by Barry Sadler
"We had three hundred and eighty six planes in action, only twelve being kept in reserve for our own defense. So far most of our pilots have flown two sorties, and several have flown three."
Hod went on in breathless excitement: "Hey, Rab, it's still only 1115 hours. Let's put the whole bundle into the Sinai now."
"You think we can do that?"
"I'm sure. Look, at Luxor, five hundred miles away, they had sixteen Tupolevs, and we got all sixteen in two passes. Every last one of 'em. Caught them all on the ground and didn't lose one of ours.
"We hit them at all their Sinai fields Al 'Arish, Bir Gifgafa, Ath Thamad, Gebel Libni. We hit Abu Suwayr, Deversoir, Fayid, Kabrit, Al Mansurah, Inchas, Gamil, Helwan, Bani Suwayf, Al Minya, Ras Banas, Al Ghurdaqah. And we took out Cairo West and Cairo International.
"There isn't a single airfield we haven't hit. There's hardly a plane of theirs left that will fly. There's nothing left that's worth worrying about."
"Well, we don't know what's going to happen with the other air forces Syria, Algeria, Libya, Lebanon," General Rabin mused. "I think we should keep some planes in reserve for defense."
Hod's boyish face lit up in a mischievous grin. "Say twelve?"
Rabin roared laughing and clapped Hod on the shoulder. "All right then, you son of a gun, keep twelve in reserve, and put the whole bundle over the Sinai."
Hod was already climbing back into his cockpit, the ground crew unplugging leads and disconnecting hoses.
The engine whined up to peak, then eased down to normal revs. Hod released the brakes and the Mystëre taxied away as he slammed the cockpit cover closed.
The whistle of the powerful jet engine rose again to a shriek, and the fighter raced across the airfield and soared up into the blue desert sky, Hod twisting it gaily in a long, vertical victory roll as he climbed away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The convoy halted about a mile short of the fire and smoke that had been the defenses of Rafah until the Israeli artillery blasted them. Successive waves of Israeli planes were still unloading high explosive onto airfield targets beyond the horizon, while the artillery poured more and more shells into the Rafah area.
Between the trucks and the fires, smaller explosions erupted where Israeli sappers were clearing paths through minefields and concrete and steel tank obstacles.
The flat rack trucks were again unloading their tanks, APCs, and artillery.
Moynihan had found another BBC broadcast and the calm, detached English voice was recounting the day's events. "…fierce fighting on a number of fronts in Vietnam, apparently involving large numbers of North Vietnam regular army in support of Viet Cong guerillas."
The disinterested voice went on: "In the Middle East hopes for a peaceful settlement were dashed this morning when Israeli planes launched a series of sneak attacks, bombing virtually every operational airfield in Egypt, catching large numbers of Egyptian Air Force planes on the ground. Retaliatory air strikes by Syrian planes damaged a Haifa oil refinery and an airfield at Megiddo. The Jordanian Air Force has also bombed an Israeli airfield.
"At eight fifteen this morning Israeli troops under the command of General Tal crashed through the defenses of Khan Yunis in the Gaza Strip, held by the Twentieth Palestinian Division. Egyptian losses are reportedly enormous. Israeli spokesmen claim that Khan Yunis is now securely held by Israel."
"That's us boys," Moynihan exulted. "That was Khan Yunis we just left."
"There have been some reports," the radio announcer continued, "of Israeli Air Force raids on a Syrian base near Damascus as yet unconfirmed..."
The rest of the report was drowned out as yet another wave of Israeli bombers swept overhead and hundreds of cannon on the ground opened up on the Rafah defenses.
Brooklyn, now wearing on his shoulder the bronze bar of a segen mishne, second lieutenant, nodded to Casca and his other sergeants, and the infantry moved forward toward the inferno.
The sappers had been able to work with almost no harassment from the defenders' lines, and they had succeeded in clearing broad pathways through the outer defense obstacles. With the infantry alongside, the Israeli armor now rolled through these openings, cannon roaring as they poured a continuous barrage into the Egyptian fortifications. Two or three tanks strayed onto mines and halted, treads blown off, until following tanks rolled them out of the way. Directly ahead Casca could see machine gun emplacements, and with each step he took forward he stared into the guns, waiting for the muzzles to flash into fire.
Now he was close enough to see the guns. And to see that they were unmanned. Instinctively he halted and his men stopped with him. Brooklyn saw them stop and waved them on. Casca stepped forward obediently but shook his head and waved one hand, palm down.
"Must be a trap," he mouthed to Brooklyn.
The second lieutenant cheerfully waved a negligent hand and shouted back, "No trap. Just chickenshit Arabs," as he strode forward confidently to step on the first of a series of connected mines that detonated over a wide area, hurling torn arms and legs and heads in all directions.
Casca threw himself to the ground as defenders now appeared behind the guns and the muzzles lit bright orange as their deadly chatter cut swaths through the attacking foot soldiers.
Casca hurled grenade after grenade, and the hull machine guns of the tanks opened fire, but all of it bounced harmlessly off the concrete emplacements while the Egyptian machine guns continued to cut down every attacker who stood. The tanks were too close to bring their cannon o to bear, and it might be forever before a shell from the artillery happened onto the bunker.
Casca snatched a rocket launcher from the side of the APC nearest him and raced forward, Moynihan and Atef behind him peppering the Egyptian machine gun with continuous fire from their assault rifles.
It wasn't much, but, as Casca had hoped, it was enough. The Arabs kept their heads down and their gun silent for just the few seconds he needed. They started to fire again as Casca dropped to one knee and unleashed the rocket directly into the firing slit in the concrete bunker wall. The gun chattered out only a few rounds and stopped. There was a brilliant orange and white explosion, followed by some short screams as two men ran a few paces from the bunker with their clothes aflame. Then Casca and his men were clambering into the bunker amongst the destroyed machine gun and the mangled bodies of its crew. A few yards away the two Arabs who had fled were writhing out the last moments of their lives as their crisped bodies flapped about on the sand.
To the right and left the Israeli attackers were hanging back as they waited for their artillery to take out the entrenched and mine protected defenders.
Casca leaped up onto the parapet wall and signaled that he was holding this gun emplacement. All along the Israeli line, troops turned to rush for the breach he had opened.
The Egyptian crew in the next emplacement were struggling to turn their machine gun from its normal field of fire so that they could bring it to bear on Casca's men and on the Israelis who were rushing the breach in the line.
Casca dropped the empty rocket launcher and ran toward the machine gun, Moynihan and Atef running with him, emptying their magazines to cover him as he bit the pins from two grenades.
All three hit the sand as the grenades exploded. Then they were on their feet and racing forward again. The grenades had blown the machine gun apart, but some of the defenders had survived and were now snatching up rifles. Casca drew his bayonet, the only weapon he now had. Moynihan and Atef were out of magazines. Moynihan clipped his bayonet to his empty rifle as the three of them leaped into the emplacement trench.
Atef pulled his shotel from his belt. As he drew the blade, he threw away the beautiful silver mounted scabbard. If he won there would be plenty of time to hunt it up, and if he didn't it wouldn't matter, he wouldn't be needing it. The closet Arab made the mistake of pausing to aim his rifle at Casca, and in that brief moment Casca's left hand scooped a handful of sand and stones into his face. The Arab's shot went wild, and h
is rifle was knocked away as Casca's left arm came down in an overhand arc, and the bayonet in his right hand came up edge uppermost to enter the soft belly and rip upwards. The Egyptian dropped his rifle and clutched at the spilling blue bags of his entrails as Casca pushed him away and slashed at the face of the Arab closing on his right.
The second Arab fell back as the bayonet opened his face, but his fist tightened on the trigger and Casca felt the bullet scorch through his side.
Casca turned his wrist as he brought the blade back down to chop through the shoulder muscle and sever the carotid artery to set a fountain of red spurting skyward.
Elsewhere in the trench the other Arabs were fast losing interest in their holy war. The ruins of the machine gun and the dead and dying bodies encumbered them as Moynihan and Atef waded in amongst them, stabbing, kicking, and clubbing.
Moynihan cursed mightily as his bayonet went too far into an Arab and stuck in his spine.
"Give me back me blade, you thievin' Arab git," he roared as he struggled to free the steel, taking care to keep the dying Egyptian between him and his comrades' rifles.
Atef had no such difficulty. His shotel was designed for cutting, not thrusting. He swung it in ever widening arcs, slashing open a throat here or lopping off a nose there, taking off a hand or hacking open an arm. He wielded the engraved blade joyously and gave thanks loudly to Jehovah with each wound he opened.
The confusion of the Arabs turned to panic, and they started tumbling over each other, trying to get out of the trench. Their retreating backs were the sort of sight that Atef prayed for, and his saber opened several men's kidneys, hamstrung some of them, and with one great exultant sweep, beheaded the last man.
From either side of the Israeli front men were now pouring forward to rush through the widened breach.
But the Arabs in the closet machine gun nests now had their guns turned from their front to lay down a withering rain of fire where the Israelis were breaking through.
Casca slumped to the ground behind the protecting wall of the trench, and Atef and Moynihan crouched beside him. Casca's side hurt like hell, and he breathed slowly and deeply while Tommy swabbed the wound.
"Went clean through," Moynihan muttered as his exploring fingers found where the bullet had exited. He quickly bound up the wound while all around them Israelis took occasional shots at the two machine gun nests that had halted their advance.
As Tommy bound the wound Casca could feel the healing process begin. It felt as if the fibers of his flesh were being slowly dragged apart, but he knew that the reverse was happening as the curse of the dying Jesus took effect once more to repair his war ravaged body.
The dressing finished, Moynihan picked up an Arab's discarded rifle and turned his attention to the worrisome machine guns.
There were now fifty or sixty Israelis in the trench, about a dozen of them wounded, the rest pinned down by the crossfire. Out beyond the line of defense emplacements, the Israeli attack was faltering.
Delayed action Claymore mines had taken a heavy toll of both tanks and infantry, and the battle was turning to a stalemate as the Arab artillery and tanks traded shells with the Israeli armor, while their machine guns kept the attacking infantry clutching the sand or hiding behind armor. Mortar shells were lobbing back and forth, causing severe casualties amongst the attackers while most of the Israeli shells exploded harmlessly against the Egyptian concrete.
Casca raised his head a brief moment and made a decision. "We'll move ahead as far as we can get into their area," he said to Tommy, "circle, and come back at 'em. No grenades, mind you; we want those guns."
He didn't pause to consider whether some Israeli in the bunker might outrank him.
"Hear this," he shouted in Hebrew and then in English as his extended arm divided the Israeli troops in two. "These men come with me. You others follow Rav Turai Moynihan." He sucked in a quick breath and shouted: "Move out."
He leaped to his feet and ran straight ahead into the Egyptian area, Moynihan beside him, and both of them circling their arms to call the troops forward. They followed, officers and men, as Casca had known they would, and the small contingent raced toward the second line of Arab defenses three hundred yards away.
At the first muzzle flash from the Arab position, Casca shouted to Moynihan and they wheeled apart, each followed by his men, to race along the length of the Arab front, then turn away from the guns to run back onto the rear of the two emplacements that had pinned them down.
A lot of men fell, as Casca had expected, but the survivors were now opening fire on the machine gunners who took just a little too long to realize what had happened. They were cut down from behind as they began to turn their guns, and in a few more moments both Arab positions were overrun.
The few Egyptians who made it out of the trench had nowhere to run but into the rifles of the troops who had been held down in the desert.
Casca seized the machine gun and swung it right around as two of his men took positions to load and pass ammunition. On the other side of the breach Moynihan's attack had been equally successful and he, too, had turned the gun on the Arab crew alongside him.
Before the Arabs knew what had happened they were being decimated by heavy fire from their own guns. They died still firing at the attackers who were now once more swarming forward out of the sand dunes.
Casca snatched up an Arab submachine gun. With a dozen men he jumped clear of the trench and, firing from the hip as he ran, charged the few stunned survivors in the next trench.
A few seconds more and yet another Egyptian gun crew were astonished to find that they were under attack from their neighboring emplacement.
Now the Israeli attackers were coming up off the sand and charging in force through the ever widening gap in the Egyptian defenses.
An APC appeared, the young Sabra colonel's bright red helmet exposed about it. "You, samal," he shouted to Casca, "what's your name, sergeant?"
"Lonnergan sir."
"Well done, Lieutenant Lonnergan. That's segen in this army. Do that again and I'll make you a seren." The armored car roared on along the line.
Moynihan laughed uproariously: "Talk about gettin' it easy. All you gotta do is take out another five machine guns and you're a captain."
Casca looked after the Red colonel's speeding APC. "You know, I think I prefer the U.S. Army promotion system – they can't hardly make you an officer without asking you first."
"Dunno," Moynihan said, "they sure never did ask me. But when ye make captain, you make me sergeant, okay?"
Casca turned and yelled to Lufti: "You want your scabbard, you better go get it. We got work to do over yonder."
Casca looked across the dunes to the next line of Arab defenses. Three hundred yards of soft, scorching sand, and then a line of concrete and steel fortifications protecting machine guns, artillery, mortars. Egyptian tanks were now starting to move out from behind these defenses. "A lot of steel coming this way," he muttered.
"Yeah," Moynihan grunted, "the Gyppos have got two tanks for every one of ours."
"Well, at least there won't be any more mines now that we're inside their perimeter."
"Yeah" Moynihan chuckled "that makes it almost a picnic, don't it?"
Three sergeants, two of them Israeli regulars and one an American mercenary, approached and saluted. A grinning Sergeant Russell arrived, too, and in a few quick words Casca learned that he now had five squads, about fifty fit men, under his command, and that his wounded and dead were already in the good hands of the highly coordinated Israeli medics and need be of no concern to him.
Casca turned to Tommy as Lufti came running toward them triumphantly waving his retrieved scabbard above his head. "Well, Sergeant Moynihan, do we wait for them to come to us, or...?"
`We're on our way, Captain," Moynihan shouted and signaled to his men, grouping them around an Israeli tank that was moving forward.
Ahead of them some shells burst, then behind them, rather closer, but off t
o the right, and then closer still and off to the left.
"Jazus," Moynihan cursed, "they're gettin' our range pretty damn fast and not enough bleedin' cover to hide a pissant."
"Yeah," Casca grunted, looking unhappily across the bare expanse of shallow dunes. He gestured to his men, waving them to disperse. "Let's keep away from this heap of scrap iron it's only going to draw fire."
They moved barely in time as a near miss jolted the tank's tracks off its cogs, and it lurched helplessly to a standstill, slewing sidewise and presenting its largest bulk to the Egyptian gunners.
Casca hurried his men forward. He had been through this scenario before as a Panzer man in the mutual suicide pact between the Russians and the Germans that had subsequently been dignified with the title World War II.
And he had perceived early on that armor offered little real protection, that no matter how thick the steel, it would always be much easier to produce weapons to pierce the armor or disable the machine than to build mobile fortresses that could withstand such shells.
His Israeli comrades in the tank, he knew, were dead men already, and his only present concern was to try to ensure that as few as possible of his own men died with them.
He saw three successive shots from the crippled tank strike the concrete fortress ahead as the doomed tank crew traded shells with the Egyptians. One scored a direct hit and bounced off the curve of the concrete roof of the bunker, another bounced off to the other side, and a third zeroed in dead center at the point where the front wall of the bunker met the ground, exploding harmlessly against the foundations.
He glanced back to see a wild shot from far away, intended for a quite different target, explode in the sand between the tracks of the tank, and he shuddered for an instant at the thought of the high powered explosive and shrapnel ripping upward through the thin underbelly of the tank. He could easily visualize the scene, great chunks of meat being plastered about the tank interior in a hot, red rain. As the two survivors scrambled out of the hatch another wild shot exploded in the air above the turret. He was too far away, thank all the gods, to see the horror of their astonished faces as the concussive effect burst their eardrums, blew their eyes out of their sockets, and mashed their brains in their pans.
