Israel Journal: June, 1967

by Dayan, Yaël

  The terrain was quite difficult for navigation in the dark and there were explosions all over the place. A 120-millimeter shell exploded right over the spearhead platoon and wounded four men. But the company commander Rani, who was at the helm, pressed on and reached a low fence. A slightly wounded soldier threw himself over the fence and the whole company passed over his body. “There was fire from a bryanov machine gun and from several submachine guns but they were silenced within seconds, and the platoons jumped right at the beginning of the trench and started running inside throwing hand grenades before us, then running ten to twenty yards and squeezing the trigger of our Uzi submachine gun from the bends and corners of the communication trenches.” The whole place was a labyrinth, a beehive of narrow concrete channels leading to concrete prefabricated round bunkers or to square niches in all directions. The enemy were taken by surprise. They were looking in front of them into the darkness of the night over the minefields, they were expecting us to run like goats and jump like rabbits over the mines and get blown to pieces. It is not theory or “maybe’s” but we know it from the maps we captured and the words of the commander of a battalion who was taken prisoner in the battle—he was almost saying it wasn’t a fair fight because we didn’t knock on the front door and did not come through the locked gates of Um-Katef–Abu-Ageila. Instead, “we were running in their own sanctuary, along their corridors of power, facing them, tramping over their ammunition cases and mattresses and kit bags. Hitting them from the front and back in all sorts of positions.”

  At places there was stiff opposition, and it grew, and our pace was slowed. There were mix ups among our own groups. Dovalé’s battalion got lost in the maze of trenches and came up facing Ofer’s men, but small flicker lights prevented mistakes of identification. Ofer’s G Company was running outside the trenches on the backbone of the ridge. C Company headed straight for the mortar positions just in the wadi, behind the line down the slope. They reached the road and a bit farther, after about an hour and a half of solid fighting. A platoon was left to hold the gap. It took another hour to reach the right end of the two- or three-mile long line. “Then we did the whole thing backward just like you write Hebrew—from the right to the left, and collected our wounded. We got artillery and mortar fire on the positions we had just captured but it was silenced quickly by our guns. It wasn’t easy going. The infantry had ten dead, two more died later of their wounds and about forty-five were wounded. The Egyptians had more than three hundred dead, about a hundred captured and wounded—we didn’t have time to count them.” We saw them early in the morning, our troops clearing and mopping up bunkers and distant positions and outposts, bringing in the wounded Egyptians, and carrying the dead. The place looked as if a hurricane had just struck—there were no victory cries, there was no jubilation, all men were tired and looked exhausted and aged. Only the machine guns mounted in the bunkers and the antiaircraft guns and mortars were shining in the early sun, indifferent, unmoved by what happened here to their masters.

  It was more than a fair fight. It took all the courage there is to get into those ditches, well prepared, well dug in, with the enormous quantities of weapons of all sorts. They had all the material benefits—a good fortified position, abundance of fire power, even comfort. We had the bare necessities but spiritual superiority—the knowledge that we had to remove the enemy and that we knew how to do it. This type of fighting in a fortified position was a sort of “kabbalah”—a tradition or ritual secret handed over from the paratroopers, when Arik was still their commander, to all the small units of the whole army. This was definitely the “comparative advantage” our infantry achieved over the “competitor,” just as we excel in growing the best oranges. It takes a lot of training to fight in trenches and at close range, but you have to have the ingredients in you. The Egyptian soldier just didn’t have it in him; he was dependent. He relied on his officer, on the artillery, on the mortars, on his anti-tank platoon, on somebody or something outside himself.

  “This is all nice and fine,” a lieutenant told me, “but after you count your own dead and wounded, and you find and recognize among them a familiar face or hear of a name you know, there is no escaping the question: Was it necessary? Couldn’t we do without this ‘classical,’ costly fight of infantry, in crude language, this simple, straightforward killing of people?” He was not questioning here the sense and necessity of the whole battle, just this part of it: couldn’t the artillery and tanks and air force have won the fight by themselves? Perhaps, but almost certainly not. The effect of the artillery bombardment was negligible; it was frightening while it lasted, but wore off quickly. The enemy infantry in the trenches could have held on to their positions, even after air raid and strafing, and could have inflicted heavy casualties to tanks, had they tried to penetrate the defended perimeter before our infantry removed the human and physical obstacle from the road. But we have to go back to ten o’clock in the evening to the paratrooper attack.

  The Paratroopers’ Attack

  Danny’s force was put under our divisions command at the last minute. I used to see him come to the command wagon in Shivta at very odd hours to discuss plans for an hour or two and then helicopter away. Now, around half-past eight, his helicopter was over our heads. He was on his way to a landing place in the dunes some three miles to our west. Thousand-and-one tracer bullets were drawing on the darkness of the night an illuminated dome, and I was looking up at the planetarium-like sky searching for the helicopters. Their line of approach and landing place were changed just an hour or two ago. They were supposed to come in from the south and land on an elevated spot called The Dalafe, southwest of Abu-Ageila. But after the capture of the battalion defense block on the dune track by the Centurion battalion, they could fly in straight and unload the paratroopers just north of the enemy artillery concentration.

  The force came in three waves, and it took them little time to organize, but the enemy discovered the landing spot and started zeroing in. First only sporadic, single shots, and then around ten-fifteen a whole salvo right on the landing markings. Luckily three helicopters were about two hundred yards away in the air. The landing spot was moved away little by little so that by the time the whole force was assembled they found themselves much farther from the objective than was intended and had to walk quite a distance. The map defines the ground as “sharply undulating sand scrub,” but it was an ordeal even for the tough and seasoned parachutists. It was like walking up a razor’s edge, then coming down—and up again. They were divided into three groups of men, each of them headed for his own objective—a battalion of guns. They started out around ten-thirty and Levy’s force attacked around midnight while the guns were still blasting away their load. Three batteries of field guns were silenced in a matter of minutes and the gunners of other antiaircraft guns abandoned their positions and started their run to the southwest. Levy’s group met a few trucks coming from the main locality and some that were speeding reinforcement or supplies to the attacked force. A section attacked the trucks from close range and unfortunately blew up a few tons of ammunition in one truck—three were killed and three more wounded at this spot. The force had some twelve other casualties, and they were burdened with the wounded. Levy was permitted to concentrate his men and evacuate his wounded from the artillery locality back to the north of the main road half a mile outside the perimeter. Evacuation was quite an ordeal. Jud, one of the unit’s two doctors, said: “I was scared until I had to treat the first wounded. From that moment on war became a job to be done. I have seen in hospitals people with less pain crying out and moaning. Here, soldiers lay legless, their hands crushed, a bullet in the neck, fragments in the stomach—without as much as a sigh. They were conscious and some refused morphine. I could talk to them. The dead were carried in blankets. We had only ten stretchers and some of the wounded insisted they could walk or limp along without help. The difficulty was to make sure the infusion needles stayed in place while we advanced under fire. The knowledge th
at the wounded were utterly dependent on me was at times unbearable. Who am I, after all?”

  Who is Jud? One could hear from the paratroopers he saved. “I have never met a doctor like Jud. He worked under fire walking straight, mocking the bullets, holding a torch, and finding the time and presence of mind to extend beyond the medical treatment a comforting smile, a good word, a wink, a promise. He worked for eight hours without stopping, ignoring the danger, behaving in the battlefield as he would in a hospital in the rear. They had to wait for the helicopters until daybreak. Two men were dying and Gadi was in bad shape. ‘Talk to him,’ Jud ordered, ‘don’t let him fall asleep. If he falls asleep, he will never wake up.’ Shlomo talked to him, and when Gadi shivered they took off their shirts and covered him. When the sun appeared in the east, Gadi opened his eyes. ‘Am I still here? I thought it was the end. I think I can make it now.’ ‘Of course you will,’ Jud told him. ‘The sun,’ Gadi whispered, ‘don’t hide it.’ The helicopter arrived. Jud stroked the hair and forehead of his ‘patients.’ They were safe now. He himself thanks the battalion commander—He was God for me that night. Every word he uttered, be it the most casual one, inspired calm and confidence. He was my doctor.”

  Soldiers I talked to referred to friends as heroes, never admitting or realizing that their own acts were as distinctly heroic. They are always embarrassed by it. They shrugged and said—“Well, what do you expect? Should I have run away?”

  The other two groups didn’t get a chance to express themselves, because of the swift action of our two tank battalions. They succeeded in penetrating into the defended perimeter earlier than planned and in order to avoid a mix up between our own troops, Arik ordered the paratroopers to give the tanks a clear field for action.

  While walking back, the paratroopers cleared their way in the midst of Egyptian soldiers running and fleeing in all directions. They figured that in the attack on the guns some forty Egyptian gunners were killed and a few more on the way back to their concentration zone. Most of the Egyptian guns inside the locality were quiet by now. The paratroopers were crossing the main road on their way to rest and tend their wounded while the tanks took the field.

  The Tank Battle

  The whole afternoon Sason’s Shermans were “playing” the enemy’s defense plan game: letting him think we are going into a frontal attack according to his book. Sason, a tall, balding man looking like a new edition of Karel Salomon the conductor and composer, was taking advantage of the time introducing the enemy to his tank commanders. He called forward, in rotation, a few tanks from each company, showed them the enemy positions, let them have a pot shot at a tank, sent them back to the rear to refuel and store up ammunition. His observation posts were helping the artillery in ranging targets. The afternoon dust storm was making visibility poor. Add to it the dust from shells and movements of tank and vehicles and you get quite a blurred picture. Sason’s engineers were repairing, meanwhile, the craters that were blown up by the enemy on the main road.

  At the same time the other tank force—Natke’s Centurions—were a few miles away to the northwest mopping up the battalion outpost on hill 181. Six of his tanks got inside the defense zone. There were about 20 T-34 tanks in there, some of them putting up a fight, but most of them leaving in all directions. About five T-34 tanks were knocked out. It was already dark now, and after some reorganization they started toward the Abu-Ageila-El Arish road. A small force was left at the crossroad to block and stop eventual reinforcements coming from the north; (around midnight they did hear the roar of tracks from the north, but after a few signals on the identification channel it turned out to be “friend”—the forward units of Avraham Jaffe’s tanks).

  Another small force was left behind at Abu-Ageila to block aid from the west—Bir-Hasana or Gebel-Libni. Perplexed, wandering, indecisive enemy tanks were roaming on the road, along the road, on the sides, in opposite directions. About twenty of them were destroyed, one point blank from ten yards, after he was trodding along for five miles in our own column, either pretending he was Israeli or not knowing he wasn’t among his own Egyptian tanks. Around two-thirty in the morning this force was coming in from the rear into Um-Katef-Um-Shihan defense perimeter, their guns quiet as ordered by the division, so as not to hurt the paratroopers who were just clearing out. Up to this moment this force was under the direct command of the division, but from now on they were to come under Motke, who was commanding the other armored units, to avoid contradictory orders and achieve a single reign over all tanks—for the last kill—the tank-against-tank fight.

  Just after midnight Sason heard over his radio Kuti’s voice telling Arik that his forces had crossed the main road along the trenches. Orders were given to Motke to get his men through the road. Sason’s first four tanks got through. There was a very deep crater the width of the road closed by minefields on both verges. The fifth tank stepped on a mine, got stuck, and closed the gap. There was no way in but to clear a gap in the minefield. Zeevik came forward with his sappers.

  It was taking some time, and Arik was getting impatient over the radio. This was, he thought, the most critical moment, the moment he could assure victory, to push his tanks inside the enemy defenses and wipe out the Egyptian force of ninety tanks minus five or six that were knocked out in the afternoon. Ninety tanks is a mighty big force and capable of annulling the achievements and success of the infantry and paratroopers. If well organized, and if well led in well-prepared dug-in positions and in hideouts, they could tip over the scales. Nobody knew how they would fight, but Arik gave them credit and the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the enemy was shrewd and waiting with his last trump card for the final blow and kill. Arik was pressing Motke to hurry up, and cool and calm Motke was telling him quietly all was going to be all right. “This was the only time,” he said later, “that I told Sason to hurry up. Sason is a man always in a hurry and there was no need to push him.” But it was taking time. Zeevik looked for the two flait tanks left some three miles behind. They were under Sason’s command, given to him for two eventualities—in case Kuti’s infantry would not be able to open a gap on the road or if the tanks would be sent forward, ahead of the scheduled timetable, during daytime—to break into the defenses. Nobody knew why they were left “so far” behind. My guess was, from what I sensed and knew of the character of the Israeli commander, that anything that was not actually fighting was pushed a bit behind.

  While Zeevik, the commander of the engineer battalion, was searching for the flait tanks and picking them out from their hiding place and bringing one forward, clearing the road from blocking tanks, his men started picking up mines the old-fashioned way—by hand, like picking potatoes, this time hot potatoes, in the field. The actual clearing and widening of the gap in the minefield took only half an hour, but the whole operation took almost two hours. Zeevik didn’t use his bungalor torpedoes which could have blown up the mines quicker because he wasn’t sure our own troops and tanks would not be hurt.

  All Sason’s tanks started pouring into Um-Katef. They didn’t shoot because they had to make sure first that the paratroopers were out of the way and that Kuti’s infantry was protected—and because they had orders to look and search for their own match in tanks of the enemy and not waste their tank power on small fry. They were advancing steadily to the third line of trenches. One Sherman was knocked out next to the trench and caught fire, but the crew had time to escape; two more were hit on their tracks but managed to knock out their adversary; a fourth got it in his fuel tank but kept on fighting; a fifth and sixth were hit by heavy machine-gun bullets and by an artillery shell but nothing serious happened to them.

  The two tank forces were closing in on the enemy, Natke from the rear and Sason from the front. Both of them were being fired at by anti-tank guns or tanks and both complained over the radio to Motke, the brigade commander, that the other fellow was shooting him up. Motke had a brain wave of Solomon’s wisdom; he ordered Sason to stop all his tank guns from shooting and asked Na
tke if he was getting fire. He was, so Motke ordered him to shoot back. A few minutes later the same exercise was repeated the other way around. Sometimes they used their projectors to identify the tank before they shot. All of them remembered well “last time” in 1956, when at the same spot two of our tank forces—one from the 7th Brigade and the other from the 37th—clashed here at midday, the third of November, and in a matter of five minutes the 7th Brigade force knocked out eight tanks of their own brothers in arms from the 37th Brigade. Darkness lifted slowly before the two tank battalions met. Suddenly there was angry, rapid, shot fire and shots all over the place. We could hear and see the shots from our division command post—these were duels between “pockets” of resistance of Egyptian tanks, realizing they were caught between the two arms of our tank forces, trying to break free from their hug. Sason met seven tanks, T-34’s. They were destroyed in a matter of minutes, one was burning, moving on toward Natke’s tanks like a giant flaming torch.

  Almost at the same time Natke reported one of the tanks was hit and was burning, the crew escaping, and then his radio went dead. He was hit and badly wounded in both legs. Natke’s radio operator, Yehuda, was hurt as well. In hospital, after the war, he remembered: “It was at five in the morning. We noticed the entrenched Egyptian force only when they opened fire. We tried to move away looking for shelter but it was too late and our half-track was hit by a T-54 tank’s gun. I was operating the machine gun and I saw Natke being hit. I tried to help him, not realizing my own wound, but when I attempted to stand up there were no legs to stand on and I collapsed.” Natke’s second-in-command took over and carried on the fight with enemy tanks.