Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon

by Barry Sadler

  As a beggar he had been no more successful than he had been as a thief. His unclean hand, the one used to clean after defecating, attracted few and grudging coins, and the loss of the right hand marked him for what he was. What he received mainly were curses and blows and kicks.

  But of late things had improved. A poor old woman had taken him into her kitchen to give him some eggs, and Ali had thanked her by stealing her only knife – a wretched scrap of hacksaw blade sharpened on a grindstone – and bound with twine for a handle. But the crude instrument had enabled him to add murder to his repertoire.

  The Jordanian Army had been mobilizing for some time, and every so often a solitary, drunken soldier had stumbled down the alley, seeking even cheaper or more depraved women than the larger streets offered.

  Ali's bare feet made almost no noise on the cobblestones, and the force of his rush with his puny weight was usually sufficient to drive the crude blade through the heart of the victim whose back lurched so temptingly before him.

  At the first whisper of the footsteps Casca's body, unbidden, had folded into a sideways crouch away from the faint sound. The knife thrust that had been meant for his heart made instead a slash between two ribs beneath his right arm, the Arab's momentum carrying him stumbling past him to lose both the knife and his footing and fall in a heap on the cobblestones.

  Casca fell onto him, both knees crushing the abdomen, bursting the spleen, rupturing the kidneys against the stones.

  Casca's left hand grabbed the long, lank hair and slammed the skull on the roadway as the knuckles of his right hand crushed the Adam's apple.

  The scarecrow body kicked spasmodically and its life was gone.

  Casca reached to retrieve the knife, then saw that it was a worthless thing, scarcely adequate for cutting up dog meat in the poor kitchen it had been stolen from.

  The stump of the Arab's right arm caught his eye.

  "Lucky bastard," Casca muttered as he booted the body aside. "Last thieving done."

  Glennon and the others were waiting at the jeep. Epstein inquired if Casca had been any further impressed with the antiquarian's merchandise, and Casca answered: "Nah, just trivia."

  Epstein noticed the rent in Casca's shirt, and the dried blood. "You were attacked?"

  "More trivia," Casca answered, feeling the line of dried blood where the wound had already healed to a scratch.

  They drove back to the barracks in a mood of near silent anticipation, the only conversation being some speculation as to which front they might next be ordered to.

  Moynihan was playing endlessly with the dial of his radio, but could only raise Radio Jordan.

  The Arab station was playing a Hebrew hymn, and this was followed by an Israeli pop song. Then came the startling announcement, first in Hebrew, then in English, and finally in Arabic: "This is Radio Jordan from the city of Ramallah coming to you by courtesy of the Israeli Army Corps of Electronic Engineers. We are pleased to announce that this city is now securely in the possession of Israel, as are the cities of Nablus and Bethlehem.

  "Citizens of Tel Aviv will be relieved to know that Israel is also in possession of Qalgilyah, and the bombardment of the city and suburbs of Tel Aviv from that quarter is now at an end.

  "The city of Gaza and the whole of the Gaza Strip is now secure to Israel. Our troops are also in control of the Suez Canal.

  "We can now report that on Monday, Syrian planes attacked a Haifa oil refinery and the Magiddo airfield. In retaliation the Israeli Air Force bombed the principal Syrian airfield near Damascus, surprising many of that base's airplanes on the ground and destroying most of them.

  "A Jordanian Air Force attack on Israeli airfields was also repulsed with losses to Jordan of twenty nine planes.

  "Iraqi planes attacked the city of Nathanga and lost seventeen planes in the attempt.

  "The Lebanese Air Force has lost a British made Hawker Hunter aircraft over the Sea of Galilee. A second aircraft managed to escape back to Lebanon.

  "Confirmed losses of the United Arab Republic are three hundred and nine planes, including all thirty of their Russian built Tupolev 16 bombers, and ninety-five MiG 21's. We have confirmed Syria's loss of thirty-two MiG 21's and twenty eight other aircraft.

  "In destroying a total of four hundred and sixteen enemy aircraft, the Israeli Air Force has lost twenty six planes.

  "As a courtesy to our Jordanian audience this station will now resume broadcasting in Arabic."

  The last sentence was greeted with hearty laughter from all the men in the jeep.

  "Victors can always afford to be gracious," Casca observed.

  "Aye," said Moynihan. "Is this war over already, d'ye think?"

  "It will never be over," Epstein answered.

  When they arrived at the barracks, it appeared that the war might indeed be over. Israeli troops were dancing joyously about, firing rifles into the air, shouting and laughing like boisterous schoolboys.

  "Well, Harry went out a victor anyway," Moynihan grunted. He didn't join in the celebrations, but went to his hut and lay on his bunk, playing with the dial of his radio.

  Casca knew all too well how he felt and a little later poked his head in the doorway.

  "Is this area off limits to commissioned officers?"

  A chuckle burst from Moynihan. "Only if they're Protestants."

  "Then I'll come in." Casca stepped into the hut. "At last count I qualified as a pagan."

  Moynihan waved a hand at his radio. "It's all over, bar the shouting. Bloody long way we've come for a week's work."

  "Epstein says it will never end."

  "Nor will it for him. If you want to make your great grandchildren rich, buy shares in Israeli Air Industries. They're going to be in business for another thousand years."

  Moynihan stared at the ceiling, not far from tears. "I never thought Harry would've bought it in a corny side show like this."

  Casca searched his mind for the words he knew he wouldn't find. "Mohammed said: None falls, even by a killer's hand, until his allotted time be run.' "

  "And what the hell would he know?" Moynihan shouted and punched a button on the radio. "Just look at the bloody mess he left behind him."

  “... early reports of the Israeli attack indicate more than a hundred U.S. servicemen killed and wounded," came the steady voice of a BBC announcer. "As yet there is no indication as to what the U.S.S. Liberty was doing in the area."

  "In South Africa today, the prime minister..." Moynihan was twirling the dial. "What the hell is going on? Maybe I can get Voice of America."

  But he could find no other reports and returned to the BBC in time for the headline summary.

  "The U.S. Navy's U.S.S. Liberty, an electronic intelligence vessel, was detected today fourteen miles offshore from the Gaza Strip and was attacked by Israeli planes and motor torpedo boats inflicting heavy casualties."

  Neither Radio Cairo nor Radio Jordan mentioned the incident. Radio Israel also ignored the action, but supplied the news that the Israeli attack on Sharm el Sheikh, blockading the Gulf of Aqaba, had found the fortress deserted by UAR forces.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "What a crazy damn war," Moynihan cursed, and Casca was relieved to see that he had recovered his customary ill-temper.

  A runner came to the hut to summon Casca to his headquarters. Moynihan hurried with him to the ornate Moorish building that had been the pride of the Arab Legion in Bethlehem.

  Orders awaited him that he was to airlift his troops to the West Bank of the Jordan River and besiege the city of Jericho. Airplanes and helicopters were waiting on the nearby airstrip. His orders said that tanks and artillery were already moving into position from Jerusalem and Ramallah and that he was to use these, leaving his own armor and big guns in Bethlehem.

  Case and Epstein studied the battle map while the transfer got underway. To the south of Bethlehem was the Jordanian city of Hebron, still in Arab hands, but surrounded since 1948 by Israeli territory and separated from Jord
an proper by the Dead Sea. Hebron and Jericho were the only remaining Jordanian strongposts west of the Jordan River.

  "Do you think our guns will be much use here without us?" Casca asked Epstein.

  The Dutchman divined his thinking. "I'd rather we had them with us at Jericho. It's less than thirty miles. We could get back here fast enough if the Arabs pushed from Hebron and I can't see them doing it anyway."

  Casca nodded. "Mount up. Take everything that will roll."

  Half an hour later Casca was flying over Jericho. The city was entirely surrounded by Israeli troops, armor, and artillery, and more was moving into place every minute.

  As soon as his plane landed he summoned Epstein and was pacing up and down before a large scale map when the major arrived. A pretty Sabra lieutenant was standing by the map wearing headphones and marking up positions as she received the coordinates on the arrival of each new company.

  Casca led Epstein to the map. "What do you think?" The major studied the map carefully for a few seconds, then he pointed a stubby forefinger at the inner circle of symbols. "Mortars?"

  Casca nodded.

  The forger traced the next circle. "Seventy-five millimeter howitzers?"

  Casca nodded again.

  Epstein's finger traced a third circle. "Tanks?" A nod.

  Another circle. "One-oh-fives?"

  "Right."

  "And one-fifty-fives in the outer ring?"

  "Yeah."

  A pleased smirk lit the Dutchman's face. "We're going to use proximity fuses!"

  "Will it work?" Casca asked.

  "Just like Joshua." Epstein roared laughing. "When do we fire?"

  "That's up to you. But make it damn soon."

  "I'm on my way."

  Epstein was already running from the room shouting, "A motorbike! I want a motorbike."

  Twenty minutes later he was back by Casca's side, his face florid, panting with exertion, his hair and eyebrows full of sand.

  "Every damn gun we've got," he exulted, "is aimed into a box only one hundred yards square. Proximity fuses are set to explode at somewhere around twenty feet up, some a bit more, some less, some on the ground. But, oh Jesus, will it be one big bang."

  Casca nodded. "Go to it."

  "Yes sir." Epstein started to hurry from the room, then turned and pointed to a slight elevation marked on the map. "This is where I've set up my command post. I will be honored if you would watch with me."

  "And I would be honored to do so" Casca smiled "but I must attend to the infantry attack."

  Epstein snapped to attention like a stormtrooper. "The infantry will not be needed, Colonel."

  "I am sure you're right, Major, but overconfidence is an expensive luxury, and one we cannot afford. We're up against the British General Glubb Pasha's Arab Legion, and they may well prove a force to be reckoned with. I trust our men have been warned what to expect?"

  "And provided with every possible protection."

  The two shook hands as they left the building. Epstein kicked his motorcycle into action as Casca climbed into his jeep. From the floor he picked up a Galil assault rifle and slammed a fresh 5.56 mm magazine into place.

  "Let's go, Billy."

  They made a quick tour of the battle lines, starting from the outermost ring of 155s, the devastating American built Long Toms, and spiraled inward circle by circle until they came to the tanks and infantry waiting just behind the 75 mm howitzers.

  From the walls of the ancient city there came an occasional round of exploratory artillery fire. The inner rings of troops were suffering a few casualties, but holding their fire on Casca's orders. Deprived of their air force, the Jordanians had only the slightest idea that they were surrounded, and no impression at all of the mass of arms arrayed against them.

  Once more Casca cautioned his commanders what to expect, stressing that neither armor nor infantry were to move until they saw his command jeep go forward.

  He put Moynihan and Glennon out of the jeep and moved it on through the inner ring of mortars and then another hundred yards. He placed the protectors over his ears and stood behind the wheel, counting down the seconds.

  Expecting it as he was, the gigantic explosion nonetheless shocked him, almost knocking him from his feet, something like two thousand guns had all fired at once.

  He threw up his arm to shield his eyes from an enormous fireball that appeared above the city walls and grew and grew, becoming brighter and brighter, shining like lightning even against the brilliance of the sun.

  A gigantic slam of hot, roaring noise, as solid as a battering ram, struck him from above, it seemed, as a shock wave poured out from where all the shells had exploded within the city walls.

  The walls bulged out as if inflated, then burst in a flying rain of stone that crashed to the sands ahead of him.

  From every point of the compass brutal shock waves rebounded as the expanding air was bounced back from the still air that could not yield way fast enough. Wave after wave rebounded, and Casca stood as if paralyzed, wondering just what was happening.

  The scorching desert air was suddenly much hotter, as if there were flamethrowers playing above his head. Casca panted like a dog as he struggled to breathe the heated air. Silence.

  Then a horrible, ear piercing, soul shaking wail that burst from thousands of throats within the city walls as the last breath rushed from bodies that were dying where they stood, eardrums burst, eyes blown out, stomachs turned to solid balls of tripe, crushed lungs expelling their last breath through shattered larynxes.

  And then another silence.

  It took Casca a few moments to realize that he, at least, was alive, and another moment to act.

  Mechanically, he reached for the starter button and was relieved to feel the vibration of the engine. But he couldn't hear it.

  He put his hands to his ears. To find the earmuffs. He dropped them to the seat beside him, engaged first gear, and, still standing, moved the jeep forward, one foot toeing the accelerator.

  All four tires had been blown out by the shock waves, but he knew there was no need to hurry. He was not looking forward to what he expected to see within the ruined city walls. He steered the jeep around heaps of rubble and drove into the city.

  Everywhere soldiers lay on their backs, empty black blooded eye sockets staring into the sun, black trickles of blood drying where it had oozed from ears and noses.

  Here and there a ruin of a man stood, or stumbled vacantly about. These wrecks had been unfortunate enough to have been somehow protected from the full power of the percussive blast, and now were shuddering through their last sightless, soundless, mindless moments of life. One by one they were toppling to the ground.

  Others, still less damaged, were now starting to appear, dazed and dying, bleeding profusely from what had once been their eyes.

  Casca maneuvered the jeep around these walking wrecks, heading for the military barracks in the eastern quarter of the city, which had been the target point for the blast.

  Women and children now appeared in numbers, scrambling like bewildered rats from the cellars and basements where they had taken shelter when the city had first realized that an attack was imminent. They groped their way about blindly, gasping for air with ruined lungs, trying vainly to wrestle with the horror with their shattered minds, wheezing pleas for help through crushed vocal cords.

  As Casca sighted the barracks that had been the target point, he heard a lone motorcycle approaching from the opposite direction, and saw Epstein, his big mouth sagging open in horror as his head turned from side to side and his shocked eyes took in the devastation that his guns had wrought.

  He shut off the throttle, let the bike fall, and shambled toward Casca, tearing at his hair.

  "In the name of the God, Colonel, in the name of all the gods, what have I done?"

  Casca stopped the jeep, got out, and walked to meet him. He took him by the shoulders and shook him. "Pull yourself together, Major, you did a good job."

&nb
sp; "A good job?" Epstein stared about uncomprehendingly.

  Casca grimaced and struck him hard across the face with the flat of his hand, then grabbed him by the arms and restrained him.

  "You did a good job. You carried out my orders to the letter."

  "Orders? I was following orders?"

  "Yes. My orders. And I have another order for you. You're not needed here now. Get back on that cycle and get yourself to the barracks and turn in."

  Epstein muttered: "I don't think I'll be following any more orders." He shrugged out of Casca's grip and shambled away.

  Casca shook his head as he watched him go. "Hope he comes around all right. Good artillery officers are hard to find."

  He turned the jeep around to meet his advancing troops, and signaled them to retire. Epstein had been right, the infantry would not be needed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Casca radioed his report of the fall of Jericho to the Israeli High Command and requested that fresh troops be sent to garrison and administer the city while his troops were allowed a rest within secure Israeli territory. He did not explain that he wanted his own men to have as little contact as possible with the ruin that had been Jericho.

  The request for relief was granted, but leave was denied. He was ordered a hundred miles north beyond the Sea of Galilee, to the Syrian border. The regiment was to rejoin the Red general, to be kept in readiness for an escalation of the fighting with Syria, whose long range guns were harassing the Israeli kibbutzim along the border.

  During the night Moynihan came to Casca's tent. "Would ye care to hear the world's view of the latest war news?"

  "Sure I would. I'm not sleeping anyway."

  Casca reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel's in his foot locker and set it on the small desk, which, with its two canvas chairs, were his only privileges of rank.

  The level in the bottle dropped steadily while Tommy went through the motions of searching the short wave band for news reports.