The Glory (43 page)

He produces a sheaf of navy papers and photostats. “Absolute proof the Egyptians invented that pretext, Madame Prime Minister.
Location of all our war vessels at the time, impossibly distant from the scene.”

Nodding and sighing, she says, “The Americans at least will believe us. That’s good. The cabinet meeting, Zev, was not so
good.”

“Dado’s pessimistic?”

“Dado was all right. He cheered them up. He said this is the containment phase, very hard, but the war will turn around. It
was Dayan. He wants to pull back already in the Sinai, to a line twelve miles from the Canal and try to build up our strength
there. Retreat, retreat, shorten lines, fighting withdrawal.” Golda raises pouched sleepless eyes to Barak.

Barak’s exultant mood fades, the Latakia fight shrinking to the marginal event it really is on this shattering first night
of war. “Was that the decision? Was there a vote?”

“There was no vote. Dado said he would hold on both fronts and fight back. The cabinet went with him and I went with him,
although the news is very bad from the Golan. Even Dado said he might have to order a retreat there, but not yet.” She sourly
smiles. “So, how alarmed are you now?”

“Madame Prime Minister, we’re going to win this war.”

“From your mouth in God’s ears, that’s what I believe, but we won’t win it on the sea. And if God forbid we lose it, it will
be on the Golan.”

Golda speaks true. In a melee of clanking snorting war machines, thundering guns, and lurid fire, Israeli and Syrian forces
are tangled together on the Golan Heights. Amos Pasternak’s sector is on a slight rise facing the valley where the Syrians
have been massing for weeks, and more and more tanks keep coming at him. Over and over he shouts on the battalion network,
“Identify before shooting! Identify before shooting!”
Any tank that comes in sight through the darkness, the smoke, and the dust is probably an enemy, but above all he can’t afford
losses to friendly fire.

Shaken and bruised by the violent maneuvers and half-deafened by the gun blasts of his own tank, Amos nevertheless is in fighting
rage. His boys are picking off Syrian tanks one after another in bursts of flame, but agonized cries and death reports fill
his earphones. Night fighting, once a prowess of Zahal, is a weakness this time because the Syrian tanks have infrared headlights
and see the battlefield almost as in broad day, while the Israelis are fighting blind. Amos has been calling and pleading
and yelling for starshells. The artillery officer has returned soothing promises but as yet no light.

Venturing high up in the turret with a special infrascope to glimpse the battle, which to the naked eye is all black night
and stinking combat haze, Amos is horror-stricken to find himself square in the beam of an infrared projector, in effect a
brilliant searchlight.
“Driver, driver, full speed reverse,”
he bawls. The driver down in the tank’s belly sends it jolting and rumbling backward.
“Now sharp left.”
Amos swivels the turret gun as they lurch and crunch over rocks, intending to fire at that projector, when a crash hurls
him against the hatch cover. They have backed into another tank. Friendly or enemy?
“Forward and turn right.”
He risks switching on his searchlight. A head and shoulders emerge from the other turret. L’Azazel! Dark, mustached, a young
Syrian, looking as scared as he himself probably looked in the infrared glare. Point-blank range, not twenty feet. An instant
of pity for the youngster with the round frightened eyes.
“Fire.”
Roar of cannon, BAAM! Ringing in his ears, choking smoke. The tank aflame, the Syrian’s uniform on fire, the poor guy clawing
at himself and at the turret, trying to jump out.

“Driver, left turn and stop.”
He trains the gun back toward the Syrian lines, and clicks the mike button to the battalion circuit:
“Yardstick commander here. All Yardsticks make reports.”

Strung out across the sector, some tanks answer up, but too many remain silent. Sector barely covered, gaping holes. Falling
back is unthinkable, yet if some reserves don’t show up soon there will be no defense line blocking this valley, the main
northern corridor into Israel.

A
mos’s father is dozing off at his underground desk. When the telephone startles him awake he is not sure whether it is night
or day, or what day. Dayan sounds refreshed and chipper. “Sam, I’m going to the Golan at first light. Pick me up and run me
to Sde Dov, just the two of us, no driver. Organize a helicopter.”

Suppressed yawn. “Yes, Minister.”

Gray-faced and red-eyed, Dado Elazar nods and tiredly smiles when Pasternak tells him about this. “Well, of course. The Minister
wants to smell powder. Talk to air operations.” No wonder the Ramatkhal is wide awake, Pasternak thinks; on the wall map of
the Golan, heavy crimson arrows slash almost to the command HQ at Nafekh, scarily close to the Jordan bridges. The Sinai transparency
tells just as grim a story; the Egyptians are across the Canal from end to end, still advancing.

In a brightening dawn Dayan waits on the street outside his Zahala home in a field uniform, red paratrooper boots, and a crumpled
U.S. Army cap he acquired visiting Vietnam. They drive through streets streaming with heavy army transport. “Dado wouldn’t
come with me,” says Dayan. “I asked him. He’s wrong, Sam. A commander-in-chief should see the battlefield with his own eyes.
The dead, the wounded, the burned-out machines, the way the men look and talk. That’s how you get the feel of what’s really
going on. How do you read the battle so far?”

“Minister, the Golan is the worst, it’s critical today.”

“That’s why I’m going there. Syrian tanks looking down the chimneys of Tiberias! A nightmare, who could have believed it?
At least the women and children are off the Golan, thank God. I saw to that. But we can’t possibly evacuate the Galilee. It
would panic the nation.” A pause. Abruptly, “Sam, how did we ever get into this fix?”

“Sir? You mean the surprise?”

“No, we war-gamed for surprises.” Dayan’s enigmatic probes are often rhetorical, but now the good eye is staring at Pasternak
for an answer.

Pasternak ventures a guarded comment. “Well, Minister, doesn’t it go back to the military budget cuts? Dado warned the government
that he would no longer be able to fight a war on two fronts. That he’d have to defeat them one at a time, shuttling our forces.
Those cuts were political decisions by the cabinet.”

“Right! It was the politicians, and I told them the same thing then. Last night I also told them the hard truth. The enemy’s
seized the initiative, and now we have to think in strictly military, not political terms. Fall back to lines matched to our
strength, survive until a cease-fire, and live to fight another day. That’s what we did in 1949, and that first truce saved
us. But Dado was all optimism, promised to counterattack in the next few days and turn the war around. It was what they wanted
to hear, and I was the bearer of bad news, so I was ignored.”

The helicopter is coming down as the car pulls into the airfield. Dayan shouts over the noise, getting out of the car, “I’ll
try to see your Amos.”

A
fter the all-night fighting Amos and the driver are having their turn at a nap, while the loader and gunner stand guard. Opening
his eyes, he feels rested and famished. He climbs up in the turret with binoculars for a look-around in the early sunlight.
By God, his battered battalion and the rest of Seventh Brigade did a job. Scattered far and wide on the brown valley floor
below are burned-out Syrian tanks, APCs, and other vehicles, many still flaming or smoking, and dead Syrians too. A few shadowy
figures skulk among the wrecks. Several Soviet T-62s are undamaged, evidently abandoned, valuable booty to be towed in when
the chance comes.

“Yanosh here, calling Amos.”
In the helmet earphones the brigade commander sounds hoarse and fagged out.

“Pasternak here.”

“Ammunition and fuel now available at the crossroads. Replenish by platoons. Meet me there.”

“Pasternak here. I expect another attack soon.”

“So do I.”

High time to replenish, at that. Amos’s surviving tanks look much the worse for wear; outside equipment boxes ripped, one
tank still smoldering, another on its side with its gun pointed at the sky; and on the battalion circuit the talk is nervous
and sad — many wounded and dead, supplies almost gone. Upright in the turret, Amos leads his battalion into the dense pack
of tanks and trucks at the crossroads depot, where unshaven soldiers are noisily prying open ammo crates and passing shells,
and the smell of diesel oil is rank in the air from all the pumping. Colonel Yanosh Ben Gal stands by his signal jeep, a helmet
clamped on his hawk face and wild long hair. The tubby man beside him in a cloth cap is nobody but the Minister of Defense!
Dayan inquires without ado, “Amos, what’s been happening in your sector?”

Amos collects his thoughts and begins an account of the night battle, insofar as he can reconstruct it. His crew feverishly
takes on shells and a fuel truck is pumping away, when he hears, “
Planes
. Planes, coming in low. Take cover!” The shouts send him diving under his tank. A fusillade of low-aimed AA fire breaks out,
bullets whizzing and whining close by. He sees the Minister of Defense standing there with hands on his hips, watching two
gaudily-painted MiGs fly past a few yards overhead as though he were at an air show. Amos wonders, peering up at the famed
warrior, whether he has no nerves or a death wish. The bombs explode without damage, throwing up splashes of earth and smoke
far beyond the depot, and the planes dwindle away.

“From what Yanosh tells me, Amos,” says Dayan, resuming their conversation as if the interruption were a telephone call, “you’ve
got a battalion of heroes out there.”

“Many, many casualties, Minister. It was a hard night.”

Amos’s loader pokes up in the turret. “Sir, Yair reports Syrian tanks coming up the valley, distance four miles.”

“Here we go,” says Amos.

“Good luck,” says the Minister of Defense. “Reserves are coming, Amos.”

“One moment,” says Yanosh, his bristly face worried and drawn. “Amos, look here.” He produces a scrawled-over Golan map, holds
it against the tank hull, and marks it with quick swooping pencil lines. “Their artillery is beginning to zero in on the ramps.”
These are the slanting earthworks where the tanks are positioned. “On my signal, move your tanks to back off and deploy here
instead. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Amos climbs up on the tank, and plugs in his headset. “All Yardsticks, return to sector. Minister, please tell
my father I’m okay.”

“I’ll tell him more than that.”

N
akhama moans as the bedside telephone rings. “My God, how long have you been asleep? An hour?” Barak came home to tell her
about Latakia and cheer her up, and he has managed to sleep a little, for the sun is high.

“Barak here. Yes? … B’seder, I’m on my way.”

Nakhama buries her head in the pillow. He dresses quickly, worried about her shot nerves as well as the war. Far from rejoicing
over Noah’s victory, she has been whimpering about it. Suppose those countermeasure gimmicks don’t work next time? It’ll only
take one failure! Why did he make Noah stay in the navy? The sea is worse than the air. A pilot can parachute from a burning
plane, but if Noah’s boat is sunk in Arab waters he can only drown, or get captured and murdered. Wars! Wars! The wars will
never end until the Arabs have cut every Jewish throat, if it takes a hundred years. Such is Nakhama’s tune these days. When
he bends over her to kiss her neck and say goodbye, her response is a gruff sound into the pillow.

In Dado’s crowded underground command cubicle a commotion is going on, when Golda Meir and Barak arrive. The Chief of Staff
hangs up the telephone and jumps to his feet. “Is there a problem?” she coolly inquires.

“We’re handling it, Madame Prime Minister.” Dayan is on the Golan Heights, he tells her, giving direct orders to the air force.
Only immediate massive air strikes, Dayan is insisting, can stop the Syrians from overrunning the Galilee. “But Madame Prime
Minister, that is a judgment for me to make,” Dado says in level firm tones. “I don’t yet believe things are that bad, and
I know the Golan. I captured it in 1967. And even if the Minister is right, my air weapon is my decisive reserve, and only
I must control it.”

The new air force chief, General Peled, stands at Dado’s elbow, a short dapper aviator with a keen aspect and the obligatory
pencil mustache; a test pilot, a combat hero, and unlike most pilots an intellectual with an engineering degree. Golda shifts
a questioning glance to him. “It’s being straightened out, Madame Prime Minister.” Peled’s speech is brisk and clipped, as
in an RAF movie. “Motti Hod is landing there now as my deputy. The chain of command will be respected.”

Golda sits down and takes a cigarette pack from her capacious white purse. “Dado, I must talk to the people today. I’m working
on the speech, and I want to give the truth as far as I can, without aiding our enemies or depressing our soldiers and their
families. So tell me — what’s actually happening? What can we expect today? How is the war going, in your judgment?”

Passing from map to map with a pointer, General Elazar gives her as frank and full a picture as he can, dark but far from
hopeless. “The truth is, Madame Prime Minister, it’s not the enemy attacks that trouble me most right now, it’s the unreliable
reports. That’s inevitable, the war’s just starting.”

“Can we rescue those boys in the Bar-Lev Line?”

“We’ll try. I’ll soon ask the war cabinet’s permission to counterattack in Sinai tomorrow. Arik Sharon and Bren Adan will
be arriving down there in force today, so we’ll have better than six hundred tanks in the area. That’s a lot of strength.”

“But if the air force is busy in the north, that counterattack will have no air support.”