The Class

by Erich Segal

  The pilots’ cardinal objectives were to avoid detection by Arab radar and take extraordinary measures to conserve fuel. For the latter purpose they flew so low that the gusts from the desert shook the planes ceaselessly. And when they landed in Sharm El-Sheikh, after only a half-hour in the air, some of the assault force werfe overwhelmed by air sickness. One man had even fainted.

  The minute they hit the airport runway and began to taxi, Yoni ordered the doctors to do something about the men whose stomachs had failed before their courage had been tested.

  One of the medics shook his head and murmured, “We should have given out Dramamine pills. That was an oversight.”

  Let’s hope it’s our only one, Yoni thought as he leapt from the aircraft onto the tarmac to confer with Zvi, who was riding in the second plane. At that very moment, the cabinet was meeting to decide whether to give them the green light.

  Zvi also had sick men in his aircraft.

  “I think we’re going to have to leave Yoav here in Sharm,” he said. “He’s much too ill.”

  “What was his assignment?” Zvi asked.

  “He was supposed to drive the Mercedes,” said a voice that belonged to neither of them.

  And from behind the huge wheels of the C-130 Jason Gilbert appeared wearing a belt of hand grenades, his Kaletchnikov strapped to his shoulder.

  “Saba, what the hell!” Zvi snapped.

  “Listen,” Jason said with quiet urgency, “I’ve been driving all night. You shouldn’t have left me behind in the first place. Now you’ve got to take me.”

  Yoni and Zvi exchanged glances. The older man made an instant decision.

  “Take Yoav off. Get on board, Jason.”

  At 1530 hours they took off from Sharm El-Sheikh, heading straight down the middle of the Red Sea between Egypt and Saudi Arabia.

  Below them they spied Russian naval vessels—doubtless equipped with radar. The four planes descended practically to sea level, acting more like flying fish than aircraft.

  A quarter of an hour later, a simple message came through on their radio.

  “All systems are go. We’re now cutting all radio contact. Call us when you’re on your way home.”

  Yoni walked out of the cockpit and said quietly to the men, “The operation’s on. We’ve got seven hours to pass the time and then forty-five minutes to do the best we’ve ever done. Check your gear and try to get some sleep.”

  One member of the assault force, dressed in an elaborate military costume to masquerade as Idi Amin, handed Jason a tube of deep brown stage makeup.

  “Here, saba. If you’re supposed to be my driver you’ve got to look the part. Smear it in your hair, too. I don’t think there are any blond Ugandans.”

  Jason nodded and took the greasepaint.

  “This is the hardest part,” said his comrade, “the waiting, I mean.”

  “I’m used to it. I once sat outdoors for three days and nights staking out a PLO big shot.”

  “Yes, but how far were you from the Israeli border?” the young man asked.

  “About eight miles.”

  “This is a thousand times as far.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t scared,” Jason said.

  “Want a paperback?” the commando asked.

  “What have you got?”

  “I can lend you The Guns of Navarone.”

  “You’re kidding.” He laughed. “At this point you’re better off reading the Bible.”

  “No, saba, right now this is more inspirational.”

  Jason sighed and reached into his breast pocket.

  “What are you doing?” the young soldier asked.

  “Just looking at some pictures.”

  “Of the airport?”

  “No. My family.”

  Six and a half hours later they were over Kenya, flying in the darkness. In a few minutes more they would be over Lake Victoria and descending toward Entebbe airport. Zero hour was approaching.

  Yoni walked around the plane, checking the readiness of his men. He stopped and peeked through the Mercedes window, where a blackfaced Jason was checking his pistol. He looked up as his friend approached. “I’m gonna make sure nobody takes my parking spot,” Jason smiled. “Are your boys nervous?”

  “No more than you,” answered Yoni, “or me. Good luck, saba. Let’s do the job, huh?”

  The timing thus far had been perfect. The first aircraft arrived just as a scheduled British cargo flight was radioing the Entebbe control tower for permission to land. The lead Hercules followed right on the limey’s tail and touched ground scarcely a hundred yards behind it. At first they headed toward the new terminal, then casually swung left, dropping mobile landing lights so the three other aircraft could easily follow. So far, no one had noticed them. They taxied to a dark corner of the field and began to disembark.

  A dozen commandos jumped out and quickly set up a ramp for Jason’s Mercedes. It purred as he drove it down and started toward the building where the hostages were imprisoned.

  A pair of land rovers with troops followed close behind, within sight of the control tower. Suddenly two Ugandan soldiers stepped into the road to identify the occupants of the car. Yoni and another commando dropped them both with silencer-pistols.

  “We’d better go the rest of the way on foot,” Yoni whispered.

  They got out of their cars and raced toward the terminal. Seconds later, they broke into the hall where the hostages were lying on the floor trying to sleep. It was fully lit so that the guards could watch the captives. That also made it easier for the rescuers.

  One of the terrorists realized what was happening and opened fire. He was killed instantly. Two others who had been on the opposite side rushed in, guns blazing.

  Frightened by the sudden noise, some hostages jumped to their feet. A commando with a loudspeaker barked out instructions in Hebrew and English.

  “We are the Israeli Army. Get down. Get down.”

  At this point Jason appeared at the doorway, his gun drawn.

  A frightened old woman looked at him and asked, “Are you really our boys?”

  “Yes,” he snapped. “Get down.”

  “God must have sent you,” she exclaimed and immediately obeyed.

  Suddenly Jason noticed a suspicious-looking character trying to move behind the hostages.

  He called out in Hebrew, “Is he one of us?”

  A woman who was being used as a shield bravely cried out, “No, it’s one of them.” And broke away from her captor’s grip.

  The terrorist quickly withdrew a grenade and unpinned it. Jason aimed his pistol and fired. As the man fell, the grenade rolled from his hand. Instinctively Jason was already rushing forward. In a single motion he scooped it up and lobbed it into a corner, where it exploded, harming no one.

  Yoni was racing through the hall to see if every guard had been eliminated. From outside they could hear fierce gunfire as the other units were battling the Ugandan soldiers.

  Yoni grabbed the loudspeaker and called out, “Everybody listen. We’ve got planes waiting. Start moving as quickly as you can. There are soldiers outside to protect you. We’ve got jeeps for anyone who can’t walk. Let’s go!”

  The dazed captives obeyed meekly. Too numb to rejoice, too shocked to believe that they weren’t dreaming.

  As the evacuation began, Ugandan soldiers were shooting wildly from atop the control tower. Through the wall of commandos who had formed to protect the hostages, Jason carried an aged victim who had been struck in the crossfire. He reached the plane and hoisted the man to the medics waiting at the door. Then he pulled himself aboard. Doctors were already working on other casualities.

  As Jason was helping settle the old man on a mattress, he heard a soldier holding a walkie-talkie blurt out an anguished, “Oh no!”

  “What’s the matter?” he shouted.

  “It’s Yoni—Yoni’s been hit!”

  Jason was electrified. He grabbed a rifle, rushed to the door of the plane, leapt ont
o the tarmac, and began to run back toward the terminal. In the distance he could see them lifting Yoni onto a stretcher. A hail of bullets was still coming from the control tower.

  As soon as he was in range, he stopped and began to return their fire. His only thought was that whoever had shot Yoni had to pay for it.

  From a distance he heard Zvi’s voice calling urgently.

  “Gilbert, everyone’s on board, we’re moving out!”

  Heedless, Jason continued shooting. A figure stumbled from the tower. He had hit one of the snipers.

  Zvi shouted again, “Gilbert, get back here. That’s an order!”

  Still, Jason kept firing in wild anger until his ammunition was exhausted. The roar of the first Hercules taking off suddenly brought him to his senses. He hurled his rifle to the ground, turned, and began to sprint toward the nearest aircraft.

  It was then that the bullet struck him, ripping through his right shoulder blade and into his chest.

  He staggered but refused to fall. He would not let his fellow soldiers risk their lives to rescue him. He reached the door of the plane and they pulled him in. When one of the commandos gasped at the sight of his chest, he knew that he was hurt badly.

  But he still didn’t feel anything.

  As the doctor slashed his shirt, he heard the plane door slam and heard somebody call out, “We’ve done it. We’re going home.”

  Jason looked at the doctor, whose face was ashen.

  “Is it true?” he asked. “Did we really pull it off?”

  “Relax, saba, don’t strain yourself. Yes, we got all but one of the hostages. It’s not a success. It’s a miracle.”

  The plane taxied faster and in another moment was off Ugandan territory. Mission accomplished.

  • • •

  Jason refused to be silent. He sensed that he had very little time and he still had questions to ask. And things to say.

  “Is Yoni dead?” he asked.

  The doctor nodded.

  “Shit. He was the best of us. The bravest guy I ever knew.”

  “That’s why he would have thought it was worth it, saba.” Zvi was now at Jason’s side.

  “Yeah.” Jason smiled, dizzy from loss of blood. “There are no shutouts in war, huh?”

  “Jason, don’t tire yourself.”

  “Don’t kid me, Zvi. I’ll have plenty of time to rest.” He was speaking slower and slower. “I just want … to be sure that Eva knows … that I’m sorry I had to do this to her … and the boys. Tell them I love them, Zvi.…”

  His commanding officer was unable to speak. He simply nodded his head.

  “And tell them one more thing.” Jason gasped. “Say I’ve found peace. I’ve finally … found peace.”

  His head lolled to one side. The doctor placed a hand on Jason’s carotid artery. He could not find a pulse.

  “He was a very brave soldier,” Zvi said softly. “Some of the boys said he threw back a live grenade. He still was quick as an athlete on his feet—”

  Zvi’s voice broke. He turned away and walked to the back of the plane.

  They flew on in triumph. And in sorrow.

  Jason Gilbert, Sr., rose as usual at six o’clock on the morning of July 4th and took a quick dip in the pool. He then put on his robe and returned to the house to shave and prepare for the guests who would be coming to their annual Independence Day barbecue.

  He sat down in his dressing room and turned on his television to watch the news. There were already reports of the incredible Israeli commando raid.

  The commentator was saying that it was an exploit that would go down in military history. Not only because of the distance involved, but because of the brilliant planning that had saved all but one of the hostages at the cost of only two soldiers’ lives.

  Mr. Gilbert smiled. Incredible, he thought. Jason was right. Israel will do anything to protect its own. He must be very proud this morning.

  There was a live interview with Chaim Herzog, the Israeli ambassador to the UN. He explained the wider meaning of what his country had done,

  “There is an alternative to surrendering to terrorism and blackmail. This is a common enemy to all civilized countries. For these people obey no human decencies. We are proud. Not only because we saved over a hundred innocent people—but because of the significance of our act for the cause of human freedom.”

  “Hear, hear,” murmured Jason Gilbert, Sr., and went in to shave.

  At about eleven o’clock his friends began to arrive. At twelve-thirty, when he was putting the first hamburgers onto the big outdoor grill, Jenny, the housekeeper, shouted that he had a long-distance call.

  Damn, he thought. Doesn’t my staff even take July Fourth off?

  He picked up the phone in the kitchen amid the clutter of plates and glasses, intending to make short work of the employee who was disturbing his holiday.

  As soon as he heard Eva’s voice, he knew. After listening quietly for a few minutes, he promised to call her back later in the day, and then hung up.

  The ashen look on his face startled everyone.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” his wife asked.

  He took her aside and whispered. She was too stunned at first to cry. Then he took a deep breath, determined not to break down until he could convey what had happened. He called for everyone’s attention.

  “I suppose by now you’ve all heard about the Israeli rescue at Entebbe.”

  There were expressions of admiration among his guests.

  “Those men did what no other country in the world would even attempt. And they did it because they were alone. That can make people very brave. I’m especially proud …” he continued with great difficulty, “because Jason was one of those soldiers …”

  His friends began to murmur.

  “… and one of those who were killed.”

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  July 5, 1976

  We get our New York Times a day late up here in Maine so I didn’t learn the terrible news until today. Last night on TV there were some pictures of the Israeli hostages arriving back at Tel Aviv airport and the tumultuous welcome they received. There were no shots of the commandos who pulled off the incredible rescue mission because evidently they’re a top-secret group and can’t be photographed.

  Since July is my custody month with the kids, I pretty much had my hands full planning the fireworks display and just trying to be a father. Besides, the whole thing had such a fairy-tale aspect that I never imagined anyone I knew could possibly have been associated with it.

  I certainly never dreamed that one of the two officers killed was my friend Jason Gilbert. He obviously wasn’t famous enough for any of the networks to mention him by name. But when the army released his picture, it was printed in the Times of July 5th. That’s when Dickie Newall called me from New York, knowing that I couldn’t have seen my copy yet.

  My first reaction was disbelief. Not Jason, I thought. Nothing could happen to him. If for no other reason than because he was basically so good.

  I needed time to pull myself together before facing the kids. So I told them to go to the village for lunch. I took a boat and rowed out to the middle of the lake.

  When I got about as far away from shore as I could, I pulled in the oars and just floated. I tried to make myself confront the truth of what I’d just learned.

  And what hit me hardest was how damn unfair it was. Because if there’s an Almighty before whom you have to justify your existence on this earth, Jason had the greatest reason for living of anyone I ever knew.

  I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. So I just sat there and tried to make sense of things, wondering what Jason would want me to do.

  When I finally rowed back, I called his parents on Long Island. The housekeeper said that they had left for Israel on the previous night’s plane. To attend the funeral. Then I thought maybe I should go too. But when I asked, she told me that it had been scheduled for today. Apparently it’s Jewish tradition to
have the burial very quickly. So as I was prattling mindlessly on the phone, they were probably lowering him into the ground. I thanked the lady and hung up.

  When the kids got back in the early afternoon, I sat Andy and Lizzie down on the porch and tried to tell them about my old buddy. I guess they already knew him by name because everybody from Harvard remembers Jason as the great jock. And whenever two guys in The Class got to reminiscing, his name always came up. They listened patiently while I told them about my friend’s heroism, but I could see it was no more real to them than a John Wayne film.

  I tried to make them understand that he had sacrificed himself for a cause. They still remained fairly impassive.

  I also explained that it was that way in this country too before Vietnam. People went to fight to defend their principles. And then I tried to bring it closer to home by saying that was why our own ancestors fought the British in 1776.

  Andy doesn’t like it when I mention this sort of thing. In fact, he was pretty unreceptive to my whole sermon.

  He told me that I was incapable of getting into my head that the world has got to outgrow war. That no violence is ever justified.

  Okay, I wasn’t going to press the point. I figured it was just a stage he was going through. What the hell does a spoiled teenager know about principles anyway?

  Even Lizzie was getting a little impatient. So I concluded our talk by saying I had to go into town and buy some more fireworks.

  This suddenly awakened Andy’s interest. He asked if we were making July Fourth a two-day holiday.

  I replied that this was something special.

  We were going to set off some flares tonight in memory of Jason Gilbert.

  George Keller spent his first month as the President’s Special Advisor for National Security Affairs almost literally up in the air. He accompanied President Ford and Secretary Kissinger (with a gaggle of reporters) on voyages to Peking, Indonesia, and the Philippines. Cathy, of course, understood that these were not the sort of trips you could take your wife on. So she busied herself working in the ERA campaign headquarters and debachelorizing George’s townhouse.

  As soon as he returned, Kissinger swooped him up again into an air-force jet heading for Russia to make a last-ditch effort at saving the SALT negotiations.