The Glory (7 page)

Not in the least. To begin with, the sinking is a feeble first signal of Arab defiance in defeat. It proclaims that the “no’s”
of the Khartoum Declaration were not mere Arabic rhetoric, but hard policy. After the war our optimists were saying that it
was only a matter of time before King Hussein or Colonel Nasser called Moshe Dayan on the telephone, offering peace for return
of their lost territories. The telephone call came, all right, and it sank my son’s destroyer.

The military loss is serious but endurable. The political damage to Israel’s newfound world stature is something else. Our
reprisal must be sure, swift, stern, and adequate to discourage any further such gross violations of the cease-fire agreement.
For the Egyptian casualties, however heavy, that must result, Colonel Nasser will bear full responsibility, as he does for
the lives lost on the
Eilat
.

As for the form of the reprisal, air strikes would cause an uproar in the UN and bring on Soviet threats which could get ugly.
Back of the Egyptians always stand the Russians. That is why Nasser has risked this stroke. An armored raid in force across
the Canal seems more likely. We lack bridging equipment, but a crossing on pontoon rafts against the demoralized Egyptian
army may be feasible, razing army bases, industrial plants, perhaps Port Said harbor facilities before the Russians can intervene.
But even such an operation will require a logistical buildup, and much planning and rehearsal. A reliable yet daring commander
will be absolutely essential —

Barak stopped writing and stared at the opposite wall, where a picture of the Defense Minister, now a world hero, returned
a one-eyed stare. An armor man himself, Barak was thinking how he would mount such a cross-Canal strike, given the assignment.
A big challenge, a big opportunity; yet if things went wrong and the Egyptians put up any resistance at all, a big risk of
an operational fiasco and political disaster. The sinking of the
Eilat
showed that their will to fight was far from crushed.

His eye fell on the weekend
Ma’ariv
lying on his desk, and there on the front page was the picture of just the man to pull it off. Don Kishote! The news story
was that Lieutenant Colonel Yossi Nitzan had been awarded the Medal of Valor, Second Class, for his risky and costly tank
dash to El Arish, which had spearheaded the victory in the Sinai ground fighting. Kishote was now the operational officer
of Northern Command, a long step upward on the
maslul
but a post very far from Sinai. There were able field commanders in Southern Command, but nobody quite like Don Kishote.

He put in a call to Pasternak. Sam knew and admired Yossi Nitzan, and he had Moshe Dayan’s ear.

At about the time the
Eilat
went down, Lieutenant Colonel Yossi Nitzan was driving across the Golan Heights under lowering gray clouds, while around
him tanks and armored personnel carriers roared and rumbled to their night positions in a haze of exhaust. Addressing the
brigade after a dry run of a live-fire exercise, he had been hard-nosed and unsmiling, balancing brief praise for good performance
with severe ticking off of sloppy lapses. No trace of humor had lightened his admonition that in Dayan’s presence tomorrow,
the hazardous drill had better come off without incident. To his army equals and to some women, Yossi Nitzan could be the
prankish high-spirited Don Kishote, Hebrew for Don Quixote, a nickname he had acquired as a daredevil teenage recruit; but
in the field he was the soberest of commanders, except when a rare combat situation called for savage boldness.

Back in his headquarters tent he was at a plank desk planning a last early-morning rehearsal of the drill, when Dayan telephoned.
“Where is Dado, Yossi?”

“At Kibbutz Gal-Ed, Minister.”

“Why there?”

“He felt he should go and talk to them. A tractor driver was killed by an infiltrator mine.”

“I know about that. Tell him tomorrow’s plans are changed. Cancel the exercise. I want to confer with him and with you. The
Egyptians have sunk the
Eilat
with missiles. My helicopter will leave at dawn.”

Dealing with military shock was nothing new to Don Kishote. “Many losses, sir?”

“We’re still pulling them out of the water. It’s bad enough.”

Speeding to the kibbutz in a jeep, Kishote found the Northern Commander on his feet haranguing the weather-beaten old-timers
and their gray-headed wives in the dining hall, but to his surprise the rows of chairs were half-empty. Evidently the younger
kibbutzniks, who had been clearing mines or toiling in the fields all day, preferred sleep to a pep talk by the conquering
hero of the Golan Heights. A stout old lady in greasy overalls raised a hand, stood up, and broke into Dado’s speech.

“Pardon me, that’s all fine, Dado, but when will it ever end? What is it all leading to? That’s what we want to know. What
was the use of winning a war? Every night my three grandchildren still have to sleep in the shelter. My daughter says she
can’t raise kids this way. She and her husband talk of moving to Netanya, where he has family. He’s a mechanic, he’d make
good money. What do I tell them?”

A murmur of agreement among the oldsters.

General David Elazar looked at her without words. She faltered and sat down. Even in silence Dado was somewhat scary: broad-shouldered,
craggy-faced, with tumbled black hair, heavy black eyebrows, and a wide mouth that could curve in a fierce sudden scowl. “All
right, Esther,” he said in the warm voice he used with civilians, “I understand you, believe me. But if Jews like your family
leave Gal-Ed because you feel life here is unbearable, we may as well disband the army and forget about having a country.
Because that’s the one enemy war aim
, don’t you see, to drive us out of our Land? Their defeats in battle haven’t changed that aim one bit. Look, we routed them,
didn’t we? The Egyptians and Syrians were helpless after six days, crying to the Russians and the United Nations for help.
I could have taken Damascus in forty-eight more hours. The Jordanians collapsed even before that, on the third day of the
war, and already they’re sending infiltrators here again —”

The stout lady interrupted from her seat with quavering bravery. “We know all that better than you. So what?”

Dado’s voice hardened. “So last time the infiltrators paid, as you also know, Esther. We blew up their base and killed half
of them. We’ll take care of this gang, too. We’ll make life unbearable for all your attackers. And where will it all lead
to? To
peace
.” He struck a heavy fist on a palm. “In your time, or in your daughter’s time, or in your grandchildren’s time, but
peace
! Because for us life will go on being bearable, and better than bearable, beautiful. And for the Arabs, in the end we’ll
make enmity unbearable. That I swear. The army will see to that. Life here on the border is hard, but this kibbutz is Israel.
The army exists for you. So do I.”

Kishote perceived, from the way the elderly kibbutzniks listened with moistening eyes, that this was what they needed to hear.
Far from the victory euphoria in the cities, exposed on the farmland frontier, at least they weren’t being forgotten. Other
questions shot at the general about better army protection, newer alarm systems, government subsidies promised but not forthcoming.
He fielded these briskly, and made an end with a wave to Kishote. The two officers partook of cake and soft drinks with the
kibbutzniks, and soon left.

As they walked to the jeep and jumped in, Kishote told the general about the
Eilat
, and Dayan’s change of plan. Dado took the news without comment, leaned back in the rear seat and closed his eyes. The jeep
reached the main road and sped northward, tires hissing on rough tar. After a long time he spoke. “Missiles. A serious escalation.
A new game.”

“Dado, did you mean what you told those kibbutzniks?”

“Every word.”

“How do you propose to make enmity unendurable for the Arabs?”

“Kill the terrorists they send in,” Dado coldly growled from behind him, “and keep killing them. Grind the bones of their
armies whenever they try war. War is crazy, it’s horrible and disgusting, but we have to fight to exist. They don’t. They
can’t get it into their heads that we can live in peace side by side. One day they will, when they become good and tired of
dying for the Russians.”

“That’s not what they think they’re doing.”

“No. It’ll take time for them to understand, maybe a generation, maybe two. But then peace will come.”

Far down the road a lone girl soldier appeared in the headlights, gesturing for a hitch. “Pick her up,” Dado said. She climbed
in beside the driver without a glance at the back seat, a plump baby-face in baggy fatigues, juggling a rifle. “Are you crazy,”
inquired Dado from behind her, “breaking regulations, out here by yourself in the middle of the night?”

She pointed a pudgy finger at twinkling lights on a hill. “My boyfriend lives in that moshav.”

“Then why didn’t you stay the night?”

“We had a fight. I hate him.”

“If you were brought up on charges before Dado,” said Kishote, “he’d throw you out of the army.”

“Dado?” She noisily yawned. “Ha! He’d just try to screw me.”

Elazar gave Yossi a hard poke in the back. Yossi said, “Maybe you’re thinking of General Dayan.”

“Oh, the big brass are all the same,” said the girl. “Sex maniacs. The higher the worse. How far are you going?”

“Headquarters Commanding Officer North,” said Yossi. “Don’t you realize that terrorists roam in the night around here?”

“So what? So I shouldn’t go on living?”

“Life is bearable for you, then?” asked Dado.

“Life is fine since we won the war. That’ll hold them for a while. They need a good bloody nose every few years. God, I’m
tired. Wake me when you get to Afula.” She snuggled down, the rifle between her knees.

“At your service,” said Dado. After a while, when the girl slumped asleep, he said, “ ‘Every few years.’ The kids know, don’t
they?”

“It’s their skins,” said Kishote. “Maybe the
Eilat
will wake up the others.”

T
he helicopter thrashed to earth in a heavy rain, whirling streams off the blades. Kishote greeted Dayan and brought him to
the Northern Commander’s map-lined office, where Dado waited alone. “Forty-seven dead or missing from the
Eilat
,” Dayan began abruptly, fixing them with his good eye. “More than a hundred wounded. The question is how we hit back. The
American State Department is asking us to
‘show restraint.’
” The crooked smile appeared. “Any votes for restraint?”

“I’ve been thinking it over. Sink the missile boats,” said Dado. “Every one of them. Blow for blow, redoubled. Are their locations
known?”

“Pinpointed in Port Said. The air force is ready to do it, but there are Soviet vessels in the harbor, including a cruiser
and some destroyers. Nasser shot from behind that shield. Still, the Egyptian radio is warning the people to expect reprisal.
Nasser knows we’ve got to do something.”

Kishote asked, “Minister, how did he dare, when Motti Hod can level Cairo?”

“Don’t be naive, Yossi.” Dayan shook his head impatiently. “Levelling Cairo is nonsense and Nasser knows that. Politically,
Egypt holds all the cards —”

“All the cards?” protested Elazar. “Why? How? We crushed them, we sit on strong defensible lines, and —”

Dayan interrupted. “I said
politically
, Dado. Superpower political odds, three to one for the Arabs — Russians a hundred percent for them, Americans
‘evenhanded,’
fifty-fifty. Understand? Plus of course France, England, that whole European schmear, plus the Third World, whatever that
amounts to, all entirely for the Arabs. And that’s why we’ve got our hands full at the UN, just staving off a resolution for
our total withdrawal. Like the vote after we won the Suez War.”

General Elazar and Kishote looked somberly at each other. Dayan got up and walked to a wall map of Sinai and Egypt, and Kishote
noted again how paunchy and unmilitary he appeared in his ministerial dark suit and tie. “So far, one idea has cabinet approval,
and mine,” Dayan went on, gesturing at the map. “A tank reconnaissance in force across the Canal, wiping out army bases, artillery
emplacements, AA batteries, and so on. Military targets only. In and out with air cover, half a day. Southern Command is working
on it. I want your views, Dado.” He turned to Kishote. “And yours. It would take dash, like your run to El Arish.”

David Elazar said, “It would also take time, Minister, and serious planning and rehearsal. A water obstacle presents major
problems. Moreover —”

Abruptly Dayan turned on Kishote. “Well, Yossi? If assigned, would you organize and do it?”

“I have a different idea, sir.”

“Let’s have it.”

“It’s not practical now.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because you made me think of it.”

Dado remarked, “If it’s Kishote’s idea, it’s something crazy.”

“No, just requiring a lot more time. Use Russian tanks.” Dado and Dayan exchanged sharp glances. “We’ve captured hundreds.
Put Egyptian markings on them, and once across we could roll to Alexandria. Total surprise, total enemy confusion. Even in
a one-day recco in force we could do tremendous damage with few casualties.”

“Why can’t we do that in the next week?” Dayan demanded. “Transfer seasoned Centurion crews? Train night and day? Assemble
pontoon rafts?”

“Minister, have you climbed inside a Soviet tank lately?”

“Once. I could barely squeeze in. I’ve put on weight.”

“It’s not your weight, sir. They’ve sacrificed everything for low profile. The order went out,
low profile
, so they’ve got low profile, by God! Soviet munition-making. Those tanks must be manned by Russian midgets. They can draw
on two hundred million people for small guys. Nasser, on fifty million. We’ll have a problem, but it can be done, and it can
be a stunning blow.”