The Glory (57 page)

“My plane’s being called. I love you, Emily. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, my sweet. Go to victory! See you in Paris someday.”

Victory, thinks Barak as he hangs up, depends on the next Egyptian move, which may well happen while he is en route. It is
a correct surmise. While he is in the air and out of touch, Anwar Sadat formally notifies London, Moscow, and Washington that
he is rejecting the cease-fire.

Still panting a bit from the steep climb, Don Kishote stands on a windswept sandy ledge where a Centurion tank lurks, only
the turret poking up behind fresh earthworks. In the weak red light of the sun just rising over the mountains behind him,
the Egyptian tanks in his binoculars remind him of a Soviet war movie about the Battle of Kursk: long green-brown lines on
the gray sand advancing all across the horizon out of a dust cloud, a crawling lava tide of machines, unreal and beautiful.
Shells are exploding thunderously here and there among the dunes, artillery salvos hurled randomly by the enemy into the desert
wastes.

No surprise this time! Intelligence has come in during the night on the size, scope, time, and direction of the attack. And
no zeroing in of the heavy Russian-made artillery, either, days before any fighting, on big static targets like the Bar-Lev
Line outposts. This sector, the central thirty miles of Zahal’s hundred-mile Canal front, is now battle-ready; Sharon’s three
hundred tanks dug in hull down on the dunes and ledges, virtually invisible; ten to a mile, five hundred feet apart, interspersed
with antitank guns and missile launchers. The thirty-mile zigzag of open
V
’s facing the enemy will become a killing ground, even if their units penetrate to the defense line. Tank maintenance is high,
fuel and ammo depots are stocked, armor repair and medical units are at the ready. Above all, the soldiers are rested, well
fed, and cheery; mostly cynical and bored as always, some shaken by the recent fighting, but Zahal troops again, not reservists
disoriented and disheartened by the surprise wrench out of their civilian lives.

The tank captain in his open turret, binoculars to his eyes, says, “Well, General, here the bastards come.” This freckled-faced
redheaded company commander, one of his best reserve officers, is a high school mathematics teacher, whom he has tried in
vain to talk into staying in the army.

“Ready for them, Heshi?”

“More than ready, sir.” An edge of anger in the voice. “My brother Romi was caught in a maoz. I still don’t know whether he’s
dead or alive.”

A flaming shell-burst on the slope below sends rocks flying high, and sand and smoke blow toward them. Heshi drops out of
sight, shouting as he closes the hatch, “This will be our day, General.”

As the earsplitting barrage continues, the foremost enemy tanks come within gun range, and red tracer shells begin to fly,
whining and crisscrossing. The advantage is all with the defenders; they pop up to fire and disappear, while the enemy must
plod closer over open desert. No air action so far; the Egyptians are wary of the superior Israeli air force, while Israeli
aviators are stymied by the SAM-6 missiles with their slant range reaching far into Sinai air space. Kishote sees enemy tanks
already bursting into flame, while along the defense line there is no sign of fire or smoke from a hit. Heshi may be right,
the day is starting off as a gift from the Lord of battles.

A yell from below: “Ha’m’faked!” It is Yoram Sarak at the wheel of Kishote’s signal command car, monitoring the brigade and
division networks. “General Sharon’s orders, sir. Report to him at once.”

He scrambles down through the rocks to the dirt road below and gets into the car, which buzzes with harsh signalling on three
receivers. “Lot of shooting out there, sir,” says Sarak with a friendly grin and no trace of deference. The journalist looks
more hirsute than in peacetime, with a week’s growth of bristles, and long hair falling into his dark glasses. “How are we
doing?”

“It’s just starting.”

As the command car bumps along the flinty unmarked back road, Kishote wonders how Sharon is taking all this. He has been vociferously
pushing for an immediate Canal crossing ever since the disastrous October eighth. The very next day he led a reconnaissance
in force all the way to the Canal, disobeying direct orders at the risk of being relieved or even court-martialled. From there
he signalled that he was discovering an undefended “seam” at the northern end of the Great Bitter Lake, between the two Egyptian
armies. “I am dipping my toes in the Canal,” he exulted to the high command, “and there’s no enemy in sight. In the name of
God, let’s cross at once and end this war.” Turned down and reprimanded, he has since taken his case to the newspapers; Zahal
has to plunge across now,
now
,
NOW
, to cut off the enemy before he can harden up the Sinai lodgments. But Dado has stuck to his decision; in the north attack,
in the south dig in, calculating that Sadat may send his armor over into Sinai, where Zahal can cut it up. After the tense
lull which has enabled the defenders to set up their formidable line, the event seems to be proving the Ramatkhal right.

“What a sight, Kishote, what a battle!” Sharon hails him on high ground looking out over the entire smoky battlefield, where
numerous fires now flare. His white-blond hair flying, his eyes agleam, Sharon looks years younger and full of the joy of
life as he sweeps an arm around at the panorama. “The Lord is delivering them into our hands. No more foot-dragging. Tomorrow
we cross.”

This is pure Arik; never mind yesterday, on with the action. Yossi’s blood is up too, at the sight of all those burning tanks.
“By my life, sir, I hope you’re right.”

“Yossi, your defense line is a brilliant job. Highest commendation. Now I want you to proceed to Tasa and let me know what’s
happening on the other sectors, and also in Syria.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then when the action wanes, start marshalling the crossing equipment. First check on that roller bridge, make sure it will
be at the Canal by tomorrow. Locate all the other stuff, the rubber dinghies for the paratroopers, the pontoon rafts, the
crocodiles” — he is referring to amphibious wheeled rafts, discarded for combat use by the French — “and boot all the butts
you have to, but get everything
moving
. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

With a wolfish smile and a gesture toward the burning tanks, Sharon says, “Sorry to send you from the battlefield.”

“At your command, sir.”

In the cement bunker under Tasa headquarters, Yossi can see the entire Egyptian attack on the big wall maps, kept up to the
minute by clamorous signalling and the moving of colored tokens. A textbook Soviet-style operation is unfolding, heavy forces
pushing out in at least six prongs toward the passes, a hydraulic press of war rather than one concentrated thrust. But massive
though it is, the attack looks to him somewhat irresolute. Not all the heavy armored forces that crossed the Canal have been
committed, not by any means. Why not? Perhaps staff arguments have produced a compromise attack, such as disagreeing Israeli
generals sometimes launch, usually to their regret. At any rate there remains, in Kishote’s view, more than enough power in
the lodgments on either side of the Great Bitter Lake to choke off a crossing, though Arik will probably disagree. And on
the Syrian front also, disquieting news: Jordanians and Iraqis moving in to join a counterattack in force.

All the same what is taking shape before his eyes is a historic head-to-head tank battle, which may open the way to a victorious
if bloody cease-fire. Gleeful reports arc pouring in of the numbers of enemy tanks destroyed on all three sectors of the Sinai
front; and an end run toward the Mitla Pass by an Egyptian brigade, venturing out beyond the missile umbrella, is being crushed
by the air force. All in all, the best day yet of a hard war.

“B
lessed are you, Lord God, King of the Universe!”
Straightening up in his wheelchair, Professor Berkowitz weakly but joyously blurts the benediction on good news.
“For keeping us alive, and sustaining us, and bringing us to this moment.”

“Amen”
from Shayna, little Reuven, Aryeh Nitzan, and even Dzecki’s irreligious parents. On the black-and-white TV the first airlift
C-5A is just touching down at Lod airport, army trucks are rolling out in a column toward the behemoth aircraft, an army band
plays a rousing welcome song, and a crowd of onlookers cheer and dance.

“My brother Zev made this happen,” says Michael, tears in his eyes. His face is gray, and he looks shrunken in a heavy gray
bathrobe, but he exudes hectic high spirits. “He’ll never say so, but I’m sure of it. Now we’re going to win this terrible
war, against all the odds. Come, let’s rejoice at lunch in the sukkah, with an extra glass of wine to toast the Americans!”

They all crowd into the small palm-roofed booth on the chilly balcony of the Berkowitzes’ Haifa apartment. Aryeh brings along
his shortwave radio, obsessively following the war news. At sixteen he is acquiring his father’s muscular frame and is the
biggest person in the sukkah. Professor Berkowitz rolls the wheelchair as close to the table as he can, and glancing up at
the palm fronds, he says,
“Roshi v’rovi
, my head and most of me are inside. Kosher!”

On the hour, as they are eating cabbage soup, the cool dry voice of the BBC newscaster comes on.

“Here are the headlines. In the Middle East the greatest tank battle in world history has been raging since dawn …”

They look at each other in dismay, and Michael waves a limp hand at Shayna, saying, “I’m fine, don’t fuss.”

“… in Washington the crisis heightens as President Nixon offers to let a senior senator listen to the White House tapes, and
in Chile, student riots oust the military government.

“Now for the news. Radio Cairo reports that more than a thousand Egyptian tanks are advancing deep into the Sinai, while simultaneously
two Iraqi armored divisions and a Jordanian brigade have joined the Syrian army in an offensive against the Israeli lines.
According to a highly placed official at Whitehall, Israel can oppose no more than eight hundred tanks in all to at least
fifteen hundred tanks now attacking on two fronts …”

“Arab lies!” A hoarse cry from Michael. “Aryeh, switch to Kol Yisroel.”

Dzecki’s father, togged Great Neck style in blue blazer, striped tie, and button-down white shirt, says to Michael, “I’m afraid
the airlift comes too late.”

“Oh, God, Leon, where did Jack say his unit was?” the mother frets.

“He didn’t say, dear, but he can’t be too far from the Canal.”

The radio is rattling rapid Hebrew. The professor holds up a hand. “Here comes the army communiqué.” He nods and nods, then
translates for the Barkowes. “
‘Major enemy tank attacks in the north and in Sinai are being successfully resisted by our forces —’
”

“Halevai!”
exclaims Shayna. She says to the Barkowes, “That means, ‘It should only be so.’ ”

“I know what
halevai
means, dear,” says Mrs. Barkowe tartly. “I’ve been living here awhile. Halevai the plumber will come, the fifth time he promises.
Halevai the landlord will turn on the heat before January. Halevai my husband’s next partner won’t embezzle their joint bank
account and fly off to Buenos Aires. Israel is the land of halevai.” With a sharper note in her voice, “Halevai my son will
come back alive from this damned war, which is none of his business.”

Aryeh says, “Look, Uncle Michael, suppose that for once Radio Cairo is telling the truth?”

Dzecki’s mother bursts out, “Oh, they are, they are, but Kol Yisroel isn’t. This government isn’t. Why, they didn’t announce
casualties for a whole week! My neighbor found out only yesterday that her son was badly wounded on the second day. Is she
ever bitter! She said to me, ‘The Arabs have learned from us how to fight, and we’ve learned from them how to lie.’ ”

The festive spirit in the sukkah is extinguished. When Shayna brings a carved-up chicken from the kitchen, her husband is
slumping in his wheelchair, talking disconsolately about a cease-fire.

“Where’s Aryeh?” she asks. His chair is empty.

Mrs. Barkowe says, “He just got up and left.”

Shayna finds him in the spare room packing a duffel bag. He has been living with them while he attends a pre-army school in
Haifa. “What is all this, now?”

“Maybe the war isn’t Dzecki Barkowe’s business, but it’s mine. I’m going to enlist.”

“Are you crazy? They won’t take you.”

“Why won’t they? I’ll lie, the way Abba did when he was my age.” He runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaws. “They’ll believe
me, all right.”

“Don’t be a fool. This isn’t 1948. Your age is on a computer, with everything about you.”

“Yes? Then it shows that I’m checked out on machine guns, howitzers, and antiaircraft guns. We learned all that in Gadna.”
He is stuffing clothes, sneakers, books, and boots into the bag. “There’s already talk of drafting seventeen-year-olds, anyway.”

“Aryeh, you’re not going.”

“Yes, I am. Sorry, Aunt Shayna.”

“Your father told you to obey me.” She pulls the bag from his hands.

“We weren’t losing a war.”

Mrs. Barkowe comes into the bedroom. “Here’s a surprise, Aryeh.”

Yael Nitzan appears in the doorway, elegant as ever in her California tailored suit and a Paris hat, smiling and holding out
her arms to her son. “Imma!” Two strides, and he embraces her in long powerful arms.

“By my life,” Yael exclaims, “is this really you, Aryeh? Look at you, a big gorilla! Aunt Shayna is really feeding you up.
Thank you, Shayna.”

When Yael suddenly returned like this during the Six-Day War Shayna was devastated, but this time the sight of her is welcome.
With a despairing gesture at the duffel bag, Shayna says, “Yael, thank God you’re here, maybe this idiot will listen to you.
He wants to go and enlist.”