the Egyptian army.

Yariv returns the salute, and a round of salutes and introductions follows. There are no handshakes. An orderly brings chairs,
the eight major generals sit down facing each other, and the parley begins as the wind whistles and the sand blows. The Egyptians
unfold maps to compare with those on the table. The talk is in English. At first it is about matching place names, but soon
the Egyptian leader switches to the convoy route. That has to be settled at once.

“A concurrent topic,” Yariv replies, “has to be the immediate exchange of prisoners.”

“On that I have no instructions.”

“I do. The convoy passes when arrangements for the prisoner exchange are confirmed. Not before.”

“But that is a political, not a military, matter.”

The officer facing Pasternak is shaking all over. Pasternak inquires in an undertone, “Are you ill, General?”

“General, I was sent out here without warning, except to put on full dress uniform. As the Americans say, I am freezing my
balls off.”

Pasternak jumps up, leaves the tent, and comes back with an air force jacket. “Wear this, General.”

The Egyptian glances at his leader, who nods. He pulls it on and zips it up. Yariv says to General Gamasy, “Perhaps that’s
a good idea for all of you, General.”

“We accept,” says the leader with a sudden charming smile. When the talk resumes, there are seven officers at the table in
Israeli Air Force jackets, and one in a Hermonit. The parley lasts about an hour. As the Egyptians are folding up their maps,
Yariv says, “Everything we have discussed, General, is conditional on satisfactory arrangements for a prisoner exchange.”

“I will bring an answer to our next meeting.”

The paratrooper general speaks up. “Sir, a nephew of mine was captured in the Quay stronghold of the Bar-Lev Line. Can you
get word about him? I’d be very grateful.”

“I can try. Please write down his name and rank.”

Pasternak says to Gamasy, “General, I’d be grateful if you could bring word about another prisoner, a Phantom pilot.” He scrawls
Captain Dov Luria
on a chit.

The general opposite him, to whom he first offered a jacket, holds out his hand. “Let me see to that. A relative of yours?”

“Son of a close friend.”

The Egyptian tucks away the chit and unzips the air force jacket. “Many thanks for this.”

“Gentlemen,” Yariv says, “it will be a cold ride back to Cairo. Accept the jackets with Israel’s good will.”

The Egyptian leader removes his jacket and folds it on the table. The others follow suit, salute, and walk out, leaving four
jackets lying across the cease-fire maps.

A
rik Sharon and Don Kishote are lunching in the shade of the lush green mango orchard where Sharon’s command APCs have halted
near Ismailia, amid an array of field tents, and scores of tanks undergoing noisy maintenance. On the high Egyptian ramparts
off to the east, large Israeli flags wave in the strong wind.

“Politics, Kishote. Politics. In the middle of a war, with boys dying, politics to the end.” Sharon appears much rested, if
no less angry and bellicose; unshaven and shaggy-haired, but with bright eyes and good color. The bandage is gone, leaving
a red scar on his temple. He slices a thick piece of yellow cheese and lays it on fresh bread. “But that gang has not heard
the last of Arik Sharon.”

“Arik, you sent for me urgently?”

“Absolutely.” Sharon’s anger fades into a cold professional tone. “You know about the meeting at Kilometer 101? A huge convoy
— a
‘humanitarian’
convoy” — the sarcasm is as thick as the cheese slice — “is en route from Cairo to Suez.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’s true. Hundreds of trucks, enough to keep the Third Army alive for weeks. I want you to be there when the stuff arrives
at the Canal, and keep a sharp eye on the search and transfer procedures.”

“At your orders, sir.”

“Medical supplies!” Sharon’s eyes slyly narrow at Yossi. “Remember when the British were searching our convoys to Jerusalem?”

“I came from Cyprus after the British left, Arik, when the war was on.”

“So? Well, I tell you, our nurses were carrying grenades in their brassieres and by your life, in their crotches! We found
plenty of ways to smuggle in arms and ammunition. Now, you report to me by telephone, and if there’s the slightest funny business,
I’ll raise a howl with Dayan that you’ll hear down there in Suez.”

“Arik, it’s a UN and Red Cross convoy. I don’t know the Security Council’s stand on searching brassieres.” Sharon grunts a
laugh. Kishote adds, “Not to mention more restricted areas.”

“I leave it to you. Dayan was here yesterday, Kishote, and commended your performance at Deversoir. I’m sure you’d rather
have been up front.” With a savage grin he adds, “Next war.”

“I hope there won’t be one, sir.”

“Well, if we throw out that Labor gang and get some real leadership, maybe not. Our enemies will remember this beating for
a good while, anyway.”

Driving along and behind the front lines, checking the supply depots as he wends south to Suez, Yossi sees evidence everywhere
that Zahal is near the end of its rope. The tragic backwash of the crossing — the streams of vehicles heading cast with dead
and wounded, the disabled tanks, wrecked APCs, and self-propelled guns being towed back for salvage — all that gives him a
dark view of the victory. So have the final orders from Tel Aviv to the advancing brigades:
“Charge ahead carefully … we don’t want any Stalingrads …”
Here in Africa he sees no exulting victors, but bewhiskered hollow-eyed youngsters, sunk in deep fatigue and on a nervous
edge. If the war starts again tomorrow — and the Arabs will certainly go if they see any hope of gain — these boys will certainly
get back into the tanks, the APCs, the command cars, and fight again. With the air support they now can count on, they might
well cut off more Egyptian forces. But to what end? Cairo declared an open city, and occupied by Jewish soldiers? Then what?

With such dismal musings, Don Kishote stands beside Natke Nir in the break of the rampart where the convoy vehicles are unloading.
The line of Red Cross trucks flying blue UN banners and gaudy Egyptian flags stretches out of sight along the narrow road
to Suez City, which still smokes on the horizon from Bren Adan’s assault.

“Look at them, Kishote,” growls the gnarled little brigade commander, limping forward for a better look at the Israeli pontoon
boats being loaded up by Egyptian soldiers. Several boats are already on the other side, where Third Army soldiers have lined
up in human chains, singing and cheering as they pass crates and barrels. “Look at them! For three weeks they’ve been killing
my men, and now we’re saving their lives. Yesterday we sent over five tons of our own medical supplies, and eight tank trucks
of water. For what? Why? Because of Kissinger. That Jew Kissinger, who stopped us from crushing them once for all. I swear,
Yossi, if Kissinger were standing where you are —” Natke draws his pistol, brandishes it, and grinds his teeth. “By my life,
I’d shoot him through the heart. God damn Kissinger.”