Israel Journal: June, 1967

by Dayan, Yaël

  We arrived in Beerotaim after eleven and I joined a group of soldiers in a camouflaged bunker. They were making Turkish coffee on a small log fire and singing quietly. They wanted to talk. They were reservists. What constituted morale? was the question we tried to answer. The first week it had been obvious. Old 1948 and 1956 songs on the radio, cream cakes from home, letters from school children. Morale was built up by extreme danger, by the cheering talk of unit commanders, by a sense of unity of troops ready to march. Now it was different. All those elements now seemed like a substitute for the “real thing.” Entertainers could not dissolve the sight of an enemy tank and little parcels from back home could not open the road leading west.

  We were asked to be patient, they said, but we want more information—one good explanation of what is happening will be sufficient to keep us going for weeks. For an hour we tried to analyze the situation. Was Nasser really sure of his victory? Did he really want war or was he simply committed to his previous boastful statements so that now he had no way out? They seemed to grasp the notion that diplomacy should be given a chance before the armor took over and also to realize that time was not being lost or wasted by waiting but that a right public mood was being built for whatever might happen and that a stronger and better-trained army was being formed. “It is talks like this one that build up morale,” one of them said as I was leaving. “We have to understand in order to act or to refrain from action. We are not automatons. There lies one difference between us and the other side.” They had three hours to sleep before morning patrol. I found an empty truck where I lay awake on a mattress made of a camouflage net.

  Some Druze soldiers stationed in Beerotaim made hot coffee in the morning and I left for the infantry brigade headquarters to join the brigade commander.

  He set off for one of our outposts. Kuti, the brigade commander, is a black-haired, dark-skinned mustached colonel. Dressed in dark khaki and a beret, equipped with a pistol, water canteen, a knife, and binoculars, he looks like a warrior. His soft voice, the smile in his eyes, his speech, suggest the contrary. “The area is full of arrowheads,” he said, looking for a good spot from which to watch the border patrol. At times he bent down to pick up a flint stone and dismissed it as useless. “Tomorrow,” he told me, “report early and we’ll go looking for arrowheads. I know a place which must have been a workshop thousands of years ago. I gave your father some.” Kuti didn’t know archaeology well, but he certainly sensed and smelled it, and I accepted the offered date. He sat on a large stone and watched the horizon for the first half-tracks to appear. “I want us on the frontier,” I had heard Arik say the night before. “From border stone to border stone, not even parallel, but on the last inch which is Israel.” Was the purpose to warm up the border? I asked. No, just a test, an establishment of facts to make sure there were no mines, to create some activity to show we were not dormant. The sun was merciless. Kuti offered me some chocolate. “You should always carry chocolate and biscuits,” he said. A cloud of dust on the horizon announced our half-tracks. With my binoculars I could see them clearly. They paused near a border stone that touched the U.N. patrol road and continued, followed by a few jeeps. Working their way slowly in the deep dunes, they approached us; we moved back and watched them printing the green line on the map in khaki and metal. In the air hovered frustration. We seemed to be playing games. We watched the enemy watch us and wished they would move. By lunchtime the patrol had covered the frontier in our area and returned to headquarters. We wondered if they would think the patrol was to be a daily event and if they would try to lay mines. I returned to Shivta.

  In the afternoon I went with Colonel Dov to visit the field hospital. A few tents were fighting the afternoon sandstorm and ambulances surrounded the unit area. Two senior doctors in shorts offered me coffee; the place had the deserted comfort of an unemployed unit. The doctors held important positions in civilian hospitals and were heads of surgical units. “We can operate on four tables simultaneously in the field.” We walked through the empty tents. Dov walked away with a female lieutenant to enjoy some cool soft drinks—a luxury that only hospitals or quartermasters seemed to be able to afford. Large boxes offered sterility to instruments, sheets, bottles—all disposable. A small Frigidaire held a supply of blood, plasma, and infusion liquids; the metal operating tables looked primitive and lonely. “We can move in two units, independently. Each unit has two operation crews and a good number of doctors. We will operate on cases which cannot be evacuated to the rear and treat the wounded so that they will reach the hospitals after the first medical aid has been given them.” “What are you engaged in now?” I asked. “Our doctors give lectures to the first-aid men and the medics, on a variety of cases. The few sick we have refuse to be hospitalized and demand to go back to the units. We attend all the headquarters meetings, every change in plans affects us. We have to know whether the hospital will be on the road or static, we have to calculate the possible number of casualties and the type. This we can do if we know the kind of war we are facing, artillery or mines, infantry battles or air attacks.” There, in Shivta, in the evening, war seemed remote. Dr. Agmon talked of mines, but the ambulances seemed rooted to the ground and the night seemed safe. Perhaps those boxes, with all their instruments inside, would never be opened, the blood supply never used. I could not help hoping that these people would remain unemployed, but I knew that if war were to come there could be no better team. They were wearing uniforms. “Yes, we have all we need. Electricity, infusion instruments, blood, and special training.” “Will you give priority to an enemy wounded if his case is more urgent than one of ours?” “I think I will. It is bound to happen, it has happened before; but it is difficult to answer beforehand.”

  Dov came back with Dr. Mordehai who was in charge of the surgical team. The doctor was explaining and complaining that with a couple of million Israeli pounds the army could have been fitted out with the most modern surgeries and operating theaters. He was not sure he would be able to complete an operation without getting covered with dust. Dov listened skeptically. “You’ll never use your fine instruments,” he said to the doctor. “Last time, in ’56, my brother the surgeon was with us at Mitla Pass. We had quite a number of wounded there that day, but all were quickly evacuated to Beer-Sheba or Tel Hashomer, and this saved them. My brother thought that a delay of an hour or two would be less dangerous than operating under field conditions—and you never have enough doctors or space or time in the battle. I bet you anything, Doctor, that all the serious cases will be evacuated by helicopters.”

  On the way back in the jeep Dov added and elaborated in the vein of an instructor at the Defense College: “You have always to fall back to the question where to invest your money, what system of weapons or organization will give you the maximum security or returns. There are always more needs and demands from the services of the army, air force, and navy than the money and resources available and at your disposal. It’s a problem of economics of defense.” It was wise to rely on the “civilian” medical base—on the hospitals in the rear, and to buy helicopters which could be used for quick evacuation of wounded and for many other purposes such as putting down small units in the rear of the enemy positions or for close and immediate reconnaissance. “But you’re not listening,” he complained as he finished his lecture. True, I was thinking of those wounded and needing help on the spot and not about more economical systems.

  Back in Shivta there was talk about the different offers my father had received—“military adviser,” “a high position in the army,” and the like. We had dinner and listened to the news broadcast at eleven. Negotiations were on, and my father was refusing to accept a fictitious position which gave him no authority. He was either going to take responsibility or stay with the troops, in whatever capacity; he was not going to be a front whose only purpose was to satisfy a mounting demand for a larger cabinet and the inclusion of military professionals in our leadership. I did not wait for the midnight news in which h
is appointment was announced. I fell asleep as soon a my head touched the pillow.

  On Friday morning I was told that my father had been appointed Minister of Defense. Even though I tried hard to be objective I could not help noticing that the appointment had caused an immediate change, quite noticeable and positive, wherever one looked. Commanders and soldiers alike seemed to have been given a second wind, they knew now that even the wait made sense. Although there was no real justification in associating General Dayan with a decision to start the war (which we claimed had been declared by the sea blockade in the Gulf of Eilat), somehow we felt that we were all there for a purpose and that there would soon be a move. A few weeks prior to his appointment he had visited Arik’s war room and had expressed his esteem and approval. The plans, he thought, were excellent, detailed, brilliant, and operational. Arik mentioned it to me during my stay, and now with the appointment we knew that there would be no change in our plans. I felt, on top of my personal pride, a new sense of security. Remembering the hesitant speech of the prime minister and the noncommittal though brilliantly worded announcement of our foreign minister, I took courage from knowing that my father was a man of action, whatever the action demanded might be. With General Dayan as Defense Minister the army would resume that spirit and character which perhaps it had always had but which had recently been in abeyance. I called him at home at six-thirty. He said: “I’ve got a new job with a driver and a secretary.” I congratulated him and we talked about arrowheads. He asked me to give his warmest regards to Arik and Kuti and to look for arrowheads which were chipped to a point and not made with one stroke. I promised I would try to come home for one evening. An available jeep took me to Kuti’s brigade and we set out toward Nitzana.

  Flints of all shapes were scattered in a wadi bed. We separated, walking in the same direction, a few meters apart, for about a mile. My luck was limited but I saw Kuti bending down a good many times, smiling, and putting a piece of flint in his pocket. He gave them to me—a collection of about twenty after an hour, different shapes and sizes. “Imagine,” he said, “someone sitting here thousands of years ago shaping them into arrowheads. It’s incredible.” “Don’t you want to keep any?” “I don’t want to own them,” he said, “only to find them. What I really want is a giant white one.” He smiled. “Maybe because I know I’ll never find one and I’ll enjoy the search forever. You can write a book,” he suggested, “In the Footsteps of a Giant White Arrowhead.” He gave me a perfect small one. “This you can keep for luck. The others are for the Minister of Defense; and now back to work.” I put the arrowheads in my jacket and returned to the brigade to face the soldiers who wanted to congratulate me.

  Before going home we stopped near Arik’s house. His wife, Lilly, was in the garden with the children and I talked to Omri aged three. He gave me two flowers to take back with me, “to where Daddy was.” He thought I could plant them in the sand. The children talked about shelters they had been helping to dig, but the street still held its familiar Friday-afternoon mood, mothers back from the beach with the children, children on bicycles, women chatting in front of houses. But one missed the sight of men watering their gardens or sipping a cold drink on the lawn. Two old men passed us on their way to the nearby synagogue.

  I entered our house dreaming of the hot bath awaiting me. My father was home for an hour between meetings, my young brother was there on a three-hour leave from his unit.

  “Any luck with the arrowheads?” I was asked, and I lay Kuti’s gift on the table. My father didn’t say much, he wanted to know how the soldiers felt, how was Arik, who were some of the commanders. He was in a good mood. I think he was pleased with the general reaction to his appointment, and felt back in his element. The house was full of flowers, many from people we did not know, and gifts of chocolate and fruit. I took some chocolates and nuts with me, as many pairs of socks as I could find, some large handkerchiefs, and a wind-breaker. I made sure my little arrowhead was in the clean shirt pocket and kissed my parents good night. My father must have known then that he would not see me for many long days. My mother looked worried but said nothing. Dov took a bottle of whisky and we were on our way.

  We didn’t talk much. The Friday-night concert broadcast sent us a good orchestra for company. Beer-Sheba was dark and dead. The check-post M.P. knew us and there was light in Arik’s trailer. Dov took the drinks and nuts and joined the group of officers inside. I fell asleep in the back seat of the car—an Israeli assembled Studebaker Lark. A few mosquitoes made sleep impossible and an occasional wind carried toward me the tired and comforting voices of the commanders. One week had passed. Seemingly nothing had changed. The same faces, the same dust and heat together with a mounting fatigue, and yet it had been a crucial week, perhaps the toughest my country had ever known. And now we had a wall-to-wall government, and although we were surrounded by threatening countries, our resistance had grown in proportion to the threat. We were familiar with desert conditions and the commanders read the maps in a new way—the symbols were now well-known reality.

  Saturday in the desert is not marked by anything. In the town traffic dies down and the shops are closed, children wear their best clothes, and the beaches are crowded. For us it was just another day. The chief rabbi of the army had arrived the night before to spend the weekend with our armored division. He was not preaching war but victory, distributing prayer books and Bibles and a printed one-page prayer for soldiers—pocket size. We had a long breakfast in the trailer. Arik had an unlimited capacity for food. The Intelligence officer arrived to announce a change in enemy forces. They had moved a tank battalion south along the border and Arik gave instructions to send a few tanks on a patrol along our side of the border to face them and block the wadi entrance which they may be planning to use. This was routine. Every move during those days was followed immediately by a countermove of our forces, at times real and sometimes fake—for instance, vehicles were moved in circles to create an illusion of large numbers on the move. Colonel Uri was given the Bell helicopter to supervise the patrol and the pilot agreed that I was light enough to join the ride in the two-seater. We flew very low above our lines—an armored brigade composed of three battalions; one Centurion battalion commanded by Natke; the others, Sherman tanks and armored infantry, headed by Sason and Herzel; a specially combined reconnaissance force with AMX light tanks and half-tracks and jeeps commanded by Arie. We flew over the infantry brigade—two regular battalions and one of reservists—Ofer, laughter in his eyes; Dov, bearded; and Castel, boasting a large black mustache, commanded them. Our artillery was composed of six battalions: short, medium, and long-barreled and well dispersed and dug in, commanded by the blue-eyed, dark-haired Yaakov.

  Close along the border, well dug in, was a specially combined force commanded by Colonel Uri, mainly for defense but able in case of need to move forward toward Kseime. The cliffs along the border are high and imposing. The little helicopter looked like a flea hopping from peak to peak, stopping occasionally at outposts and following the track along which the few tanks and jeeps moved south. Uri made sure the first jeeps had arrived at the wadi entrance from which we could see the new enemy concentration of armor. We were offered a meal and coffee. Later we had to walk up a hill for the helicopter to take off. The heat had affected the Bell and limited its take-off power. On our return journey I could not help feeling that there was something pathetic about our defense system. In some of the outposts there were only five or ten soldiers. We were scattered along a long frontier and we tried to give the impression of a much larger force. For some reason I thought of the fund-raising tours I had made in recent years. Very often when I talked of defense problems my listeners would nod; they treated it now as a sort of gimmick, almost a trick. Whenever I talked about the “few against many,” people would say, “We know, we know.” But here it all was—Mount Chorsha, twenty people, Mount Sagi, wadi Los, Mount Meara, the low tents, a communication set, a few boxes of K-rations, and a water container. Not a tr
ee in sight, the occasional visit to look forward to, the transistor radio broadcasting news, advertisements or pop songs, a gazelle or desert mouse, loneliness. Uri left us in his headquarters and I returned with the helicopter back to Shivta. It didn’t occur to me that twenty-four hours later I would be packing up for a move toward the Sinai.

  Sunday, June 4, was the last day before the war. If I refuse to call it the last day of “peace” it is because I don’t consider the 1948–1967 period to have been a peaceful one. Internally, for more than a year now, we had been told we could relax. Eshkol’s government had won the elections on slogans such as “The people are tired,” and “Away with the activists.” The Ben Gurion–Dayan–Peres members were presented as opportunists who were using an imaginary security situation to obtain votes and power. Professional peace lovers promised us that with this group in opposition the chances to reach peace would be greater. “The people are tired,” it was time to live a normal life unbothered by our Arab neighbors, and as Eshkol put it—to wear slippers instead of boots. Perhaps Nasser believed we had switched to slippers and that the only desires of our young people were for relaxation and the TV set. Fortunately the regular army knew how far we were from that desired security.