Israel's Next War

by Martin Archer

  Peter, as usual, had prepared the Morning Book and briefed the President in my absence at the morning Security Council meeting. All I did was wear headphones and sit in the plane and listen.

  Damn, I missed some of that last exchange. Maybe Dorothy’s right—maybe I need to get my hearing checked.

  According to the latest intelligence reports, the Israelis have been pushed all the way off the Golan and are about to begin a massive artillery bombardment to keep the Syrians and Iranians from pushing further on into Israel. Similarly, the rest of the Syrian army is moving south into Lebanon accompanied by Hezbollah troops and the Iraqi and Iranian armies are moving into Jordan with some of the Sunni militias and ISIS remnants. Israel, in turn, is moving troops and armor into Lebanon and Jordan to confront them.

  The only good news for Israel is its navy apparently shot up the Syrian navy and Syria’s ports pretty thoroughly last night, particularly the Syrian navy port at Latakia. Apparently the Israelis sank or seriously damaged every ship in the port, even the freighters and tankers flying neutral flags.

  I was finally able to get through to Israel’s Prime Minister on the satellite phone right before we landed at Andrews. We talked briefly about the situation—what he thinks about it and what more we can do to help. He was obviously quite upset about Israel’s casualties, and rightly so, but otherwise seemed quite candid and forthcoming. There is no doubt about it in his mind or mine—Israel is going to win.

  Interestingly enough, the Prime minister explained the Israeli moves into Lebanon and Jordan by saying Israel intends to fight as much as possible on Arab territory to keep damage to Israel itself at a minimum. That’s slightly different from what Washington has been thinking—that Israel is in Jordan and Lebanon to head off the coalition armies from attacking Israel on its flanks.

  I am sure that it’s true that Israel wants to keep the damage in Israel to a minimum just as I’m sure they want to head off an attack on their flanks—but I’m beginning to think there may be more to it than we know.

  About an hour before we landed reports began coming in one after another about a big tank battle under way in Jordan between the Israelis and the Iranians.

  ****** Iraqi Lieutenant Colonel

  Damascus is exciting even if the weather outside is much too hot and sweaty and the people have funny accents. Our army’s Supreme Headquarters is in the basement and first four floors of the Syrian military hospital on the sprawling al-Qutayfah army base just outside the city. Everywhere I look there are officers in various uniforms attending meetings or bustling about with intensity and purpose. It’s like we’re a swarm of bees and this is our hive. I’m wearing my dress uniform and so are the Syrians and my fellow Iraqis. Only the Iranians are wearing battle dress and have big beards. And they smell bad, for goodness sake.

  At any point in time the air is full of cigarette smoke and there are usually a hundred or so important generals and colonels in the hospital auditorium listening to the briefings. That’s where I am today even though I’m only a newly promoted lieutenant colonel. The men sitting, standing, and talking around me are here at our supreme headquarters for the same reason I am, to serve on the staff of one of the generals on the three-general Supreme War Authority.

  Truth be told, I think a lot of us have been sent here so we can be kept out of the fighting. My uncle arranged my assignment; he’s an air force general in charge of defense procurement and married to one of the President’s sisters. It’s a very lucrative posting.

  Everything is proceeding according to an extremely detailed plan so there really isn’t much for anyone to do except look busy and stay out of trouble. All of us here are supposed to listen to the briefers and, if requested, provide our advice and services to the general representing our country on the Supreme War Authority. I have a good position because my general is important—he’s one of the three supreme generals, one from each country, in charge of the war. And the Supreme Headquarters is a great place to make useful contacts because, as luck would have it, each of the three generals in the Supreme Authority troika is a first cousin of his president and can get things done.

  At the moment the atmosphere in the building is upbeat and positive despite the periodic rumors of heavy casualties that have been sweeping through the building ever since early this morning. It seems we’re making a lot of progress but are paying heavily for it. On the other hand, if the rumors are true about our losses, it’s likely that a lot of new military equipment will have to be purchased. That’s good. It will mean real opportunities for my father and my uncle, my mother’s brother, back in Baghdad.

  Briefings here in the hospital lecture theatre we’ve taken over are apparently going to continue around the clock on a non-stop basis. That’s what someone told me and it’s probably true since it’s the way it’s been ever since a couple of days before the war started.

  I’ve got a couple of good seats and at the moment I’m craning my neck looking for my new Syrian friend, a handsome colonel, who promised to come sit with me. He’s in the oil business as I am and very sensitive. Other officers are listening intently to the briefers and periodically shouting out questions and comments to them. Many of the men in the room are like me, officers specializing in non-military matters ranging from factories and hotels to the operation of banks and construction companies.

  My particular interest is in the highly profitable oil exports from the military district my father commands. And, of course, going out at night to meet my friends and drive around in my sports car even though the stupid girl my parents made me marry doesn’t like it.

  Our briefers stand on the auditorium stage in front of a huge map and speak facing the seats of the three key generals, one from each country, who comprise the Command Authority. When the three Supreme Commanders are here they sit in the front row with a handful of their senior assistants. The rest of the generals and colonels, and the junior officers like me who are their assistants and translators, sit in the seats behind them and smoke while we listen to the briefers and wait to be called upon. Almost everyone is making a real effort to be courteous and proper with everyone else.

  Even so, as I told my Syrian friend last night, I do find it difficult to sit in my seat at times because some of the Iranians seem to be pretending they have just come in from the field and haven’t had an opportunity to bathe. I mean, for goodness sake.

  There are nine briefers on duty at all times—one briefer from each country for each of the three fronts. Overall the assembled officers seem reasonably satisfied, maybe because the war appears to be going well on all three fronts—the Golan, Lebanon, and Jordan. At the moment, the briefings are continuing even though none of the three supreme generals are present. The Supremes are apparently in their private offices reporting to their respective presidents and asking them to agree to some kind of amendment to our battle plan agreement.

  In a sense all the briefings are somewhat unnecessary because the invasion plan and the key decisions were, of course, worked out in great detail over the past several months by representatives of the three governments and all the major militias except for the Kurds and Druze, of course, because they cannot be trusted. What was finally agreed to by everyone, according to my father, is the plan being implemented at this time. Due to the temporary absence of the Egyptians, the supreme command of the invasion force is being exercised by what we staffers have taken to calling “the troika,” a three man committee consisting of the general in charge of each of our three countries’ armies. Each of the three “supreme generals,” of course, will consult with their staffs and get approval from his president before agreeing to any changes or additions to the plan.

  Everything here at the headquarters of our new army seems to me to be well organized, if a not a bit unwieldy due to so many officers seeming to want to discuss every report and decision no matter how insignificant. There is always a lot available to discuss because our headquarters is in constant radio and telephone contact with every
division and every senior officer and briefer at the headquarters has a translator sitting next to him whispering in his ear.

  It’s really quite exciting actually. The smoke filled auditorium and its concrete hallways are filled with a constant buzz as the generals and colonels talk to each other and try to listen to their translators, the members of their personal staffs, and the briefers. The briefings are apparently going to continue nonstop throughout the war, just as the negotiators agreed. There is always a briefer on duty from each of the participating countries for each of the three fronts—Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan.

  A Syrian colonel has the floor at the moment and is giving the Syrian Army’s view of the current status of the Syrian and Iranian divisions on the Syrian front.

  “In summary, Syrian forces have successfully beaten off last night’s extensive Israeli naval attacks and Syrian and Iranian forces now occupy the entire Golan and, I’ve just received word,” he said to cheers and clapping as he beamed proudly and reported, “that Syrian forces and Iran’s Revolutionary Guards have crossed into Israel from the Golan in the face of strong resistance.”

  That was the conclusion of the Syrian colonel’s report and it ended with a fraternal and acknowledging nod to the heavily bearded Iranian colonel who will follow him to provide an Iranian briefing on the same subjects.

  The Iranian colonel was, of course, getting a constant translation of what his Syrian counterpart was saying—so he courteously nodded back even though he himself couldn’t understand a word the Syrian said. The nod undoubtedly means in a few minutes, when the idiot in the fourth row stops asking stupid questions, the Iranian will probably just repeat the Syrian’s report.

  In an effort to maintain friendly relations, as he has been specifically ordered to do, the Iranian colonel decided not to mention that Iran’s Revolutionary Guards have been doing most of the fighting.

  According to the posted schedule, the Iranian briefer will be followed by an Iraqi colonel who will brief the assembled staff officers on the Iraqi view of the latest reports from the Jordan front. The Iranian colonel is undoubtedly looking forward to it because the news is positive—the Iranian and Iraqi armored columns in Jordan have bypassed Amman and are continuing to advance along the two roads running south towards the Israeli border despite heavy Israeli air attacks. The Iraqis are moving down one road, the Iranians the other.

  The Iraqi briefer is also going to report that there still has been no contact with either the Jordanian army or the country’s little air force. At least that’s what my Syrian colonel told me about an hour ago when we met at the coffee stand.

  That there has been no contact with the Jordanians is good news, I am sure. Many of the Jordanians and the Palestinians living in Jordan are good Muslims and there is no sense in our fighting among ourselves even if some of them are heretic Sunnis and Jordan’s king is weak.

  So here I sit while the three generals who are the supreme commanders update their presidents with the good news about the plan being precisely and successfully implemented. Then they’ll undoubtedly enjoy a nice lunch together away from the distracting hubbub of the headquarters and the briefers.

  Me? I’m just sitting here waiting for my new friend and trying not to look bored. What I’m really looking forward to is the victory banquet the Syrians are hosting this evening at the Syrian Joint Services officers club down the street. Tomorrow night it will be the Iranians turn to be the hosts. We’ll host Friday night’s victory banquet and that’s where I have been helping.

  And it’s a good thing I am—it’s how I met my Syrian colonel yesterday when I was shopping in the bazaar for things to serve Friday night; he was shopping for tonight. We talked and had time for a delightful cup of coffee together before he had to hurry back to work.

  Chapter Twenty

  ****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky

  My M-60 was among the first of the Third Battalion’s tanks to cross when the six battalion-sized columns of our brigade’s armor and service vehicles began crossing the Jordan River in the middle of the night. We crossed as soon as the first pontoon bridge was usable.

  It was a relief and rather exciting to cross the river. We’d spent all day Wednesday moving through the West Bank before we finally stopped on our side of the Jordan to unload our tanks and APCs from the tank carriers and sent the carriers back. Our brigade’s mobile bridging equipment and combat engineers had been traveling at the head of the column; they needed less than an hour to throw the first of four pontoon bridges across the narrow and muddy Jordan River, one for each of our battalions.

  I wasn’t taking any chances; I ordered my gunner and my loader, Issak and Reuven, to climb out and all three of us rode on top of the tank while it slowly crossed. Shaul, the driver, the only regular in the crew and the man who spends full time maintaining our tank, merely cursed under his breath and talked to himself the whole time we were crossing—I could hear him on the tank intercom as the bridge and the pontoon boats supporting it moved up and down under our weight.

  Our recon platoon went over first so I didn’t need to worry about our getting shot at for a few minutes. Besides, there is no sense taking a chance on the bridge failing.

  “Okay. We’re over,” I shouted to Isaak and Reuven as soon as I felt the lurch as the tank treads hit land. “Mount up.” Jeez it’s already getting hot.

  Less than a minute later our rebuilt and modernized M-60 was following about thirty yards behind the company commander’s tank as Benny charged up the gravelly slope ahead of us. More precisely, we’re moving up the slope through the great cloud of dust and black smoke being thrown back at us by Benny’s tank and throwing up a similar cloud of our own behind ours.

  There’s no question about it—it’s tense advancing up the side of a hill into potentially dangerous territory without being able to see what’s on the other side. As you might imagine, I’ve got my sand goggles and face mask on and I’m anxiously holding the handles of the turret machine gun and trying to see what’s ahead; my gunner, Issak, an Arab-speaking construction foreman from Jerusalem, has an armor piercing round in the chamber. But then the captain’s tank moved over the rise ahead of us and nothing happened.

  Hot damn. Benny made it. We’re in Jordan unopposed. Maybe Issak was right when he said the Jordanians are going to welcome us, not fight us.

  After Shaul drove our M-60 up and over the rise I used the tank intercom to direct him to a position about fifty meters to the left of Benny’s tank. A slight depression over there will give us a bit of cover. It’s not much but it beats the hell out of nothing.

  Benny waved an acknowledgement and gave me a big nod and a thumbs up when he saw where we were headed. It’s a good position to cover him. A few seconds later the rest of the company’s tanks and a platoon of APCs began raising a huge and growing cloud of dust and exhaust smoke as they came over the hill behind us in twos and threes.

  As soon as most of our Bravo Company armor was in sight Benny barked an order on the company net and we began moving deeper into Jordan in a long spread out tank-heavy skirmish line of tanks and APCs.

  It’s altogether quite a sight. Looking back I can see another of our battalion’s companies beginning to spread out in a similar skirmish line about eight hundred meters behind us. About a kilometer ahead I can see the light tanks and the missile and machine gun equipped Humvees of the battalion’s recon platoon also starting to move forward again. They were the first Israelis over the bridge.

  I wish I’d been first one over the river and into Jordan. Wouldn’t that have been something?

  ****** Major Dick Evans

  The harried Israeli nurse who loaded me and Harry on the ambulance for the ride to the airport made Harry ride face down on a stretcher to his great displeasure. He didn’t want to ride out to the airport on a stretcher and let her know about it. What he said didn’t do a bit of good; she just shrugged and pretended she couldn’t understand a word he was saying.

  I try to placate him.
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  “Well hell, Harry,” I sort of giggled as he glared at her. “You can’t ride sitting in a wheel chair can you? They’d have to cut a hole in the seat so your shot up ass could hang out.”

  An elderly Israeli sergeant in a faded uniform and a serious looking American nurse major were checking names on a list as we arrived and were pulled out of the ambulance. The elderly sergeant asked Harry something in Hebrew, obviously his name, as he bent over to read the big tag attached to his wrist.

  “Oy. This is one of your secret Americans, Major,” He shouted.

  She did a double take when she saw Harry’s beard and ponytail, grabbed his evacuation tag to read it, and then looked at him in surprise. “You’re Duffy?” She asked suspiciously.

  “Yeah,” Harry answered as he started to get up, “and all I need is a seat and a pillow. And that goldbrick behind me is Evans. He’s a real wiseass and needs a shot of Novacaine in his tongue so he can’t talk. We’d both like a beer before you serve lunch.”

  The major looked at him incredulously—and pushed him back down on the stretcher. Then she looks back at me for a moment and then at the tag on Harry’s wrist. Then she started laughing.

  “In the ass, huh? Well somebody loves you. You’re on our priority list.”

  Harry always draws curious and surprised looks, particularly on American military bases and transport planes. Not many American soldiers have beards and wear their hair in a ponytail. On the other hand, when he’s wearing his uniform, not many people are chief warrant officers and have stars on their combat infantry badge for five awards.

  Harry told me that only one time had he ever been called on it, by a prissy MP captain at Fort Ord.

  “I told him I had a religious exemption even though my hair attracts the attention of perverts, saluted, and walked away.”