Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon (3 page)

"I think it's quite an improvement," Harry Russell said, admiring the corporal's trim, athletic figure as her shapely butt wiggled away from them.

"Yeah," agreed Billy Glennon, "and, after all, about half of the Israeli Army is women anyway."

"
Wha-a-at?" shouted Moynihan. "Nobody told me that." "What difference does it make?" Russell asked.

"A bloody big difference.
That's all it would have taken for me to join the Arabs."

"Since when are you a woman hater?"

"I don't hate 'em, I love 'em. But how the hell can I make a pass at a corporal? She outranks me."

"Make sergeant," Russell laughed.

The aging Lockheed Electra put them down at Israel's
Lod Airport where they were met by blue and white Renault buses with blacked out windows. Dawn was just breaking, and through the darkened windows Casca could barely make out the glint of sunlight on some parked military planes, a lot of planes. He could not see their shapes, but the bus was moving pretty fast, and the reflections danced outside the windows for several minutes. Quite a few planes. Good. He sat back and relaxed. Plenty of air cover. Very comforting.

Tommy Moynihan had a small radio pressed to his ear around the clock and knew every published detail of the situation. "The United Arab Republic", he informed Casca, "has at least five hundred combat aircraft, mainly Russian
built MiG 21's and Tupolev 16's, the biggest bombers in the world."

"Oh great," Billy
Glennon groaned.

"Can they fly them, do you know?" Casca asked.

"Yeah, it seems they can," Tommy answered. "No combat experience, but really intensive training by crack Russian pilots, both in Russia and here."

"And what have we got?"
Wardi Nathan asked.

"A lot less, and a lot smaller.
A couple hundred French built Mystere fighters, some French Vautour bombers, and some assorted old British and American planes less than four hundred all told."

"Five to four against," muttered
Glennon. "Well, I've backed a few horses that've won at those odds."

"What about the Israeli pilots?" Casca asked.

"No combat experience, and no special training," Tommy answered.

"
Mmm. Well, I guess we'll know soon enough. Is it right about Moshe Dayan?"

"Yeah," Tommy answered, "the BBC confirmed it last night. The Israeli government swallowed its pride and appointed him Minister of
Defense, even though he's still the main opposition leader in the Knesset, their parliament."

"Well, he sure did a good job in 'fifty six," said Harry Russell. "H
e was a commander in the field, wasn't he?"

"Commander in Chief," somebody said.

"That where he lost his eye?" another voice asked.

"No, that happened when he was a terrorist working for the British,"
came an answer from further down the bus. "Stern Gang, was he?"

"No,
Plugo Machaz – Striking Companies in English," said Harry Russell. "The Brits formed them to operate behind Rommel's lines. They recruited them from the Haganah, an old Jewish terrorist group from the twenties that specialized in raiding Arab villages. The Brits let a lot of IRA boyohs out of Dartmoor to train them." He chuckled. "But the Paddys taught 'em a few tricks the Brits hadn't counted on, and after the Germans left, Dayan concentrated on killing British policemen and detonating bombs in the bazaars of Jerusalem. They made the Stern Gang look like Boy Scouts."

"True," said somebody else, "but by the time Dayan lost his eye, the
Haganah had become this army we're in now. During the War of Independence in 'forty eight a mortar burst knocked his eye out with his own binoculars while he was watching a distant battle."

"Something I've always wanted to do," Moynihan mused.

"What? Get an eye knocked out?"

"No, stupid.
Watch a battle from a distance."

The bus took them to a camp guarded by the most ragtag military any of them had ever seen. No two uniforms were anything alike. Soldiers seemed to wear whatever they liked, especially in headgear, which ranged from military caps and steel helmets to turbans and straw hats. Nowhere did they see a pair of polished boots.

A few hours later they had been fed, outfitted, armed, and relaxing on comfortable bunks in a Quonset hut, listening to Israeli pop music on Moynihan's little radio. The huge Billy Glennon was mightily pleased with his uniform, and showed it off to his comrades, modeling it like a mannequin.

"First bloody army I've been in where a uniform went anywhere near fitting me."

"Me too," agreed the diminutive Moynihan. "My father always told me if I ever could afford it to go to a Jewish tailor. I'm about half a tailor meself, I've taken up so many pairs of army pants."

Harry Russell was delighted with the food. "They might call it goulash," he said happily, "but in my book
it's damn good Irish stew with some peppers in it."

They were all impressed with their arms and equipment. They were all brand new, plentiful, and the best of their kind. Casca had just dismantled his Kalashnikov rifle for an unnecessary but ritual cleaning when the door opened and a dark, hawk nosed, Arabic looking man entered the hut. The five were on their feet in an instant. They didn't need to think about it or rationalize it. The three horizontal white stripes on his upper sleeve said that he was a
samal
, a sergeant, and that was enough. They had all been sergeants at some time, and expected to be so again, maybe in this army. If this guy should turn out to be an asshole and try to make his rank work just for himself, well there were ways to handle that. For now he had their respect.

"Are any of you men Jewish?" he asked in Hebrew.

The others looked confused, but Casca had learned this language when it had been the common tongue of the people of the Roman territory called Judea, and he had been serving under the Procurator Pontius Pilate. He answered for the group: "All of us."

"Cut the crap," the sergeant snapped in Brooklyn
accented English, "and stand at ease. I ain't the United Nations I'm your sergeant, and I want to know the truth. So far I ain't got a single kike in my outfit."

"Ye've got three Micks, a sort of a Dago with a Mick name, and a Maori," Moynihan told him.

"And what the hell is a Maori?" the sergeant asked, looking at Wardi.

"I'm a Maori,"
Wardi said. "We come from some islands in the South Pacific that you call New Zealand. My mother's ancestors sailed there from Raratonga and ate up the local population, the Morioris. My last name is Nathan, so maybe you can guess where my grandfather's ancestors came from."

"Well, you might be just what this army needs. But I don't know if Arabs are good to eat.
Nathan eh? Well, I guess that means I've got one half kike now."

"And what might
ye be yourself?" Harry Russell asked quietly.

"I'm a Yid. But I'm as much a stranger here as any of you."

"What's the word?" Casca asked him.

"We could be in action today," was the laconic reply.
"Tomorrow for sure." He turned on his heel and left the hut.

"A mine of
bleedin' information, ain't he?" Moynihan hissed after him.

"H
e must be joking about today," Russell mused. "The Jews surely wouldn't start a war on their Sabbath, would they?"

Billy
Glennon shrugged. "Could be a smart move."

"Nah, they'd never do it," said Moynihan. "It'd sure be smart, but it'd be sacrilegious, and no Jew would do that."

"Where d'ye think the sarge did his soldiering?" Billy Glennon wondered.

"The 'Nam, I reckon," Harry answered, "but he's damned young. Must have been wounded out pretty bad or he'd still be there."

"He's got both his arms and legs and all his eyes and ears," came from Moynihan. "I hope he's got his balls."

"Maybe he's new to the game," said
Glennon. "A different twist that'd be rookie sergeants and veteran privates."

"If that's the case, I'm off to join the Arabs," Nathan declared, and everybody laughed.

By nightfall they were none the wiser, but the hut had filled up.

David Levy, a fat Zionist from New York, had been in Vietnam. He threw his kit on his bunk and looked around in disgust. "Only a year ago I swore I would never set foot in a military camp again in
my life, and already my politics have got me into another war." He turned to Casca. "What brings you into it?"

"Money."
Casca laughed. "Makes more sense than politics."

"Maybe."
Levy started arranging his gear.

And there was Hyman
Hagkel, an Orthodox Jew from London. Hagkel had a full beard, long hair with earlocks, and wore a skullcap. He sat by himself in his corner of the hut, wrapped in a fringed prayer shawl, chanting incantations until the sun went down. Then he burned a braided valedictory candle, lit a Turkish cigarette, and bowed to the others in the hut.

"Please excuse me parading my religion in your living space.
A good week to you."

"A good week to
you, and a good year." David Levy waved a casual hand. "Your prayers may be naive, but they are not offensive." He swung his feet to the floor to look inquiringly at the cockney. "But tell me, what is a pious Jew doing in a war?"

"David fought," Hyman answered defensively.

"David sinned." The New Yorker laughed. "But what's your excuse?"

Hagkel
lifted his skullcap and ran his fingers through his hair. "I thought about it a great deal. I was in Korea years ago, but that was before I embraced Orthodoxy. Now it is different. As a pious Jew, I should not even come to Palestine until the Messiah comes to lead us here. And certainly I should not fight."

He combed his long beard with his fingers,
then shrugged. "It comes down to vanity. If the Arabs crush Israel, it will be God's judgment on the blasphemy of Zionism. But also, I will be shamed. If the Jews win, I will be proud."

"The Book of Revelations," said Billy
Glennon, quoting:. "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the preacher."

Hyman nodded his head soberly. "Revelations is not reading for a Jew, but the lesson is well said."

Another bunk was occupied by Atef Lufti. Lufti was black and about six and a half feet tall. Thrust through his belt was a silver embossed leather scabbard with a silver handle set with coral. The curve of the saber was so tight that the silver knob on the end of the sheath almost pointed back toward the hilt. Casca was intrigued to see a weapon he had never encountered before. Lufti understood Hebrew, but spoke it in a unique fashion. He spoke no English; nor French, German, or Yiddish; nor any other language that Casca could think to try him in. Casca pointed to the scabbard, indicating that he would like to see the blade. The black man pulled it from his belt with his left hand, negligently dropping the beautiful sheath to the floor as he drew the scimitar with his right hand. The blade was double edged, about three feet long, and curved almost in a half circle, like a large sickle. An extremely awkward looking weapon, Casca thought as he accepted it from Lufti.

In his hand it felt even clumsier than it appeared and fell awkwardly out of balance no matter in what fencing movement he tried to wield it.

Atef Lufti shook his head and took it from him. He retreated a number of steps and then executed a number of wide, flat swipes accompanied by some very balletic footwork. In his hands the oddly shaped saber looked graceful and effective.

"
Shotel," he said as he picked up the scabbard and sheathed it. He pointed one long thumb to his chest and said the single word: "Falasha."

There was something familiar about the word, but nobody was sure what it might mean. Casca had an idea it meant stranger in some Nubian dialect, but didn't volunteer the information. There could be no benefit for anybody in his revealing anything that might lead to an
unraveling of the threads of his past.

From his diary David Levy produced a small map of the world, and the black man pointed to the northeast corner of Africa: Ethiopia.

"Sephardic!" the New Yorker exclaimed in wonder. "A real Jew! I've never met one before in my life."

"And what do you think my race might be then?" the outraged Hyman
Hagkel shouted. "Friggin' Arab?"

"No," Levy replied placidly, "
Lufti is more Arab than you could ever be. I'd guess your people were Russians."

"Well,"
Hagkel said uncomfortably, "I will admit that several generations before they arrived in England my people did come from Russia and Poland, but before that they must have come from here."

"Oh sure
," Levy laughed "we all share that delusion. That's why we're here."

"Speak for yourself," said Harry Russell. "Like Case, I'm here for pay."

"And so are lots more of us," Moynihan added.

"You might say it's the pay," the New Yorker said with a chuckle, "but I well recall a claim that the lost tribes of Israel wound up in Ireland."

"Yeah, I've heard the legend," Billy Glennon said, "but if it's true, they didn't wind up in County Down where my people come from."

"Nor Mayo," said Russell.

"Not Tipperary neither," said Moynihan. "But I guess we're here to do the job anyway."

The Orthodox Londoner grinned and spread his hands wide. "Except the Lord build the house, they
labor in vain that build it."

His eyes had the gleam of a fanatic as he looked over the men in the hut and turned to where his valedictory candle still burned.