by Herman Wouk
Astounded exclamations from Shayna and Dzecki’s mother. Aryeh takes her by the shoulders. “By your life, Imma, are you serious?”
“Is that something to joke about? I tell you, Zahal has been smashing a huge Egyptian tank attack all morning, and throwing back the Syrians, too. It’s the turnaround at last. This morning I called General Pasternak at the Defense Ministry and he told me all about it. In the Sinai alone —”
“Shayna, you’d better come.” Dzecki’s father is in the doorway. He says no more, but the look on his face makes her dash out. “You too, Aryeh. She’ll need your help.”
Yael follows them and sees the wheelchair overturned, Professor Berkowitz on the floor, Shayna kneeling beside him, clutching his hand and frantically calling his name. The little boy Reuven is crying as Mrs. Barkowe hugs him close. Leon Barkowe says shakily to Yael, “I don’t know, he just tried to get out of the wheelchair, babbling something, and he keeled over before I could do anything.”
Yael cannot help the way her mind works, and two thoughts flash through it: that Shayna may well be free one of these days, and that her dark beauty has persisted through all her misfortunes.
Returning to Tasa in the light of a full moon, Kishote finds the staff officers passing around a whiskey bottle to toast the “greatest tank victory since Kursk.” It is a mood he does not entirely share, though the victory is now a fact. Arik is in his caravan, they tell him, working on his plan for the crossing attack.
Sharon welcomes him with the joviality of a winner, which fades as Kishote makes his report: roller bridge stalled, the other equipment scattered and moving sluggishly all over the desert; dinghies held up here, crocodiles immobilized there, some pontoon rafts untraceable. Traffic jams in the rear area block and disperse the stuff, slackness and unconcern prevail, and there is little genuine belief that Zahal is actually going to cross the Canal.
His aspect altering to dangerous pugnacity, Sharon growls, “To all the devils, those crocodiles at least can move on their own power. Until Tallik’s monster arrives they can be linked up as a temporary bridge. Where exactly are they?”
“Sir, I’ve located every one, but they’re huge and they’re mostly stuck at one bottleneck or another —”
“Well, and those British pontoon cubes? We have mountains of them, they can be assembled into rafts, even bridges —”
“I found them all still stacked in warehouses at Baluza and Refidim, sir. I ordered them loaded on trailer trucks and I stayed and saw the job started myself —”
“No belief that we’ll cross, eh? Wrong, Kishote, wrong. Southern Command doesn’t want to cross. They want no part of it or of me. That attitude’s seeped all down the line. ‘Arik … wishes … to … hang … himself … so … let … him … go … ahead.’ ” He is crudely caricaturing Bar-Lev’s drawl. “But I’ll blast Bar-Lev and Gorodish about traffic control and I’ll get the jam-ups moving, believe me. Now then, have a look at my crossing plan.” He beckons him to the map on his desk. “You weren’t with me at Abu Agheila in ’67, but —”
“Sir, I know the Abu Agheila battle by heart.”
Sharon gives him a brief gratified grin. “B’seder. Same principle. Surprise night attack on a major hardened defense position from three directions. Look here …”
Dzecki Barkowe’s anxious mother would not recognize her boy under the layers of sandy grime and the sprouting blond whiskers. The gargantuan steel structure on which he is perched stretches away from him on the open desert for some six hundred feet, with engineers banging at it all along its complicated length. Beyond the far end Lieutenant Colonel Lauterman, the Jeptha * officer who has just arrived, is supervising frantic activity around some disconnected rollers. Daphna’s letter, written on the back of a creased beer-stained cardboard menu, is not easy to read.
Dear Jackie:
Here I am in the Jericho Café, of all places! After eight straight days and nights in Fighter Control at Ramat David, my CO finally took pity on me and gave me a 12-hour after. So I headed for the Jericho and who is here but Lieutenant Colonel Lauterman, playing his clarinet. He’s great pals with Yoram Sarak and Shimon Shimon, so I know him pretty well. When he mentioned where he was going, I begged him to bring you a word from me. That’s how come I’m writing on this menu, and I’m sure you won’t mind my “stationery.” Hah!
Now about this lieutenant colonel, he’s a strange guy, and whatever you do, don’t refer to him as Yo-yo Lauterman! Behind his back people do, and it annoys him. He’s a mad genius like many of those Jeptha fellows. He’s also a big peacenik. He’s been for giving back all the territories right along. My father might kill me, but I’m beginning to agree with him. Anyhow, he doesn’t pull rank, and he was nice about bringing you this scrawl.
I hope you’re all right! I’m fine, only dead tired. The air force has been having a very tough war, I guess you know that. Thank God my father and Dov are still okay. Dov’s bound to get a commendation, the things he’s been doing.
Now guess what? Noah Barak has got himself engaged! There’s this girl he met in Cherbourg when they liberated the boats, she’s made aliya and she works in the French Embassy. I guess she pursued him here. I’ve heard she isn’t very pretty, sort of pudgy, but she has something, so bye-bye Noah! The truth is Noah and I never really were compatible. It was one of those things, we fought all the time, and I finally had to tell him off. I hope he’ll be happy, and I mean that.
Incidentally, my Rolex makes eyes bulge out here at the Jericho, and at the air base even more. When people get nosy I say casually, “Oh, it’s from an American admirer.” That explains it, since all Americans are millionaires. It keeps marvellous time. Sometimes the Fighter Director even checks with me. Noah gave me the devil for accepting it, but I’m glad I did. You were terribly sweet, and I was deeply touched. I don’t have to tell you how much I admire you. Fellows like Noah and my brothers are born into this everlasting mess and have to do their part, but you came here and made it your fight as a Jew. I love you for it, and I hope you return safe to your worried parents. And to me.
Yours,
Daph.
I love you! Return to me! New words from Daphna Luria, after keeping him at arm’s length for years, with an occasional goodnight kiss or a very rare laughing fumble in the dark. Poor Dzecki is dazed and exalted as he reads the blurry words over and over.
“Dzecki!” Unmistakable command timbre of Brigadier General Nitzan, at the wheel of a jeep below. Dzecki leaps to his feet and salutes. Kishote calls, “Has the Jeptha officer showed up yet?”
“Sir, he’s down at the other end,” Dzecki gestures, folding the menu into his coveralls.
“Come down.” Dzecki obeys. “What’s the problem with those scattered rollers back there? Did the bridge break?”
“Oh, no, sir, the bridge is fine. Those are spares. There’s no crane to handle them, and no big trucks to take them to the Canal, but we need them for emergencies, so it’s a real problem.”
“Get in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kishote’s jeep speeds over the sand to the back end of the bridge, where tanks and a bulldozer are hauling the loose rollers about in a great racket. A red-bearded officer in fresh coveralls salutes him awkwardly. “General Nitzan? Haim Lauterman, sir. I believe, sir, you ran the bridge demonstration for the Prime Minister.”
“Right. What’s going on here? Can’t you go to the Canal without the spares?”
“Inadvisable, sir, so I’ve ordered them linked up, sort of like a short roller bridge, and one bulldozer can just tow them along.”
“It’s a great solution,” an ordnance major says, “and we all feel like idiots not to have thought of it ourselves.”
“Otherwise, is the bridge ready to go?” Kishote asks Lauterman, whose sharp blue eyes twinkle through very thick glasses, as though he is having fun or is otherwise amused.
“Well, General, I just got here, you know. Suppose we talk about it in my tent?”
“
Fine.”
Lauterman says, “Dzecki, find a cook to make some sandwiches.”
“Yes, sir.” Dzecki jumps from the jeep and trots off.
“I recommend that American,” says Kishote, “if you need an aide.”
“Yes, his girlfriend told me he’s b’seder.”
In the hot sagging tent, the colonel has hung up over the plank table a mechanical drawing of the rig; the gigantic bridge blue, the tiny tanks red. Kishote glances at it, nods, and unfolds a map to show Lauterman the route to the crossing point. “Bridge in the water by tomorrow morning,” he says. Lauterman blinks and whistles.
“You have a problem with that?” inquires Kishote.
“As I say, I just got here, General.”
“Lauterman, the bridge can move at five or six miles an hour, right?”
“We’ve often done that in test drills, yes, sir.”
“All right. Today you move it five miles or so southwest to the Tirtur Road. From there it’s some ten miles west to the Canal via that road. Starting at dusk, moving at night, you’ve got twelve hours to go ten miles.”
“Then we should make it, if all goes well.”
“Bear in mind that you’ll be seen by air recon, and helicopter commandos may land to try to stop you. What do you do?”
“Sir, no problem. The tanks can shed the towing cables in seconds by blowing pyrotechnical links. Ten tanks can operate fast to destroy any commando unit that lands.” A shy grin. “Fact is, for designing those links I received a commendation.”
“Then what’s your hesitation about tomorrow?”
Lauterman gestures at the bridge diagram. “Sir, I’m sure you know the tactical concept of this design.” He plunges a hand into his windbreaker, pulls out a green yo-yo, and begins spinning it up and down.
Kishote tries to ignore the toy, no doubt a nervous tic of some kind. “Certainly, to put across a preconstructed heavy bridge, without exposing sappers and engineers to enemy fire.”
“Not one bridge, sir. Five bridges. Positioned all along the Artillery Road. And at the seventy-two-hour warning — before a shot’s ever fired in the war — all five are supposed to advance to the waterline. That was the plan.”
“Yes, well, the seventy-two-hour warning we never got, of course, and there’s just this one bridge available. So?”
“Sir, is Zahal going to cross into Egypt on this one bridge?”
“Of course not. To start with we’ll also use pontoon structures and rafts. Maybe we can capture some Egyptian bridges. Once the bridgehead’s secure we’ll lay down a solid earth bridge. But for the first few days, we must have this bridge, to move the really heavy stuff across at the required volume and speed.”
Lauterman stares at the map, and returns the yo-yo to his pocket. “Now just suppose, sir, this bridge gets bombed out en route?”
“The marksmanship of Egyptian pilots isn’t that good. Also, you’ll have AA protection.”
“And if the bridge breaks down?”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“Just so. I understood my mission was mechanical troubleshooting. Now you say it’s up to me to get the bridge to the Canal by tomorrow morning, with winning or losing the war maybe hanging in the balance. Is that about right?”
“The idea bothers you?”
“General, I’m a design engineer. That’s more responsibility than I’m used to.”
“Shall we ask Jeptha for a replacement?”
“Well, no, but one thing you must do.”
“Which is?”
“Sir, I gather you made Shimon Shimon coordinator of the towing tanks.”
“I did.”
“Well, Shimon tells me that no sooner does a tank company get used to doing this job than it gets pulled away to fight. Then another unit comes that knows nothing about it. This tank company I’ve got now must stay with the bridge or we’ll never get there.”
Nodding, Kishote says, “Good point. I’ll designate a senior officer to come and help you keep moving, and make sure you hang on to your tanks.”
Dzecki appears with a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a long black leather case. “Here’s your gear, Colonel, from the helicopter.”
“Put the stuff down anywhere. That’s my clarinet,” Lauterman says to Kishote. “Maybe I’m a damn fool to have brought it.”
“If you have time to play it, Lauterman, that will be a good sign.” The two officers salute, and Kishote leaves.
“Dzecki, I need an aide,” says Lauterman. “You’re it.”
“Honored, sir.”
“Pass the word, towing drill at 1100, and we move out at noon.”
“Yes, sir. Cook bringing sandwiches, sir.”
Left alone, Lauterman absently takes out the yo-yo and spins it up and down, contemplating the map, tracing with a finger the course of the bridge from Point Yukon and along the Tirtur Road to the crossing point north of the Great Bitter Lake.
When Yossi returns Sharon is addressing his senior officers outside the Tasa command bunker, at a giant operational map garish with colored arrows, circles, boxes, and unit emblems. Pointer in hand, his hair stirring in the wind, Sharon radiates zest for imminent action. Kishote can see in these old reserve soldiers — old in battle, though probably none is over forty — a reflection of Arik’s glow. Since Yom Kippur they have been eating the ash of defeat. Yesterday they tasted the success of former wars, and now Arik is telling them that the time has come to win this war, and the way to do it. Weary and saddened as they were by the first bloody shocking week, they look ready to try.
“Yossi Nitzan will carry on,” Sharon concludes, putting aside the pointer. “We don’t have approval of the plan yet from headquarters, but I’ll get it. Gentlemen, prepare to go to Africa tonight.” A smile charged with the old rough charm, and off he goes into the bunker.
Kishote steps up to face Sharon’s senior cadre in their wrinkled dusty field uniforms and windbreakers, some bearded, some unshaven, all looking rather stunned by the daring, complex, and very dangerous plan. After a silence he says, “Nu?”
It breaks the mood and brings uneasy laughs.
“It’s Abu Agheila,” says one brigade commander, “with horns on.”
Another: “It’s insane,” but this goes with a resolute grin.
A third, soberly, “We can do it. But bones will be broken.”
Kishote beckons to the intelligence officer, who comes forward with a bulging portfolio. “Most of the broken bones will be Egyptian. Kobi will give the latest enemy dispositions.”
All that morning the sprawling depot is alive with the clamorous chaos and billowing dust of a division preparing to move out — more than ten thousand men hurrying among the buildings and shouting, hundreds of tanks, self-propelled guns, APCs, and “soft” vehicles, rumbling, honking, crisscrossing — a kicked-over anthill, but these are army ants, forming up to march. The question is whether and when the command to march will come. Between his rounds to observe the progress toward readiness, Sharon is incessantly on the telephone to southern headquarters or to the Pit, trying to get an official go-ahead. At last word comes that General Bar-Lev is on his way, without his co-commander Gonen, for a final review of Sharon’s plan to seize a bridgehead on both sides of the Canal.
“Yossi, I want you to be present,” says Sharon, “when Bar-Lev comes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sharon showers and shaves. He is on record expressing harsh contempt for Bar-Lev’s decisions and abilities. Kishote guesses that he means to show relaxed confidence in his plan, to this old-boy Palmakhnik who for better or worse has the ear of Dado, Dayan, and Golda Meir. Bar-Lev cannot veto a crossing, for Golda and the cabinet have voted it, but he can certainly snarl Sharon’s bridgehead assault scheme. When Bar-Lev arrives, a trim lieutenant general of few slow words and reserved opinions, he welcomes Kishote’s presence in the caravan with a cool smile and no more.
After brief chitchat about the Syrian front and the Security Council intrigue
s, Sharon turns to a map of his assault plan. Bar-Lev absorbs with silent nods the bold picture of Sharon’s night attack to open the way, cross the Canal, and seize a bridgehead. The concept is simple enough. A powerful frontal attack on the Second Army, which is entrenched north of the Great Bitter Lake, will actually be a massive diversion; while another force will slip southwest into Sharon’s “seam” to capture Deversoir, and then drive northward along the Sinai bank of the Canal to strike the Egyptians from behind, from the Canal direction. This is to be the shattering surprise. Other forces will meantime clear the roads to the Deversoir area so that the boats, rafts, and bridges can get to the Canal. By morning at least two bridges will be in place, and the main invasion will be on.
“There’s the crux, isn’t it, Arik?” This is Bar-Lev’s first comment. “The bridges?”
“Absolutely.”
“And will they be there, when and as planned?”
“Of course.”
“Which ones?”
“The roller bridge and the crocodiles.”
Bar-Lev sits silent, staring at the map, nodding and nodding.
Kishote knows, and Sharon knows — and they can figure that Bar-Lev knows — that there is the weak point in the entire scheme. Sharon himself has been raising hell about the traffic on the roads which blocks the movement of the crossing equipment. Now there sits Bar-Lev weighing Sharon’s master plan to win the war, and putting his finger right where disaster lurks. Not two weeks ago Sharon, the founder of the Likud Party, was publicly berating Golda Meir, Bar-Lev, and the entire Labor Party as incompetent and corrupt. Twice in the past week Bar-Lev has backed Gorodish in trying to get Sharon relieved. Now Haim Bar-Lev is to pass a detached judgment on Sharon’s great bid for glory and victory! A grotesque situation but there it is, Yossi is thinking, when Bar-Lev abruptly turns on him. “Nitzan, you’ve been monitoring this matter of the bridges and the rafts, haven’t you?”
“It’s been one of my assigned duties, yes, sir.”
“Will those bridges be there tomorrow as scheduled?” One lean hand darts an accusing finger at the map. “In other words, as matters now stand, is this whole scheme realistic and responsible?” Kishote glances at Sharon, to whom Bar-Lev turns, speeding up his drawl a bit. “Do you mind my asking Nitzan? This is serious business. Dado considers Yossi Nitzan an outstandingly reliable officer.”
