Three Weeks in October Read online

  I followed a couple of pilots and found myself in front of the guarded war room.

  The guard looked at my papers. Someone was summoned, and I said I wanted to report. I was invited to enter, offered cake and a sandwich and a young captain for company.

  The general was away. His deputy should be in soon, and I was welcome to one of the spare beds in the war room, he said. He called the hospital and located the doctor who was to pick me up at dawn to drive to Beni’s division. The war room was busy. Many low voices can still form a noisy atmosphere; most of the people around talked incessantly. I recognized a couple of journalists, a writer, and two colonels I had known as majors.

  I walked back to Dina’s bunker for my bag. She wasn’t there; another girl smiled at me and gave me my things. I returned to the war room and stretched out on a bed in the dimly lit corner.

  A visitor, that’s what I was. I was visiting the outskirts of war.

  Still it was better than home. The illusion of participation, the comfort of solitude.

  Ofer and Rani are asleep, I thought. My mother-in-law is reading, my wife is “doing her share” in the hospital. Our bed is empty.

  Was it here in Refidim that I decided to marry Amalia?

  Six years ago this place was a fly-ridden post in the desert. I was lonely and even jealous of my friends who talked about their wives and children. I truly thought that if there were to be another war, I, too, would like to have someone to go back to. Now I ran away from it. Not because I resented it, or found it unsatisfactory, but because it was the right place to long for, the wrong place to be in.

  The captain brought me a couple of blankets.

  “I am on duty tonight, you can use mine. You know where the coffee and sandwiches are. I’ll wake you up at four-thirty.”

  When the captain touched my shoulder in the morning, I woke up and smiled at him. As if this were my routine. As if for weeks now I had slept on this iron bed under army blankets in the war room. I used my battery-powered razor and washed my face, put on the boots, and enjoyed the coffee and crackers.

  “Your transportation is outside,” someone said.

  “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  “Good trip.”

  I was given some mail to take to Beni. It was still dark outside and very cold. The doctor was a man my age, slightly bald and shortsighted. He introduced himself, Yaron, and we shook hands. He pulled a woolen cap over his head and ears and offered me the front seat in the jeep. I chose to sit behind, put a blanket on my knees and held on to the machine-gun butt to my right and the wireless set on my left.

  We left the camp and headed west toward the canal. With daylight I noticed we weren’t alone on the road. Two half-tracks with soldiers were in front and a supply lorry in back of us. It was foggy and dusty and the doctor kept cleaning his eyeglasses.

  “I am a reservist, too,” he volunteered.

  “What hospital?”

  He used the civilian name for the central military hospital.

  “My wife works there as a volunteer.”

  His face brightened. He was very proud of the hospital.

  “She does night duty in the burns ward.”

  “Rothman’s department. The best in the country. I am in pediatrics.” He followed with a few banalities, “All sick people are children, regardless of age. I’m spared the jokes the dentists and gynecologists get.”

  I looked at his hands, imagined him patting Rani’s buttocks, rubbing Ofer’s chest. He seemed utterly at ease here. He must have handled hundreds of serious wounds, seen corpses, disfigured limbs, torn insides, burnt flesh, yet he didn’t have the haunted suffering look about him. We drove through an immense battlefield, past hundreds of torn vehicles and burnt tanks; he didn’t comment on the futility or destruction or horrors of war.

  “Fantastic field hospital in Refidim,” he said with pride again. “I’m glad I am with Beni, though. Not being a surgeon, and working with excellent young doctors, I feel I am more of use.”

  He used superlatives all along. Everything was “fantastic,” “excellent” or merely “great.” The soldiers, the African scenery where Beni camped, even the food.

  “You’ve got a good defense mechanism,” I said needlessly.

  The jeep halted and then pulled to the right. Two tank carriers were trying to pass us on the left. The driver of the first one shouted at us, something about the Hermon. It must have been good news, for he was smiling and turning his thumb up.

  “Bullshit,” Yaron spat as the jeep moved again.

  I wasn’t sure whether this was meant as an answer to my comment or a reaction to the cloud of dust that engulfed us.

  He was right, of course. My own eyes did not reflect the profound sadness I expected to find in his. I felt that way during the first day of the last war. I looked at the pathetic Egyptians—dead or injured or taken prisoners. I felt compassion, I felt guilty, as if a chunk of my humanity had been removed. A few hours later we were under fire and our first casualties were evacuated. My terms of reference changed, and I talked, thought, felt the language of war—I had to destroy or be destroyed and that was that. It had nothing to do with “defense mechanism.”

  We were moving very slowly now, and at the intersection before crossing the canal we stopped altogether. On the road parallel to the canal, going north, a long convoy was blocking traffic. We were given an hour to wait our turn to go west, and joined a platoon sitting in the ditch preparing a late breakfast.

  They were opening sardine cans and serving more crackers, plum jam and hot tea. All the tastes and memories of the last war came back to me. One thing was missing—the smell—the dreadful nauseating stench of human flesh rotting in the June sun was missing. It was warm and clear, but the dominant smell was that of fuel and fumes and smoke.

  Three jets dived low above us. Ours. They headed west and left beautiful white trails behind. How I envied them. Faster than sound, reflecting the sun and mastering the airspace, manipulating the sophisticated weapon systems and artfully maneuvering between altitudes toward the missile sites near Ismailia and Suez. I envied their precision and elegance. It was absurd. I was good at other things, very good in fact. I had dealt with intricate matters in the past and displayed imagination, courage, initiative, and here I sat in a ditch, waiting for a heavy convoy to clear the way, and wanting to fly.

  My frustrations, flying and medicine. The jets disappeared, diving low, and Dr. Yaron was munching a cracker next to me. Medicine I never even tackled, just coveted, and flying school I flunked. “Unfit to be a pilot,” they said. I hadn’t tried hard enough. I took my ability and talent for granted, and I didn’t make it.

  “What day is today?” the doctor asked.

  “Tuesday, I suppose. The twenty-third.”

  “Thanks. I thought so. It’s somebody’s birthday—my wife’s? My daughter’s? I am hopeless about dates.”

  It was very hot now. We took off our jackets and rolled up our shirt-sleeves. We were slowly nearing the bridge among hundreds of damaged vehicles, some still smoking. We could hear the artillery from the other side of the canal. The cease-fire was fiction, the war was still on. More planes flew over us, crossing the canal above us and splitting—some to the north, others south along the western coast of the Great Bitter Lake. I could see the bridge now. Rafts attached to each other, each sinking with the weight of the vehicle crossing, and refloating to receive the next one.

  “There are three bridges now,” Yaron volunteered. “I crossed first in a rubber boat, under fire, and I am a lousy swimmer. It feels better now.” The lorry in front was crossing now, and we followed. Soon we were on the other side, leaving behind us the canal, the Sinai, Asia, the desert, into the fertile cultivated strip, an agricultural barrier separating two deserts, flourishing on a sweet-water canal and human manure.

  Soon our little convoy of five cars separated from the others and turned north on the road to Ismailia.

  “So, isn’t it fantastic?” Yaron in
sisted.

  He was referring to the vegetation. Along the road two streams of sweet-water sent healthy liquid fingers to small squares of cultivated patches. The palm trees were majestic, crowned with ripe dates, and green vegetables were neatly lined in garden beds.

  The mud huts were deserted, and a few platoons of infantry soldiers walked among them or camped among the orange trees. It was a treacherous area. Visibility was limited to a few meters, empty Egyptian barracks and storehouses offered shelter to enemy snipers, if they chose not to run away. The exposure of the desert was gone, and this oasis offered anything but security. I held the machine gun as we advanced, and the doctor pulled a submachine gun from under his seat and made sure it was loaded.

  We camped in the dunes, just west of this fertile stinking paradise. Another five miles altogether. My ears grew accustomed to the sound of bombs falling somewhere and the sporadic bursts of machine-gun fire. Troops were advancing north and south of us, using the time that was left until a real cease-fire would be declared and implemented.

  “You bring us luck,” the driver said. “It’s the first time I took the bridge without having to jump for shelter before or after. They must be running short on shells.”

  Yaron hushed him. He wasn’t superstitious, he said, but don’t count your luck or your blessings before you are safely back home.

  “Do you have children?” he asked me, as if this were the only piece of information lacking in his knowledge of me.

  “Two small boys.”

  We kept watching the roadside as we advanced and took a left turn on a dirt road, crossing a small bridge over a narrow canal. The road was bumpy and short and a few hundred yards in front of us I could see the familiar silhouette of Beni’s trailer, painted green and brown.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Beni must have been in conference for I could hear voices as I climbed up the metal ladder and opened the door.

  On the long table which occupied most of the trailer there were three large maps and a helmet full of dates. Beni was at the head of the table, his back to me. I lightly touched his shoulder, and he rose and turned. We embraced warmly, and he pointed to the bench along the wall.

  “You know everybody? My brigade commanders—Gidi, Aaron and Johnny. Have some dates and coffee and listen in. Undivided attention you’ll get in fifteen minutes.”

  I sat on the shabby upholstered bench. Beni lit his pipe and listened carefully to what his men had to say. His red eyes disclosed sleepless nights and fatigue, but the boyish luster was there. He was in a good mood. The horrors behind, he had a cleaning-up job to do. Missile sites in his sector were all destroyed and his troops controlled the Cairo-Ismailia road and railway. That meant no more casualties, full air support in case of action, and time enough for the forces to rest and reorganize. The commanders around the table were less relaxed. They were younger and their eyes reflected the casualties their brigades suffered. They didn’t believe in the declared ceasefire and wanted reinforcement and more ammunition.

  “I’ve talked to Arik,” Beni snapped. “The southern division has blocked the two Suez-Cairo roads and may go into the city of Suez within forty-eight hours if the ceasefire isn’t valid.”

  “Are we going into Ismailia?” Alon asked.

  “No. The sewage plant is where we stop in the north. Very poetic. Just give your men a rest, good food and clean water. Send patrols to the plantations and mud huts, make sure the area is clean and secure. Anything else?”

  There was silence and the men got up, folding their maps. Gidi stayed a minute to discuss a personal problem. When he left I was alone with Beni.

  “Good kids,” he said. “You saw the bridgehead. You know what they’ve been through.”

  “It’s good to be here,” I said. “Should have come earlier.”

  “You had no business here earlier, but since Gideon was wounded, I missed you. The kids are fine, but each of us needs one or two old-timers around for the small hours and the tough moments. What we share we’ll never have in common with the young ones.”

  We talked a brief moment about wives and children.

  “I wish my wife had hospital duty or something,” he said. “It took me years to convince her that generals don’t get hurt in battle. Well, it didn’t quite work this time.”

  “Amalia knows I’m here. She doesn’t know what for. In case she calls—I’m helping you on postwar logistics.”

  “Do you want to talk business now? What are the proposed dates anyway? I was about to go for a drive, show you my kingdom.”

  “Two alternatives. Wednesday the 24th or Thursday the 25th. We should plan for both. I presume you are the only one who knows about ‘The Phoenix’?”

  “Some Phoenix. Nobody knows, and I wish I didn’t either. Gideon is on the critical list, otherwise I wouldn’t send you in his footsteps. However important this man is, I’d hate to see you risk your life, and I don’t care very much for his.”

  “Gideon shouldn’t have looked for him in the bridgehead area.”

  “And didn’t I tell him? What kind of planning is it, anyway? To try to rescue an agent from the most heavily bombarded spot in the area? But he insisted, as if it were his first-born. In case he makes it there, he said. So he got it, and two others did, too, and your Phoenix was probably sipping mango juice in Cairo or Campari in Rome. Only twelve hours later did they let us know that another time and place had been proposed. Trust the service. They should have sent one of their own well-trained heroes to the bridgehead just after the crossing.”

  “Gideon was one of their well-trained men. So am I, I suppose.” Beni continued, “Gideon joined me to fight a war. He would have come with or without exotic birds for an excuse. So would you, perhaps, if you could. Or am I counting on a friendship that has only professional depth?”

  “Oh, cut it!”

  I didn’t really want to get into an argument. He loved Gideon. He felt responsible. He couldn’t tolerate the thought that he may have lost him for some unknown, unsuccessful agent. Woven into his bitterness was the fact that our world-famous service did not foresee the war, did not forecast the crossing of the canal, the use of individual missiles, the size of the forces the Egyptians had put into this battle. As far as he was concerned, the service didn’t justify their reputation, or indeed their existence.

  “He isn’t a bad fellow,” was all I could say, “and he may have some vital information on him, even if this is the end of the war.”

  “Vital information is sixteen days late. As for his being a good or bad guy, I don’t want to know. You told me stories, didn’t you? Here, in this trailer, across the Sinai in 1967, about freaks, rejects, half-castes, people you had a hold on. Men who worked for money, others who did the double game. One out of ten was a genuine patriotic hero, and nine were miserable liars or pathetic failures.

  “Phoenix can’t go back to Cairo. He’s done a job. He has to be found and sent into Israel. Why are we arguing? There is no more danger involved than in any other rescue operation during the war.”

  “OK. Don’t tell me more or I’ll feel sorry for the bastard. Here is the map of the area, let’s work it out and I’ll ask the cook to prepare us the best dinner west of the Suez.”

  Beni walked out to look for the cook and I sat there staring at the map. My mind felt rusty. I was tired, and questions rather than answers crowded the air between me and the map. The new date was set in accordance with the expected cease-fire. The office had not communicated with Phoenix since the war had started, and figured it should be easier for him to arrive at our front post while both armies were resting and reorganizing. He had cover-papers. He was a foreigner, and his job as a hydraulic engineer justified his presence in the canal area. He had rented a small villa north of Suez, and the fictitious company had an office in this town.

  Beni returned with news of the menu and many question marks.

  “Why hasn’t he communicated since the war started? Isn’t that when they are re
ally called upon to display courage, sophistication, initiative?”

  I wished I knew. So many things could have gone wrong. The whole canal area was under fire. Regular communications were cut off and as far as I knew he may have been hiding for days now, lying low waiting for a chance to join our forces. Gideon had looked for him in the bridgehead area on a hunch. A wrong one. If he had important information on him, certainly he’d hold it until we got to him.

  Beni made it clear that his units were not involved in the planning to take over Suez. I was using his experience and imagination, but the details would have to be worked out with the southern division commander.

  “You don’t have to go there before tomorrow afternoon. By then we’ll know whether the operation is on. I can spare a jeep and a couple of people to accompany you, so you will be independent. But all other facilities I can’t guarantee. Nor take the responsibility,” he added with emphasis.

  He pushed the map out of the way.

  “The rest after dinner,” he said, and poured us both a fair measure of cognac from a flask.

  “L’chaim. Good to have you here.”

  An officer came in with a large envelope addressed to me. Inside it was an unaddressed envelope, and in the third one there was a photocopy of a few numbered pages, each marked “Top Secret.” There was also a photograph of Phoenix.

  “Pinups from the office,” I said. “Better take a look in case something happens to me and you have to identify the fellow.”

  “Quite careless of them, isn’t it? In spite of the clever packaging.”

  “Urgency precedes caution, I suppose. Look, register and destroy—as they used to tell me.”

  “A regular film star,” he commented, holding the glossy photo. Phoenix was good-looking, in an ordinary, somehow effeminate way. He was fair, with dark brown eyes—one slightly smaller than the other. His lips were thin above a square determined chin. In the photo he sported a tweed jacket, striped tie and a matching kerchief in the jacket pocket.